"TRANSFORMATIONS"
A Sermon by the Rev. Bruce Clear
Easter Sunday, March 27, 2005
All
The most
striking commentary on the Easter story comes, I believe, from
"Death is swallowed up in victory.
O Death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is they victory?"
These words are powerful to me, not because of what they have to say about one person's death and resurrection, but rather because of what they say about his life, and how that life made his death significant. His victory over the grave is not, for me, the story that a man died and was brought to life again. If that were all the story is about, there would be nothing particularly special there.
There are lots of similar stories
to choose from. The story of re‑birth
or resurrection -- of victory over death and despair -- has been a vital part
of nearly all human civilizations, which suggests that this myth speaks
directly to something deeply true within human experience. From the Greek myth
of Adonis, who was killed by wild beasts and resurrected by his lover
Aphrodite, to the Indian myth of the
But there is something different about the resurrection story of Jesus that has nothing to do with physical death and spiritual resurrection. The real victory of Jesus is that his message didn't die with him. In fact, not only did his message survive his life, the impact of his life and teachings only became stronger with each passing year after he died. If it was expected that death would silence Jesus, the result was quite the opposite. Death became "swallowed up in victory."
All this may not be precisely what Paul had in mind, but there is no one who can question its truth. No person in history has had the overwhelming influence and legacy that he has had. There is probably no historical figure who has had a greater impact on the nature of our civilization today than Jesus has had. His death was transformed into victory.
There are many lessons to be read from the Easter story, and certainly "transformation" is one of them. He began as a humble Jewish man with a special concern for religious integrity. He became an itinerant minister, preaching a simple but powerful message of love and acceptance. He gained a very small but devoted following, until he was arrested because his growing popularity was viewed a threat to the established order. He was executed, a martyr for his convictions. Three days later, his crypt was discovered to be empty, and he is said to have appeared to his followers.
But something transforming happened at that time. The Easter story tells not only of renewed life, but of transformation. When Jesus died, his disciples were in despair and ready to give up on him. They felt his death was the end. But of course he would reappear to them, and according to the story, when he did, he was viewed differently, he was experienced differently by them. A transformation had taken place that gave his disciples a new sense of hope and a new sense of devotion to the cause.
I don't imagine that the original disciples, or even Jesus himself, believed at the time that his life was about the establishment of an entirely new religious tradition. He simply had an important message for his own people of his own time. Yet when the death and resurrection story was being told, it seemed as if the story of Jesus' life became transformed into a new vision for his followers.
Maybe it was the drama of the story itself. Maybe it was the persuasiveness of the witnesses. Or maybe it was the way the storytellers, such as Paul, packaged the message after Jesus was gone (the "spin doctors" we might call them today). But for whatever reason, this simple Jewish itinerant preacher with a simple message of love became transformed into not only one of the greatest religious prophets of all time, but in the minds of millions of followers, he has become worshipped as God's chosen son.
The Easter message is commonly seen as one of renewed life, the resurrection of life beyond death, and that message is appropriate. But it also speaks to us about the transformations in life, about how we can find hope in the fact that life will lead us in directions we cannot always expect.
In some ways, transformation is what religion is all about. Some people seem to think religion involves some sudden and radical transformation -- a conversion experience, for example, which somewhat suddenly re-shapes a person's identity in a radical way. That kind of transformation does happen, of course.
But for many others, perhaps most people, a religious transformation is more gradual. For many, it refers to the piece by piece gathering of insights that over time prepare us to see the world and our own lives differently.
D.H. Lawrence accurately described this kind of conversion or transformation of people by religion. He wrote:
"I believe that one is converted [to religion] when first one hears the low, vast murmurs of life, of human life, troubling one's hitherto unconscious self. I believe one is born first unto oneself -- for the happy developing of oneself, while the world is a nursery, and the pretty things are to be snatched for, and the pleasant things tasted; some people seem to exist thus right to the end.
"But most are born again on entering maturity; then they are born to humanity, to a consciousness of all the laughing , and the never-ceasing murmur of pain and sorrow that comes from the terrible multitude of brothers [and sisters].
"Then, it appears to me, one gradually formulates one's religion, be it what it may. A person has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification."
This is how religious transformation comes gradually, and I might add, with deliberate and hard work. I might also add that I have not found a more cogent summary of the Unitarian Universalist approach to religion than these last two lines by Lawrence:
"A person has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification."
There is in
fact a long Unitarian tradition that addresses personal religious
transformation, the long and sometimes tedious shaping and re-shaping of
religious perspective. The name the
early Unitarians gave to it was "self-culture." To understand the phrase
"self-culture," one must first recognize that the word
"culture," as it is used here, is akin to what we might understand as
"horticulture"; that is, cultivating, caring for, and nurturing the
growth of life.
"Self-culture," then, refers to the nurturing of one's own
character. In an 1838 essay entitled
"Self-Culture," William
Ellery Channing wrote this:
To cultivate any thing, be it a plant,
an animal, a mind, is to make it grow.
Growth, expansion is the end.
Nothing admits culture but that which has a principle of life, capable
of being expanded. Therefore, one who
does everything to expand his [or her] powers and capacities, especially [the]
nobler ones, so as to become a well-proportioned, vigorous, excellent, happy
being, practices self-culture.
It is clear from Channing's essay that
self-culture means expanding the mind, looking for new perspective, not
remaining content with old ideas. It
means welcoming a transformation of ideas, new views which challenge your
present tranquility. One who practices
"self-culture" is never entirely complacent, but always awake to new
possibilities. In Channing's words,
"Do not be lulled to sleep by the flatteries which you hear."
Transformation
seems to happen when we are willing to challenge accepted ideas, and to be
vulnerable to change.
I'd like to
illustrate this by going off on somewhat of a tangent that I hope you'll
indulge me for a just a few minutes.
The philosopher Alfred North Whitehead has written that, "The essence of life is to be found in the frustrations of the established order."[i]
Now a group of skeptical, questioning, doubt-raising, radical, card-carrying free-thinkers, like some of us here, might think they know what he's talking about. When it comes to frustrating the established order, especially the established order of conventional thinking, free-thinkers are the proud masters of that craft. If frustrating the established order is an art, they are its Picassos. If it is a science, they are its Einsteins.
There are many progressive-thinking skeptics of orthodoxy who would agree with Whitehead that "the essence of life is to be found in the frustrations of the established order."
The trouble is, that this isn't exactly what Whitehead meant by that comment. It includes the penchant for questioning attitudes, but Whitehead means something much deeper and more fundamental than that by his phrase, "frustrations of the established order."
Whitehead wrote these words in the 1930s, when science was discovering that the laws of nature operated quite differently than it had previously been supposed. His life-long work was an attempt to make philosophical sense out of scientific discoveries which seemed to be inconsistent with common sense, or at least with previously believed tenets of science.
At the end of the last century, Max Planck was a student studying physics. At that time, it seemed that physics had found all relevant answers to all the questions that had been asked the laws of nature. Physics was complete. There were few mysteries left to explore. In fact Planck's professor said to the young student: "Physics is finished young man. It's a dead end street." And with that the professor advised Planck to be a concert pianist instead of a physicist.
He didn't follow his professor's advice. Instead, Planck went on to help discover what is now called quantum physics, a science that made the entire world view of the previous century's physicists obsolete; he opened up a whole new world for discovery. He went on, in other words, to frustrate the established order, for the scientific establishment did not willingly or eagerly or quickly accept his ideas.
But even this is not quite what Whitehead meant by the essence of life being found in the frustrations of the established order. Whitehead was referring, rather, to the content of the discoveries of Planck and other quantum physicists. He was commenting on the fact that, according to this new twentieth century physics, the order that is "the laws of nature" -- that is, the established order of nature -- includes within itself the seeds of its own change. Inherent in the established order of nature is something creative and transforming of that order. Evolution is a striking example of this, showing us that over time, what we understand as the natural order becomes different from what it was. The order of nature transforms itself. But it is not just about the variations of evolution, it is that inherent within nature is something which changes form and offers surprise endings.
Some people might call it "accidents" of nature. Or mutations. Others call it the "creativity" of nature. Whitehead preferred the term "novelty" of nature. But whatever it is called, it means that nature is always in the process of changing, of transforming, of creating something new. That is the sense in which Whitehead claimed that "The essence of life is to be found in the frustrations of the established order." Life doesn't happen without change and transformation.
Nothing in nature is static, said Whitehead. "The universe is not a museum with its specimens in a glass case, he wrote." It is not "a perfectly drilled regiment with its ranks in step, marching forward with undisturbed poise." On the contrary, life in this universe can only be understood as something that is constantly being re-shaped and responding to changes and variations. The orderliness of nature is frustrated by constant change. Change, in fact, means the frustration of order. Nature transforms itself.
This is Whitehead's thinking behind the quote with which I opened: "The essence of life is the frustration of the established order." The essence of life, in a word, is "change" or newness or novelty or creation, whichever word best strikes your fancy. The essence of life is transformation.
Returning now back from this tangent, Jesus was condemned precisely because he frustrated the established order of his day. But any time the established order is frustrated -- whether in the world or in our own lives -- there is an opportunity for transformation. It is not just nature that contains the seeds for its own transformation. So do we.
For Jesus, even death was to be swallowed up in victory, precisely because the tragic events at the end of his life were transformed into a new promise.
The word
"transformation" is a fine religious concept. It carries the implication of not only
something becoming different, but also a sense of renewal, of rejuvenation, of
revitalization. The novelist James T.
Ferrell once wrote:
In our
youth we wake up expecting that something wonderful will happen to us and that
our lives will be changed. This does not
cease with youth. Each day remains new
and fresh. Each day is a dawn of
promise.
It is a promise of gaining some insight, of feeling something deeply, of learning something, of seeing something of the beauty and grandeur that is in the world.
Transformations are not necessarily sudden or dramatic. They are more often gradual and cumulative. But what they are able to do is help us grow and give life more meaning, help us see other perspectives more clearly, and celebrate life more fully. Life's transformations also teach us that change and growth are important to our lives. No matter the circumstances, there is always a hope of new promise and transformation in our lives.
MEDITATION
Please join in the spirit of meditation and reflection with these words of prayer by Jo Ann Silverman
May I, in these moments of meditation, restore the serenity of the soul;
May I accept this awesome mystery, and acknowledge my place in it.
May I know that Faith is familiar only to those who have perceived its light in darker days, and that out of pain compassion is reborn.
May I, in the evening of this existence, still be thrilled by knowledge that is new, and sense the warmth returning at the soft refrain of a half-forgotten song.
May I see, beneath the tumult of the outer scene, the inner vision, where, in Faith, awaits the soul's awakening.
I have gained this gift, so glorious and awesome in its mystery; the miracle is this, that we can transcend pain, and turn to beauty once again.
It is then, in life itself, that we rejoice.
SO BE IT
READING by Marni Harmony
If, on a starlit night,
with the moon brilliantly shimmering,
We stay inside and do not venture out,
the evening universe remains
a part of our life we shall not know.
If, on a cloudy day,
with grayness infusing all
and rain dancing rivers in the grass,
We stay inside and do not venture out,
the stormy, threatening energy of
the universe remains
a part of life we shall not know.
If, on a frosty morning,
dreading the chilling air before the sunrise,
We stay inside and do not venture out,
the awesome cold, quiet, and stillness of
the dawn universe remains
a part of life we shall not know.
If, throughout these grace-given days of ours,
surrounded as we are by green life and
brown death, hot pink joy and cold gray
pain and miracles--always miracles--
If we stay inside ourselves and do not venture out
then the Fullness of the universe
shall be unknown to us
And our locked hearts shall never feel
the rush of worship.
The novelist James T. Ferrell once wrote this about learning throughout life:
"In our youth we wake up expecting that something wonderful will happen to us and that our lives will be changed. This does not cease with age. Each day remains new and fresh. Each day is a dawn of promise. But we come to know that the promise is different. It is no longer the romantic promise of some enormous love, of some joy that is beyond understanding.
"It is a promise of gaining some insight, of feeling something deeply, of learning something, of seeing something of beauty and grandeur that is in the world; or it is a promise that we will see and feel and meet with something which, even though it may be sad or agonizing, will contribute toward our continuing development."
At Walden Pond, Thoreau was awakened to the presence of the most ordinary plants and animals. One of his most memorable passages has long been a favorite of mine:
"We must learn to awaken, and keep ourselves awake, by the infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.... I wish to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life. I wish to learn what life has to teach, and not, when I come to die, discover that I have not lived."
TRANSFORMATION: Re-defining ourselves. See Emerson on "Circles" in "Awakening" sermon 2000
Perhaps life isn't like that, and our visual diagram of a human life needs to be re-drawn. Emerson attempted such a redrawing of life many years ago in an essay he entitled "Circles." It's an odd title for a literary essay, but I think it is worth considering. Picturing life's journey not as a line, but as a series of concentric circles, here is part of what he said:
A person's life is a self-evolving circle, which, from a ring imperceptibly small, rushes on all sides outward to new and larger circles, and that without end.... Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, that every end is a beginning, that there is always another dawn arisen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens."
His essay is about the perpetual changes of life -- nothing is truly permanent. In life, he said, "there is no sleep, no pause, no preservation, but all things renew, germinate, and spring." We live, then, not so much moving from one event or episode to the next, but rather in ever expanding circles of broadening experience. It isn't that life unfolds in a linear manner, like chapters of a book, rather it grows and stretches and spreads in greater circumference, in all directions, like rings of a tree trunk or an expanding field of clover.
What this image of life captures that a single time-line cannot is the way in which events of our life awaken us to new perspectives, indeed a new life. Each new expanding circle involves another awakening, another renewal of life itself.
FROM March 30, 1986 sermon "Myth & Meaning of Easter" BUT USED AFTER, TOO
The Easter myth begins with great despair. Jesus enters Jerusalem aware that he will be crucified. It is a solemn ocassion when he shares the Passover dinner‑‑his last meal‑‑with his disciples, and announces that one of them will betray him. His pain increases as the evening goes on, and later he goes off to be alone and to pray. He was deeply fearful of the coming events that he knew were inevitable. He even prayed to God to "take this cup from me," to spare his having to face crucifixion. Yet his faith was strong enough that he was willing to commit to God's plan.
He was arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to death. Forced to carry his own cross, he walked through the crowds amid sneers and derision. At the site of the crucifixion, his clothes were taken from him, a spear pierced his side, and he was hung between two thieves sentenced to the same fate. It was a miserable and painful end for him, and his emotions ran wild. He showed compassion for his executioners, forgiving them. But as he hung there, he became angry at God. "Father, Father, why have you forsaken me," he cried.
In the context of Christian belief, there could be no more despairing story than this. The son of God is condemned to a painful, torturous death. More than that, this death is part of God's plan. God's son, while hanging on the cross, vents his anger at God for allowing this suffering. Then he dies.
This, of course is not the end of the story. Like all other Spring season myths, life has victory over death, hope has victory over despair. And in this case, Jesus is resurrected on the third day, fulfilling the prophesy and the expectation of his followers. Jesus' re‑birth leads Paul later to write those words of profound triumph, "Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" (I Corinthians 15:55)
We all know
that despair and suffering will come into each of our lives. We all know that we cannot completely avoid
the pain of loss and tragedy. What we
strive for, though, is to be able to cling to hope in the midst of
despair. Victory comes from our ability
to respond to suffering with hope.
The Easter season is nature's
way of reminding us of that balance, of the flow of life between despair and
hope. Winter brings with it darkness and
cold. The days grow short, the colors
fade from the earth, and the temperature is uncomfortable. As Spring arrives, though, we respond to the
new freshness in the air, we welcome brighter days with more sunlight.
But there can be no Spring without Winter, just as there is no Easter without the suffering and crucifixion of Good Friday. In the reading this morning, Edward Palmer wrote that "winter is the price we pay for spring." Though I'm not sure I agree with that entirely, it is true that Winter and Spring are completely interdependent.
There is an ebb and flow to life that brings some form of balance, some essential harmony. Friedrich Nietzche spoke of this poetically when he wrote in THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA:
"All things pass, all things return; eternally turns the wheel of Being. All things die, all things blossom again, eternal is the year of Being. All things break, all things are joined anew; eternally the house of Being builds itself the same. All things part, all things welcome each other again; eternally the ring of Being abides by itself. In each Now, Being begins; round each Here turns the sphere of There. The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity."
But the Easter myth, in speaking of renewed life, also speaks of transformation into new form. When Jesus died, it appeared that his disciples gave up on him. They felt that was the end. But according to the myth, when he appeared again, he was seen differently, experienced differently.
The hope that arises out of despair is not just the renewal of old hope, it is often a transformation into an entirely new vision. This is also true for many people in a time of despairing crisis.
Easter is a difficult holiday for Unitarian Universalists to deal with. The story of Easter is often used to illustrate precisely what it is within Christianity that is objectionable to us. It is said that Jesus died and was raised again so that we too, if we believe him to be God, may also live eternally. It is this doctrine that separates people, and promotes ill‑will.
This is precisely the point that bothers us. Most of Christianity is concerned with the way Jesus was born (miraculously) and the way he died (miraculously), but less emphasis is placed on the way he lived. To me, this is where our religious tradition is strong. What is important for us is how Jesus lived. Usually, we point to his ethical teachings and his ethical actions. It is important and impressive to us that he lived such a loving, caring life.
The Easter story adds an important part to the story of his life. It tells us that he suffered deeply. Like all of us, he had problems with his friends, some of whom betrayed him when he got in trouble. He was persecuted for his beliefs. He felt abandoned by those around him, and even at times, by God. He feared his fate and wanted to avoid what he knew would be deep suffering. This human side of Jesus speaks to us; such despair is part of our experience, too.
And yet, he accepted his fate in the end. The myth of his resurrection tells us that he could overcome his own suffering, and turn it into a victory. Actually, the historical record tells us that, in the end, victory is precisely what happened. That is to say, in spite of his tragic end, no person in history has had the overwhelming influence and legacy that he has had. His death was transformed into victory.,
I leave you today with this Easter poem written by UU minister Clinton Lee Scott:
Jesus is risen from the dead.
The centuries have not been able to bury him.
Forsaken by friends, sentenced to die with thieves, his mangled body buried in a borrowed tomb, he has risen to command the hearts of millions, and to haunt our hate‑filled world with the restlessness of undying hopes.
The years bring him increasingly to life. The imperial forces that tried to destroy him have long ago destroyed themselves. Those who passed judgment upon him are remembered only because of him.
Military might and political tyranny still stalk the earth; they too shall perish, while the majesty of the carpenter‑prophet bearing his cross to the hill will remain to rebuke the ways of violence.