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Easter 4
21/4/2024

1 John 3:16-24
Psalm 23
John 10:11-18

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“All who obey his commandments abide in him, and he abides in them.”

The notion of “abiding” is an important one in John’s writings. The Greek word translated here could also be translated as remain, stay, live, or dwell. There is a strong sense of “where we are.”

Yet this is not simply a nice idea by which we evoke a sense of cosiness with God. Most of the things which matter in the scriptural descriptions of the relationships which ought to stand between ourselves and our gods are a matter of polemic: not this, but that; not here but there; not this way, but that way. It is the same with John’s call to abide in Christ: abide here, not somewhere else. Or, let this one abide in you, and not some other.

There are indeed many places where we might abide and many things which might abide in us. Among these, the geographical options are the least interesting. Much more important is how we are living wherever we happen to be. This is, in one sense, a matter of morals – what we do and don’t do to ourselves or each other. There is certainly a strong commandment to be heard in our reading this morning: “Love one another”. And there is some basic shape given to that as well: “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?” But the idea of abiding is as much a matter of our approach to our situation – the choice we make about where we find ourselves.

So, what kind of abiding places present themselves to us? The past is one tempting place: nostalgia for a time when things seemed simpler. Perhaps they were not simpler, but we were more energetic or had more power over the events which affected us directly, or were simply less aware of what was actually going on. Another tempting place of abode is the future – putting off making the most of where we are now, even perhaps denying justice to others now because we think that this will get us where we want to be in the long term. Whether it is nostalgia or a vision of where we imagine we are heading, where we actually are here and now is reduced to a iife we simply have to endure, either because the best is now behind us or we must wait for it to come.

Alternatively, we might desire to abide in an identity other than the one which is really ours – denying, or at least lamenting, the religious or cultural or gender or age or economic identity we actually have. This is the cry for justice, whether in economic or social or “psychological” terms. We are not acknowledged for what we think we are worth or for the effort we have put in.

Or perhaps we just don’t know where we are, but that it’s not yet the right place.

And then there are the kinds of things in might abide in us.  These are about the role we play in the story we seem to be living. Positively, Goodwill, compassion and love might abide in us. Or less negatively, selfishness, distraction, self-delusion, or fear. The difference between these two outlooks is the difference between choosing to be fully alive where we are, whatever its realities, and living as if we are is just a place to escape. It is that latter option which John addresses in his letter today: in this God, we have the power to live where we are – here, now – whether in green pastures by still waters, or on a cross.

Where we would abide – where would we live if we had the choice – is an intensely personal thing but it has to do with where we think we’d feel safest and most able to be ourselves. But life is not simply a matter of safety; it is also a matter of truth. And truth and life meet in the idea of vocation, or calling – God’s calling of us into where we actually are – and it engages every level of our lives. At the personal level, it has to do with being with the people to whom we actually are married, or with whom we actually do work, or next to whom we actually live, or with whom we share an identity as members of a church congregation. Who wants to abide with the cranky or noisy neighbour, the lazy colleague, the self-righteous or indifferent pew-sitter? Which nation wants to be in the political context of massive human displacement, bringing in refugees for whom we haven’t budgeted, who are different from us, whom we don’t understand? Which church would not choose a different time and space to be church – perhaps one of not-so-distant memory, rather than one in which congregations get smaller by one or two each year, find it harder to keep the budget balanced, find a minister, or simply keep going?

In contrast to so many of the realities of our lives, who would not choose rather to be led by green pastures and to lie down beside still waters? And, yet, the psalmist who speaks of green pastures and still waters speaks also of walking through the darkest valley, of a table of abundance spread even in the presence of his enemies, his head anointed, his cup running over. St Augustine declared that the singer of the psalms is Jesus himself. This is a helpful thought to the extent that it claims the psalms as the prayer the prayers of the one the church believes to be the true human being, the prayers of one who lives as and where it is given him to be. Green pastures or the valley of the shadow of death – these are much of a muchness when lived in and watched over by this Shepherd.

To abide in this Shepherd is to rise to a life of courage, although not bravado. There is here no call to brace ourselves, to muscle up as best we can and charge at those obstacles which seem to stand in our way. Rather, we are called to abide in a different reality – in the reality which is the humanity of Jesus himself, properly connected to the very source of life itself.

This, John says, is possible because Jesus himself abides in us. This is not a mystical or spooky reality – a merely spiritual thing which no one can see. If it were, then John would not speak of the commandment by which the reality of Jesus is proven: love one another. Love, that is, those real and tangible others who are within your reach, who constitute the place, the story, in which you live. “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for those who are your particular ‘other’ .” (cf. John 13.35). By this, we will also know ourselves to be his disciples – if we have love. In this way, Jesus abides in us, as we are to abide in him.

In the end, this is all that we need to concern ourselves with along the way. What does the moment demand? Love of those with whom it is given to us to abide: to be present, to respond to the demands of the present.

This is the work of our lives. This is how we abide in him, and he in us. In this way, what the psalm-singing Christ himself knows can become what we too come to know: a life – a troubled life, most likely – shot through with goodness and mercy, a dwelling place with God all the days of our lives.

By the grace of God, may such a life be our place of abode, our habitation, our home. Amen.

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Easter 3
14/4/2024

Acts 3:12-19
Luke 24:36b-48

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Festering
Many of you will have noticed that the Brittany Higgins-Bruce Lehrmann case returned for another of its many, many regular appearances in the newspapers this week. The case concerns an alleged rape in Parliament House in Canberra and has been accompanied by vigorous commentary from all sides about what happened and what it signifies in a culture of fear, duplicity and suspicion. The whole affair has become the kind of thing for which the word “sordid” is perhaps the most apt description.

Nonetheless, the story still claims the headlines. This is likely because it tells us something about ourselves, touching as it does upon the dynamics of power, desire, trust, guilt, safety, justice. It is a classic tale in which we ourselves are played, and we look on wondering whether it will turn out to be a tragedy or a comedy, in the literary sense: will it end low or high? We watch to learn our own prospects in similar situations: are we living tragedies or comedies?

I raise the matter today not to risk speculating or commenting on the allegation but simply because it is now five years since the alleged attack. As well as being luridly captivating, the story lingers as a festering wound. Even if a “resolution” finally comes, that wound will not likely ever be healed. This will probably be so for those directly involved but more broadly, we know that this story is neither unique nor not the last of such stories. We know these kinds of struggles, and that they will not end.

The Higgins-Lehrmann case, of course, is not the only thing in the news or our lives which has this character. This festering dynamic is replicated in most of what ends up in the news, apart from those contrived little comedies we call “human interest” stories. What is the Gaza war but such an open wound, or the Ukraine conflict or, more profoundly, the ongoing impact of colonialism, racism, sexism, or rapacious capitalism?  Whether it’s the continuing impact over five years of an alleged rape, or of the 80-odd years of the Palestinian conflict, or of the 400 or so years of Western imperialism, or of 2000 years of Christian antisemitism, it looks suspiciously like the peace we hope for is not coming. The stories we are forced to live continue to be agonised ones we hope will turn out to be comedic, but we fear will be tragic. As hopelessly pessimistic as this might seem, none of us turns on the news expecting anything other than more such struggle.

Ignorance
Let’s hold that thought for a moment as we turn to our reading this morning from Acts, in which we hear part of a sermon by Peter (Acts 3.12-19). The death of Jesus was another sordid tale now slowly slipping from public interest. Peter lays the blame for Jesus’ death unambiguously at the feet of the crowd he addresses, and then comes to my focus text for this morning:

“I know that you acted in ignorance, as did also your rulers. In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his Messiah would suffer”

The meaning appears straightforward: it is because of “ignorance” that the messiah suffers. The implication seems to be that had his audience known, they would not have crucified him. Jesus’ death now looks like an accident, in the same way that we might not notice that we put red knickers into the washing machine with the whites, delivering to us a new, rose-tinted wardrobe: “Oops, if I’d known they were in there, I would have pulled them out!” Oops, if I’d known you were the messiah, Jesus, I wouldn’t have crucified you. My bad.

The problem with this is that it suggests the error was one of not having the right information. But now, finally, the knowledge is given, and the endless, festering suffering will cease. We want to hear this kind of story, of course, because it finally resolves things: the hidden truth is now known, the confusion melts away, the estranged lovers are reconciled, the music swells in the background as the credits begin to roll and all is now right with the world, at least until the house lights come back up.

But the ignorance with which Peter charges the people here cannot be a mere lack of knowledge. One of the features of Jesus’ ministry is that it is often rejected precisely at the point that it is most appealing, most persuasive, most informative. In John’s gospel in particular, Jesus’ power and so identity are as close as possible to being irrefutable because of what he has done, yet still his opponents cannot see. Ignorance is here not the absence of knowledge; it is the inability to know. And so it is the inability to act differently, to change radically how the story will end, the inability to stop the rot, to close the festering wound. This kind of ignorance is a condition and not a matter of information. More concretely, it is the likelihood that, had we known that Jesus was the messiah, we would still have crucified him because knowing who he is would not be enough to stop us from doing so. Our capacity to crucify the image of God in Jesus springs not from ignorance but from the fact that we very often crucify the image of God in this Rachel or that Abdul.

While a lot has changed since Peter preached, a lot has not. We live in an age in which we might have expected that we had worked a few things out, that a few wounds would now be well healed. We have managed this, of course, on the relatively simple level of nature, at the level of mere knowledge. Penicillin, bypass surgeries and organ transplants treat wounded bodies very well. But wounded souls are a whole other matter, whether the souls of individuals or the souls of whole societies. While we tell ourselves that we live in an increasingly complex world, this is an evasion. Despite our sense of increased complexity and despite the promises we might have imagined the modern world would bring, we still see our troubled selves in ancient texts like the Scriptures. And while “religion” lingers as a convenient scapegoat in our modern context, this defence masks the painful reality, even where the wounds look to be religiously inflicted. Religion is one feature which distinguishes Israelis and Palestinians, but it is not why they are killing each other; religion is not why men rape, or someone might turn to alcohol; it is not why psychotherapists are flat chat treating fractured spirits. Our problem is profoundly human, not religious.

And neither is any of this about how much we do or don’t know. When Peter speaks of ignorance, he speaks of what we cannot see without the specific light of the resurrection: You could not know him then, Peter says, but now you can. You could not know yourselves, but now you can. Peter’s “in ignorance” is not that we crucified the wrong person; it is that we crucify at all, that we imagine that crucifixions heal our festering wounds, rather than exacerbate them. What are the reports which fill our newsfeeds but crucifixions, or fear of crucifixions? Our ignorance is our condition, is our suffering.

Light
This would all be utterly hopeless if Peter stopped there, for what can such ignorance do to teach itself? But he continues: In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his messiah would suffer. The messiah suffers because our ignorance causes our suffering, and he is one of us. The messiah – the image of God – suffers because we are the image of God, and we suffer.

But while our suffering only festers, the suffering of God in the messiah changes things. God’s suffering changes things because it reveals something we cannot otherwise see. This is why Peter’s talk of ignorance and suffering arises in the context of his proclamation of the resurrection. The risen Jesus is not merely risen, not merely un-deaded. The resurrection reveals the crucifiers’ knowledge of Jesus as ignorance. To say that Jesus is risen is to say that the crucified one is risen, the one who apparently deserved crucifixion because such a thing surely could not have happened to God’s anointed.

But if this one is raised, then the resurrection is a light which reveals what we could not know, what we could not see. The resurrection reveals how very, very dark it has been, how dark it still is, and what it would take for us to begin to see.

But Peter’s proclamation is that “what it would take” has already been achieved. If Jesus is risen, then there appears now a revelation by which hidden things might now be seen, by which unknown things might now be heard, by which untouched things might now be felt, by which broken things might begin to be healed.

This light makes possible a radical re-valuation of what we are, what we do, and what is done to us. If we saw by this light, what would that mean for even the possibility of rape, or for the idea that bombs are an efficient instrument of justice, or for our assumption that a person is only what we can imagine her to be, or for the conviction that tomorrow is better secured with money than by trusting each other?

Whatever it would mean, we won’t know unless we heed Peter’s call: Repent, and turn to the God who embraces the crucified and crucifier alike, so that our wounds might no longer fester but be healed in God.

Repent.
Re-think.
Re-view.
Re-imagine.
Re-form.
Res-urrect.

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Easter 2
7/4/2024

John 20:19-31
1 John 1:1-2:2

Sermon preached by Daniel Broadstock

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Friends as we consider our text today, I am mindful that two occasions of cultural significance have occurred over the past week. The first is Easter Sunday – the ringing day of joy and disorienting triumph at the risen Christ’s conquest over death. The second is April Fool’s Day.

I wonder what these two days might have to do with each other. Perhaps more than we might imagine.

Were you fooled this week, friends? One great example of comic deception I saw this year was a post on social media by Jim Penman, the head Jim’s business empire (responsible for Jim’s mowing, Jim’s plumbing, etc) announcing the formation of Jim’s Political Party, offering a pragmatic, practical, common-sense platform to bring down housing costs and end the dysfunction on Spring St. Finally, a man to take a whipper-snipper to the weeds growing in our political system. Very amusing!

On the other hand, I have a friend who hates April Fool’s Day. She thinks pranks are mean-spirited and the tricks and stunts of the day to be tedious and annoying. So, all through April 1 she holds herself in a state of sceptical readiness – on her guard, alert and vigilant, determined not to be made a fool of.

In our text today, Thomas holds himself in a similar state of determined scepticism. He says the famous words: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” For this moment of disbelief, theological history has branded him Doubting Thomas.

Consider the resonance of those words. Thomas does not say that he ‘does not believe’. He is not professing an intellectual absence of belief. He is not a neutral agnostic. He is not a post-Enlightenment modernist, scorning the possibility of the miraculous subversion of nature’s laws. Thomas is not a philosopher or a physician. Thomas will not believe.

What’s going on here? We may lack conviction in all manner of things. But to refuse to believe – that is something different. There is more there than meets the eye.

It’s tempting to read the acts of the disciples as shallow theological parables. Vignettes, offering simple lessons of faith. Read superficially, Thomas offers a straightforward moral: trust God. Believe in Him. Persevere through doubt. Do not be troubled by what seems to you to be impossible, but hold fast to the promises of God.

Not necessarily a bad moral at all. Perhaps an encouragement that we need more than we realise.

But I remind myself that Jesus’ disciples are not fictional characters. They are real, historical human beings. Complex, contradictory, flawed. Subject to all kinds of influences, wishes, concerns, fears, and motivations. The Gospel writers have theological agendas in the way they include and frame their narrative, but there is flesh and blood behind the text.

Take Judas, for instance. He plays a simple role in our story. We need him to play his part in order to bring about the dramatic climax of Good Friday. But Judas too is only a man. Why does Judas betray Jesus?

The Bible suggests one explanation when it speaks of ‘the Devil’ entering Judas as he sits at the table with Jesus. Perhaps we can identify with that experience – moments of sudden, involuntary impulses to evil and to violence. Sometimes we recognise them, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we resist them, and sometimes we give in. Perhaps Judas’ betrayal was a terrible moment of surrendered temptation. Sometimes people who have been convicted of violent crimes speak of this. An instant of almost demonic madness, in which everything is changed irrevocably forever.

Others have thought Judas an envious figure. Hovering always at the shadowy edge of Jesus’ brightness, perhaps he couldn’t bear any longer to be the second man. Jealousy has the power to drive us to places that we’d never have believed that we could go. Perhaps in the early hours of the morning, Judas would lie unsleeping, imagining himself as Messiah. Imagining the crown upon his own head. Hearing the hosannas cry out for Judas Iscariot.

Perhaps in the end it was not vice at all that drove Judas to Caiaphas, but frustrated longing. Some have seen in Judas a radical, a zealot. Maybe it was political liberation he longed for. The long-awaited uprising against Roman oppression with the Messiah, the new David, riding at the head of its army. Maybe Judas had grown tired of hearing about the Kingdom of God instead of the Kingdom of Israel. Maybe he is impatient with spiritual and moral teaching. Maybe he doesn’t want to love his enemy. Maybe he is tired of forgiveness. Maybe by leading those temple guards into the garden he hoped to waken Jesus from his slumber, that it would be the striking of the match, the first trumpet-call of a new and momentous age.

I wonder if something of this kind is taking place with our Thomas.

Doubt is so rarely a matter of indifferent scepticism. When Thomas says, ‘I do not believe’, that is not the voice of incredulity. That is the voice of pain. Those are the words of fear.  Thomas is afraid. Terrorised by that most painful wound of all – disappointed hope. For Thomas had already drunk too deeply from that cup. He had already surrendered his heart to that cross-shattered illusion. He had already wept too long for that buried fantasy. No, says Thomas. I will not endure that black agony a second time. I will not expose my heart again to the knife. I will not believe. My hopes are ash, and I will not suffer them to be reignited.

Disappointment is a terrible thing. When a long yearning for marriage goes unsatisfied. When paths that we thought would always be open to us are closed by age, or injury, or illness. When long-held, secret dreams and ambitions come to nothing. When a husband or wife with whom we expected to grow old just slips away.

The worst of it is that when once we have tasted the bitterness of disappointment we look sceptically at every cup that is then offered to us. We do not allow ourselves to trust in joy. There is a spectre that haunts our mind in the midst of hope. It arises like a ghost from the grave of past hopes long dead. And it whispers to us, ‘This is not real. It shall not last. Your joy will pass away and when it does it will subside with such a dreadful agony that you will wish that you had never known it.’ It is not a malicious thing really, but arises from a dark, self-protective corner of ourselves that knows that a heart that is entirely given may be entirely broken. For disappointment is not merely sadness. Disappointment humiliates us for having had the audacity to have been happy.

But in Jesus, the disciples’ hopes had seemed so secure, so safe. Surely this Nazarene was not one of those false saviours with each of whom Israel’s hopes had risen and fallen so pitifully. For with Jesus it was no longer a matter of hope. Their eyes had beheld his miracles and their ears had rung with his authority. The skies and waves themselves had seemed to shimmer and bend away from him in awe. And so Thomas had placed his fragile heart, whole and entire, at the feet of Jesus, sure that he would keep it safe. But then Jesus had borne it to Calvary and nailed it to the cross.

So when Peter came bursting into that room Thomas had no more heart to give. How could Peter do this to me again? How could he be cruel enough to raise a second seed of hope only to crush it beneath his heel. For if Jesus was not the one, then no one ever could be. If this good shepherd, this man whom earth and sky obeyed, this healer and exorcist, this prophet and teacher, if this man was not the Messiah, then our Messiah is never coming, and nothing will ever be good and true again.

But Thomas had merely glimpsed the beginning and mistaken it for the ending. For when Jesus strode from that empty tomb he carried Thomas’ poor heart in his hands like a delicate treasure. He had kept it safe through Hell and death and brought it out again to the sun. And in that darkened upstairs room, as Thomas touched the scars on his palms and felt his side, smoothed over with vulnerable grace, Jesus gave Thomas’ heart back to him.

May we be so bold as to open ourselves to the fear of disappointment. Not to make ourselves free of doubt, but to make ourselves vulnerable, and let the healed hands and feet of Jesus lead us again on the road of discipleship.

Amen.

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Easter Day
31/3/2024

Genesis 1:1-5
John 20:1-18

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With the resurrection of Jesus, God disturbs the peace which is our uneasy compromise with death.

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Early, on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb.

Early. It’s quiet, the early morning darkness, a quiet for quiet tasks: for thinking, for planning, for remembering, for tending to the dead. No matter how heart-rending it might be, death brings its own quiet and forces us to be still. Requiem in pace, we say to those who’ve died, Rest in peace, and quietness falls also on us who remain.

It had been a chaotic week for Mary and the other disciples, on top of all the movement, surprise, conflict, tension and misunderstanding of their tumultuous time with Jesus before that. The chaos now past, Mary’s quiet morning reflects the clarity and closure of death’s dismal order. Early in the morning, the fever of life is hushed.

But Mary approaches the tomb only to have her sad solitude shattered: “They have taken away my Lord…”. Three times she declares, I don’t know where he is. The tragic but reliable peace of death has been disturbed, and so also Mary’s reconciliation with death. “They have taken him away…”. Tell me where he is, and I’ll gather him back and hold him, and at least I’ll have again death’s calm.

When Jesus died, the dream of a life of peace died with him, but there remained the reliability of the dead.

At least I know where he is.

At least I can remember him in the quiet of the morning.

No one can take that from me.

But he is not there.

Tell me where he is, and I will go and get him so that he can be properly dead again, so that he and I can have at least death’s peace.

Sometimes, our compromise with death is pushed upon us – as for Mary, as for our own bereavements. Sometimes the compromise is the convenience of a death we choose to effect. If Mary had the calm after Jesus’ death forced upon her, death’s peace-by-crucifixion was chosen by Caiaphas and Pilate and the exclusive heavens they envisioned (see the Good Friday sermon!). This is death we seek as the means to some end, to some peace which requires that someone die. The peace we seek with distance and death is the quiet which comes when some onerous or terrible or dangerous thing is now past or put away. It is the dark peace which comes when the divorce papers are signed, when the life support is turned off, when the last of the evening’s lingering guests leaves, when I’ve put my enemy in her grave, when I’ve done what I swore I would never do, or just when I turn off the news bulletins because it seems everything is going insane.

None of this is really peace, of course; it is chaos subdued, suppressed, but still chaotic. This peace is not the reconciliation of enemies but a cutting away of the other, more or less violently.

Into this suppressed chaos, Jesus appears alongside Mary. Her first instinct is to do what any of us would likely do: she reaches for him (“Teacher”, “Lord”, “Love”) to grasp, to hold, never to let him go again: I know again where you are, who you are, what you are.

But his reappearance is no mere return of the one Mary thinks she lost, though she doesn’t understand this yet. The resurrection is going to be the possibility of Mary herself being renewed, but it’s not this yet. At this point, it is only Jesus who is risen; Mary is a mere observer of his dying and rising, and his appearance is outside of her, does not yet envelop her. All she knows is that her dreams were dashed in the death of Jesus, and now they seem to be restored, and she grasps to hold tight the Jesus she thinks she knew.

But Jesus insists, Don’t hold on to me. Let me go. This is not what you think. It is not only that I am returned to you; it is also that you will be returned to God. But for this to happen, you must see me as I am; you must see God as God is. Let me ascend to God so that you can see my cross in God’s own heart. It is not merely death which is overcome. It is your resignation to death which is comprehended, your reconciliation to it, your use of death for your own ends, Mary, Peter, Caiaphas, Pilate. All of this is overcome.

The resurrection shatters death as peace, death as resolution, death as flight or abandonment, death as a means to some end.

This resurrection – the resurrection of the Crucified – is a challenge to our memory, a question to our account of what we did or felt or wanted.

This resurrection is the visitation of the present by the past – the haunting of the present by the past.

This resurrection tells a fuller story, not allowing certain things to be forgotten or hidden away, but bringing them uncomfortably into the light. For there are not a few histories we want to forget, or which have been forgotten for us, or which we would suppress if they again came to light.

This resurrection is revelation not of only God’s power but of the full extent of our need, of our incapacity to speak the truth, to bear it, to know what to do with it.

This resurrection is the dead refusing to take death “lying down” but rather disturbing death’s grim peace with a word of truth: you have come to terms with the empty and void ways of the world, and with the terrible depth of the darkness, and there is no life in this.

But in this resurrection, our victim returns to us, yet not with accusing finger. He speaks our name and brings the urgent, hopeful question: Mary! Peter! Caiaphas! Pilate! Do you see now? Do you see that God has overcome even all this? Do not grasp tightly what you thought you had to be; let yourself rather be grasped by my Father and my God, your Father and your God. Reach for that resurrection into a life which has put death’s power behind it.

God meets us early, in the morning quiet, after our dealings with death, to disturb the uneasy peace death brings.

But God comes not only early, not only in the dark stillness. God comes on the first day of the week.

And God finds the world – finds Mary and each one of us – as if we were dead, entombed in that early, mortal stillness – formless and void, buried deep, deep, deep in darkness.

And God says, let there be light.

Alleluia.

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Good Friday
29/3/2024

Philippians 2:1-11
Luke 9:44-48, 51-56

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If we do not keep hold of the crucifixion, Easter Day becomes mere kitsch which has nothing to say to this broken world.

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It is forty years since the appearance of Milan Kundera’s novel, The unbearable lightness of being. The book is the account of four lives set against the background of the 1968 Soviet suppression of the Czech Spring, although Kundera is less interested in this historical context than in the fact that his protagonists must live somewhere. How can we live in our particular Where? Should we fight for life or do we flee from it?

Kundera begins by asking about the “weight” our actions have, and whether it is better that they be heavy or light. Two possibilities present themselves. First, our actions gain substance by means of eternal return (after Nietzsche): weight and meaning arise from repetition in recurrence or constancy; this is the struggle for life, and holding it tight. The second possibility is that our actions can only be “light”, fleeting, once-and-never-again events which are then lost with the oblivion tomorrow ultimately brings. Kundera proposes that the lightness of our being is that it will soon be as if we and all we love never existed; the unbearability of this is that we must still exist in relation to each other, nonetheless.

The idea of an unbearable lightness has increasingly coloured my reflections on Easter and the thinking any Christian must do around the confession of Jesus’ resurrection. Is there not, for the sceptical but also for believers who are paying attention, an “unbearable lightness” about how Easter is often celebrated and proclaimed? This is not quite Kundera’s unbearable lightness but relates more closely to another concept in his book: “kitsch”. Kitsch is representation which hollows out the substance of the thing represented. Easter is susceptible to kitschification, to the extent that promises of resurrection locate our most authentic existence in a future world beyond this one. Kitschy Easter proclamation leaves this world behind. Whatever such a future might be, it tells us little about how to be in our fractured present.

Against this too familiar reading of Easter, the resurrection might better be taken to point backwards rather than forwards. That is, the true miracle of Easter is Jesus’ life up to and including the crucifixion. The path to the cross is the true miracle because the real shock in the Easter story is not that the dead might one day live again. It is rather that there are worse things than being crucified.

This is perhaps a little surprising, given the horror of death by crucifixion. Yet the lightness of the crucifixion here is not What it entailed but That it happened, despite the What. Contrary to atonement theories which require Jesus to be spent as some kind of salvific coin, dying as he did was not necessary but was the indirect consequence of a decision to live in radical openness to human (and divine) truth, undeterred by the potential lethal cost of such a life in a truth-denying world. Jesus came to live, not to die. On this reading, “worse than being crucified” seems to be, for Jesus, a life without openness God’s truth and its claim on our relationships with each other. When, then, as in our Gospel text this morning, Jesus “sets his face to go to Jerusalem”, it is with an openness to this living future in this world, and not with a commitment to escaping the world through the cross into an easier eternity.

This resonates on one level with Kundera’s interest in lightness of being. Not motivated by the desire to establish weighty institutional legacies or even simply to survive as long as he can, Jesus enacts an openness to truth and a fearlessness in the face of the horrific death which looms because of that freedom. Life is more than surviving. But for Kundera’s protagonist Sabina, who seems to represent what he himself holds to be true, the fleeting nature of our existence translates to life as flight; lightness is finally freedom from the entanglements of relational commitment and responsibility. Sabina’s truth is finally detachment – from others and so from meaning. Such a life has its own harsh authenticity, but it is finally as lonely as the sheer eternity of Easter kitsch is empty.

In contrast, while Jesus lived with a Sabrina-like lightness of being which did not fight for grandeur or survival, neither was his life flight from others into lonely solipsism or by escape to heaven. Precisely the opposite: as Paul described in our reading from Philippians this morning, Jesus takes the form not of a fleeing survivor but of a servant. This is a radical being for others which neither betrays nor abandons them. If it is such a one who is resurrected, so also is resurrected the possibility of a life that neither fights nor flees but proclaims and lives into an uncomfortable one-and-all social and political tension which could lead to a cross. An Easter resurrection which recalls the cross does not promise time with God someplace else; it promises the presence of God here and now in any life lived in openness to bearing the “unbearable” other.

The cross arises from a social and political ethic which does not destroy and does not abandon, and it is just this ethic which is raised on Easter Day, and not merely the individual Jesus, understood to have died a few days earlier. The heaven of Easter day is the heaven which led to Jesus being crucified.

This matters today because – contrary to the gospel of the risen crucified one – the struggles which wrack this world are precisely struggles for some heaven or another, each conceived as an eternity without the requirement that we bear this or that particular human other. Someone is always missing from our preferred heavens. And so those various eternities become visions for which we can justifiably crush and kill or abandon the other who won’t be in our heaven anyway: we want a heaven with no Israel to live with, or no Palestine; a heaven with no gays, or no fascists; with no difficult bodies but only easy souls; with no tangled histories but only tidy logic; a heaven with no appalling chauvinists or uppity feminists; no traffic, no stop lights, no waiting; we want a heaven with no differences to overcome and so, what all this could only finally mean: a heaven with no one else there. The heaven proposed by crossless Easter kitsch – and by every fight or flee social or political program – is finally an unbearably lonely eternity.

We need a better heaven than this. That better heaven will have something to do with a resurrected cross. An Easter which does not forget the cross speaks of the miracle we need: the revelation that our life with each other is bearable, and is not merely bearable but is the possibility of a joy worth dying for, though not killing for.

In our Lenten Studies text this year, Sam Wells writes that the kind of reconciliation we see in Jesus – and so salvation he brings – is one which “[holds] together profound but incompatible loyalties, [straddles] deep but rival relationships, [is] the battleground for terrible and uncontrollable enmities”. The proclamation of Easter cannot exceed this, for this is the nature of the one who is said to be risen, and this is what that risen one continues to do. The risen crucified one spans our incompatibility with each other, our rivalries, our enmities.

To return then to the question of Kundera’s book, “How should we live in our particular Where?” What has the Easter of the Crucified to say to this? Our life is to reflect not other-worldly Easter kitsch. It is to reflect God’s being with us in the midst of our fractured here and now.

We are to live with the understanding that this is the only place given to us to live, with these people and no others.

We are to recognise that life’s promise will only be realised in the form the other human being.

And we are to learn to bear the cross-shaped burden we can each sometimes be to each other, for their sake and so for our own.

This is the reconciliation, salvation and call of the Easter of the crucified Jesus.