Easter Sunday
Jeremiah 31:1-6, Matthew 18:1-10
Sheri Hostetler, Pastor
There is a darkness within us. It is strong, and it is deep. Yes, there is also a burning light, an Inner light as the Quakers call it, that of God in us. I’ve frankly seen more goodness come out of people than bad. And yet, the darkness is there, and the events of this past Holy Week force us to look at it. Morton Kelsey, who wrote one of essays Worship Committee provided for Holy Week, is a priest and psychologist. "Each of us," he says, "has underneath our ordinary personality, which we show to the public, a cellar in which we hide the refuse and rubbish which we would rather not see ourselves or let others see."[1] This darkness takes many half-shapes: fear, a sorrow so deep no balm can soothe it, shame, jealousies, regrets and grievances, an anger that can erupt out of seemingly nowhere.
It gets worse, however. Below this basement, Kelsey says, lies a sub-basement, a "deeper hold in which there are dragons and demons, a truly hellish place, full of violence and hatred and viciousness. Sometimes these lower levels break out, and it is to this lowest level of humans that public executions appeal."
Any of you who have ever been to a vigil outside San Quentin on the night of an execution and have seen the demonstrators holding signs saying, "Fry him," cheering as a person is put to death, will know what Kelsey is talking about. One only need read an account of Jesus’ crucifixion to know the same thing, as crowds clamor for him to die, as soldiers jeer as they press thorns into his head, as guards at the foot of his cross gamble to see who will get his robes. It’s why I can almost not stand to hear this story, because it reminds me of this sub-basement, of the cruelty that hides in some monstrously dark part of us. It reminds me that crucifixions – on a vastly larger scale – have happened so often in human history and continue to happen.
There is a darkness deep within us. From our personal demons to the collective ogre that can emerge at times, this darkness has the power to make life a living hell.
Holy Week forces us to contemplate this darkness. As I have done this, I have also at the same time been transfixed by an icon which you have it in your order of worship, and I invite you to take it out if you wish. This icon comes from the Eastern Orthodox tradition – one of the three great streams of Christianity, along with the Catholic and Protestant. The Orthodox tradition believes that art – in the form of icons – can be as revelatory of spiritual truth as words are. Perhaps even moreso. So, you find lots of icons in the Orthodox tradition. They are, literally, considered sacred texts.
Interestingly, there are very few icons for the Resurrection, the main event in Christianity. This is because the Orthodox faith sees the Resurrection as a deep Mystery, one that cannot be captured in word or picture. They point out that the Gospel accounts themselves are silent about the details of this central mystery of our faith – we come to the Tomb after Jesus has risen, not while he is being risen. So, instead of depicting the physical act of Jesus’ emerging from the Tomb, icons depicting the resurrection show the spiritual reality of what his death and resurrection accomplished.
You have one of those icons in your hand, commonly called "The Descent Into Hell" (although here called "The Triumph Over Death" – it’s the same icon, however). The Eastern Orthodox Church uses this icon all throughout the Easter season but primarily on Holy Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter. On this day, the Eastern Orthodox Church contemplates the mystery of Christ’s descent into Hades, the place of darkness and death. We don’t often say the Apostles’ Creed in our congregation, but this "Descent into Hell" idea is found in that creed: "We believe in Jesus Christ… who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended to the dead. The third day he rose again." So, somewhere between death and resurrection, there is this descent.
This icon shows this descent, shows Christ – often riding a cross, although not in the one you have – descending into the dark belly of the earth, breaking the locked door of the tomb (see locks on this icon), and exposing the deepest recesses of creation to the light of heaven. Christ is seen as entering so profoundly into the human condition and into creation itself, that he penetrates the deepest realms of sin and death. And once there, he brings to these dark places the light of God. This, the Orthodox tradition says, is the essential spiritual truth of the resurrection – that there is no place so dark that Divine Light cannot enter it.
In other words, Christ descends into our locked basements, where our fear, shame, and anger wait in dark corners, and exposes them to the healing light of his love. I have experienced this light in my life. Many years ago, I was going through a time of deep internal struggle. I didn’t like myself. I didn’t like my life. I couldn’t make it work the way I wanted to. It was during this time that I was drawn to meditation. I began attending a small meditation community in Oakland called Hesed. Almost every day for several months, I would go to that house on Elston Avenue and sit in the basement, where the Chapel was located.
Most of the time, I did what I was supposed to do – say my mantra and follow my breath, going back to that no matter where my monkey mind wandered. But some of the time, I did something else. I would imagine myself sitting there, in that basement, with a spotlight of Divine love enclosing me in a circle. The light wasn’t harsh or bright, but golden – much like the gold in this icon, actually. It felt like a warm, loving, healing light. And sometimes, as I sat there bathed in light, I would see shapes off in the darkness outside the circle. I would call them into the light, to sit with me. Sometimes, I would recognize them – there’s the 11-year-old Sheri. I know why she’s here. Sometimes, I wouldn’t know who they were or why there were sitting in the dark, but I invited them in just the same. Mostly, they seemed like parts of me, but not always. It didn’t matter. We were just sitting there, in the light of love. This Divine Light unlocked the door to my own darkness, exposing the deeper recesses of my own basement to the light of heaven. It healed me in profound ways for which I am still grateful.
Even more astonishingly, though, this icon proclaims that Christ descends even into our sub-basements, where our most dangerous dragons and demons lurk, and shines the light of heaven even there. Some of you may remember the story Ben told last Sunday during our joys and concerns time. He was part of a gathering recently where two Japanese kamikaze pilots shared their stories – kamikazes were aviators who would intentionally crash their aircraft into U.S. warship. Killing yourself was considered utter heresy, the pilots said. But the Japanese felt so weak military and so cornered by the U.S. – which they feared would take over their country – that they felt this heresy was the only way to prevent their own destruction as a country. One of the Japanese men described his transition from naval seaman to kamikaze pilot:
"I did not tell my father of what I was chosen to do. He knew I was off to war, but the only thing he could say to me was to "come home, just come home." Now I had to arrange what would happen to my parents (after I died). I had to overcome much suffering, and I suffered greatly internally over this issue. All of us in the program became very close because we had all been given one task: to die. We had to overcome that very instinct in all of us to survive, to live. We had to conquer death and plunge ourselves into an abyss of fire."
It turns out this man was shot down before he hit his target and was stranded on an island for 82 days before being found by his countrymen. Nevertheless, he did enter an abyss of fire some months later. When the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima in August of 1945, this same man arrived the next day to witness the destruction. "What I saw," he said, "I will never forget until the end of my days. I witnessed the destruction of a people. Nothing was left. People weeping Children with no parents, parents with no children. Bodies twisted."
This man had descended into hell. He had entered the sub-basement of our species, and seen what we can do to each other. He could have decided right then and there that he would spend the rest of his life seeking vengeance for what had happened. It would be the normal response. In fact, it would be hard to blame a person for choosing this. Instead, he said, "That day I knew I could not be the person I was. I could not go on like this. On August 7, 1945, I renounced vengeance. I renounced war."
When I hear this, I think of the time Jerome and I drove through Yosemite National Park, about a year after a forest fire devastated much of the park, leaving a lunar landscape in its wake, a land of gray and black, a land of death. By the time we drove through that same area months later, patches of green grass, even some flowers, were growing beside the hulks of charred trees. When I hear this story of the Japanese man who renounced war on August 7, 1945, I see one small, green shoot rising through a scorched land. And I say: The darkness is strong. The darkness is deep. But there is no place that the Light cannot shine.
In fact, there was one more than one green blade rising through the devastated landscape of Japan. That pilot was not the only one to renounce war. The Japanese Constitution, drawn up after World War II under the guidelines of the U.S., formally renounced war and the use of military force in offensive ways. One can say this Constitution was imposed upon them, and very quickly after this, some in Japan – at the urging of the U.S. – wanted to amend the Constitution and rearm. But the people said no. They had had enough of war and death. To this day, the Constitution remains intact. Japan also refuses to export military hardware to other countries and is the only nation with a space exploration program, but no nuclear weapons.
The darkness is strong. The darkness is deep. But there is no place that the Light cannot shine.
For Christ has descended – and is still descending – into the deepest, darkest recesses of our humanity and is exposing it to the light of heaven. Christ has descended – and is still descending -- into the suffering we bear, the suffering we inflict on each other, and is working a new thing in its midst. Christ has descended – and is still descending – into the locked, dark places of our hearts and our world, and breaking down doors of violence, hatred, despair, shame and fear.
Christ has arisen! Alleluia! And Christ has descended. Will you say it with me? Alleluia.
[1] From Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter, Orbis Books.
It gets worse, however. Below this basement, Kelsey says, lies a sub-basement, a "deeper hold in which there are dragons and demons, a truly hellish place, full of violence and hatred and viciousness. Sometimes these lower levels break out, and it is to this lowest level of humans that public executions appeal."
Any of you who have ever been to a vigil outside San Quentin on the night of an execution and have seen the demonstrators holding signs saying, "Fry him," cheering as a person is put to death, will know what Kelsey is talking about. One only need read an account of Jesus’ crucifixion to know the same thing, as crowds clamor for him to die, as soldiers jeer as they press thorns into his head, as guards at the foot of his cross gamble to see who will get his robes. It’s why I can almost not stand to hear this story, because it reminds me of this sub-basement, of the cruelty that hides in some monstrously dark part of us. It reminds me that crucifixions – on a vastly larger scale – have happened so often in human history and continue to happen.
There is a darkness deep within us. From our personal demons to the collective ogre that can emerge at times, this darkness has the power to make life a living hell.
Holy Week forces us to contemplate this darkness. As I have done this, I have also at the same time been transfixed by an icon which you have it in your order of worship, and I invite you to take it out if you wish. This icon comes from the Eastern Orthodox tradition – one of the three great streams of Christianity, along with the Catholic and Protestant. The Orthodox tradition believes that art – in the form of icons – can be as revelatory of spiritual truth as words are. Perhaps even moreso. So, you find lots of icons in the Orthodox tradition. They are, literally, considered sacred texts.
Interestingly, there are very few icons for the Resurrection, the main event in Christianity. This is because the Orthodox faith sees the Resurrection as a deep Mystery, one that cannot be captured in word or picture. They point out that the Gospel accounts themselves are silent about the details of this central mystery of our faith – we come to the Tomb after Jesus has risen, not while he is being risen. So, instead of depicting the physical act of Jesus’ emerging from the Tomb, icons depicting the resurrection show the spiritual reality of what his death and resurrection accomplished.
You have one of those icons in your hand, commonly called "The Descent Into Hell" (although here called "The Triumph Over Death" – it’s the same icon, however). The Eastern Orthodox Church uses this icon all throughout the Easter season but primarily on Holy Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter. On this day, the Eastern Orthodox Church contemplates the mystery of Christ’s descent into Hades, the place of darkness and death. We don’t often say the Apostles’ Creed in our congregation, but this "Descent into Hell" idea is found in that creed: "We believe in Jesus Christ… who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended to the dead. The third day he rose again." So, somewhere between death and resurrection, there is this descent.
This icon shows this descent, shows Christ – often riding a cross, although not in the one you have – descending into the dark belly of the earth, breaking the locked door of the tomb (see locks on this icon), and exposing the deepest recesses of creation to the light of heaven. Christ is seen as entering so profoundly into the human condition and into creation itself, that he penetrates the deepest realms of sin and death. And once there, he brings to these dark places the light of God. This, the Orthodox tradition says, is the essential spiritual truth of the resurrection – that there is no place so dark that Divine Light cannot enter it.
In other words, Christ descends into our locked basements, where our fear, shame, and anger wait in dark corners, and exposes them to the healing light of his love. I have experienced this light in my life. Many years ago, I was going through a time of deep internal struggle. I didn’t like myself. I didn’t like my life. I couldn’t make it work the way I wanted to. It was during this time that I was drawn to meditation. I began attending a small meditation community in Oakland called Hesed. Almost every day for several months, I would go to that house on Elston Avenue and sit in the basement, where the Chapel was located.
Most of the time, I did what I was supposed to do – say my mantra and follow my breath, going back to that no matter where my monkey mind wandered. But some of the time, I did something else. I would imagine myself sitting there, in that basement, with a spotlight of Divine love enclosing me in a circle. The light wasn’t harsh or bright, but golden – much like the gold in this icon, actually. It felt like a warm, loving, healing light. And sometimes, as I sat there bathed in light, I would see shapes off in the darkness outside the circle. I would call them into the light, to sit with me. Sometimes, I would recognize them – there’s the 11-year-old Sheri. I know why she’s here. Sometimes, I wouldn’t know who they were or why there were sitting in the dark, but I invited them in just the same. Mostly, they seemed like parts of me, but not always. It didn’t matter. We were just sitting there, in the light of love. This Divine Light unlocked the door to my own darkness, exposing the deeper recesses of my own basement to the light of heaven. It healed me in profound ways for which I am still grateful.
Even more astonishingly, though, this icon proclaims that Christ descends even into our sub-basements, where our most dangerous dragons and demons lurk, and shines the light of heaven even there. Some of you may remember the story Ben told last Sunday during our joys and concerns time. He was part of a gathering recently where two Japanese kamikaze pilots shared their stories – kamikazes were aviators who would intentionally crash their aircraft into U.S. warship. Killing yourself was considered utter heresy, the pilots said. But the Japanese felt so weak military and so cornered by the U.S. – which they feared would take over their country – that they felt this heresy was the only way to prevent their own destruction as a country. One of the Japanese men described his transition from naval seaman to kamikaze pilot:
"I did not tell my father of what I was chosen to do. He knew I was off to war, but the only thing he could say to me was to "come home, just come home." Now I had to arrange what would happen to my parents (after I died). I had to overcome much suffering, and I suffered greatly internally over this issue. All of us in the program became very close because we had all been given one task: to die. We had to overcome that very instinct in all of us to survive, to live. We had to conquer death and plunge ourselves into an abyss of fire."
It turns out this man was shot down before he hit his target and was stranded on an island for 82 days before being found by his countrymen. Nevertheless, he did enter an abyss of fire some months later. When the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima in August of 1945, this same man arrived the next day to witness the destruction. "What I saw," he said, "I will never forget until the end of my days. I witnessed the destruction of a people. Nothing was left. People weeping Children with no parents, parents with no children. Bodies twisted."
This man had descended into hell. He had entered the sub-basement of our species, and seen what we can do to each other. He could have decided right then and there that he would spend the rest of his life seeking vengeance for what had happened. It would be the normal response. In fact, it would be hard to blame a person for choosing this. Instead, he said, "That day I knew I could not be the person I was. I could not go on like this. On August 7, 1945, I renounced vengeance. I renounced war."
When I hear this, I think of the time Jerome and I drove through Yosemite National Park, about a year after a forest fire devastated much of the park, leaving a lunar landscape in its wake, a land of gray and black, a land of death. By the time we drove through that same area months later, patches of green grass, even some flowers, were growing beside the hulks of charred trees. When I hear this story of the Japanese man who renounced war on August 7, 1945, I see one small, green shoot rising through a scorched land. And I say: The darkness is strong. The darkness is deep. But there is no place that the Light cannot shine.
In fact, there was one more than one green blade rising through the devastated landscape of Japan. That pilot was not the only one to renounce war. The Japanese Constitution, drawn up after World War II under the guidelines of the U.S., formally renounced war and the use of military force in offensive ways. One can say this Constitution was imposed upon them, and very quickly after this, some in Japan – at the urging of the U.S. – wanted to amend the Constitution and rearm. But the people said no. They had had enough of war and death. To this day, the Constitution remains intact. Japan also refuses to export military hardware to other countries and is the only nation with a space exploration program, but no nuclear weapons.
The darkness is strong. The darkness is deep. But there is no place that the Light cannot shine.
For Christ has descended – and is still descending – into the deepest, darkest recesses of our humanity and is exposing it to the light of heaven. Christ has descended – and is still descending -- into the suffering we bear, the suffering we inflict on each other, and is working a new thing in its midst. Christ has descended – and is still descending – into the locked, dark places of our hearts and our world, and breaking down doors of violence, hatred, despair, shame and fear.
Christ has arisen! Alleluia! And Christ has descended. Will you say it with me? Alleluia.
[1] From Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter, Orbis Books.