The Resurrection of the Body

We are barely into the Easter season, and there are many signs that we need resurrection more than ever.  On Easter Sunday itself, the world reeled in horror at the carefully orchestrated explosions in Sri Lanka that killed hundreds of Christians as they worshiped, and injured even more.  A violent earthquake in the Philippines damaged Clark International Airport and destroyed buildings, trapping people in the rubble.  The Judicial Council of the United Methodist Church met to rule on the constitutionality of the changes to the Book of Discipline that were passed in February at the called General Conference, their conclusions causing great dismay to many of us who had hoped for a different outcome.  And I had a funeral this week for one of my elderly church members, a widower who died of grief because he simply couldn't go on without his wife.  Devastation, destruction, disappointment, and death have a firm grip on the world we live in, and when, as a Christian, you seek direction and guidance and hope, where else do you turn but to Easter, to resurrection?

What then do we make of statements that paint it as a story of hope and love triumphing over the pain and sorrow of death but only as a beautiful symbol?  What do we make of explanations that are long on metaphor and short on radical new life? The gospels speak of a risen Christ whose hunger and thirst for physical food and drink are like our own but whose newly transformed body is capable of things that defy logical explanation.  The apostle Paul struggles to help the Corinthians wrap their heads around it, and he grapples with the limits of the words of finite humanity in order to point to the incomprehensible actions of an infinite God. I have stood at the graves of many and preached many a funeral -- and many an Easter -- sermon. But I cannot say how Christ's resurrection happened nor can I draw a picture of heaven. I don't know what happens and when, but I trust that the One who took on human flesh and dwelt and died in a human body and was resurrected in a human body is no ghost or feel-good memory, and I trust that my eventual newly raised self will also bear some resemblance to the present one, although in a perfected and incorruptible version.

John Wesley naturally pondered these things, as well, and when asked to explain them to curious or grieving questioners, his responses included confident, rational pronouncements where you can almost hear his unspoken " Well, duh!" as he writes in his sermon "On the Resurrection of the Dead" --

The plain notion of a resurrection requires, that the self-same body that died should rise again.  Nothing can be said to be raised again, but that very body that died.  If God give to our souls at the last day a new body, this cannot be called the resurrection of our body; because that word plainly implies the fresh production of what was before.

He goes on to assert that God can certainly reform the dust of a decayed human body back into the same body as before since God had after all created Adam from the dust of the earth in the first place!

But he also attended to these matters with rather less lofty but still confident statements such as these expressed in a letter to Mary Bishop --

I do not know whether the usual question be well stated, ' Is heaven a state or a place? ' There is no opposition between these two; it is both the one and the other. It is the place wherein God more immediately dwells with those saints who are in a glorified state...

But what is the essential part of heaven?  Undoubtedly it is to see God, to know God, to love God. We shall then know both His nature, and His works of creation, of providence, and of redemption. Even in paradise, in the intermediate state between death and the resurrection, we shall learn more concerning these in an hour than we could in an age during our stay in the body. We cannot tell, indeed, how we shall then exist or what kind of organs we shall have: the soul will not be encumbered with flesh and blood; but probably it will have some sort of ethereal vehicle, even before God clothes us ' with our nobler house of empyrean light.' ~ John Wesley (letter to Mary Bishop, April 17, 1776)

Perhaps Wesley found it unnecessary to speculate overlong as to the exact dimensions of the resurrected body or the exact nature of its organs or lack thereof, or perhaps he simply did not think it necessary to go into all that in a personal letter.  Either way, in both the sermon and the letter, he displays a sure confidence in the God who called all things into being and raised Jesus from the dead, finding in his faith a guard against the fear of death, which will indeed pull down the "house of clay" only to give way to the mighty act of God in raising it up again to be "infinitely more beautiful, strong, and useful" (On the Resurrection of the Dead).  

That is explanation enough -- and ground enough for faith -- for me.

(top picture of Isenheim Altarpiece, Resurrection; bottom photo taken by me of a portrait of John Wesley in the Duke Divinity School library)

Now: A Poem for the Triduum

Now the bleeding
Now the sorrow
Now the weeping
Now the pain-soaked death

Now the stillness
Now the silence
Now the fearing
Now the unknowing

Now the wonder
Now the joy
Now the gladness
Now the raising up

Forever now the Love

(Photo of cemetery of St Andrew's Parish Church, Epworth))

Remember

"Remember," he says.

"As often as this story is told

and something beautiful is done for me,

do this in memory of her."

Abundant grace 

Self-giving love.

"Remember," he says.

"As often as this story is told, 

the bread broken and the wine drunk, 

do this in memory of me."

Abundant grace 

Self-giving love.

In Holy Week, we remember.  

The precious ointment, 

scented nard trickling down his head and beard,

anticipating the time when he himself would be poured out.

Abundant grace 

Self-giving love.

In Holy Week, we remember.  

The fountain of pardon spilling from his side 

as the healing stream flowed 

from his hands, his feet, his sacred head. 

Abundant grace 

Self-giving love.

Sorrow. Death. Grief. Love. 

Love's redeeming work is finished,  

his blood to all our hearts applied, 

for ALL of us our Savior died. 

Abundant grace 

Self-giving love.

Forgiveness. Wholeness. Life. Love.

Remember.

Notre Dame and A Cold, Broken Hallelujah

This picture of me and Scott was taken 5 years ago when we visited France just prior to the D-Day 70th anniversary commemorations.  Unfortunately, because we were in Paris for less than one day, we were unable to go inside Notre Dame, but even so, I feel a great sense of loss and sadness at the news of the horrific fire that engulfed the building and caused so much damage to this aged yet ageless sacred space. Thankfully, it seems the destruction may not have been as severe as it was first feared, but naturally, the shock and heartache remain.

Like me, you have likely seen pictures of the crimson flames and billowing clouds of smoke filling the sky along with pictures of people mourning, praying, hoping, weeping.  They are heartbroken and despondent, they feel as if something vital to their existence has been irreparably destroyed or at least fatally marred.  The irony of such a tragedy during Holy Week is lost on no one who lives by the liturgical calendar, and this was mentioned more than once by reporters and commentators.

The pain and grief being experienced and expressed by millions of people around the globe is intense and deep.  It calls up thoughts of other fires that ravaged other holy places:  the three African-American churches recently destroyed in Louisiana by an angry arsonist, the fire at the mosque on the Temple mount in Jerusalem accidentally started by children, the unintentional blaze at an Episcopal church here in Fayetteville, and the fiery destruction of the church of my childhood resulting from faulty wiring.  These are spaces and places that are not only sites of worship and prayer but are also repositories of memories and emotions.  More than this, they are reminders of the presence of the Sacred in our very midst, silently prompting us to pause and recall that the very ground upon which we stand is holy.

Notre Dame was unfamiliar to John Wesley, but he was quite familiar with other cathedrals (Lincoln and St. Paul's come to mind), and he was no stranger to loss or grief or suffering.  Yet even when his own heart was broken and his physical strength waned, he was upheld by hope and the promise of resurrection joy.  In his sermon "On Mourning for the Dead," he offers these words of comfort and defiance in the face of death itself --

If we are, at any time, in danger of being overcome by dwelling too long on the gloomy side of this prospect,...; let us immediately recur to the bright side, and reflect, with gratitude as well as humility, that our time passeth away like a shadow; and that, when we awake from this momentary dream, we shall then have a clearer view of that latter day in which our Redeemer shall stand upon the earth; when this corruptible shall put on incorruption, and this mortal shall be clothed with immortality; and when we shall sing, with the united choirs of men and angels, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

Chichester Cathedral, High Altar (photo taken by me May 2014)

Let us not be too swift to put away our mourning -- the sorrow we bear after a death or the tragic loss of something sacred and dear to us is very real, and it must be faced and brought into the open if we are to heal from it.  Good Friday is a stark reminder of the cruelty of death and its power to wound, and Holy Saturday in its stillness and quiet mimics the utter quiet of the grave and its seeming finality. But this is Holy Week, and Easter is coming, and so even though we will experience tragedy and fear and loss in this lifetime, we proclaim, along with the burial rites of the Book of Common Prayer:

"All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!" And even if sometimes it's at first what Leonard Cohen called a "cold and broken hallelujah," still we will sing, trusting even where we have not seen, that God is there. Still we will hold onto the promise that in Christ, even at the grave, our song shall ever be "Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!"

Velleity and "The Almost Christian"

I follow Litographs on Facebook, and one of the things I enjoy most is the way they introduce the reader to unfamiliar or under-used words.  The above graphic is from their page, and I don't remember when it was the featured word of the day, but I remember thinking what a great word it would be to use in a sermon, so I downloaded the picture for future use.

So, velleity.  Isn't that a great word?  Doesn't it just smack you in the face with the way it perfectly expresses the half-hearted good intentions or desires we all have from time to time?  I don't know if it's a word John Wesley knew or employed in any of his writings, but I assure you he was familiar with the concept. 

In 1741, John Wesley preached a sermon at Oxford University that he called "The Almost Christian."  In it, he writes that the almost Christian is at least outwardly a good person, one who avoids obvious sins like adultery or taking the Lord's name in vain or gluttony.  Such a one, Wesley says, possesses "a form of godliness; of that godliness which is prescribed in the gospel of Christ; the having the outside of a real Christian. Accordingly, the almost Christian does nothing which the gospel forbids." The almost Christian is regular in worship and prayer and to doing good for other people.  Wesley says that a person who practices "this outward religion, has the form of godliness. There needs but one thing more in order to his being almost a Christian, and that is, sincerity." 

In contrast, the "altogether Christian" is filled with love, love of God and love of neighbor, and desires nothing but God.  One who is an "altogether Christian" is not merely outwardly good; she or he is inwardly changed and joyfully obedient to God because of that change.  Simply wanting to be a good person is not enough.  Wesley encourages the "almost Christian" to press on, to not give up or to settle for outward conformity to the things of God, using an expression that is a familiar one to us --

But, supposing you had, do good designs and good desires make a Christian? By no means, unless they are brought to good effect. "Hell is paved," saith one, "with good intentions." The great question of all, then, still remains. Is the love of God shed abroad in your heart? Can you cry out, "My God, and my All"? Do you desire nothing but him? Are you happy in God? Is he your glory, your delight, your crown of rejoicing? And is this commandment written in your heart, "That he who loveth God love his brother also"? Do you then love your neighbour as yourself? Do you love every man, even your enemies, even the enemies of God, as your own soul? as Christ loved you? Yea, dost thou believe that Christ loved thee, and gave himself for thee? Hast thou faith in his blood? Believest thou the Lamb of God hath taken away thy sins, and cast them as a stone into the depth of the sea? that he hath blotted out the handwriting that was against thee, taking it out of the way, nailing it to his cross? Hast thou indeed redemption through his blood, even the remission of thy sins? And doth his Spirit bear witness with thy spirit, that thou art a child of God?

John Wesley did not want anyone to be satisfied with velliety in her/his spiritual life.  He spent his entire ministry relentlessly urging everyone to give themselves completely to Christ. He pressed them to grow in grace and in so doing to be filled with the fullness of the Holy Spirit so that all those outward good actions would continue, but with a difference.  Now caring for neighbor would grow out of the reality of love, fired by the presence of the Spirit, rather than grim-faced duty; loving acts of mercy would be accompanied by a real and powerful change within.

I have days when I wonder if I am an "altogether Christian" or if I'm simply treading water, allowing myself to be satisfied with merely seeming to have a form of godliness rather than pressing on, giving myself wholeheartedly to Christ.  All through Lent this year, I have been disappointed in myself, feeling as if I haven't been living up to those good intentions I started out with on Ash Wednesday. 

And so, with John and in the words of Charles Wesley, I will continue to make these words my prayer to banish velleity from my Christian discipleship journey, and perhaps you will, too:

O what shall we do our Savior to love?
To make us anew, come, Lord, from above.
The fruit of Thy passion, Thy holiness give,
Give us the salvation of all that believe.

Pronounce the glad word, and bid us be free!
Ah! hast Thou not, Lord, a blessing for me?
The peace Thou hast given this moment impart,
And open Thy heaven of love in my heart.

Come, Jesus, and loose the stammerer’s tongue,
And teach even us the spiritual song;
Let us without ceasing give thanks for Thy grace,
And glory, and blessing, and honor, and praise.