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By Dr. Bruce T. Marshall
April 24, 2011
Readings
From a Passover Haggadah.
“The second child asks, 'Why do we need this service? Can't we
remember freedom without all this fuss and bother?'
The response: “To be sure, we might be able to remember freedom
without all this bother: but these serve as symbols. All human
society sets aside special days to recall special events. In order
for us to really appreciate the meaning of freedom, we have the
Seder. We recall the hardships and suffering in Egypt that we should
never forget what they meant to our people. For us, it is a lesson:
never to enslave anyone, never oppress a human being and never deal
unkindly with any person.”
An Easter Reading by Jane Rzepka,
“This is what we get in life: We want and want and want—undying
love, a world that is fair, eternal life for ourselves and those we
care about—and we can't have them. We are faced with a savior dead
and an empty tomb to prove it.
“I believe we have been extended not salvation but mercy. Jesus’
reign of God is with us—has been with us—radically, mercifully, all
along in such forms as kindness, fairness, and wonder. We don't have
to wait for Judgment Day, we don't have to be perfect, we don't have
to be afraid; we need only look around and awaken to what has
existed from the beginning of time.
“We go on wanting and hoping and sometimes we are blessed. We may
not get what we want—the tomb is still empty. Yet against that
background every act of mercy is cause for rejoicing. One stalk of
asparagus, a kiss, stirring music, a healthy morning, a good laugh,
a kind touch—we have all that—and all of it, all of it, is holy.”
In Spring by George C. Whitney
If I should die (and die I must) please let it be in spring
When I, and life up-budding shall be one
And green and lovely things shall blend with all I was
And all I hope to be.
The chemistry
Of miracle within the heart of love and life abundant
Shall be mine, and I shall pluck the star-dust and shall know
The mystery within the blade
And sing the wind’s song in the softness of the flowered glade.
April is the time for parting, not because all nature’s tears
Presage the blooming time of May
But joyous should be death and its adventure
As the night gives way to day.
Sermon
This past Sunday evening, Amy, her mother, our son Aaron, and I
gathered for a family Passover Seder. It was not an orthodox Seder
since the two nights of Passover were this past Monday and Tuesday,
not Sunday. We also didn’t wait until sundown to start. And the
service we used—the text of the Passover Seder—was not traditional.
It told the story of the struggles of the Jews for freedom, but
emphasized how that story is not just about the Jewish people, it is
about all of us: all of us struggle for freedom and yearn for peace.
But the essentials of the Seder were present. On our Seder plate at
the center of the table, there were bitter herbs, reminding us of
the hard lives endured by those who have come before, lives made
bitter by the hard labor of slavery. There was choroset, a mixture
of apples, nuts, and wine, representing the mortar used by the
Jewish slaves to build structures that they were not allowed to
inhabit. There was salt water, tears shed by the ancient Israelites
and all who are enslaved. There were the traditional elements of an
egg, parsley that was dipped in salt water, a lamb shank—actually,
we use a piece of cardboard cut into a shape that might sort of be a
lamp shank (with the proper amount of imagination). There was
matzo—unleavened bread—that reminds us that when the ancient
Israelites escaped from slavery, they did not have time to let the
bread rise. They had to respond right then when the opportunity
presented itself. And we had the traditional four cups of wine
reminding us that, despite the ills to which we are subject, life
also contains joy.
There is no one Seder service prescribed for use by all. Rather,
Seders are written and re-written throughout the ages. Ours
emphasizes the universal struggle for freedom. It says, “Everyone
seeks freedom from their own oppression, and if we remain faithful
to the Passover story, we realize that we cannot be truly free until
all are free.” This is why spirituals of the African American
tradition are often featured in a Seder: it’s the story of every
enslaved people’s struggle for freedom, every person’s yearning to
breathe free.
The Passover Seder is a celebration of memory, that we not forget
the struggles of our ancestors. That we not forget those who have
been and those who still are enslaved. We remember that freedom does
not come easily, that each generation—each individual—struggles to
be free. Each of us seeks a promised land. “Next year in Jerusalem!”
we proclaim to end the service, realizing that each person’s
Jerusalem may be unique to that individual and that the shape of
freedom may look different to us as the years go by.
● ● ●
Today is Easter. There is a relationship between Passover and the
observance of Easter. The Last Supper of Jesus and his disciples was
most likely a Passover Seder. As it is reported in the Gospel
stories of the New Testament, Jesus took that occasion to urge his
disciples to not forget—that they not forget him, that they not
forget the spirit in which they gathered. He offered the bread and
wine of the meal as reminders. As you eat the bread and drink the
wine, he said, do it in remembrance of me.
Different congregations of the Christian tradition have evolved
different meanings of the sharing of bread and wine: the communion.
But a central feature is memory—that we not forget. That we not
forget the mysterious force of love that is present in our lives,
bringing us together, forming communities, surprising us sometimes,
offering hope and possibility where we thought there was nothing,
offering life when it has seemed there was only emptiness and death.
I want to tell you a story: a true story that I heard a few weeks
ago. To me, it’s an Easter story even though the main character is a
Jewish man.
The man who told this story is probably in his mid to late 80s
today, has to be to fit the chronology. This man—we’ll call him
Richard because that is his name—Richard grew up in Germany, the old
German town of Wittenberg. His family was among the few Jewish
families in that community, and this was the 1930s, the rise of
Hitler. Richard told of being the only Jew in his school, taunted by
his classmates, not allowed to participate in activities other than
going to class. He remembered keeping to himself, having only one
friend at that school. And then there came the day when that boy
said he could no longer be a friend. It was too dangerous for him to
have a Jew as his friend. The former friend then moved over to the
other side, joining the boys who made life miserable for Richard.
Richard told of experiencing Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken
Glass, when gangs in Germany and Austria attacked synagogues, Jewish
businesses and homes. He described his father being arrested, then
his family huddled in fear as gangs tore through his family’s
apartment, smashing the contents, not knowing if the gangs would
then turn on them. He and his brother ultimately escaped Germany as
part of the rescue mission called the Kindertransport, and were
later reunited with their parents who also had escaped. Ultimately,
they came to this country to begin a new life.
Many years later, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, Richard
returned to his home town of Wittenberg, which had been in East
Germany. Understandably, he went back with trepidation. Some of the
boys who had taunted him still lived in his hometown. Maybe they
would remember him. Maybe he would find his friend, who had turned
on him, betrayed him, when the hate campaign against the Jews
intensified.
Richard did indeed meet up with his friend, now also a man in his
80s. They embraced, held each other for a long time, and in those
moments, decades of anger, fear resentment, hurt melted away. The
city that had once rejected him now came out to pay respects, to
honor him. They asked him to tell his story, that it not be
forgotten. Richard was given a key to the city. He said with some
wonder, “I was famous. I felt like a rock star.”
He calls what he experienced reconciliation, coming together after a
long period of estrangement. Today, he sees his mission as spreading
the word and the experience of reconciliation as the only viable
pathway to peace on this globe. I call it an Easter story because it
reminds us that despite all the hatred this world stirs up, there is
also a force of love that can overcome it.
Yes, there is much that tears communities apart, that turns people
against each other. We remember it in the story of Jesus and his
execution and his disciples who fled when the going got tough. And
yet there is also a force of love—something that stirs inside—that
can bring us back together, that offers life when it seemed there
was death. That, to me, is the Easter story that we are asked to
remember as we gather on this morning.
Today in Germany, Richard reported, the Holocaust is taught in the
schools in great detail. There is no attempt to cover it up. Rather,
the nation has come to understand that the only protection against
it happening again is to remember. To remember that the Holocaust
happened and how it happened and that the greatest threat of it
happening again is if we forget.
● ● ●
Easter and Passover are celebrated in the spring. This is not an
accident. Both are built upon earlier pagan ceremonies that
recognized the return of life at spring—the victory over death—our
liberation from the spell cast by winter.
I look forward to spring and yet each year when it comes, I am
surprised. “Oh, I did not remember how the flowers of the white
dogwood glow, particularly at twilight.”
“I did not remember the wispy green of the trees as they come to
life.”
“I did not remember the intensity of colors that emerge from the
browns and grays of winter.”
“I did not remember how quickly the earth is transformed.”
“And I didn’t remember how the renewal of life outside also awakens
something in me, feelings of renewal and hope.”
We rely upon this season to help us remember not just what spring
looks like but also that new life does burst in to relieve us of our
weariness. Spring helps us remember, as it is put in the opening
reading: spring helps us remember the miracle within the heart of
love and life abundant.
● ● ●
Most of you know that on Thursdays, I serve as chaplain to the
Unitarian Universalist residents at Riderwood Village, a senior
residence center. During the almost two years that I have been
there, I’ve learned about aging and the challenges it presents.
One is, as a resident put it, that “everybody’s got something going
on with them.” There comes a point in life, if you are lucky enough
to live so long, that everybody’s got something going with them.
Almost always this involves physical ailments but also can include
concerns about children, grandchildren, spouses, friends.
Everybody’s got something going on. Which isn’t that different from
those who are not yet seniors. Everybody’s got something going on.
But the biggest concern I encounter in working with the elderly is
not about illness. It’s not even about death. The biggest concern
has to do with the loss of memory. All of us lose short-term memory
as we grow older. You know, you go upstairs or downstairs or to
another room to get something and by the time you’ve gotten there,
you can’t remember what you were going for. Those moments increase
with age, as does the ability to remember what you said yesterday or
did or promised to do. Some people are subject to more severe memory
loss due to Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia. There are people
I know who live completely in the present because they can’t
remember the immediate past—even though they might remember 40, 50,
60 years ago.
This is the greatest fear because when we lose our memory, we lose
ourselves. We not only forget the content of specific experiences;
we forget who we are. And it’s not just the elderly who are subject
to memory loss. All of us are, our community, our society, our
nation—we all forget.
We forget that when we enter a war, we do not know how it’s going to
turn out.
We forget that when people are hurt, taken advantage of, demeaned,
they transfer those feelings on to others, to new generations. And
the cycle repeats itself.
We forget that hatred, once stoked for whatever short-term gain it
might offer, then burns out of control, enveloping us all.
But likewise we also forget that those who have been slaves can get
free, we forget that whatever holds us back—that keeps us down—can
be overcome.
We forget that there is a capacity for love in the world that breaks
through the isolation and brings us back together.
We forget that life regenerates itself, that in times of emptiness
and sorrow, new life appears bringing hope and possibility and
flowers into our lives.
At the Seder, it is part of the ceremony for a child to ask, “Why is
this night special? Why do we observe this ceremony year after year?
Why do we go through the fuss and bother? Can't we recall freedom
and liberation and renewal and eternal life on our own without going
through this trouble?”
The answer, “Yes, of course, we may remember on our own. We may
remember the call to liberation. We may remember the struggle
against oppression. We may remember the miracle of life's renewal,
life's rebirth. We may recall on our own.”
But we don't. We get busy. We become distracted. We are drawn into
everyday concerns that obstruct our view of anything beyond, and
then life passes us by. We forget about liberation and renewal and
the miracle that brings us here together to share this time on this
earth. We take life for granted.
“How was your day?” we'll ask each other, and we'll say, “Oh, it was
just another day,” forgetting that days aren't forever and that in
each there is the gift of companionship, the opportunity for
learning, the beauty of this world, the possibility for discovery
and change.
And so when this time of year comes around, and we again draw upon
these ancient stories—the emancipation of the Jews, the victory over
death by Jesus, the renewal of the earth—then we pause. We pause and
reflect upon these themes. We are reminded to not forget.
“Why is this night different from other nights?” a child asks. “Why
is it special?” Perhaps this night, this day, is not different. It
is like all the others. Except that it offers a time that we might
stop and feel grateful for the gifts we receive in this life. It is
a time to pause—that we not forget the wonder of being, that we not
forget the possibility for liberation, that we not forget the grace
of life.
● ● ●
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