The Rev. Mary Davila

02 Easter Year A

March 30, 2008

John 20:19-31

“Alleluia”

Some of you know the story, rather the saga, of the Alleluia banner.

Three years ago, during my first season of Lent at St. James’, we inaugurated the custom of burying a banner with the word “alleluia” on it. On Ash Wednesday, the children go outside to the place where we’ve dug a hole, and we bury the banner in the ground to symbolize that we don’t say the word “alleluia” during Lent. And then on Easter, the banner comes out of its tomb, and the word comes back to life.

As far as I can tell, the children of St. James’ take the burial of the word pretty seriously. I’ve heard from Dr. Pat that during Lent, the children in children’s choir refuse to practice Easter songs that have the word in them. I’ve heard from parents that during Lent, their children become the alleluia police. A mere slip of the tongue and children are outraged that someone would dare say the forbidden word.

So the custom of burying the alleluia banner seems to have had its intended effect.

There’s only one small problem.

The first year that we buried the banner, I neglected to mark the burial spot. I thought for sure I could remember where I’d bury the banner simply by sight. So on the day before Easter, I arrived at church with my shovel, ready to extract the banner from the ground. Well, an hour and a half later, having dug up half of St. James’ front yard, I still had no idea where the banner was. A parishioner saw that I was in need and took pity on me. He got his shovel and together we dug, and dug. Thirty minutes later, I wondered if he was sorry that he offered to help. I kept assuring him by saying, “I know it’s here somewhere, I know it’s here somewhere.”

Well, finally, we struck gold. My shovel hit the fabric of the banner and I screamed “Alleluia! I found it!”

The story had a happy ending, but I also sensed as I was digging, that something pretty profound was going on.

As I was digging, and growing more and more frustrated, it occurred to me that sometimes in life,

it’s hard to find the alleluia.

Sometimes in life, it’s not so easy to shout for joy. There are times when the alleluia seems to be missing, buried somewhere in the ground, in a place where despite all of your digging, you can’t find it.

****

My college roommate was a girl named Susanna. The summer before our junior year, Susanna’s sister was killed in car accident. Susanna was an Episcopalian, and she sometimes went to church with me.

So on Easter morning, a morning about 6 months after her sister had died, Susanna put on her Easter dress and sat on her bed. She just sat there.

I said, “Come on, Susanna, it’s time to go to church.”

And she said, “I’m not going.”

And I said, “why?”

She said, “I’m not going to church, because I don’t see what difference it makes. If God brought Jesus back to life, then why doesn’t he do the same for my sister?”

The alleluia was gone, buried in a tomb, a tomb of anger, hurt, disappointment, and despair.

Every Easter since that Easter morning 10 years ago, I think of Susanna—all dressed up, but refusing to go to church. I can’t say I blamed her. What were words of joy for me, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” were words that pierced her heart like a sword. It’s not that she didn’t have faith; she just wasn’t sure what difference her faith made in her life.

And to some extent, although for different reasons, Thomas, known as Doubting Thomas, has also lost the alleluia. When Jesus appears to the rest of the disciples, Thomas isn’t there, and when the disciples report that Jesus is alive again, Thomas refuses to believe until he has seen Jesus with his own two eyes.

It’s not that Thomas doesn’t have faith; it’s just that when your soul is buried in a tomb of despair, when you’ve witnessed the death of someone you love, as Thomas had witnessed Jesus’ death, your heart is broken.

And when your heart is broken, you hold onto your heart very tightly.

A broken heart is one that is cautious, cautious about loving, cautious about putting faith in what cannot be seen. A broken heart is afraid to hope, hope for a truth that might not be real.

It takes a tremendous amount of courage to have faith when you’re living in tomb of despair.

There are those whose faith never wavers, even in their very darkest moments, and those believers have their reward. Jesus says, “blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Blessed are you if your faith is always strong, if you can sing out “Alleluia! The Lord is risen indeed” even when you’re living in the shadow of darkness.

But if you can’t find the alleluia, if you are holding on to your heart tightly, afraid to entrust it fully into God’s care, it doesn’t mean that you don’t have faith, or that you’re not a true believer.

It’s just that sometimes, the alleluia is buried pretty deep, and it’s going to take time, and perhaps the help of a friend or family member who will dig alongside you, it’s going to take time, for the alleluia to come back to life.

****

Just last week, when I went to dig up the alleluia banner, I set aside about 2 hours for the job, having learned my lesson. I still don’t mark the burial spot…..I prefer the challenge of finding the banner with no visual reminder.

This time, I put my shovel in the ground, and there it was. It took me a total of 1 minute to find

the alleluia.

Sometimes, the alleluia is hard to find, and other times, the alleluia leaps out of the ground, as if it had been waiting to be released.

But, either way, the alleluia does come back.