A sermon preached at St. James’
Episcopal Church
Leesburg, Virginia
The Reverend Mary Davila
6 Easter, Year A
April 27, 2008
John 14:15-21
“Easter Joy”
A few weeks ago, I shared the story of the
Alleluia banner, and I referred to the story as a saga. In that particular
re-telling, I intentionally left out one chapter of the saga, I didn’t tell you
about the events that occurred between March 21 and March 28, 2007. Those
events remain a mystery, but one thing is clear. Sometimes, every once in a
while, the alleluia isn’t where we buried it.
You’ll remember that every year on Ash Wednesday, we bury a banner with
the word “alleluia” on it as a reminder that we don’t say the word “alleluia”
during the season of Lent. And on Easter morning, we dig the word out of the
ground and rejoice that it has come back to life. On Ash Wednesday, all of the
children go outside to help bury the banner. Each year, I tell the children
that we are not going to dig up the banner until Easter. We are not going to
dig up the banner until Easter. We are not going to dig up the banner until
Easter. I look for the affirmative nod from each child–each one knows where
that banner is buried, but we’re not going dig it up until Easter.
Having made a verbal contract, I assumed we were in the clear. Banner
theft never entered my mind.
Well, unbeknownst to me, some elementary age girls had an inkling that the banner might be an irresistible
temptation for someone. These girls came to church every Wednesday for our
children’s outreach program, and on their way from the parking lot into the
church, they went to the burial spot, dug just a little bit, and made sure the
banner was safely at rest.
One afternoon, the girls stormed into my office and announced that the
banner was gone. I said, “What? How do you know the banner is gone?” And they
told me that they had been checking on it every week, and this week, the hole
was empty. So I went to the burial spot, and sure enough, the hole was empty. I
got a shovel and dug around the grave just to make sure that we were looking at
the right spot, and I found no banner.
The girls were quite distraught. I tried to hide the fact that I found
the whole situation humorous, but when the girls marched back into my office
bearing a red string, I knew they were serious. They said they had found a
clue–a red string– near the burial spot, and perhaps this red string would lead
me to the thief. They went outside again and this time returned with a
rock–surely a rock and red string would solve this mystery.
So with a red string and a rock in hand, I interrogated a few suspects.
All of them had sufficient alibis and didn’t crack under my intense line of
questioning. I stopped short of a polygraph test, and I took them at their word
that they had no knowledge of the alleluia theft. With two weeks to go
before Easter, and no banner in the ground, I wasn’t quite sure what to do.
Would this be the year that the alleluia didn’t return? Or was I going to make
another banner?
What do we do when the alleluia is gone?
Do we wait, and hope that it will come back, or do we set out to find
it? And if we can’t find the alleluia, do we make a new one? Do we spend our
time staring at an empty tomb, lamenting that the alleluia is missing, or do we
instead celebrate that the alleluia is out there somewhere, and it’s ours to
find?
What do you do when the alleluia is gone?
Do you sit by the empty tomb, or do you go searching for joy?
In the words of Randy Pausch–the professor
who is dying of cancer, and whose book on how to live a good life has become a
bestseller–“you can’t control the cards you’re dealt, but you can control the
way you play the hand.”[i]
****
I want to tell you another story about two women, two women who were
dealt the same hand, and who played the cards very differently.
The first is the story of a woman whom I visited several years ago when
I was interning in a parish in Richmond. The rector asked me to visit this
woman, but promised that it wouldn’t be a joyful visit. I asked why, and he
said, “You’ll see. You’ll see what life looks like when you give up hope, and
you stop living.”
Sure enough, I saw what he meant. I went to this woman’s house, and my
heart broke. She hadn’t been to church in 10 years. 10 years ago her husband
died, and for all intents and purposes, that’s when she died, too. She never
left the house, she had few friends and little family, the way she spoke was as
if time had stopped 10 years ago, and she was waiting painfully for her own
time to come. There was nothing that I could do or say to make her feel any
better.
She had made her choice about how to live in the absence of the
alleluia.
And then there was another woman, and I tell you her story with her
permission. Two years ago, I had my first invitation to officiate a wedding.
I’ll never forget it. Kay Gregg, our wedding coordinator leapt out of her chair
when I came in the office and proclaimed that I had my first wedding! And she
said, “You’ll never believe who it is. Maryal and Roland!” Maryal was about 70 years old, and Roland, 80. Both of them
had loved and lost, between them they had 90 years of marriage.
So imagine me trying to offer pre-marital counseling to them. What
could I possibly tell them that they didn’t already know?
The wedding was an absolute delight, filled with joy. These were two
people who had decided that they wanted to love again. They could have sat by
the tomb, and lamented, and I know for sure they did sit by their respective
tombs, and lament, but in time, they decided to give love a chance again. And I
wonder—did Maryal and Roland find love again, and
that’s what made them joyful?
Or, were they joyful people, and because they were joyful, they found
love again?
It’s an important point. Joyful people are attractive—they are like
magnets. Think of people with whom you like to spend your time. The people with
whom I like to spend my time are ones who are full of life, full of enthusiasm,
full of joy! I don’t mean to imply that joyful people are always happy—in just
a second, I’ll distinguish between joy and happiness—but joyful people are ones
who drink from God’s well of love, and they give love, no matter what kind of
cards they’ve been dealt.
I share these stories because
they illustrate that the choice is ours to make–joy is there to be found, the
alleluia is out there–and we can look for it, or not.
****
And here’s where I want to make that distinction between joy and
happiness. When we speak of finding the alleluia, we are speaking of joy, not
of happiness.
Think just for a moment about the difference between happiness and joy.
We live in a culture that is fixated on happiness. But it’s interesting
to note that the word “happy” is found nowhere in the New Testament.[ii]
Jesus, Paul, Luke, Timothy–none of them seem to care if we’re happy or not.
They want to know if we’re joyful, if we’re filled with joy.
Happiness is fleeting, and dependent on external circumstances. But joy is a different matter all together.
Joy has nothing to do with external circumstances. Take two people who have
been dealt the same cards, and they play the hand very differently. Joy has
nothing to do with the hand you’ve been dealt.
Joy has nothing to do with where you live, or your health, or the amount
of money you have.
Take the apostle Paul for example. Paul writes joyfully from a prison cell, -- having suffered
beatings, shipwreck, calamity – and yet he writes joyfully.
Joy comes from a deep knowing that Christ had not left us as orphans,
that he was born for you, that he died for you, and that he rose again for you,
and has ascended to heaven, and sent the Holy Spirit to continue his work in
the world through you.
Joy comes from knowing that God is near to us, and that nothing can
separate us from God’s love.
Happiness is fleeting; happiness cannot withstand the wears and tears
of life. The search for happiness is futile and fleeting.
Joy is different. Joy endures, joy is shielded from the wears and tears
of life, the roots of joy grow far deeper than the surface level root of
happiness.
But still, the decision is ours to make. Joy isn’t just a feeling; it’s
a decision. A decision to respond to Christ’s life, death,
and resurrection with a spirit of gladness, hope, and thanksgiving.
The choice to be joyful people—or not—is ours to make.
****
If you’re wondering about the banner, I never did find it. And I had
choice to make. On Easter morning, do I tell the children that the tomb is
empty, but the banner is gone? Or do I make another alleluia? The choice was
clear.
Make another alleluia.