Easter Day 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 31, 2024 (Easter Day)

When my wife Bryna and I were newly married and our first Easter came around, she decided to take on a long-standing family tradition and make a lamb cake. Her very Polish and very Catholic grandmother made a very large number of these every year for her very large family. The traditional lamb cake involves a metal mold that you pour batter into and once it comes out of the oven, it’s bathed in vanilla frosting and coconut flakes to create the fleece as white as snow, and then adorned with jelly beans for the eyes and mouth. It’s as tasty as it sounds, but it’s hard to get it just right. 

Now, please don’t tell her I said this, but the early years were a hot mess. Despite frantic calls to her grandmother in Western Massachusetts, the batter was never right and the poor lamb just wouldn’t stand up straight. Or at all. Whenever it would be gingerly brought to the table, propped up by God knows what, it would inevitably do a face plant. Right into the dyed green coconut grass. Bryna never actually threw the entire thing across the dining room — but there was always a lot of kitchen drama, a few tears, and my comments of “it doesn’t actually look too bad” and “I bet it still tastes good” were not well received.

As her grandmother slipped into dementia and eventually left this mortal life, Bryna continued the tradition and, truth be told, perfected it. Her lamb cakes are now masterpieces, and they have long been an important Easter tradition in our home. Easter just isn’t Easter without Bryna’s lamb cake.

We all have Easter traditions, some sacred and some secular. But there is always a bit of the mundane to go along with the miraculous. Our gospel account of that first Easter Day, begins with a rather mundane task. Or if not mundane, exactly, certainly practical. The women brought spices to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. This burial task often fell to women, and they were simply doing their duty by following the appointed customs of a Jewish burial. Amid their profound grief, they were leaning into the muscle memory of routine. 

But they also had another very practical concern. Along their journey they kept saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” And that’s a fair question. They needed the large stone rolled away so they could be about their business of preparing Jesus’ body. 

But as they arrive, they look up to see that the thorny issue of the stone had been resolved. It had already been rolled away. And what they encountered as they entered the tomb that morning was a portal that transported them from the mundane to the miraculous. 

The angel they encounter who announces the resurrection, lifts their gaze and shifts their perspective. He beckons them away from the mundane and towards the miraculous. Their routine, if loving, task of caring for a decomposing body is derailed, and the very trajectory of their lives is forever altered. That’s the power of Christ’s resurrection. Our lives are indelibly changed by the news that the tomb is empty, that our Lord lives. 

And we start to realize that the stone wasn’t rolled away on that first Easter morning to let Jesus out. Nothing could have stopped that. But it was to let us in. To let us in to the miracle of Christ’s resurrection; to let us in to a vision of humanity where peace, joy, and love abide; to let us in to a life where death is not the end; to let us in to a new worldview that drives out fear and ushers in hope. 

And that, my friends, is the miracle of Easter. That we are led from the mundane to the miraculous. That we share in the miracle of Christ’s resurrection. And through it, everything changes. Because the deep joy of Easter is rooted in God’s love not only for all of humanity, but specifically for you. Jesus loves you not in theory or in the abstract. Jesus loves you. Not part of you or only the parts you’re proud of, or only the parts you’re willing to let the world see. Jesus loves all of you. Despite what you’ve done, despite what you’ve left undone. Jesus loves you for who you are, for what you are. And who and what you are is a beloved child of God. Forgiven, redeemed, and loved with abundant and reckless abandon. 

At the end of the day, when you take off the fancy Easter clothes, and somehow find room in your closet for that big hat; when you’ve found that last Easter egg, when the sugar high has worn off, when you finish that last piece of lamb cake, when you’ve finished washing the last dish, when you’ve done all the mundane things that need to be done, you can still revel in the miracle of Christ’s resurrection. Because it changes everything. 

May this Easter Day fill you with the joy of the risen Christ. May it open up for you an ever-deepening relationship with the God who banishes death and despair and offers us new life and hope. And may Christ’s victory over the grave transport you always from the mundane to the miraculous. Alleluia and amen.

Easter Day 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 9, 2023 (Easter Day)

Back when I was in the Army — and, frankly, it was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away — but we used to have activities on the training calendar we affectionately referred to as “forced fun.” This usually consisted of some sort of competition between platoons – tug of war, relay races, things like that. They were supposed to build unit cohesion and boost morale, but everyone involved really just wanted to go back to the barracks and take a nap.

Forced fun, of course, doesn’t work. When you resort to using “forced” as an adjective, what follows is anything but fun. What we all knew, even if we didn’t quite articulate it this way, is that unless something is authentic, it falls flat. Fun can’t be forced any more than you can force joy. It must be spontaneous and organic. It must come from deep within. 

Here at Bethesda, there are so many outward manifestations of Easter joy this morning. The flowers, the music, the hats — I love the hats. And there will surely be others today — Peeps and jelly beans, Easter egg hunts, delicious brunches. And I love all of these things! Except Peeps. I’m really not a big fan of Peeps.

But on Easter, it’s important to take a step back and reflect upon the true source of our joy. Easter is indeed joyful — but not because of all those Easter-y things. Because in the end, Easter is not about the flowers, even though I’ve never been surrounded by such beautiful ones. Easter is not about the fancy clothes, though you all look fantastic. Easter is not about the music, stunning as it may be. Easter is not about the photo op, though I’m sure there will be plenty of pictures shared on Instagram today (please tag us). And it’s certainly not about the Peeps.

The source of our deep joy and gladness this day is the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The joy of Easter is about the victory of life breaking the bonds of death; the triumph of hope over despair; the way of love conquering fear. The miracle of the empty tomb is what fuels and gives meaning to our celebration this morning. And there is nothing at all “forced” about that. 

Because there is nothing forced about the joy of knowing that Jesus loves you. And he loves you not in theory or in the abstract. Jesus loves you. Not part of you or only the parts you’re proud of. Jesus loves all of you. Despite what you’ve done, despite what you’ve left undone. Jesus loves you for who you are, for what you are. And who and what you are is a beloved child of God. Forgiven, redeemed, and loved with abundant abandon. 

That’s the good news the women at the empty tomb first discovered. And later shared with the male disciples. Who had all fled, by the way. If it weren’t for the women we heard about this morning, we wouldn’t even be here — with all our flowers and hats and Peeps. And it is this very good news of the resurrection that has been handed down to us over so many generations, the good news that has been preached in this place for nearly 100 years, the good news we have been entrusted with, to reflect upon, to revel in, and to share with others. 

You know, the beauty of the Christian faith is that when the sugar high wears off, when the Peeps have become stale (sorry, I seem to be a little obsessed with them), when the organ has been powered down, when brunch is over, when the euphoria of Easter Day subsides, we’re left not with emptiness, not with a great void but with something that abides. Something that endures. Something that transcends the transitory, fleeting nature of life – and that is our relationship with the risen Christ. 

That, my friends, is what the empty tomb is all about; it’s about unparalleled and unheard of intimate relationship with the God who so loved the world, that he gave his only son to live among us, and to die for us, and to be raised for us. And it’s why we delight in all the trappings of Easter joy. Even the Peeps.

May this Easter Day fill you with the joy of the risen Christ. May it open up for you an ever-deepening relationship with the God who banishes death and despair and offers us new life and hope. And may Christ’s victory over the grave remind you that you are indeed a beloved child of God. Alleluia and amen.

Easter Day 2022

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 17, 2022 (Easter Day, Year C)

There’s a certain order to Easter Day, certain traditions we follow that remind us that today is special and different. At church, we begin by singing, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today,” we let the “Alleluias” ring out, and we literally pull out all the stops. But even before the organ gets cranked up, there’s the picking out of a favorite Easter dress or colorful Easter tie. If kids are involved there’s the wrangling into the dreaded dress shoes. And then there are the daily traditions — the Easter egg hunts, the hot cross buns or Cadbury eggs, the Easter meal with family and friends, the photographs with the kids, preferably before they have an encounter with that chocolate Easter bunny. We love our Easter traditions and, especially coming out of a pandemic when so many of the most familiar things were put on hiatus, they feel particularly meaningful this year.

But that first Easter Day was anything but orderly and traditional. Frankly, the whole thing was a hot mess. It was unexpected, full of surprises, chaotic, and confusing, with nary a jelly bean in sight. In Luke’s telling of the story, a group of women head over to the tomb early in the morning with spices to anoint Jesus’ body. It’s a loving act, a traditional act of burial preparation, left to the women because the men had all fled in grief and terror. Again, we have orderly processions with crucifers and vested choirs. They had disorderly gaggles of fleeing disciples. 

And when the women arrive, they notice that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance to the tomb. This may have been the first clue that things were about to go off the rails. And when they encounter two angels in dazzling white clothes, the fear kicks in. They were terrified! “Why do you look for the living among the dead?’ they ask the women. In other words, why are you roaming around this tomb that clearly could not contain Jesus? There’s literally nothing to see here, because he has risen!

Of course this doesn’t exactly put the women at ease. It’s hard to imagine the dazed state they must have been in as they left the tomb to return to the disciples to share this incredible and bizarre and bewildering news of the resurrection. This isn’t just disorderly, this pushes directly against the natural order of life and death and things known and unknown. It is the ultimate reversal in the way things are supposed to go. There is nothing traditional about the resurrection.

And so the women, Mary Magdalene, and Joanna, and Mary the mother of James among them, burst into where the disciples are hiding and the words come tumbling out. You can imagine the cacophony of sound as they all start speaking at once, trying to make sense of the scene they witnessed at the empty tomb, along with the at-the-time confusing words they remember Jesus saying about being crucified and rising again on the third day. What they weren’t doing was singing “Jesus Christ is Risen Today.” 

One thing that’s as true then as it is today is that many dismiss the women’s sharing of this incredible news as an “idle tale.” The disciples certainly did. They didn’t believe the women’s words that came tumbling forth. Maybe it was misogyny, maybe it was hardened hearts, maybe it was just too much for their rational minds to take in. But for Peter, it wasn’t until he himself went to the empty tomb that the first glimmer of resurrection hope arose out of the ashes of crucifixion, that new life emerged out of death, that Easter came out of Good Friday. And we know about so-called Doubting Thomas who wouldn’t believe until he had literally put his fingers into Jesus’ side. We are a rational, disbelieving people.

Even today, some dismiss the Easter story as an idle tale or believe it to be little more than a conspiracy theory. Rationally, it makes no sense, of course. You can’t explain the unexplainable; you can’t rationalize divine mystery. But then you start to open your eyes and you begin to see glimpses of resurrection all around us. Life being snatched out of the jaws of death; hope held out amid moments of despair; joy emerging out of the depths of pain. 

Glimpses of the resurrection surround us every single day, when we open our hearts to the possibilities of new life. This is what it means to live an Easter life: to allow the impossible and the improbable to take root. To hold onto hope, despite all evidence to the contrary. To show love when the world calls for hate. 

And that, my friends, is why we can revel in the orderly processions and family traditions of this day, even when things don’t go exactly according to plan. And so, whether or not the twins end up in matching outfits, whether or not our lives feel particularly joyful at the moment, whether or not the Easter dinner comes out perfectly, Jesus Christ is indeed risen today. Out of the babble of uncertainty comes the clarity of faith, filling our lives with hope and meaning and new life.

Alleluia and amen.

Easter Day 2021

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 4, 2021 (Easter Day)

Well, I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to preach after that. What a beautiful and compelling re-telling of the Easter story by our Sunday School children. They have just preached the gospel in word and action in a much more powerful and eloquent way than I ever could. They have beautifully captured and conveyed the wonder of the resurrection. And, frankly, I hope that’s what you hold onto this day — the sheer joy of what we just witnessed.

So, I should really just sit down and let the story speak for itself. But, since that’s not happening, I hope you’ll bear with me for at least a few moments as we reflect upon this day of resurrection and revel in the glory of Christ’s victory over death.

You know, if there was ever a year to celebrate the resurrection, this is it. For the past 12 months we have been surrounded by gloom and doom and tombs. It has been a tough year, a trying year, a painful year on so many levels. The death toll has been relentless. Each day, each news cycle  has felt like a mini Good Friday. And we all just want it to stop; we are all so ready to get back to some semblance of the way things used to be. 

And with this as the backdrop, it is so tempting to race headlong into the arms of what might be called a societal Easter. To replace the word “hope” with “vaccine,” to swap out “new life” for “new normal,” to proclaim victory against this pandemic, and call our recaptured life “resurrection.” But resurrection, real Resurrection as made manifest in Jesus Christ, is so much more than just relief or light at the end of the tunnel or getting back to the things we’ve missed for so long.

The Resurrection we celebrate today is not found in the joy of indoor dining at our favorite restaurant; or paying $9 for cheap beer in the bleachers at Fenway Park; or even in being able to hug our grandchildren again. As wonderful as all of those things may be, and as welcome as they will hopefully soon be, they are not, in fact, what Easter is all about. Not even this particular Easter.

Because the Resurrection we celebrate this morning is not just about getting our lives back, it is about the very essence of new life. It is about the triumph of life over death. It is about the spirit of the risen Christ being made known to us not just as a distant memory, passed down through an ancient book, but as a real and tangible presence in our lives right here, right now. It is about a God who loves us, forgives us, and walks beside us, right on through that valley of the shadow of death, straight into the new life of grace and hope.

The Resurrection we celebrate this morning is a reminder that even in our darkest moments, and we’ve had plenty of them this year, Jesus is fully present among us. That he is with us through times of isolation and brokenness, through moments of doubt and despair, through painful realizations and fractured relationships. The Resurrection is a reminder that we are not alone, that we will never be alone, that we can never be alone. Because we will never, ever be abandoned or forsaken or forgotten. For Christ is alive. And that’s the power of the Resurrection we celebrate this morning.

But even in light of this reality, the truth is, the resurrected life is not easy. Following Jesus doesn’t automatically wipe away grief and pain. It may heal, but not entirely erase the scars and hurts on our hearts. The true mark of Easter joy is not a temporary sugar high, but an enduring relationship with the divine that carries us through all the trials and travails, the temptations and touchpoints of our lives. 

While the resurrected life is not always easy, it does point to a path forward. A path through the rubble and debris of our lives to a promised land of a soul at peace. A place where joy coexists with grief; a place not of denial but of perspective. That’s where true hope abides. That’s where it shines forth, illuminating and filling our hearts with love. Not despite all that we have suffered, but precisely because we have suffered and, with God’s help, found the path through. That’s true hope. A hope that moves directly through the pain of the cross, not viewing it as an obstacle to avoid, but as a mystical portal into a life of joyful obedience and abundance. That’s what the flowers and fancy vestments and jelly beans ultimately point us towards: new life in Jesus Christ.

In John’s version of the Easter story, after Mary Magdalene recognizes the risen Christ at the empty tomb, Jesus says to her, “Do not hold onto me.” In Latin, the phrase is noli me tangere, [NO-lee may TANger-ray] which is literally translated as “touch me not.” And as we hold our second online Easter service in as many years, amid a hopefully waning global pandemic, that phrase, that translation jumped out at me. “Touch me not” — noli me tangere — has been our collective motto throughout the past year. Jesus is basically saying to Mary, “Hey! Keep six feet apart.”

The broader context here is that Jesus is telling Mary he has a mission to fulfill. After a few post-resurrection appearances, Jesus will ascend into heaven. He can’t stay. He can’t be in relationship with Mary and the other disciples in the same way. New life awaits. Mary must let go of Jesus physically, so that she and her friends and all of us can experience Christ’s presence spiritually. Not just in the immediate future, but for all time.

“Touch me not” in the old way, Jesus is saying, but allow yourself to be held in the palm of God’s hand for all eternity. Whenever we can fully embrace one another again, know that you have always been and will always be, embraced by the loving arms of our Lord. Arms that were once stretched out on the hard wood of the cross; arms that are now open wide in welcome, inviting you and loving you into the resurrected life of Jesus Christ. Alleluia and Amen.

Easter Day 2019

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 21, 2019 (Easter Day)

Mon Dieu. My God. Those were the first words that came to my lips as I joined the rest of the world in watching Notre Dame go up in flames earlier this week. I was writing my Good Friday sermon when the news broke, and it did feel like a death of sorts was playing out before our very eyes. 

Yes, the Church transcends physical structures. Yes, Jesus came into the world to start a movement, not to create an institution. But still. This hurt. As human beings, we crave sacred space and holy ground. We seek encounter with the divine through art and architecture. We desire tangible evidence that something greater than ourselves is at work in the world. We strive to place ourselves in the context of history. 

And suddenly these deepest yearnings of the human soul were literally going up in smoke during the holiest week of the Christian year. And that hit us all at a mystical and deeply visceral level.

Two things, in particular, struck me about John’s account of the resurrection in light of the news out of Paris this week. There is a lot of running and there is a lot of weeping. After Mary Magdalene arrived at the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance, she ran to Peter and the beloved disciple. And then these two disciples ran to the tomb — raced really. We hear that the other disciple, John by tradition, outran Peter. And then after all this running, the weeping begins. Mary weeps outside the tomb. Two angels ask her why she’s weeping. Jesus asks her why she’s weeping. And then she receives news of the resurrection, which forever wipes away her tears. Running and weeping.

In Paris, as news broke of the fire at the iconic 13th century cathedral, that in many ways is the heart and soul of the nation, there was also much running and weeping. Firefighters and first responders running to the scene. Parisians running to simply be in the presence of their cathedral to pray and to sing. And then weeping over the uncertainty of the damage. Weeping over what was lost. Weeping over a structure that had, for generations, simply always been there. Running and weeping.

Now, running and weeping are often seen as unseemly acts. Or at least things not done in polite company. It’s one thing to see someone in jogging attire running down Main Street as part of the  Hingham Road Race on the Fourth of July. But it’s something else entirely to see someone in business attire running the same route on the Fifth of July. And it’s one thing to see a grieving soul weeping in the safe confines of a funeral home. But it’s something else entirely to see someone weeping uncontrollably in the middle of a coffee shop. When we see people running or weeping in unexpected places, it makes us nervous. It gives us pause.

And sometimes we treat the church in the same way. Like a place where decorum matters more than faith. Where social norms and rules matter more than relationships. Where running and weeping must be stifled in the name of etiquette. In a word, we treat the church like a museum. And when we do, when we value beauty over beatitude, we miss the point entirely. We miss the point of why Notre Dame matters. We miss the point of why Easter matters. We miss the point of why resurrection matters.

Because resurrection is ultimately about hope, not perfection. Resurrection is about a golden cross shining amid the rubble of a fire ravaged cathedral. About joy and light rising up from darkness and despair. About glory emerging from the the agony of an ignominious death.

That’s why we gather today, with one another and with Christians throughout the world. To mark the miracle of life prevailing over death. This isn’t just a story we view from afar, like dispassionate observers gazing at a work of art from behind the safety of a velvet rope. This is our story. Like the women who first encountered the empty tomb, we are witnesses of and to these things.

We are the cross shining amid the burned out rubble, we are the light rising up out of the darkness, we are the resurrection glory emerging from the agony of the cross. 

The church must be a place to run and weep. It must be an oasis for our full selves. In all our awkwardness; in all our brokenness. Otherwise, what’s the point? If it’s simply a place of unvarnished beauty without allowing space for our unvarnished selves, then we’re getting it all wrong. 

Jesus says, “come to me all you who are carrying heavy burdens and I will refresh you.” He’s speaking not in general terms, but specifically to you and me. To each and every one of us. He wants us to run and weep on earth as it is in heaven. That’s the promise of the resurrection. That the barrier between life and death, between this world and the next is ripped away, revealing the very face of God.

May you forever run and weep in the sure and certain knowledge that the risen Christ is running and weeping right alongside you at every step of the journey. May the joy of this Easter Day draw you into ever-deepening relationship with the living God. And may Christ’s victory over death and the grave open up for you the very gates of heaven. Alleluia and amen.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Easter Day 2017

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 16, 2017 (Easter Day)

You gotta hand it to them. When it came to rubbing out rebellion, the Romans were the gold standard of the ancient world. They did not tolerate dissent and were experts at squashing it the moment it reared its insurgent head.

In the case of this rabble rouser from Nazareth who kept stirring things up with his crazy notion of justice in the face of imperial power, everything was going according to plan. They certainly made an example out of this Jesus with his very public and brutal execution and his frightened followers had all fled. Chalk up another victory for Pax Romana and rest secure in the knowledge that this whole Jesus thing would now just die down and go away. An aberration, surely, but ultimately just more evidence that when you fought the establishment, you lost. Every single time.

The Romans were so good at this because they meticulously followed certain protocols. In such high profile cases, in addition to crucifixion — which was itself a pretty powerful deterrent to dissent — they were diligent about securing the tomb, which they did in several ways.

First, a large stone was rolled against the entrance. Second, the tomb was sealed. And finally, guards were posted outside. Those are some pretty serious security measures.

But let’s look at this for a moment. First the large stone that was rolled across the entrance — that in itself was a major stumbling block. And it shows just how silly the women were who went to Jesus’ tomb on that first Easter morning. After all the men had fled (sorry, guys, that’s our Easter legacy), Mary Magdalene and the other women went to Jesus’ tomb not expecting a miracle but simply to honor him in death by properly and ritually anointing his body. They figured it was the least they could do for this man who had so transformed their lives.

And they weren’t engaged in any wishful thinking about this. In Mark’s gospel account of the Resurrection, they spend much of the journey wondering among themselves, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” A valid question.

But this wasn’t the only problem. We hear that the tomb was “sealed.” This doesn’t refer to some industrial-grade caulk. It was a sign of authentication that the tomb was occupied and the power and authority of Rome stood behind the seal. Anyone found breaking or tampering with the Roman seal would be put to death.

But even that wasn’t all. No, if the large stone and seal weren’t enough, there were also guards stationed at the entrance to the tomb. In fact, there may have been more than a few Roman soldiers. A “Roman Guard” referred to a 16-member unit governed by very strict rules. The guard members could not sit down or lean against anything while they were on duty. If a guard member fell asleep, he was beaten and burned. Needless to say, they were a vigilant bunch.

So to review: dead, giant boulder, sealed, soldiers. No way in, no way out. The end. But there’s a slight problem. Because we’re still here, over 2,000 years later, gathered to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Something rolled away the stone, something broke the seal, something stunned the soldiers. We hear about an earthquake but however things went down, Jesus was not inside the tomb. And suddenly everything changes.

And we start to realize that the stone, the seal, and the soldiers, weren’t breached on that first Easter morning to let Jesus out. Nothing could have stopped that. But it was to let us in. To let us in to the miracle of Christ’s resurrection; to let us in to a vision of humanity where peace, joy, and love abide; to let us in to a life where death is not the end; to let us in to a new worldview that drives out fear and ushers in hope.

And we need that hope now more than ever. Because in a world where chemical weapons are used to destroy innocent children in Syria, we need the hope of Jesus. In a world where faithful Christians in Egypt are slaughtered in their own churches on Palm Sunday, we need the hope of Jesus. In a world where the poorest among us are left to drink contaminated water in Flint, Michigan, we need the hope of Jesus.

You know, so often we act just like the Roman authorities. Trying to control every situation; trying to contain that which can never be contained; giving in to fear at the expense of spiritual freedom. The miracle of this day happens when we let go of our need to control everything in our midst. Try as we might to take every precaution, we inevitably come up short. And that’s okay. Because Jesus always helps us find a way out; Jesus breaks the seal of our captivity and shows us the way to faith, hope, and love. Every single time.

With all their precautions and protocols, the authorities had indeed made an example of Jesus. It just wasn’t the example they had envisioned. Through his glorious resurrection, Jesus became an example not of foolishness or misguided passion, but an example of peace in the face of violence; an example of mercy in the face of injustice; an example of love in the face of hate; an example of life in the face of death; an example of hope in the face of despair.

May you be inspired by the living example of Jesus Christ as you find your way into the empty tomb this Easter. And in so doing be reminded that even in the darkest moments of life, even when the world feels like it’s on the verge of destruction, hope is alive, love conquers fear, and life vanquishes even the power of death. Alleluia and Amen.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Easter Day 2016

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 27, 2016 (Easter Day)

Isn’t Easter great? The colorful dresses and joyful music; the dignified processions and the slightly less dignified Easter egg hunts; the fancy brunches and half-eaten chocolate bunnies.

There sure is a lot of pageantry and tradition involved for what was originally dismissed as an “idle tale.” That’s what the male disciples called the initial reports from the women who gathered at the tomb on that first Easter Day. They dismissed their eyewitness account of the resurrection as utter nonsense; feminine foolishness. And you can almost hear the condescension in their voices, dismissing both the fanciful story and the women themselves.

Culturally, this dismissive attitude made sense. Despite Jesus’ constant attempts to break down the false barriers between people, despite his continued drive to include rather than to exclude, despite his constant challenge of social norms, despite his clear mandate to love one another, despite his living example of shattering our preconceived notions, the disciples still didn’t get it. Even on that first Easter morning, Peter and his companions just couldn’t accept the first-hand account of the women who witnessed the empty tomb. They couldn’t believe the message; they wouldn’t believe the messengers.

So what were these women doing hanging around Jesus’ tomb in the first place? With heavy hearts these female disciples had made their way to the burial site, not because they expected a miracle but simply to give Jesus’ body the dignified burial they felt it deserved. They brought embalming spices in order to anoint the body. Remember the myrrh from the Christmas story? The gold, frankincense, and myrrh brought by the three kings? The three worst baby gifts ever? Well, myrrh was an expensive, spiced embalming oil. Foreshadowing the crucifixion.

But an odd thing, a perplexing thing, a confusing thing took place when they entered the tomb. It was empty. And it’s tough to embalm a body that simply is not there. So as they raced back to tell the others this stunning news about what they had seen and heard, they were met with hardness of heart. “But these words seemed to the male disciples an idle tale, and they did not believe them.”

There are still many who dismiss the Easter story as an “idle tale.” This is nothing new. An increasing number of people have built walls around what feels rational and logical in order to keep out that which they deem irrational and illogical. It’s easier that way. To dismiss the miraculous, to cling to the power of our own minds, to hold onto only that which we can see with our own eyes. It’s become almost fashionable to reject the resurrection.

And I get that. We, like the male disciples, want to run back to the tomb to verify things for ourselves. We want to treat the empty tomb like a crime scene. To dust for prints; do some DNA testing; analyze the data. But there are certain things in life that defy logic; things that rise above the rational. Like love and forgiveness and faith — things that we feel and know in our hearts, even when we can’t quantify them or plot the data on a graph.

The resurrection is one of these things. Yet if we open our hearts and minds to the power of Christ’s resurrection, to the irrational notion that God loves humanity not just in general but you in particular, we come to see deeply embedded and eternal truths.

Because the resurrection of Jesus shows us that God works in ways that transcend human comprehension. That God is not limited by human logic or mortal constraints.

The resurrection of Jesus shows us that God works through the disenfranchised and marginalized. In revealing the resurrection first to women, God shows us that God is not bound by the prejudice of society in any age.

The resurrection of Jesus shows us that, in the end, fear never wins out over faith. That nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ.

The resurrection of Jesus shows us that there is a better way. That life doesn’t have to be a slog to get through but a joy to enter into.

Yes, the sugar high of Easter Day eventually wears off. The organ is powered down. The trumpets are silenced. Candles are extinguished. Colorful dresses return to the closet. Brunch is digested. Peeps get stale — actually that never happens. They have an indefinite shelf life. But we’re left with a clear path. Jesus beckons us to follow in his footsteps, either confidently or haltingly; often in equal measure.

Of course, you can ignore the invitation. You can hop right back on the hamster wheel. You can fill your days with endless activity and noise. You can find yourself, once again, with no time for silence or reflection. It’s safer that way, really. You can spend most of your life avoiding the larger questions of life; ignoring questions about the eternal and your place within it.

But, like a boomerang, eventually these questions return with ever increasing intensity. Life, death, faith. Walking the path of Jesus gives us answers — not easy ones mind you — but his path anchors our life, roots it in hope and meaning. Offers us peace even in the midst of anxiety; laughter even in the midst of tears; life even in the midst of death.

When you take those first tentative steps to truly follow Jesus, a funny thing happens: an idle tale becomes transformative. The “proof” of the resurrection is seen in lives that have been changed and healed and made whole through encounter with the risen Christ. We see resurrection not just in an empty tomb once a year, but in one another each and every day. We see resurrection in fear driven out; in hateful rhetoric denied; in equality achieved; in discrimination overthrown; in the crumbling of walls that seek to divide us one from another and in the tearing down of obstacles that seek desperately to separate the rational from the mystical.

As you walk through the rubble of these torn down walls, may this “idle tale” fill you with all hope in the power of the resurrection. May the joy of this Easter day open up for you an ever deepening relationship with the living God. And may Christ’s victory over the grave open for you the very gates of heaven. Alleluia and amen.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Easter Day 2015

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 5, 2015 (Easter Day)

Some of you know that this has been a year of great transition here at St. John’s. All for good reasons, but just to recap, if you’re visiting with us this morning, starting in the fall our assistant priest left to take her own church in Oregon, our deacon moved to New Hampshire, our organist went to a parish in Illinois, our youth minister left to pursue a degree in social work, and the boiler died. And, then there was a bunch of snow and a pipe burst but I don’t need to get into all that.

Needless to say it’s been a bit crazy around here. Now, the good news is that we’re putting together an incredible ministry team that I’m very excited about — our new organist starts next month and our new assistant priest, who will also lead the youth group, is starting in June. So the cavalry will be arriving shortly.

But I’m sharing this because one of our young acolytes, nine-year-old Will Buckley, knowing that I’d be overloaded this week with the ten services in four days, decided to take pity on the rector. He wrote an Easter sermon for me. And I was so very grateful, I almost decided to just sleep in this morning.

One of the themes Will hit on was the confusion that some people have when it comes to Easter. And I thought I’d read a paragraph of what he wrote since, you know, it’s been a pretty busy week.

“We all know the story of Easter. I know someone who was a little confused. He was arguing with my teacher because he thought Jesus was born on Easter and died on Christmas. My brother, Andrew, thought that too.” [it’s always good to celebrate the resurrection by throwing a sibling under the bus]. “My teacher said that Jesus was born on Christmas and died on Easter. I would say she got it really wrong. [it’s also great when you can contradict your teacher] We all know that Jesus was born on Christmas, died on Good Friday, and rose again on Easter.” [duh — no that wasn’t Will, I added that part].

Now, this is not the usual conversation that takes place in the Hingham public schools. But I do thank Will for setting everyone straight. I also think the women who approached Jesus’ tomb on that first Easter Day had a lot in common with Will’s teacher; they, too, naturally assumed Jesus was dead. They had witnessed the crucifixion, after all, and no one just comes back to life after their body has been so fully broken.

In Mark’s gospel we hear of three reactions to the surprising events: alarm, terror, and amazement. And you can certainly add confusion to the emotional mix here. And while you can understand this response to seeing an angel dressed in white sitting in Jesus’ empty tomb, alarm, terror, amazement, and confusion aren’t usually the emotions we associate with Easter.

For us, standing as we do on this side of the Resurrection, we think about victory and joy and love and fulfillment and, perhaps, Peeps. Okay, definitely Peeps. But the women at the tomb had a different experience. They weren’t exactly singing “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” as they processed to Jesus’ grave site. There were no fancy hats or chocolate bunnies or Easter egg hunts. Peeps wouldn’t even be invented for another 1,933 years (bless you, Google).

So the women were a bit freaked out by the whole thing. And with good reason! Their
expectations of what they would encounter came nowhere near the reality. They simply wanted to anoint the body of Jesus and prepare it for burial. They were blinded with grief and went about their task with a single-mindedness of purpose. After all, Jesus was dead.

In fact, their biggest concern along the journey was over who would roll away the stone from the entrance to the tomb. Because, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, the men were nowhere to be found. By Sunday morning, they’d all fled; driven out by despair and fear and grief. So the women couldn’t even get one of the guys to stick around and help them. But something drew them back to the tomb; something drew them back even as the doubts lingered about whether they could actually get inside it to perform the proper burial customs. 

And we, too, are drawn back to the empty tomb. Year after year we return; even with doubts rattling around our rational minds, we return. And in the encounter with the risen Christ, alarm becomes joy; terror is driven out by love; confusion is replaced with an abiding peace. And we’re left with hope and meaning and the blessed assurance that Jesus Christ’s love for us is the bedrock of all that matters in this life.

I’ll end with another quote from Will’s Easter sermon. “My brother Henry made a joke. Why did the chicken cross the road? The answer is, to see what heaven is like.” Evidently there was a lot of traffic. Now, I’m not going to get into the theology of chicken resurrection, but the beauty of Easter is that death is conquered once and for all; that line between life and death is erased which means that whether we live or die, we belong to God. And that is the good news of this day — that Jesus’ love for you is stronger even than death.

May this Easter Day fill you with all hope in the power of the resurrection. May the joy of this day open up for you an ever deepening relationship with the living God. And may Christ’s victory over the grave open for you the very gates of heaven. Alleluia and amen.

© Tim Schenck

Easter Day 2014

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 20, 2014 (Easter Day)

At about this time tomorrow, 36,000 runners will embark on a 26.2 mile odyssey that will take them from the starting line in Hopkinton, through a wall of screaming co-eds in Wellesley, up and down the Newton hills, and eventually to the finish line on Boylston Street.

This isn’t a great news flash, of course. The pre-race hype has been unprecedented and over the past week we’ve all been reliving last year’s Boston Marathon bombings, through the media and in conversations with one another. We’ve remembered those who lost their lives and prayed for those still recovering from physical and emotional trauma.

To varying degrees we were all affected by last year’s tragedy and Patriots Day 2014 will likely turn into one long day of regional catharsis. Which we could all use. I ran the race in 2008 and at one level I can’t even imagine what tomorrow will be like. The crowds, the emotion, the global news coverage.

But at another level, I know exactly what it will be like. Not because I once turned that corner onto Boylston Street and dragged myself the last four blocks to the finish line amid throngs of cheering spectators — I barely remember that. But because tomorrow’s 118th running of the Boston Marathon will be a tangible sign of resurrection. Each footstep, each cheer will allow the finish line in Copley Square to be reclaimed as a place not of tragedy but of triumph.

And as Christians we know something about transformation and new life. On Easter, the cross is transformed from an implement of torture and death into an instrument of resurrection glory. Hope and meaning emerge out of chaos and we are transported into a new, life-giving relationship with God.

But we also know something about death — faith doesn’t make us immune to the painful realities of life. We lose someone close to us and the pain can be searing; a relationship fractures and it leaves us reeling; we lose a job and we’re left seeking an identity; an institution we’ve always loved closes and it leaves a void; we feel betrayed by a friend and it stings.

When we talk about resurrection, we first must confront death. You can’t share in resurrection joy without first experiencing grief. Indeed, the road to Easter goes straight through Good Friday. And yet Easter reminds us that despite the tragedies and trials we all face in this life, death doesn’t get the last word. We don’t remain on Heartbreak Hill. Death doesn’t win.

Life does. Because when Jesus emerges from that tomb, everything changes. Life wins out over death, resurrection triumphs over crucifixion. And we are set free by the knowledge that whether we live or die we are alive in Jesus Christ. That false boundary between life and death is breached and the fear of death no longer has power over us. And when we shed the fear of death, only then can we truly live. Only then can we reach for that crown of glory that never fades away.

Which brings us to the women at the tomb. In reading Matthew’s version of the Easter story, one particular detail stuck out for me this year. The women who first encounter the risen Christ don’t lope off to tell the other disciples this stunning news. They don’t saunter or stroll or even mall walk. Matthew tells us very clearly that they run. Imbued with this intoxicating yet curious mixture of “fear and great joy,” they take off.

Talk about running with a purpose, the women engage in the sprint of their lives fueled by wonder, disbelief, euphoria, and adrenaline. They race to share the good news with those closest to Jesus, the male disciples who, in the darkness of despair, had scattered and lost all hope. And in light of tomorrow’s race, that just seems perfect.

We do a lot of running in our lives — we run away from people and problems and difficult decisions. And sometimes the life of faith does feel like a marathon. Like a long slog with periods of doubt and pain and hopelessness. But the good news is that we don’t run it in isolation; we run it with one another and with Jesus at our side, encouraging us, forgiving us, loving us.

St. Paul writes, “Run with patience the race that is set before you.” And while much of life is about patience and pacing, Easter is a finish line kind of day. It’s not a time to temper our joy but a day to run toward Jesus with reckless abandon. The marathon has already been won; the victory of life over death is complete. Why? Because Jesus lives! Because Jesus Christ is indeed risen today and everyday.

Tomorrow, there will be a swirl of emotion at the finish line in Copley Square. But I trust the overwhelming one will be the euphoria of triumph over tragedy. And on this Easter Day, may you experience the thrill of Christ’s victory over the grave, may the light of resurrection glory shine in your heart, and may you always run the race that is our earthly pilgrimage filled with the hope and joy of the risen Christ. Alleluia and Amen.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck

Easter Day 2009

A Sermon from All Saints’ Episcopal Church, Briarcliff Manor, New York
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 12, 2009 (Easter Day)

I am pleased to announce that a great honor has been bestowed upon me this Easter season. I have been named a celebrity judge in the first annual Diocese of Maryland marshmallow Peep Biblical diorama contest. And while the organizers are obviously playing a bit fast and loose with the term “celebrity,” I can’t wait to see what the contestants will do with a shoe box, some glue, and a bunch of Peeps. I’m personally expecting an Easter miracle. But then, that’s precisely what draws us all here this morning: the Easter miracle of an empty tomb. Which, I feel emboldened to proclaim, is even more miraculous than the image of an Easter Peep handing down the 10 Commandments or walking on water.

But joy, elation, and a sugar high weren’t the initial emotions of the women at the tomb on that first Easter morning. In Mark’s gospel we hear of three reactions to the surprising events: alarm, terror, and amazement. And while you can understand this response to seeing an angel dressed in white sitting in Jesus’ empty tomb, alarm, terror, and amazement, aren’t usually the emotions we associate with Easter. We think about victory and joy and love and fulfillment and resurrection and perhaps Peeps. But the women at the tomb had a different experience. They weren’t exactly singing “Jesus Christ is Risen Today.” There were no Easter hats or egg hunts or chocolate bunnies. Peeps wouldn’t even be invented for another 1,927 years. So the women were a bit freaked out by the whole thing. And with good reason! Their expectations of what they would encounter came nowhere near the reality. They simply wanted to anoint the body of Jesus and prepare it for burial. They were blinded with grief and went about their task with a single-mindedness of purpose. 

In fact, their biggest concern along the journey was over who would roll away the stone from the entrance to the tomb. Because, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, the men were nowhere to be found. By Sunday morning, they’d all fled; driven out by despair and fear and grief. So the women couldn’t even get one of the guys to stick around and help them. But something drew them back to the tomb; something drew them back even as the doubts lingered about whether they could actually get inside it to perform the burial customs. 

Whenever I hear this Easter story, at least in the seven years I’ve been here at All Saints’, I can’t help but think about the Old Parish House up the hill at the rectory. For those of you who’ve never seen it, it was built in 1904 as much-needed meeting space for the church. At the time, we just had the land where this building sits – the church hadn’t yet acquired the property that now houses our parish hall, classrooms, and parking lot. But we had a couple of acres up at the rectory to work with. So the women of the parish built the Parish House. There are pictures of them in skirts literally building it stone by stone. They built the entire thing except for the roof – that was left to the men. And, of course, what later collapsed? The roof. 

But the point is that without the women who gathered at the tomb, who knows when word of the resurrection might have gotten out? It was these women, these first disciples of the risen Lord, who brought the message to the others. To the men who couldn’t face the dark “reality” that everything – their hopes and dreams and expectations – had come crashing down around them. In fairness, there’s no reason why they should have thought anything less. Resurrection wasn’t exactly on their radar screen. And those vague hints Jesus left them with weren’t exactly crystal clear: “I will be killed and in three days rise again.” Um, okay. Now could you do that trick where you walk on water again?”

Let’s be honest; this has been a trying year. Those who have much have had to live on less and those who have little are barely hanging on. Markets have crashed, emotions have frayed, lives have hung in the balance. But the beauty of the resurrection – the Good News of the gospel of Jesus Christ – is that God’s presence transcends our struggles. Through the power of the resurrection, God can overcome whatever tragedy we read about in the newspaper or see on TV or encounter in our personal lives. And it can be overcome precisely because God overcame death and the grave in raising his son to new life. With the resurrection, everything has been forever changed. We have been given the ability to hope in the midst of despair; to rejoice in the midst of grief; and to grasp life out of the clutches of death.

That’s the true miracle of Easter. And we are not merely witnesses to this miracle of resurrection but participants in it. Jesus Christ is risen today. He is risen for you and for me. He is risen for the women at the tomb and for the disciples who fled. He is risen to wipe away our individual and collective brokenness. He is risen to offer hope and salvation to a hurting world. He is risen because God’s love for us is stronger even than death. And with that as the major miracle that defines our very existence, we can indeed take pleasure in the minor miracles of life, even the ubiquitous Easter Peep. 

May this Easter Day fill you with all hope in the power of the resurrection. May the joy of this day open up for you an ever deepening relationship with the God who banishes sin and offers us perfect freedom. And may Christ’s victory over the grave give you meaning and hope this day and evermore.

 © The Rev. Tim Schenck 2009