My Own Cup of Gladness (or) In the Garden
This sermon is given to the glory of God
and in loving memory of my grandmother,
Josephine Victoria Bridge Wright
Whose favorite hymn was “In the Garden,”
and to the honor of St. Catherine of Alexandria.
Text: John 20:1-18.
It all began in a garden, you know. That is why I wake early and come to this garden. I come to remember.
Oh, look! A tiny wren has lighted upon the hedge, so near me.
Listen, how he lifts his chestnut colored throat and sings forth a string of grace notes. I cannot even write them down much less sing them.
For what, you might ask, does our winged friend sing his canter of praise?
Oh, perhaps, he sings for the early morning, for first-light,
Or, perhaps, he sings for the taste of the spider,
Or, perhaps, he sings for his small cup of life that he drinks from every day, for he knows it will refill.*
Today, however, I think he comes to remind me of my own cup of gladness. So, I invite you, too, to come to my garden and let me tell you why I sing my canter of praise—
Let me tell you a story, just as I told it on that first morning—just as I have told it every year since.
Come. Find a soft, grassy spot to sit down, and I will begin.
First, let me introduce myself—
My name is Mary. Mary, the Magdalene, they call me. I was there that day—that awful day when they crucified Jesus. I was there—standing near the cross—with Mary, his mother, and Mary, the wife of Clopas, and with the disciple Jesus loved.
We saw the soldiers when they divided his garments among themselves and cast lots for his tunic. And I heard Jesus speak his final words to his mother and to the beloved disciple. I was with them.
We saw Jesus die. We saw the soldier pierce his side. We were still there when two men came to take away his body. But, we did not know them. They had not come with us from Galilee. And we did not know where they were going to take him. And so, we were frightened. It was our place to prepare his body for burial. We were the ones who loved him. And this was the last act of love we could do for him. And they were going to take him away.
They insisted they knew Jesus, too, and they only wanted to care for him properly. The one called Joseph of Arimathea had a tomb of his own. He had spoken to Pilate, he said, and Pilate had given him permission to take Jesus there. We had no tomb. No proper place to take him. So what could we do?
By then, the hour was late. It was almost sunset and the sabbath was about to begin. Joseph became very troubled. Because, there would not be time for him to take Jesus far. Not all the way to his own tomb.
But, there was a garden near by. Near where Jesus was crucified. And in that garden, Joseph, and the other man called Nicodemus, found a new tomb—a tomb in which no one had yet been laid. And so, since this tomb was close, they took the body of Jesus and laid him there. They quickly bound him with linen cloths together with the spices Nicodemus had brought, myrrh and aloes, and they closed the tomb with a large stone, and they left him there in the garden.
After the sabbath, they said, they would return and take the body of Jesus to Joseph’s tomb. We saw all this—Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Mary, the wife of Clopas, and the beloved disciple—and I—Mary, the Magdalene. We saw where they laid him, and I marked the spot well. For, after the Sabbath, I, too, planned to return and follow them to Joseph’s tomb, and see where they took him.
It was only then that we went away. My heart was heavy in my chest, and I felt as if I could not breathe. The mingled smells of blood and spices and fresh linen followed us. It was suffocating. The one whom I loved was dead, and I wished it was me instead.
After the sabbath—on the first day of the week, early in the morning while it is still dark, long before first-light, I rise to go to the tomb, to the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid him. For I must be there when they come to take him away. I must follow them, so I can see where they lay him. I must hurry, and arrive there before they do. He is my life, he is my love.
The streets are dark as I step through my door, and unusually quiet for there to be so many people in the city for the festival. I hear only the occasional echo of some Roman soldier’s iron heels posting guard somewhere.
I hurry down the streets to the gate of the city that leads to the place where they crucified him. I must move quickly for I must be there when they come to take his body to Joseph’s tomb. I am helped by the descending path, but it is winding and dark. My thoughts are troubled. What if I cannot find the place?
The moon is only just passed full and should be shining from the west. It should light my path. But it must be covered by cloud, for I cannot see, and I fear I will stumble and fall. But I fear more that I will arrive too late if I do not hurry. I feel my way along, grasping at tree branches and bushes as I go. I have brought nothing with me, so as not to be hindered by a load. I move on. I must be almost there, I think.
Suddenly, the moon breaks free from the clouds, and its light falls upon the cave cut into the rock. My breath quickens and then stops. I gasp for air. For the stone has been taken away. The entrance is open.
Oh, no! Oh, no! I must be too late, I think. They have already taken him away and I do not know where they have taken him.
I turn and run. I run to find Simon Peter and the disciple Jesus loved. I run up the path I have just descended. The branches catch on my clothes and cut my face and arms. I taste blood on my lips, but I cannot stop now. I must find Peter and the beloved disciple. They will know what to do.
We must find Jesus. Where could they have taken him? Why did they come so early? Did they steal him away during the night? Maybe they are not who they said. Secret disciples of Jesus? That cannot be. My mind whirls—
They have stolen away the body of Jesus to give him to the dogs.
Perhaps, they have thrown him outside the city on the garbage heaps of Gehenna.
Maybe they have taken him to display him before the people—to mock him further.
Oh, my dear heart! Where are you? What have they done with you?
I run and I run. I run through the gate into the city. I run up the streets. I run to the door where Simon Peter and the disciples are staying. I bang on the door. I bang and I bang, harder and harder. Finally, Peter and the beloved disciple come to the door. I cannot breathe. I gasp out words like a dumb man trying to speak.
They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and I do not know where they have laid him.
And suddenly, they, too, are running, the beloved disciple going first, for he knows the way—he was there, he saw where those two men laid Jesus. Peter follows him. And I run behind Peter.
The beloved disciple arrives at the tomb first and he stoops at the entrance to look in. He sees the linen cloths that Joseph and Nicodemus had wrapped Jesus in, but he does not go inside the tomb.
Simon Peter then arrives and brushes past the beloved disciple. He goes immediately into the tomb. He was not with us on the night when the men laid Jesus there. So, now, he stands looking all about and he sees the linen cloths, too, and he sees the cloth that had been on Jesus’ face. It is folded and lies by itself.
Then, the beloved disciple goes into the tomb with Peter, and when he sees, he also believes that the men who laid Jesus there have taken him out of the tomb.
All this, they tell me many days later. But, on that morning, they just went away. They go back to their house, and leave me there all alone, not knowing what to do.
I stand outside the tomb all alone. Hot tears burn my eyes. Tears of anger. Tears of grief. Tears of confusion. Tears of pain. They have taken him away and I do not know where he is. I will never see him again. They have robbed me of this last thing I can do for him. How could they be so cruel?
I will never find them. I do not really even know who they are. They have taken him away. And I will never find him. I will never find him.
I stoop to look again at the place where I last saw him. It is still not yet first- light. The cave is dark and cold, and silent as death. But, that is where he was. I must look upon the place just once more.
I stoop. And through a blur of tears I open my eyes. A warm glow touches my face instead of the cold, and I see to my sudden surprise two men in white sitting where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the feet. They say to me, “Woman, why are you weeping?”
Can this be someone who will help me? I think. Is it the two men who were here before? Have they returned to take me to him? No, it is not them.
I say to the two men in white, They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.
My one glimmer of hope is gone. They do not know where he is. I will never find him. My eyes fill with tears. Tears of disappointment. Tears of dashed hope. Tears of despair. My shoulders slump. I am cast down. The heaviest of burdens has descended upon me.
I turn away from the tomb. First-light has now come. The trees and the bushes and the rocks are silhouetted against the gray air. And I see a shadowy figure—a man—standing near me. I think, perhaps, he is the gardener.
He says to me, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”
My heart says,
I seek him whom my soul loves.
I sought him but found him not.
Have you seen him whom my soul loves?
(from the Song of Solomon)
But how would a gardener understand that, so I say to him, Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.
And He said to me, “Mary.”
He calls my name. He calls my name, and the dawn finally breaks. The sun shines bright and beautiful, and I see Jesus. I look full into his glorious face. I have found him whom my soul loves. My heart sings:
My beloved is radiant and ruddy,
The chiefest among ten thousand,
. . . . . . . . . .
Yea, he is altogether lovely.
This is my beloved and this is my friend.
(from the Song of Solomon)
Rabboni! My dearest Master! I say to him. I hold him, and never want to let him go.
“Do not cling to me, Mary,” he says.
And, then, I stand back. I look into his eyes and I see. I hear his voice, and I understand what he is saying to me. It is as when Moses stood before him at the burning bush and he said,
“’Do not come near; take off your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground. I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God. “
Yes, I, too, must step back.
For, I, too, stand on holy ground.
I, too, am looking into the face of God.
There will always be a special bond between us, I know. As with Moses, so with me—the flame that does not consume itself is the sign of God’s presence with me—but the holy remains the holy. There will always be a boundary between the divine and the human. A boundary I must not cross. I must let God be God.
“Do not cling to me, Mary,” he says. And I understand. I am not rejected as it may at first seem. To the contrary, I am commissioned.
Jesus says to me, “I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go to my brothers and sisters, and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God’.”
Go to my brothers and sisters and say to them . . .
Jesus spoke these words to me. Like Moses and the prophets of Israel, I, too, receive a commission. I am to be the mouthpiece of the Living Lord. I am bidden by my Lord to proclaim the Word of God on this most glorious of all mornings. I know immediately what I am to do. And so, I go.
I go, and I announce to them all,
I have seen the Lord—
and I say to them everything he has told me to say.
On that very first morning—
I came to the garden alone—
I came in search of the body of Jesus—
But, I found instead—the Living Lord!
Now, every morning, every morning, I wake early
For there is my own cup of gladness,
And at first light,
there’s that wren in the hedge, above me, with his
Blazing--glorious song!*
Amen.
*Adapted from a poem by Mary Oliver, The Wren from Carolina.
and in loving memory of my grandmother,
Josephine Victoria Bridge Wright
Whose favorite hymn was “In the Garden,”
and to the honor of St. Catherine of Alexandria.
Text: John 20:1-18.
It all began in a garden, you know. That is why I wake early and come to this garden. I come to remember.
Oh, look! A tiny wren has lighted upon the hedge, so near me.
Listen, how he lifts his chestnut colored throat and sings forth a string of grace notes. I cannot even write them down much less sing them.
For what, you might ask, does our winged friend sing his canter of praise?
Oh, perhaps, he sings for the early morning, for first-light,
Or, perhaps, he sings for the taste of the spider,
Or, perhaps, he sings for his small cup of life that he drinks from every day, for he knows it will refill.*
Today, however, I think he comes to remind me of my own cup of gladness. So, I invite you, too, to come to my garden and let me tell you why I sing my canter of praise—
Let me tell you a story, just as I told it on that first morning—just as I have told it every year since.
Come. Find a soft, grassy spot to sit down, and I will begin.
First, let me introduce myself—
My name is Mary. Mary, the Magdalene, they call me. I was there that day—that awful day when they crucified Jesus. I was there—standing near the cross—with Mary, his mother, and Mary, the wife of Clopas, and with the disciple Jesus loved.
We saw the soldiers when they divided his garments among themselves and cast lots for his tunic. And I heard Jesus speak his final words to his mother and to the beloved disciple. I was with them.
We saw Jesus die. We saw the soldier pierce his side. We were still there when two men came to take away his body. But, we did not know them. They had not come with us from Galilee. And we did not know where they were going to take him. And so, we were frightened. It was our place to prepare his body for burial. We were the ones who loved him. And this was the last act of love we could do for him. And they were going to take him away.
They insisted they knew Jesus, too, and they only wanted to care for him properly. The one called Joseph of Arimathea had a tomb of his own. He had spoken to Pilate, he said, and Pilate had given him permission to take Jesus there. We had no tomb. No proper place to take him. So what could we do?
By then, the hour was late. It was almost sunset and the sabbath was about to begin. Joseph became very troubled. Because, there would not be time for him to take Jesus far. Not all the way to his own tomb.
But, there was a garden near by. Near where Jesus was crucified. And in that garden, Joseph, and the other man called Nicodemus, found a new tomb—a tomb in which no one had yet been laid. And so, since this tomb was close, they took the body of Jesus and laid him there. They quickly bound him with linen cloths together with the spices Nicodemus had brought, myrrh and aloes, and they closed the tomb with a large stone, and they left him there in the garden.
After the sabbath, they said, they would return and take the body of Jesus to Joseph’s tomb. We saw all this—Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Mary, the wife of Clopas, and the beloved disciple—and I—Mary, the Magdalene. We saw where they laid him, and I marked the spot well. For, after the Sabbath, I, too, planned to return and follow them to Joseph’s tomb, and see where they took him.
It was only then that we went away. My heart was heavy in my chest, and I felt as if I could not breathe. The mingled smells of blood and spices and fresh linen followed us. It was suffocating. The one whom I loved was dead, and I wished it was me instead.
After the sabbath—on the first day of the week, early in the morning while it is still dark, long before first-light, I rise to go to the tomb, to the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid him. For I must be there when they come to take him away. I must follow them, so I can see where they lay him. I must hurry, and arrive there before they do. He is my life, he is my love.
The streets are dark as I step through my door, and unusually quiet for there to be so many people in the city for the festival. I hear only the occasional echo of some Roman soldier’s iron heels posting guard somewhere.
I hurry down the streets to the gate of the city that leads to the place where they crucified him. I must move quickly for I must be there when they come to take his body to Joseph’s tomb. I am helped by the descending path, but it is winding and dark. My thoughts are troubled. What if I cannot find the place?
The moon is only just passed full and should be shining from the west. It should light my path. But it must be covered by cloud, for I cannot see, and I fear I will stumble and fall. But I fear more that I will arrive too late if I do not hurry. I feel my way along, grasping at tree branches and bushes as I go. I have brought nothing with me, so as not to be hindered by a load. I move on. I must be almost there, I think.
Suddenly, the moon breaks free from the clouds, and its light falls upon the cave cut into the rock. My breath quickens and then stops. I gasp for air. For the stone has been taken away. The entrance is open.
Oh, no! Oh, no! I must be too late, I think. They have already taken him away and I do not know where they have taken him.
I turn and run. I run to find Simon Peter and the disciple Jesus loved. I run up the path I have just descended. The branches catch on my clothes and cut my face and arms. I taste blood on my lips, but I cannot stop now. I must find Peter and the beloved disciple. They will know what to do.
We must find Jesus. Where could they have taken him? Why did they come so early? Did they steal him away during the night? Maybe they are not who they said. Secret disciples of Jesus? That cannot be. My mind whirls—
They have stolen away the body of Jesus to give him to the dogs.
Perhaps, they have thrown him outside the city on the garbage heaps of Gehenna.
Maybe they have taken him to display him before the people—to mock him further.
Oh, my dear heart! Where are you? What have they done with you?
I run and I run. I run through the gate into the city. I run up the streets. I run to the door where Simon Peter and the disciples are staying. I bang on the door. I bang and I bang, harder and harder. Finally, Peter and the beloved disciple come to the door. I cannot breathe. I gasp out words like a dumb man trying to speak.
They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and I do not know where they have laid him.
And suddenly, they, too, are running, the beloved disciple going first, for he knows the way—he was there, he saw where those two men laid Jesus. Peter follows him. And I run behind Peter.
The beloved disciple arrives at the tomb first and he stoops at the entrance to look in. He sees the linen cloths that Joseph and Nicodemus had wrapped Jesus in, but he does not go inside the tomb.
Simon Peter then arrives and brushes past the beloved disciple. He goes immediately into the tomb. He was not with us on the night when the men laid Jesus there. So, now, he stands looking all about and he sees the linen cloths, too, and he sees the cloth that had been on Jesus’ face. It is folded and lies by itself.
Then, the beloved disciple goes into the tomb with Peter, and when he sees, he also believes that the men who laid Jesus there have taken him out of the tomb.
All this, they tell me many days later. But, on that morning, they just went away. They go back to their house, and leave me there all alone, not knowing what to do.
I stand outside the tomb all alone. Hot tears burn my eyes. Tears of anger. Tears of grief. Tears of confusion. Tears of pain. They have taken him away and I do not know where he is. I will never see him again. They have robbed me of this last thing I can do for him. How could they be so cruel?
I will never find them. I do not really even know who they are. They have taken him away. And I will never find him. I will never find him.
I stoop to look again at the place where I last saw him. It is still not yet first- light. The cave is dark and cold, and silent as death. But, that is where he was. I must look upon the place just once more.
I stoop. And through a blur of tears I open my eyes. A warm glow touches my face instead of the cold, and I see to my sudden surprise two men in white sitting where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the feet. They say to me, “Woman, why are you weeping?”
Can this be someone who will help me? I think. Is it the two men who were here before? Have they returned to take me to him? No, it is not them.
I say to the two men in white, They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.
My one glimmer of hope is gone. They do not know where he is. I will never find him. My eyes fill with tears. Tears of disappointment. Tears of dashed hope. Tears of despair. My shoulders slump. I am cast down. The heaviest of burdens has descended upon me.
I turn away from the tomb. First-light has now come. The trees and the bushes and the rocks are silhouetted against the gray air. And I see a shadowy figure—a man—standing near me. I think, perhaps, he is the gardener.
He says to me, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”
My heart says,
I seek him whom my soul loves.
I sought him but found him not.
Have you seen him whom my soul loves?
(from the Song of Solomon)
But how would a gardener understand that, so I say to him, Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.
And He said to me, “Mary.”
He calls my name. He calls my name, and the dawn finally breaks. The sun shines bright and beautiful, and I see Jesus. I look full into his glorious face. I have found him whom my soul loves. My heart sings:
My beloved is radiant and ruddy,
The chiefest among ten thousand,
. . . . . . . . . .
Yea, he is altogether lovely.
This is my beloved and this is my friend.
(from the Song of Solomon)
Rabboni! My dearest Master! I say to him. I hold him, and never want to let him go.
“Do not cling to me, Mary,” he says.
And, then, I stand back. I look into his eyes and I see. I hear his voice, and I understand what he is saying to me. It is as when Moses stood before him at the burning bush and he said,
“’Do not come near; take off your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground. I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God. “
Yes, I, too, must step back.
For, I, too, stand on holy ground.
I, too, am looking into the face of God.
There will always be a special bond between us, I know. As with Moses, so with me—the flame that does not consume itself is the sign of God’s presence with me—but the holy remains the holy. There will always be a boundary between the divine and the human. A boundary I must not cross. I must let God be God.
“Do not cling to me, Mary,” he says. And I understand. I am not rejected as it may at first seem. To the contrary, I am commissioned.
Jesus says to me, “I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go to my brothers and sisters, and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God’.”
Go to my brothers and sisters and say to them . . .
Jesus spoke these words to me. Like Moses and the prophets of Israel, I, too, receive a commission. I am to be the mouthpiece of the Living Lord. I am bidden by my Lord to proclaim the Word of God on this most glorious of all mornings. I know immediately what I am to do. And so, I go.
I go, and I announce to them all,
I have seen the Lord—
and I say to them everything he has told me to say.
On that very first morning—
I came to the garden alone—
I came in search of the body of Jesus—
But, I found instead—the Living Lord!
Now, every morning, every morning, I wake early
For there is my own cup of gladness,
And at first light,
there’s that wren in the hedge, above me, with his
Blazing--glorious song!*
Amen.
*Adapted from a poem by Mary Oliver, The Wren from Carolina.
posted by Rev. Jo | 3:19 PM
1 Comments:
Happy Easter, Jo!
I think this sermon is brilliant. The description is amazing, the working in of the Mary Oliver poem exquisite. Truly inspired writing, I think. Thank you for this.
Love, Susan
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