Last Sunday morning, when we gathered here for worship, none
of us could have imagined the week that would unfold before us. Do you remember what you were thinking about
then, last Sunday? School vacation week
maybe, or watching the Boston Marathon?
Finishing up your taxes, possibly a Monday off from work, maybe a spring
clean-up of your yard, or even a trip somewhere? Taxes were certainly on my
mind—I knew I owed some, but wasn’t sure how much and dreaded finding out for
certain—plus I had a lot of concern that my second box of completed thesis
copies, which I copied and sent the day before, would make it to Toronto
without incident, unlike the first box that got waylaid along the way. (It did
make it, by the way, on Wednesday as scheduled). I was also thinking about meetings to come and pastoral concerns
and who knows what else.
Well, the two homemade bombs at the Marathon changed all
that—for most of us in a less profound way, mainly—but for others far more
permanently, as they lost people they love and as some were injured
unbelievably. Since Monday afternoon
we’ve all been on an uninvited and unwelcome roller-coaster of emotion: shock
and fear, then a degree of resolve, inspiration and hope, and then more shock,
more fear, more anxiety, and finally, Friday night, some sense of relief.
My mother called me on Saturday morning, saying that I must
feel good that it’s all over. And I
do. Or at least I feel relief that the
two suspects can’t hurt anyone else.
But of course, it’s really not all over. There’s so much that we don’t know and don’t understand yet, if
ever. Unfortunately, it may be quite
some time before our many questions are answered, the most important of which
is simply: “Why”? Why would anyone want
to disrupt something as joyful and innocuous as the Boston Marathon? Why would anyone want to indiscriminately
hurt and kill people he or she didn’t even know? Why here? Why now? Just, why?
And then when the photos and the identity of the suspects
were revealed, we might have wondered, too, and we might wonder still, why
young men like those we presume did these horrible acts—with their futures
ahead of them—would want to throw their own lives away for seemingly no reason,
along with those they hurt and killed.
A few moments of attention is all they got out of all of this, and even
that wasn’t so glamorous. Certainly
they didn’t become heroes of anything or anyone. The younger brother, especially, seems to have really had a lot
to live for: a graduate of the Cambridge Rindge & Latin School, with a
college scholarship, recently made a U.S. citizen, lots of friends, great sense
of humor, even a nice disposition. But
the older brother, too, about whom the deeper concern is centered, had some
good things in his life, too—extraordinary talent as a boxer, also talent as a
musician, a family that loved him, even it seems, a wife and a two-year old
baby. Why throw all of that away for
nothing good?
Surely these brothers didn’t think they could just return to
their normal lives on Tuesday morning, without notice, as if nothing had
happened. And the presence of several
bombs and explosive devices in their apartment would suggest that they didn’t
really expect to, either. Or at least
one of them didn’t. Maybe over time
we’ll get answers, at least partial, to some of these questions that still hang
over us. Though, we’ll probably never
really, totally, know. And we’ll never
totally be the same as we were on Monday morning, either.
But in the meantime, we go on with our lives, because we
have to. Not the same. Not untouched. Not unchanged. But still
moving along, moving ahead. I thought
about that on Thursday morning—before the extraordinary dramatic events of
Friday—when I was in downtown Boston following an early budget meeting at the
cathedral. Usually after these things I
just head home on the subway—diocesan budget meetings are exhausting,
especially when they start at 8 a.m.
But Thursday was an especially beautiful day and I didn’t really have to
be anywhere in particular for a while.
So, I walked leisurely through the Boston Common and then down Charles Street on Beacon Hill—one of my favorite streets in the city. It was so gorgeous that bright spring
morning. In fact, it seemed even more
gorgeous than ever. Flowers were
starting to bloom, birds were chirping, I paid special attention to the unique
majesty of Beacon Hill’s architecture.
It all was like a special gift from God. Like I was in the most beautiful city in the world, or if not the
world, then certainly the United States.
I’m not sure Boston is quite as beautiful as Stockholm, but it’s close.
In fact, I was so inspired by the day that I had decided to
spend a bucket load of money at a Scandinavian antique shop I had stepped into
the week before, to buy something I wanted but really didn’t need, to heck with
my shrinking checking account, and thankful to be alive and able to enjoy life
in this gorgeous city and determined not to let terrorism stop me from doing
what I wanted. As it happens, though,
the antique shop was fortuitously closed.
So, instead of spending a small fortune that morning, I enjoyed a much
less expensive coffee and almond croissant at the café next door—that seemed
like an economical tradeoff. And while
I sat there, sipping my coffee, with a pretty tulip in a bid vase on the table,
and looking out the window onto the bustle of Charles Street, I thought to
myself, no bomb and no terrorist is strong enough to take any of that away from
me, from us.
Of course, that all was before the later drama of Thursday
and Friday: President Obama’s visit and the inspiring Interfaith service, then
the FBI’s release of the pictures of the suspects, followed just a few hours
later by the murder of the MIT police officer, the carjacking, chase, horrible
shootout in Watertown, and then the lockdown, manhunt, and finally
capture. I admit that some of that the
joy, inspiration, and resolve I felt on Thursday morning on Charles Street
was tempered again by a degree of anxiety and fear as I watched what was going
on in Watertown, and I wasn’t even in the lockdown area. Those of you up here in and around Wakefield
were even further away from the nexus, but I imagine there was a good degree of
anxiety here, too. How could there not
be? I can’t begin to imagine what the
people of Watertown must have been feeling through it all: hearing the gun
fights, explosions, and opening their homes to SWAT Teams, to say nothing of
the man who found the younger suspect in his boat. The very thought of that discovery makes me absolutely ill.
But even on Friday, as our doors were locked and we watched
SWAT teams and armored trucks roar through city streets, streets we know and
have visited, where friends and family live, we found ourselves struggling
against fear and paralysis and struggling toward life. I was heartened, in particular, by emails,
text messages, phone calls, and Facebook posts from friends and family all over
the country and the world, checking up on me, to see if I were okay. I suspect that you had similar experiences
of friends and family reaching out in love and concern. I had wonderful, thoughtful messages from people
I hadn’t heard from in a very long time.
Even in a time of stress, anxiety, and fear we find the hope of new
life, abundant life, Easter life breaking through and breaking in.
Because, of course, that’s what Easter is all about. It’s about hope that breaks into fear, joy
that overcomes sadness, and life that is stronger and more powerful than
death. And that, surely, is what we
have experienced here in Boston this week—hope, joy, and new life. It doesn’t make the marks of the crucifixion
go away—they never will totally go away—especially for those who lost limbs, or
much worse, beloved family members and friends whose lives were torn away. But even they, too, who were most affected
by the bombings and the horrible aftermath will smile again—not because the
suspects have been apprehended, that’s only a small part of it, as the families
of the victims have said so eloquently and painfully—but because they have to,
because we all have to, we all have to smile again, because God is always
taking that which is dead and broken and transforming it into something new,
something hopeful, something alive.
Because God is always taking us and transforming us. Because God is always taking every day
turning it into Easter.
You know, just as the people of Watertown, Boston, and
Cambridge were in their locked homes this past Friday, on the very first Easter
morning some 2,000 years ago, after Jesus’ crucifixion, the disciples, too,
were locked away, afraid that the authorities would come after them. They feared any knock on the door. They feared that they would be next. The world as they knew it seemed to be
crumbling around them, turning to madness.
Of course they were even more isolated, since they didn’t have TV,
Internet, Facebook or Twitter to keep them updated on what was happening
outside. But even so, into their fear,
into their locked rooms and into their locked hearts, the resurrected Christ
appeared. He said to them “Peace be
with you.” He said, “Do not doubt, but believe.” And he said, “I am the Good Shepherd. I love you. I’ll be with
you. I’ll hold you. I’ll care for you. And I will raise you up. I will give you eternal life, and you will never perish. No one will snatch you from my hand. And I will wipe every tear from your eyes." And as he breaks into our locked rooms, and into
our locked hearts, and into our locked lives, he says the same to us: Peace,
Love, Care, Life. Thanks be to
God.
To whom be the glory:
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
