Homily, Great Vigil

We are in the dark. We don’t know when this thing will end. We don’t know if we or people we love will become ill. We don’t know who is telling the truth.

We are in the dark and we need the light of Christ.

This year, more than ever, we need Easter.

In Ezekiel’s story of the dry bones, we see a valley of death. It is a lifeless place of dry bones, merely the faint memory of life. It feels hopeless. But as soon as God begins to speak, hope is born. Can these bones live? A shocking question that we would not dare to ask. But for God, nothing is impossible, and when God asks the question, we know the answer is yes. Yes, these bones can live. Yes, the darkness will end. Yes, the light of Christ will burn brightly and lead us from the edge of the grave back to life.

Over and over we see in Scripture that God brings life out of death. The people of God are liberated. The desert blooms. The boy Isaac is saved. The bones live. In this challenging time, we are tempted to think only about death. We hear the statistics, the number of those infected, sick, or who have died, and the temptation is to think only about the death. But Easter tells us that death isn’t the end of the story. This pandemic will end and the people of God will come back together to celebrate the life that is God’s free gift to us all. Just as the cathedral lights will come on and the organ start up when the Bishop proclaims Easter, so the lights will some day come back on in the world and life will return to our streets, schools, and industries.

But I dare to hope that it won’t return to normal. Our society had become like a spoiled child, never satisfied with what we had, paying little attention to those who had less, forgetting to take time with our loved ones and putting our own wants ahead of the common good. This time of enforced isolation, of extended time with some family members and cruel separation from others, this time of doing without new clothes, manicures, vacation trips, and parties; this shared experience could redirect us to be more family-oriented, to reprioritize our habits and our spending, to become more aware of the humanity that we share woth every other human being. This time, as hard as it is, could be the salvation of our culture, if it moves us away from the consumerism and toxic politics that have all but destroyed any shared value of community spirit.

My Easter hope this year is that there will be a cultural shift in our world; that, just as the world changed for ever when Jesus rose from the dead, so, when our world rises from its viral sickbed, there will be a new normal, a normal that brings us closer together and enables us to see more clearly the Christ in each other. To see, we need light, and the Paschal Candle reminds us that Jesus Christ is the light of the world. We need the risen Christ to go ahead of us, to lead us from the dark tomb to a new place of light.

The Exsultet hymn calls us to rejoice tonight as the light shines out. For this is the night when everything changes. This is the night when we pass with Christ from darkness to light, from sin to redemption, from death to life. May Christ, the Morning Star who knows no setting, ever burn in our hearts, and may we come to know the full joy of Easter. Amen.

The Great Vigil of Easter, April 11, 2020
TVR Penelope Bridgesv Preached after the Vigil readings

The Easter Sermon: from darkness to light

Alleluia, Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia!

The story of Holy Week is a journey from darkness to light. The fourth Gospel begins Easter Day in darkness, echoing the moment on Thursday when Judas left the community of disciples to betray Jesus and John writes, “it was night”. The night continued until this moment, the moment when Mary Magdalene arrives at the gravesite, expecting to prepare the body of Jesus for its permanent burial in the darkness of the earth. We know that dawn is breaking, for by the time the male disciples arrive to verify her story, they are able to see into the tomb.

As the light strengthens, so does the realization that something remarkable has occurred. But it is still a journey: Mary begins in despair, grief-stricken, resigned. She moves from horror to outrage - they have stolen the body! - and then to tearful bafflement, until at last she turns to the light and sees clearly that her Lord is risen, and now she is able to return to the men and give the first astonishing Easter announcement. Alleluia, Christ is risen!

In John’s Gospel Mary Magdalene appears for the first time at the scene of the Crucifixion, helping to support the heartbroken mother of Jesus. Now we see her continuing the role of a family member, coming to prepare the body for burial. Mary is deeply connected to both the disciples and the family of Jesus; her ministry is one of relationships. Contrast this with the behavior of the men, who compete to outrun and outdare each other, the later arrival taking the extra step into the tomb. Each is wrapped up in his own experience. They don’t confer or commiserate, they don’t comfort Mary, they don’t stay to figure out what has happened. They return to their own homes to process individually what they have seen.

But Mary’s instinct is to connect: she shares the news of the open tomb with the community: she sees and speaks with first the angels and then with Jesus himself. And when the reality of resurrection hits her, she must share that news too: she goes to where the other disciples are gathered and tells them everything. Mary models for us the ancient wisdom that the resurrection of Jesus isn’t an individual experience but a corporate one: it belongs to the whole community, for we are all raised with him.

We don’t hear anything more of Mary: she returns to invisibility after this moment. It’s regrettable that both Mary Magdalene’s leadership and her understanding of resurrection were airbrushed out of the picture as the church developed its structure and hierarchies. Women of a certain age are well accustomed to the phenomenon of becoming invisible, overlooked by everyone from restaurant servers to public health researchers. And, in a culture that values individual achievement above all else, it’s hardly surprising that a corporate understanding of resurrection is discarded in favor of a solitary search for truth and enlightenment, a self-focused spirituality that disregards the power and accountability of community.

One question is repeated in our Gospel story: woman, why are you weeping? Mary, the connector, weeps for all the broken connections in her world, and we may well weep with her for ours. Woman, why are you weeping? For the faithful who have seen their hopes dashed. For the betrayal by a trusted friend. For the self-interest that tramples down others in its climb to the top. For the many ways we nail Jesus to the cross of fear, greed, selfishness.

For the times we have failed to recognize Jesus in the stranger. For the fear that makes us turn away from the victims of violence and disaster. For the brotherhood that deserted Jesus in his last hours. For the continued trafficking of human beings. For the children taken from their parents and locked up in a strange land where nobody speaks their language. For the addicts who are enslaved by their habits. For those who are imprisoned within anger and hatred. For all those who are invisible or regarded as disposable or a burden. For those who have good news to share but cannot make themselves heard.

Woman, why are you weeping? Why would you not weep?

There’s a lot of movement in this story: running back and forth, coming and going, from the town to the tomb and back again, some six different trips. But when Mary becomes still, when the commotion subsides, she is finally able to see the risen Christ. As the light of day strengthens, so the spiritual light strengthens too, until Mary can both see and be seen by her beloved. She is not invisible to him: he calls her by name: he knows her.

To be known by God and to know God: this is what we seek. And it is in the quiet moment, when we allow ourselves to dwell in our unknowing, that we discover a Savior who knows us and loves us and who lives in and for us. Go and tell, Jesus says. Now that you know, go and share the good news with the community, for this is news that must be shared: a resurrection for the whole of God’s people, not for just a favored few. And so Mary does. Alleluia, Christ is risen!

Now that we have arrived at Easter, now that we have heard the good news, what’s next? What does Easter change for you and for me today? In a week when three world-venerated houses of worship suffered fires, when we remembered the 12th anniversary of the Virginia Tech shooting and the 20th of Columbine, and now this morning’s news of suicide bombings targeting Christians in Sri Lanka, there is plenty to grieve, if we stay at the tomb. But just as Mary turned from her grief to the living Christ, so we now turn from darkness to light, from death to life.

St Paul’s Cathedral is a community of life, a community of hope, founded upon the promise of life abundant for all. We follow the way of love, welcoming everyone in gratitude for the love we ourselves have experienced. In dying for us and rising from the grave, Jesus has defeated the power of death and has demonstrated that love always wins.

Jesus chose a woman, someone who didn’t count as a legal witness in her day, as the first apostle and proclaimer of the good news of resurrection. Just as the Virgin Mary carried the good news of Jesus in her womb, just as the unnamed woman at the well carried the good news back to her village, so Mary Magdalene became the apostle to the apostles, entrusted with this treasure as a sign that God fully values the people on the margins, the invisible people, the ones who don’t count in the world.

Each one of us carries good news within us to share and to celebrate. The heart of the Easter message is that you and I, all of us, no exceptions, are deeply, unconditionally, and eternally loved, and God invites us to live fully into that love, to go and tell the good news of life. “This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.” (Psalm 118)

Alleluia, Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia!

Easter Day 2019
The Very Rev. Penelope Bridges

The Easter Sermon: Signs of Life

 Alleluia. Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

When I got up this morning I started, as usual, to look for signs for life. I turned on the faucet, and as the clean water flowed out I gave thanks that, even in a severe drought, all I have to do is turn the faucet, unlike the millions of women who have to go looking for water every day to keep their families alive. I gave my cat her breakfast, enjoying her lively greeting and appreciating her companionship that enriches my life. I inspected my strawberry and tomato plants, looking for both new fruits and for caterpillars that might attack in their own quest for life. I drank my first cup of tea and watched the day come to life, thankful for the sunlight that is the source of almost every life form on earth.

It isn't hard to find signs of life in the most ordinary of our activities.

In the cool of the early morning on the first Easter Day, a woman went to a tomb in a garden. She didn't go to find signs of life. She went to care for the dead. She had no expectation that the one who had died would be alive. She had seen him die a painful and public death. She had forced herself to stay by the cross when others had fled. She knew there was no hope. She came in the dark, alone, to grieve.

The first sign of something unexpected was the open tomb. Who moved the stone? Not the male disciples; they had fled and hidden in an upper room. Not the people who loved him; they had been busy observing the Sabbath. Not the dead man himself, obviously. When Mary reported her discovery, the men raced to the tomb, confirmed its emptiness, and left, wondering. No signs of life there.

Mary's tears blur her vision. She bends and peers into the darkness of the tomb. A faint vision stirs in the shadows: messengers from God, questioning her grief. Why are you weeping? They already know (as we do) that life has conquered death, that the light is streaming back into a dark world. But Mary doesn't know. She knows only that she cannot find her beloved, that even the broken remnant of his body has been taken from her. She turns away, squints in the light of the rising sun to see an unrecognizable figure who repeats the question. Why are you weeping?

Who would be there in the early dawn but the gardener? This is the time of day to inspect the plants, to look for new life, to catch the caterpillars. This is the time of day to watch the sun rise and give thanks for new light and life, to look for life and not for death. Mary is still trapped in her grief, focused on the tomb, still unable to see what is now right in front of her.

It is only when he says her name that the incredible truth starts to break upon her. Think for a moment about the person you love best in all the world. Think about that person saying your name. Think about the love that is conveyed in just one, two, or three syllables. Surely there is no more beautiful sound than that of the beloved calling us by name. It is unmistakable. And when Mary hears her name in that familiar cadence, against all expectation, a sound she hadn't dared hope she would ever hear again, she begins to turn, to turn from death to life, from darkness to light, from night to day. "Teacher?" She reaches for him. But no - she may not hold him. He has not returned as he was before. He is risen, and everything has changed. The world has turned on its axis, and the victory is won.

Our baptismal service asks us to turn: Will you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior? When we come to recognize the risen Christ in our lives and in our world, we must turn to him. And once we have turned, once we have seen the reality of the resurrection, everything changes. Signs of life are everywhere.

The world is full of death and darkness: countries at war, people killing their neighbors, domestic abuse, exile, bigotry and exclusion. In any newscast you will hear messages of disaster, of war, of struggle and persecution and tragedy. The massacre of more than 140 college students in Kenya is only the most recent outrage. We can spend our lives looking into the tomb, wondering in horror and confusion where the dead body of our humanity has been buried. But the message of Easter is different. The good news, the news brought by the angels, is news of life, not death. Why stare into the grave when signs of life are all around us? If your vision is blurred by tears, listen ... Listen for the voice of the one who loves you more than anyone, calling you by name. Turn to that voice and learn what it means to be a child of the living God, a follower on the way that leads to life abundant. The voice calls to every one of us, because every one of us is known to God and is loved by God, my God and your God.

In a few minutes we will celebrate Holy Communion, and you will hear an invitation which comes to us from a faraway, inclusive community: This is the table, not of the Church but of Jesus Christ.The risen Christ comes to us, not when the Church decrees that we are worthy, not when we feel ready to receive him, not when we are at our best-behaved or most successful or most optimistic. But he comes to us at the graveside, in the midst of grief and confusion, when we are afraid and alone, when we are most despairing, when all we can see in this world is emptiness and death. He comes to us and he calls us by name, so that we may turn and know that he lives.

In the moment of recognition Mary is transformed from a mourner into an apostle. She goes from the tomb to the other disciples, her brothers and sisters who are still in the dark, and she shares the good news with them: I have seen the Lord. This is our purpose as the Church: to go to our brothers and sisters in the world and to tell them, "I have seen the Lord," so that they too may turn, and recognize, and live. The sun rises, the light shines, Christ is risen, and love triumphs.

Alleluia, Christ is risen! the Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia!

The Very Rev Penelope Bridges
5 Apr 2015

The Vigil

Triduum: a reflection

 I know the hymn by heart. It’s one that we repeated during my youth as the ‘Communion Hymn’, but to a different tune than we find in the Episcopal Hymnal 1982. Now when I sing it at St. Paul’s, I show off by not referring to the hymnbook for any of its stanzas, ama
zing anyone standing beside me. Once someone asked me if I knew all of the hymns by heart, having watched and heard me sing every word of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” from memory and without a single mistake.

Showing off like that is a trap. I’m concentrating so much on getting the words right that I don’t pay much attention to what they mean.

That is, until two nights ago during Good Friday Service.

There is something so startling, so profoundly frightening and horrifying, so undeniably heart-wrenching when the ‘the wood of the cross’ is brought before us and then allowed to hit the bottom of its stand with a great and booming thud. It was as if I could feel the pain of that moment when ‘the young prince of Glory’ must have felt unutterable agony as the weight of his own body tore at the nails that restrained him.

It is a moment in the service that rips at every emotion, that breaks down every barrier that I like to think I have set up between me and real feelings, that dissolves before my eyes all that I imagine is so very precious in my pompous life, and at that moment, I ‘pour contempt on all my pride.’ I was reduced to tears, not only because I shared his agony, but because I saw my own.

It has taken me some time over the nearly thirty years of being an Episcopalian to come to terms with some of the church’s rituals, but when I went forward and touched the wood of the cross, kneeling in tears before what it represented, all notions of being aloof and decidedly outside that particular ritual vanished, and I didn’t care who saw my naked emotions displayed. They were honest ones, and they had two parts.

“See from his head, his hands, his feet, sorrow and love flow mingled down!” That line from the hymn only begins to describe the violence and cruelty, not to speak of the unutterable pain from a beating that likely tore off a great deal of his skin (see Mel Gibson’s The Passion of The Christ for a graphic portrayal of how Roman punishments took place), and then to be nailed to the cross, naked (yes, naked. That loin cloth that shows up in art to cover Jesus’ private parts wouldn’t have been allowed according to Roman sources that describe the procedure), all concentrated my vision of what he gave up, the sacrifice he willingly made. It is the horror that is recreated in the darkened church on Good Friday when ‘the wood of the cross’ makes that horrifying thud that brings the finality of death to reality.

But it is a good death, mine I mean. I feel the passing away of attitudes and notions that I have built into the walls and cornerstones of my life, and I watch them crumble. Verse 3 of the hymn comes back to me: “Did ere such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?” Now I am glad that my memory serves me, and instead of showing off to a pew-mate, the words sink into my mind, and I cannot stop the tears. Unabashedly weeping.

Something more than two years ago, I sat in church still recovering from the pain of having been struck by a car, the pain kept barely under control. I was lucky not to have been killed, and death, according to several doctors, had been closer than I thought. Still I survived, a kind of resurrection. Just as there are many kinds of death, even as we live on, there are many kinds of resurrections. I have already commented about the love given to me during that time by my church family and others not in the church, and that too is a kind of resurrection, one of my being reminded of how love works.

If St. Paul did not believe in the bodily resurrection of Jesus, and many scholars agree that he did not, he did affirm that the resurrection occurred in a way that transforms us, and that truth marches into our consciousness first as the wood of the cross and its awful finality thuds into place, and then on Easter by the light emitted from the empty tomb.

All we have to do is allow ourselves to die to our pride, or sense of self, our puffed up ways of thinking about other people, our barriers that prevent us from seeing the possibility of love. I let myself die two nights ago in the presence of the wood of the cross, and I acknowledge a resurrection that was celebrated on Easter, but only one of many resurrections that happen every day, allowing me to bask in a love ‘so amazing so divine, (that it) demands my soul, my life, my all.”

Robert Heylmun
 Easter Day 2014

Easter

But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, 'He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.'

Salvador Dali, The Resurrection

Photoessay: Backstage at the Easter Vigil

What does it take to bring the rhythms of a complex liturgy alive at St Paul's Cathedral? On Easter, the Cathedral opened its doors to hundreds of additional worshipers to celebrate the Resurrection. The Easter Vigil is one of the biggest services of the year. This photo essay shows you a bit of what happened before the brazier was lit.

 The vergers review the order of service (the "customary") as soon as they arrive--several hours before the service begins. Here, Chris Harris and Lisa Churchill get started.

The Rev Canon Allisyn Thomas arranges the seating:  she places  cards with the names of those to be baptized, confirmed, and received.

 Thurifers Judy MacDonald and Todd Hurrell let off a bit of steam as they prepare the coals.

Each verger has a team  of servers for their particular area of responsibility. They do a walk-through to rehearse. Here, Bill Eadie gives notes to Todd, with Carl Wolter, Judy, and Robert Heylmun looking on.

 Even the placement of the Bishop's chair has to be precise. Lisa sits in for the Bishop while Chris positions acolytes Carl Wolter and Dan McMillan.

 The choir warms up under Canon Martin Green's direction.

Preparations for the reception: glasses and tables are set out in the Great Hall, and volunteers including Harold Potter help get the food staged in the kitchen.

 Bob Oslie paints sterno on the kindling for the fire, which will be lit in a brazier placed on the font. Bob will keep a fire extinguisher immediately at hand as the service begins and watch for any errant sparks.

 Lisa takes one more look at the customary, making sure nothing has been missed.

Canon (now the Rev.) Brooks Mason, Head Verger,  switches off the lights. People will enter the church in near-darkness.

The service begins as the Bishop lights the fire.

If you are interested in learning more about the corps of servers, check out this "field guide" to the Processional.  If you want to learn more about joining this ministry, new members are always welcome (and needed!)  Contact The Rev. Canon Brooks Mason. 


--Susan Forsburg,  blogmaster and occasional photographer
 

He is Risen!

From a 14th century Nottingham alabaster relief.  From Wikipedia.

Two Nights in Church

I know the hymn by heart. It’s one that we repeated during my youth as the ‘Communion Hymn’, but to a different tune than we find in the Episcopal Hymnal 1982. Now when I sing it at St. Paul’s, I show off by not referring to the hymnbook for any of its stanzas, amazing anyone standing beside me. Once someone asked me if I knew all of the hymns by heart, having watched and heard me sing every word of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” from memory and without a single mistake.

Showing off like that is a trap. I’m concentrating so much on getting the words right that I don’t pay much attention to what they mean.

That is, until two nights ago during Good Friday Service.

There is something so startling, so profoundly frightening and horrifying, so undeniably heart-wrenching when the ‘the wood of the cross’ is brought before us and then allowed to hit the bottom of its stand with a great and booming thud. It was as if I could feel the pain of that moment when ‘the young prince of Glory’ must have felt unutterable agony as the weight of his own body tore at the nails that restrained him.

It is a moment in the service that rips at every emotion, that breaks down every barrier that I like to think I have set up between me and real feelings, that dissolves before my eyes all that I imagine is so very precious in my pompous life, and at that moment, I ‘pour contempt on all my pride.’ I was reduced to tears, not only because I shared his agony, but because I saw my own.

It has taken me some time over the nearly thirty years of being an Episcopalian to come to terms with some of the church’s rituals, but when I went forward and touched the wood of the cross, kneeling in tears before what it represented, all notions of being aloof and decidedly outside that particular ritual vanished, and I didn’t care who saw my naked emotions displayed. They were honest ones, and they had two parts.

“See from his head, his hands, his feet, sorry and love flow mingled down!” That line from the hymn only begins to describe the violence and cruelty, not to to speak of the unutterable pain from a beating that likely tore off a great deal of his skin (see Mel Gibson’s The Passion of The Christ for a graphic portrayal of how Roman executions took place), and then to be nailed to the cross, naked (yes, naked. That loin cloth that shows up in art to cover Jesus’ private parts wouldn’t have been allowed according to Roman sources that describe the procedure), all concentrated my vision of what he gave up, the sacrifice he willingly made. It is the horror that is recreated in the darkened church on Good Friday when ‘the wood of the cross’ makes that horrifying thud that brings the finality of death to reality.

But it is a good death, mine I mean. I feel the passing away of attitudes and notions that I have built into the walls and cornerstones of my life, and I watch them crumble. Verse 3 of the hymn comes back to me: “Did ere such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?” Now I am glad that my memory serves me, and instead of showing off to a pew-mate, the words sink into my mind, and I cannot stop the tears. Unabashedly weeping.

The second part waited until Easter Vigil when we celebrate the new fire of resurrection, and I couple the scene of death on Good Friday with the joy of Easter. Just as there are many kinds of death, even as we live on, there are many kinds of resurrections. My own and therefore immediate sense of resurrection continues to happen as my body heals from a car accident. I have already commented about the love displayed toward me by my church family and others not in the church, and that too is a kind of resurrection, one of my being reminded of how love works.

If St. Paul did not believe in the bodily resurrection of Jesus, and many scholars agree that he did not, he did affirm that the resurrection occurred in a way that transforms us, and I adhere to what he says. I feel daily the resurrection of my healing, and although I suffered something of a severe spasm during the Easter Vigil and had to be brought a cushion, I know that my healing goes on, and that I get stronger every day.

All we have to do is allow ourselves to die to our pride, or sense of self, our puffed up ways of thinking about other people, our barriers that prevent us from seeing the possibility of love. I let myself die two nights ago in the presence of the wood of the cross, and I acknowledge a resurrection that was celebrated last night, but only one of many resurrections that happen every day, allowing me to bask in a love ‘so amazing so divine, (that it) demands my soul, my life, my all.”


Robert Heylmun
Easter Day 2012

Easter Message from Bishop Mathes

Dear Fellow Workers in God’s Mission,

Around the planet, those who call Jesus Lord will move from a time of Lenten discipline to the glorious proclamation of Easter:

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

It is tempting for us to think that when we conclude our Easter services we are done with celebrating Easter—not in the least. It is a wise and good thing that the season of Easter lasts for fifty days. It is also appropriate that each Sunday is a mini-Easter upon which we celebrate the feast of the resurrection. One day cannot contain the Pascal mystery of God coming among us, touching us, dying and then rising for us. Fifty days is not enough. Every Sunday is not enough.

It was been said that we are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world. Indeed. And as an Easter people, we cannot contain ourselves. Every day and every moment is a time for Easter celebration. We are those who dare to follow Jesus Christ in his life of fearless love for the world. Our mission is to carry God’s message of reconciliation and restoration from our gathered communities into the world.

When our Easter Sunday service ends we are dismissed to this mission. We go forth into the world to be messengers of Jesus. We are his body in the world. And so let us celebrate Easter on Sunday. Let us celebrate Easter each and every day.

Agape and peace to you,
The Rt. Rev. James R. Mathes
Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego

EASTER

When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint Jesus. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, "Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?" When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you." So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Mark 16:1-8

ANGELICO, Fra

Resurrection of Christ and Women at the Tomb  1440-42 

Convento di San Marco, Florence

Web Gallery of Art

Easter Sunday

Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.
Luke 24:45-48



Luca della Robbia, The Resurrection, from the Cathedral of Florence

Easter Vigil

O God, through your Son you have bestowed upon your people the brightness of your light: Sanctify this new fire, and grant that in this Paschal feast we may so burn with heavenly desires, that with pure minds we may attain to the festival of everlasting light; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Book of Common Prayer

Ashes, Easter and Remembering

I recently had the joy of meeting with an elderly member of St Paul’s who can’t come to church due to her inability to drive. She lives alone, surrounded by pictures of SPC and former clergy of the cathedral on her walls that date back at least 50 years. Her love and caring for our church home jumped out at me immediately upon entering her living room. These photos help her remember how she was and still is connected to the cathedral over many, many years of history and changes.

This lady was instrumental in establishing the Columbarium many years ago and told me she has reserved a spot for her ashes there when she dies. When I spoke with her earlier this week, she told me she wants her ashes to reside high above the other spots where no one will be able to see her plot or inscription. The reason for this, she told me, is that she has no family or close friends left anymore who would want to visit her or remember her when entering or exiting the cathedral. She went on to tell me that from this high point in the columbarium, she will be able to gaze down on everyone in her beloved cathedral, giving her much joy and pleasure for as long as the building stands.

Upon hearing this, my eyes teared up, I couldn’t talk, and the lady asked me if I was still there on the phone. After a minute or so, I replied that she had just told me something very dear and meaningful that I would never forget about selflessness and love.

Forgetting is something I am painfully aware of this week. You see, I just experienced a rather serious incident while landing my plane over in Borrego Springs on Palm Sunday. I had attended services at St Paul’s that morning and received a call from my mother that I needed to get down to the desert earlier than I thought for my aunt’s birthday party. Because I was in a rush to get there on time from San Diego, I jumped in the plane at Montgomery field and took off right after church on Palm Sunday. During my approach to the little Borrego airport, I forgot to extend my landing gear and heard the awful grinding scrape of metal on asphalt runway as the plane touched down. In my haste, I had forgotten to use my checklist for landing and failed to pull the switch to extend the landing gear. This is the first incident I have experienced like this in over 40 years of aviation and flying. It was, to say the least, extremely embarrassing and humiliating since I had to spend about 5 hours dealing with the FAA and NTSB that same day.

Today I am dealing with feelings about both literal and figurative ashes. My contact with a dear member of our cathedral has taught me a lesson about memory and remembering, which contrasts so starkly with my own forgetfulness while flying. This woman is a blessing and gift which have caused me to pause, slow down and catch my breath. Ashes remind us not only of our own mortality, but also of our humanity, stupidity and carelessness while we are still alive in this world of ours.

I find myself today still in Ash Wednesday, hearing the words “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return”. No one can dispute this fact – whether believer, atheist or agnostic. Ashes are not a tenet of faith, but rather a sad, sober, and sometimes depressing fact of our lives which we forget so much of the time.

It is difficult to approach Easter Sunday for me this week. The idea of the resurrection seems so far away and difficult to believe in. It is hard for me to understand what people mean when they say to me, George - “I believe in the literal, physical resurrection of Jesus”. All I can do is re-read the Gospel account and ponder it in my heart – hoping that one day, I will fully understand what it’s all about.

In the final analysis, I have only two guides to help me understand and grapple with the meaning of Easter Sunday: my new friend’s firm belief and faith that she will be looking down on all of us from her elevated plot in the Columbarium after her death, and the Gospel story itself of Easter morning which relates God’s promise to us of His assurance of eternal Life.

My goal this week and for the rest of my life is not to forget again. To remember to use checklists, and to recall (after forgetting again) the promise of new life through Jesus’ death and resurrection. I think I realize this week how critically important both of these are to me now.

George Kuhrts

Pictures from Triduum

Thanks to all who made Holy Week such a moving experience for all of us. If you would like to share your experience with us, we'd love to hear from you! Posts here at the blog are always welcome; email StPaulBlog@gmail.com with your thoughts. You can find more pictures of the events at the St Paul's photo site. Here are a few vignettes:

Maundy Thursday

Good Friday

Easter Vigil

Easter Sunday

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" She said to them, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him." When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?" Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away." Jesus said to her, "Mary!" She turned and said to him in Hebrew, "Rabbouni!" (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, "Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, `I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'" Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, "I have seen the Lord"; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

John 20.


Anteveduto Gramatica, Mary Magdalene at the Tomb 1620-22

Good Friday Meditation

They thought it was a scarecrow, strung up to a Wyoming barbed-wire fence - but it was Mathew Shephard, pistol whipped and crucified at 22 years of age. Matthew’s mother forgave the crucifers. Pastor Phelps reminded us again of the hatred of religious people who hide behind bibles and crucifixes. Very pious, well meaning, God-fearing religious people killed Jesus.

The young prisoner of Abu Ghraib, stripped and outstretched arms give Islam and Christianity a new and deeper understanding of crucifixion. Christians don’t own this image. It is universal and speaks to all humanity. There are always soldiers at the foot of a cross and peddlers of exclusivity.

Phoebe Prince was crucified by words and contempt before she breathed her last gasp. It took an Irish immigrant to wake us up to the violence in our schools against “the outsider invisible ones” who die at each taunt, while adults turn the other cheek. Pilate washes his hands.

A friend is pierced with nails of morphine and life support systems, cruciform in the bed of intensive care, breathing her last. Family and the Beloved look on powerless in the Watch.

The father of a Marine killed in Iraq and whose funeral was picketed by anti-gay protesters was ordered to pay the protesters’ appeal costs, his lawyers said Monday. A dead marine’s father is forced to pay 30 pieces of silver to that Judas Phelps whom Jesus saved. Grace is more powerful than law.

I can no longer see God in a wooden figure on a cross.

These embodied ones are my Good Fridays.

Rev. Canon Albert Ogle

Palm Sunday: Holy Week begins

A beautiful spring day in the Queen's courtyard got everyone started for Palm Sunday! The Super Sonic Samba School made a joyful noise as The Rev Allisyn Thomas sprinkled the crowd with Holy Water:

Then we marched into Jerusalem:

Now we begin the darker part of the journey. See the Cathedral website for the schedule of Holy Week events. (Click any picture for a closer view).