Second Chances
A Sermon offered by Rev. Kathleen C. Rolenz
Easter Morning, March 23, 2008
The story of Peter’s denial is an odd one with which to begin an Easter
sermon. It’s usually told at Tenebrae or Good Friday as part of the
betrayal of Jesus. Yet as I heard the story told at our own Tenebrae
service, I was struck by the realization that there was a relationship
between Peter’s denial of Jesus and the theme for this morning’s
sermon. Peter became Jesus’ second chance and I’m going to show
you how a little bit later in the sermon. But for now, put yourself in
Peter’s position for a minute. It is the time of Passover in Jerusalem, a
Roman-occupied and controlled city. Tensions are high, as they
always are in Jerusalem at this time of year, as Jews attempt to conduct
their lives and their rituals in a land that barely tolerates them. Your
best friend and teacher has been arrested—a person in whom you
placed your explicit trust and believed with all your heart was the
leader of a New World Order in Jerusalem. Instead, at his arrest, Jesus
doesn’t fight back, doesn’t argue, doesn’t hold a press conference, he
just goes—and Peter knows all too well where this drama will end.
And we do too—because this ancient story, of Jesus’ betrayal, trial and
crucifixion has been told throughout history, leading up to this day
when churches fling open their doors after the darkness of an Easter
vigil and cry out “He is Risen!” It’s one of the greatest stories ever
told about redemption, resurrection and getting a second chance.
I heard Peter’s denial of Jesus with new ears this week, as they
intermingled with the politics of the day and the headlines of the
week. Peter was given three chances to own up to his relationship
with Jesus—three times he could have stood firm and said “yes, I am a
friend and disciple of him.” But, he didn’t. He was afraid of the
consequences—he was afraid of what might happen to him—guilt by
association. I know that when I imagine similar scenarios, such as if
someone held a gun to my head and asked if I was a Christian and a
Unitarian Universalist would I proudly and firmly say “yes?”
consequences be what they may? Or would I, like Peter, deny a faith
tradition upon which my value system has been built and skulk
away—forever haunted by my lack of courage? These are the kinds of
stories that Easter week brings to us. Not only the stories of the
“triumphal” ride into Jerusalem, nor the victory of resurrection, but
difficult and vexing tales as we struggle with what it means to be
persons of faith.
I told a church member the other night that we ministers
always wind up saying the same thing on Easter—and the challenge is
to try to find fresh meaning from these ancient stories. For me, the
good news this Easter is found not so much in the metaphor of Jesus’
resurrection, but rather the ultimate redemption of Peter from moral
coward to great evangelist. It’s about Peter being given a second
chance, and that the meaning of resurrection is that it is the ultimate in
Second Chances and it’s something we all can and do participate in.
Easter is my favorite holiday because it started forty days ago, on Ash
Wednesday and officially ends today, but in between then and now
there is a story that unfolds and a movement of the spirit that is
supposed to take place. I’ve been impressed with the disciplines that
I’ve heard many of you have “taken up for Lent.” One of you has
decided to use Lent as a way of losing some extra weight, through
disciplined diet. Another has inspired me to try to go forty days
without complaining—hence this purple rubber band around my wrist.
Still another has fasted one day a week as a way of reflecting on
abundance and on hunger. The meaning behind all of these disciplines
is to remind us that our spirits—however you define that part of us that
is not engaged with the everyday tasks of life-requires movement.
And so does the Spirit of Easter. As we move through Lent we are
given the opportunity to engage in actions of redemption that make
possible the climactic event of Easter , which is resurrection.
Many of you know that redemption has been our theme for the month
of March and we’ve tried to explore it from a couple of angles—
redeeming religious language and next week, reclaiming and
redeeming a sense of wonder in all things. I want to publicly thank
you for taking on such a potentially tough religious idea and seeing it
through a different lens—redeeming the word “redemption” in ways
that we can find new truths and meaning in it. So the Easter story
compels us into the landscape of redemption before we can get to
resurrection and it is to that, I now turn.
For many, redemption is understood as a kind of second
chance. For those who take up certain disciplines during the
season of Lent, making sacrifices is a kind of redemptive
gesture towards wholeness—towards the desire we have
innately, as human beings, to be restored to a sense of what
Matthew Fox calls our Original Blessing. Redemption is not a
passive process. It is not received as a gift like grace. You have
to actually do something about it—you can’t just crawl on your
knees to an altar and expect a priest or minister to make
redemption happen. That’s a kind of false redemption. I was
amused by a fictional story told by Garrison Keillor, about his
Lutheran Church in Lake Wobegon, about a man so racked by
remorse that he continually sought redemption. Keilor writes:
Larry was saved twelve times at the Lutheran church,
an all time record for a church that never gave altar
calls. There wasn't even an organ playing "Just As I Am
Without One Plea" in the background. Regardless of
that, between 1953 and 1961, Larry Sorenson came
forward 12 times, weeping buckets and crumpled up at
the communion rail, to the shock of the minister, who
had just delivered a dry sermon on stewardship.. "Even
the fundamentalists got tired of him," Keillor says. “
God didn't mean for you to feel guilty all your life.
There comes a time when you should dry your tears and
join the building committee and grapple with the
problems of the church furnace and the church roof. But
Larry just kept repenting and repenting.”
Unitarian Universalists don’t often repent and we certainly don’t have
altar calls, but it makes me wonder how we could incorporate this
movement of redemption that can lead to resurrection in our church’s
ministry? What if we had an annual “Second Chance Sunday,”
whereby you could publicly or privately confess your mistakes, your
wrong-doings, all the times you messed up, and be granted the
opportunity in this community of faith to be forgiven and to begin
again in love? We certainly don’t have to be like Larry, weeping
buckets and crumpled up, to consider what it would be like to
incorporate confession and redemption as part of our on-going private
and corporate spiritual practice? We would sing a more full-hearted
“Hallelujah” on Easter Sunday morning if we could all find a way
during Lent to trace the movement of our Spirit from redemption to
resurrection; all as part of our understanding of what it means to be
given a second chance.
After I chose the title for this sermon, I remembered
somewhere back in my memory, that there was a novel with a church
as its centerpiece, entitled “The Church of the Second Chance.” The
novel turns out to be by Ann Tyler, and is entitled “Saint Maybe.”
“Saint Maybe” traces the life of seventeen year old Ian Bledsoe, who,
racked with guilt about his actions that resulted in two tragic deaths
and three parentless children, stumbles into “The Church of the
Second Chance.” It’s a little storefront community. After the service
he speaks with Reverend Emmett who admits his wrong doings, but
when he thinks he is forgiven for his actions, Rev. Emmett tells him,
“You have to offer reparation - concrete, practical reparation,
according to the rules of our church." “‘But what if there isn’t any
reparation? What if it’s something nothing will fix?” Ian asks Rev.
Emmett. ‘Well, that’s where Jesus comes in, of course….Jesus
remembers how difficult life on earth can be,’ Reverend Emmett told
him. ‘He helps with what you can’t undo--but only after you’ve tried to
undo it.”
The gift of a second chance is usually contingent upon our
doing something. It’s a wake-up call to change—it’s not about
undoing the mistakes of the past, but about moving spiritually—
emotionally—internally, from one place to another.
I had forgotten how powerful a novel St. Maybe is. Ian
Bledsoe and Reverend Emmett agree that the way he should go about
making amends for his deeds is by dropping out of college to help his
ailing parents take care of the young children. "1 The sermon from
"Saint Maybe" is that forgiveness in the form of a second chance must
be earned and redemption comes to those who work hard to achieve it.
1
Excerpts from an Internet movie review, 2001.
2
So what’s all this got to do with resurrection as the ultimate
second chance? We’ll explore that in Part II.
Committing to resurrection is about the larger commitment to
ourselves and our yearnings for wholeness. “2
Part II
Easter is a story of resurrection, and I don’t want you today to
confuse resurrection with rebirth. Rebirth is not resurrection.
Rebirth is something that just happens to us—for example,
eventually, this snow will melt and perhaps even now, the crocuses
and tulips are pushing their way from hibernation and will bless us
with their color and abundance, soon, I hope. It doesn’t require
anything from me, any work on my part, except for planting them,
perhaps. Before we can get to resurrection—which I define, with
Southern as “a radical break from the natural order of things,” there is
another step required of us—a step that the Apostle Peter had to take.
Because Easter usually falls sometime in the Spring, it’s
tempting to want to conflate the pagan holiday of Ostara, or the spring
equinox with Easter. While there may be evidence to suggest that
Christianity adapted and adopted pagan rites to create what we now
call “Easter,” the meanings behind the two holidays are distinct. It’s
tempting to want to collapse resurrection into rebirth—and celebrate
the return of Spring as the Earth’s own resurrection of sorts. However,
mysterious the act of rebirth is—that is—the awakening of the earth to
flourish—it doesn’t really require much of us. We await it—we
fervently hope for Spring—especially in these last dreg days of
winter—but there is nothing we can do to make rebirth happen. As
one colleague of ours, Vanessa Southern, has put it:
“. . .Part of Easter is about this rebirth. It is about this promise
that comes like clockwork with the change of seasons; the
promise of new life and new beginnings. We feel it in
relationships that light up again. We find it in passions for
some part of life that well up again, and in the simple joy at
each day that magically seems present again. This is the work
of rebirth that so often just happens to us. Resurrection . . . is
about something that is more like a radical break from the
natural order of things. It is harder and less common. It is
about "not waking from sleep," or winter's hibernation, "but a
return from the dead." Resurrection is about rolling back the
rock from the parts of ourselves we have shut away, parts that
. . . have been "crucified by some great hurt or betrayal or loss
or tragedy." It is about reviving pieces of ourselves.
I began this morning’s reflection thinking about Peter, who
denied Jesus three times on Good Friday, presumably went into hiding
and didn’t resurface until the coast was clear. In fact, there is a story
told about what happened after the resurrection when the disciples
were still somewhat scattered about Jerusalem and the surrounding
villages. John finds Peter and runs up to him. Excitedly he says,
"Peter, Peter! I've got some good news and some bad news." Peter
takes a hold of John and calms him down. "Take it easy, John. What is
it? What's the good news?" John says, "The good news is Christ is
risen." Peter says, "That's great! But, what's the bad news?" John,
looking around, says, "Well, he's really steamed about last Friday."
Fortunately for Peter he gets a second chance—a chance to
redeem his life by becoming a faithful, loyal advocate for Jesus’
ideals, for which he was ultimately martyred under the Roman
Emperor Nero in 64 C.E. Yet, as I said earlier, Peter’s story is our
story too—because we are a people who love second chance stories.
Just for fun, I typed in “second chances” into an internet search engine
just as Tom did, and found that we are a nation that loves our second
chances. In December of 2006,then Miss USA Tara Conner, after
partying all night at a New York nightclub while underage, was given
2
Rev. Vanessa R. Southern , The Hard Work of Second Chances, The Unitarian
Church in Summit, March 27, 2005
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a second chance by Donald Trump, who was quoted as saying, "I've
always been a believer in second chances, Tara is a good person. Tara
is going to be given a second chance."
We hear stories about
forgiveness for marital infidelity. We talk about people who have hit
rock bottom with drugs or alcohol or bankruptcy or food addiction,
and appreciate their stories of climbing out of that place to get a
second chance at life. There is a brand of reality TV shows that are,
essentially, about second chances—whether something like The
Biggest Loser or Intervention—they point to our almost primal need to
be redeemed—to change our ways—to get a second chance. Why do
these stories mean so much to us? Why do we, as the public, crave
them and clamour for them?
These ancient stories and themes—whether of rebirth or
redemption or resurrection—all point to our hope that no matter how
badly we mess up as human beings, we can get a second chance. And,
they also point to the hope that as human being we can recognize one
another’s fallibilities and give each other the opportunity to begin
again. As a pastor, I’m privileged to bear witness to this reality on a
regular basis. I’ve walked with persons who lost their spouses and the
loves of their lives, while still remaining open to the possibility named
in our chalice lighting—that new love is ever waiting to break through
to warm our hearts. I’ve been witness to marriages and partnerships
damaged by infidelity, yet there is a deeper commitment to work on
the marriage and stay together. And I’ve experienced the grief of a
marriage or partnership ending, and new loves, sometimes in the form
of an intimate relationship; and sometimes in the form of a new way of
being in the world, as a second chance at new life. This is the message
of Easter—this is the form of resurrection we talk about and celebrate
this day—this is the life eternal that knows no beginning and no end.
This is the hope that we pray for on this day.
I’m not a starry eyed optimist about Second Chances, however.
Remember—that the granting of a second chance requires something
from both parties. When should you not give someone a second
chance? I asked myself that same question one night, while sitting by
the bedside of a woman I was visiting while a chaplain at a hospital.
I’ll call her Sheila, and I had seen her just a month before, in the
emergency room. She came in that time with bruises around her neck
and fractured ribs. “Fell down the stairs” she told everyone
stubbornly. But as the night wore on and her defenses wore down, she
confessed that her boyfriend Carl had gotten drunk and, as was so
often the case, beaten her up. I asked her why she stayed—why she
kept taking this abuse. “He’s really a good person when he’s not
drinking. Everyone deserves a second chance,” she said, wryly. Her
second chance put her in a coma. I left my work as a chaplain while
she was still in intensive care. From what I was told, she never did
leave the hospital.
How do we know when to grant someone a second chance?
Humans are so complicated, so flawed, so inspiringly brilliant and
deceptively devious all at the same time that it can be hard to know
when to grant forgiveness when someone asks for another chance. In
Sheila’s case, granting her boyfriend a second chance would require
him to do something—to make tangible amends for his actions and to
agree for her sake, never to see her again.
Resurrection is the ultimate second chance, when we rise from
tombs of self-delusion, blindness, indifference to the other. It’s a
wake-up call to live a fuller, more engaged, more meaning-filled life—
and it takes work. It doesn’t just happen like magic. Unlike the
coming of spring, something is required of us. The poet and writer
Barbara Pescan puts it this way:
These resurrections
ask more of me than I can give
every time
this hurts more
than the pains of my body
than the old world full of sorrows
this offering of love
this unbearable gift of another chance
I love that line: This unbearable gift of another chance. With
all the world’s suffering, with all the fears we carry for our mortality
and the fact that we will all lose something along the way—not the
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least of which is our very lives—there is another truth—the almost
unbearable truth of unconditional love. This Easter morning directs
our attention to something so utterly human that it’s preciousness is
almost unbearable—that in spite of our failings and flaws; despite our
tendency towards selfishness and self-centeredness, we are given each
and everyday, opportunities to be redeemed, to ask forgiveness, to try
again, to get a second chance to prove ourselves worthy of the human
endeavor. I think that’s what Jesus did—and that’s why he left such a
mark on the world. He gave everyone he met the benefit of the
doubt—and the grace of a second chance—even his best friend and
disciple—Peter--even those who betrayed him.
As you go forth from this place, may you give to one another
all the gifts of Easter—a rebirth of the beauty that lies dormant within
you; sincere acts of redemption of past wrongs; all bearing witness to
the unbearable gift of this day —the gift of a Second Chance. May it
be so.
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