Introductory Words

O Sweet Spontaneous e.e. cummings

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and poked
thee
has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)

Spoken Meditation

Some Springtime words for reflection from a Chinese poet Tu Fu, collected by Ken Patton called Random Pleasures.

A stranger, lost in my sad dreams,
Must you invade me, shameless spring?
When flowers bloom thus wantonly,
Must all these lusty orioles sing?

I planted these peaches and plums.
Though walls are low, this home's my own.
But spring winds tresspassed here last night,
And broke my flowering branches down.

My thatched study is low and small;
Swallows act like they own the place,
Mud from their beaks on lute and books;
The gnats they chase fly in my face.

Now March is gone and April come;
An old man's springs flee quickly by.
Why think about immortal life?
I'll drink my wine before I die.

Walking the fragrant riverside,
Sad is the end to this spring dream.
Mad willow catkins dance the breeze.
Fickle peach blossoms drift down stream.

Grown lazy, never leaving town,
I call sons to close the gate;
Green moss, raw wine, the peaceful grove,
Blue pond, spring wind; evening comes late.

The willow catkins strewn last night
Have carpeted the lanes with white.
The lotus leaves shine copper-bright
Along the streams, like coins in bands.

Where sprouting bamboo groves are deep,
Young pheasants hide where none can peep,
Under their mother's wings, asleep,
Lie ducklings on the warming sands.

Mulberry leaves are growing rank,
Ready to pick; on the river bank
The tender green of the new wheat.
How many years before I die
Will spring turn summer? Don't deny
THIS good wine, More than honey sweet.

Reading

Luke 24:13-33

And behold, two of them were going to a village named Em-ma-us, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing together, A stranger drew near and walked with them whom they did not recognize. And he said to them, "What is this conversation which you are holding with each other as you walk?" And they stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, named Cle-o-pas, answered him, "Are you the only pilgrim to Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?" And he said to them, "What things?" And they said to him, "Concerning Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how the chief priests and rulers delivered him up to be condemned to death, and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since this happened. Moreover, some women of our company amazed us. They were at the tomb early in the morning and did not find his body; and they came back saying that they had even seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb, and found it just as the women had said; but him they did not see." And he said to them, "O foolish men, and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! Was it not necessary that he should suffer these things and enter into his glory?" And beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them, in all the scriptures, the signs of prophecy.

They drew near to the village to which the two were traveling. The stranger appeared to be going further, but they constrained him saying, "Stay with us, for it is toward evening and the day is now almost over." So he went in to stay with them.

And it came to pass, as he sat at the table with them, he took bread, and blessed it, and broke it, and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognized him and he vanished out of their sight. They said to each other, "Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the scriptures?"

Margaret and Carol are Bored

It happened on one of the first warm spring afternoons of the year. The neighborhood was alive with activity as branches broken by the winter winds were collected, weeds trying to stake out new territory were pulled and children's voices filled the air. The sun-warmed earth beckoned for little footprints.

But Margaret and her friend Carol were not part of the rejoicing. They sat in front of the television-set like human vegetables. Their expressions were blank as the images on the screen bounced off their brains. Then Margaret's mother came in with a surprised look on her face.

"What are you two doing in front of the television on a glorious day like today?" she exclaimed curiously.

"We're bored." said Margaret moving her lips only enough to let the words escape. "There isn't anyone to play with anymore."

Margaret's mother smiled. NOW she knew what was going on.

She remembered that Margaret's and Carol's best friend Hillary had moved away just last week. The three had been practically inseparable since they had met in first grade. She remembered how hard it had been when one of her best childhood friends had moved away. It had practically felt like the friend died because they had lost contact with each other after only a few months.

"Well, I think you'd be less bored if you'd go play outside. If I find you two couch potatoes here in ten minutes, I'll pop you in the oven and we'll have you with sour cream for dinner tonight."

Margaret gave her mother a look only adolescent girls know how to make as she crawled off the couch and pulled on a jacket while her mother turned off the T.V. Carol tagged along carefully as Margaret slammed the door just enough to make the doorbell make a funny sound and they walked out under the budding trees.

"Mothers can be such a pain." groaned Margaret.

"Yeah." groaned Carol who was secretly glad to end the five hour Saturday morning cartoon marathon. "What do we do now?"

"Let's go see what Mark and Frank are doing."

The delightful songs of birds trying to impress a future mate filled the air as Margaret and Carol walked down the sidewalk. But they didn't notice the birds or the crocuses or the daffodils. They were bored and determined to remain bored.

Mark and Frank were playing one on one basketball in Mark's driveway. When Mark saw Margaret and Carol, he asked them if they wanted to play too - the boys vs. the girls. Mark looked at Frank and winked, thinking this would be an easy win. Margaret sighed, looked at Carol who sighed just the way Margaret had, and said, "Okay."

They played for about half an hour until the boys got frustrated after losing three games in a row. You see, Margaret and Carol were older and taller so they could block Mark's and Frank's shots better and easily made their own. And Mark and Frank didn't know that Margaret, Carol and Hillary used to practice basketball together.

"Hillary played great basketball with us" Margaret said sadly as they left Mark and Frank arguing about whose lousy play caused them to lose to the wimpy girls.

"Yeah" said Carol sadly too.

About a block away, Betsy and Judy were jumping rope. When Betsy saw Margaret and Carol coming, she got very excited. Anyone who jumps rope knows that it's more fun with three or more.

"Come play with us!" shouted Betsy as she ran into the house to get a longer rope. Margaret and Carol brightened up a little because both of them loved to jump rope. The four of them played together for a while until Betsy and Judy couldn't keep up with the speed that Margaret and Carol liked. And Betsy and Judy didn't know the secret jumps that Hillary had invented.

"Hillary was the fastest jumper I ever saw." moaned Margaret as they left Betsy and Judy lying exhausted on the lawn. The sky began to brighten with oranges and yellows signaling a spectacular sunset coming up. The wind cooled slightly, causing Carol to zip up her jacket.

"Do you think we'll be bored for the rest of our lives?" she

asked Margaret.

"It is quite possible we will never have fun ever again." Margaret pronounced with an air of authority. They exchanged glum looks as they took a different route home. Perhaps dinner would brighten a wasted lifetime, thought Margaret. The shadows grew longer as the sun began to dip over the horizon.

Then Carol saw a girl up ahead who looked vaguely familiar but she couldn't place her. She pointed her out to Margaret. This girl was jumping on one foot in a driveway in a very odd fashion. She seemed to be jumping between squares on the ground. Margaret went up and asked her what she was playing.

The girl looked up slightly embarrassed and said, "It's a game I invented called 'Sandiscotch'. It's like hopscotch only with more squares. My family is new in town and I don't have any friends and I was bored so I made up this game. Do you want to try it?"

Both Margaret and Carol were fascinated by the game. There must have been over a hundred squares going every direction with colored stones in some of them. The three girls played together until the fading light made it hard to continue to play. All of a sudden Margaret looked at her watch and realized they were late for dinner, and both Margaret and Carol rushed off toward home.

As they were hurrying back Carol said, "You know, that girl felt very, very familiar. Didn't she?"

"Yes" responded Margaret, "and she was as much fun to play with as ... as... " Margaret stopped and looked at Carol. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"You know, the light was dim and she was quite good at playing

tricks on us."

They both turned around and ran back to the new girl's house, full of excitement and rang the doorbell. The porch light went on and the new girl came to the door. "Did you forget something?" she asked?

In the porch light the girls could see plainly that she was not Hillary. They looked at each other and Margaret hesitated. Then Carol said, "Ah, we forgot to ask you your name and say goodbye."

"I'm Sandy and thanks for asking" she said, glad someone was

taking an interest in her.

Margaret and Carol started hurrying home again. The reds in the sky had turned to purple and the streetlights had just turned on casting an orange glow upon everything.

Margaret, looking thoughtful, said "You know, even though she wasn't Hillary, somehow I feel better. And we really did have fun with her, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did" said Carol, equally thoughtful. "I guess we aren't going to be bored for the rest of our lives!", she said breaking into a smile.

"I guess not." said Margaret smiling back.

When Margaret's mom saw them coming down the street she called to them and scolded them for staying out so late. After being hurried through the door, Margaret and Carol sat down to a dinner of baked chicken, green beans and baked potato. Margaret whispered to Carol, "I wonder if Sandy can jump rope." "Yeah" whispered Carol back. Margaret's mother smiled and winked at Margaret's father who had no idea what was going on, saying "What pleasantly cheered up potatoes we're having for dinner". "They are great potatoes", he said lifting his fork full of potato as he winked back and everyone laughed.

Sermon

I'm having difficulty relating the Northern Hemisphere's cycle of seasonal holidays to a tropical climate. We are now entering our dry season not a rainy green period. This is a time of loss as the first of our seasonal residents start returning home. It was a lot easier to celebrate Easter in Western New York. This time of year, the bite of the winter wind was still very fresh in one's memory and the signs of spring were not very apparent. In Western New York, April is an agonizing month. The ground is still too cold and either too muddy or frozen to work. The trees have yet to release their leaves from their buds, and none but the hardy crocus and daffodil dare show their petals. There is a great sense of anticipation, whereas down here there is nothing to wait for, as the sun shines and the flowers bloom all year round. Few look forward to the hot eye of the sun in June bringing suffocating humidity. Perhaps as I'm down here longer, I will begin to sense the climatic rhythms more clearly.

Unitarian Universalists have great comfort in celebrating the coming of spring even here in Florida where it isn't so meaningful. We fondly remember Easters of our past in the chilly north as we enjoy a cool drink in our bathing suits by the pool. We are a little less comfortable with the resurrection of Jesus on Easter - the high point of the Christian year. The Christian Scriptures, except Mark which originally didn't have a resurrection story before a later writer edited one in, get quite supernatural at this point with visions of angels and the like. Of all the post-resurrection passages in the Gospels, I like the Road to Emmaus story of Jesus's reappearance to two of his followers, though, because of its humanity.

Step into the sandals of those two travelers for a moment. Now imagine - or bring to mind - someone you have met who was able to love you in your best and worst moments equally. I sure haven't met many people like that but when I do, I find myself greatly attracted by them. Imagine such a being of great power foretelling a time of justice and the restoration of your civilization through religious purification. This is not as easy for us who live in the most powerful nation in the world, but try. I suspect all of us have been outsiders at one time or another. Then imagine that person or those people are slaughtered right before your very eyes. Imagine the loss you might feel.

This is the agony of the two travelers on the road to Emmaus. In a way, we are all those two travelers who have witnessed greatness and beauty and the gifts of love to the world, which then appear to be swept away by the next tide of time. To witness this continual erosion of beauty can crush our spirit. And we live in a time in which the erosion of beauty seems to be happening faster than its creation. The vision of a better world has been stripped from the two travelers. In this moment they have lost their hope, for their hope is bound to the person of Jesus.

These two travelers pour out their hearts to the stranger whom they do not recognize - who then rebukes them! Not the kinder, gentler, response we might expect of the man of love. He proceeds to show them what has been foretold since the early prophets. He challenges them to see that the message is what is important - not the person who carries it. Carried IN the words is a revelation which causes their hearts to burn with excitement.

For me, THIS is the miracle of Easter. I have no idea whether Jesus was actually resurrected or not. I don't think the actual sequence of events in the tomb, what happened to his body, how the stone was rolled back, and all the other unanswered and unanswerable questions, really matter. What I have experienced in the presence of greatness is the kindling of my heart with the flame of spiritual love. If there is to be one miracle that was performed by Jesus that I embrace without question, it was his ability to awaken in those around him their recognition of their true spiritual nature.

The problem with all religions is the deification of the one who possesses this gift of awakening another. The experience of that feeling of awakening is a profound sense of gratitude. But people turn away from that inner guidance when it asks them to do that which may be difficult and instead follow the leader who will tell them what to do. This is one of the important lessons of the Christian Scriptures: Jesus the person isn't the way, Jesus the teacher shows us the way. " Follow me."

But the story continues. In the moment they realize who their guest really is, in the simple and sacred act of breaking bread, he disappears. Putting aside the magic, there is profound teaching in this event. His image, yet unrecognized, and his teaching recognized could evoke these feelings. The Teaching of love could be transmitted not just in person but through THE WORD. To hear inspired words can awaken in us the flame of spiritual love. The spoken word as well as the speaker could transmit the message of spiritual liberation. Not just Jesus can do this; it is the birthright of us all, but we do not fully realize it.

At first it was thought that only sacred text could transmit the truth. Unitarian transcendentalists of the early 1800's realized that not just Biblical words could be the transmitters of liberation but the whole of life. The truth of the liberating power of love is enacted on all levels of reality

We gather on this day to celebrate this endless process of the emergence of life, both on the environmental and the human level. Today is a day well worth celebrating. For in our hour of agony, if we know that the light can return, even believe it will return, we gain strength to face the difficulty of the present. Once we begin to embrace the endless process of birth and death which defines life itself, we can gain a perspective that brings inner peace.

Love cannot be executed on a cross any more than the destruction of this planet means the destruction of life. We are part of something so vast and incomprehensible that it defies our limited imagination and mocks our clumsy tongues. Yet this reality suffuses our every waking moment. When the truth is forgotten, a new visionary appears to awaken us to the message. This message is eternal and cannot be lost. WHY? Because WE are the message, even in the moment when we are completely forgetful of the message we embody.

So let us celebrate a profound example of the truth 2000 years old while at the same time seeing the same truth enacted in our flower garden. This is the season to celebrate the rebirth of love as if for the first time. Let us reach up to the sky, unfolding our arms and welcoming the sun's freely given energy. Today is a day of renewal and new life.

Closing Words by Emily Dickenson

A little Madness in the spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown-
Who ponders this tremendous scene-
This whole experiment in Green-
As if it were his own!

Copyright (c) 1995 by Rev. Samuel A Trumbore, All rights reserved.