A Meditation in Connection with a Service of Communion and sung "Requiem" by John Rutter
given by the Reverend Beverley F. Edwards
March 26, 2006 / 4th Sunday in Lent

Six years ago my husband had back surgery that unexpectedly left him pitifully weak, struggling to use even a walker, and exhausted by the strain of pulling up his socks. Suddenly life as we had known it had ended. Now our patterns of independence became woven into a braid of care-giving and receiving, therapists, doctors, meals and home-confinement.

This happened in the fall when we had just moved to a little rented house in Providence. The winter was cold and snowy. We were depressed.

That spring revealed a backyard, dirt-bare, overshadowed by huge maples and oaks, the earth impenetrable with knotted roots and mucky in the thaw. This "garden" became my obsession and, although I didn't realize it at the time, my saving grace, God’s gift of hope. As if just awakened, I looked around and found old bricks lying about that I used to lay a path to the gate. I begged hostas from one friend and lilies of the valley from another and willed them to take root . I bought small holly-trees, male and female, and dreamed of Christmas berries. A bird-feeder brought life to the view from our window: chickadees, finches, cardinals and, of course, squirrels.

Last Saturday as I raked up the fallen branches, the sunflower hulls and the winter debris, I admired my six crocuses, blooming defiantly, and I smiled. It dawned on me that my yard is still mostly barren but my heart is mended. I remembered gratefully that in my dark-time it was God who whispered hope. In my winter, God promised spring. In my sadness, God sent me bricks.

Today we sing a requiem, a mass for the dead. In ancient words it lifts up the sorrows of times past, the terrors of our present time, our fears for our children and our planet’s future. It expresses our communal sorrow and grief, and places us in the company of the countless generations before us who have sung laments and comforted themselves with psalms of trust and hope.

We, who are together here know all too well that we cannot save ourselves. We understand that our fate is intricately entwined within the fabric of every other person’s suffering, and of the world’s agony. Yet, we turn to our God in trust,
inspired to sing and pray that our winter God will turn again to spring and warmth and hope.

Jesus said, "unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears a multitude of fruit."

We have hope because God sent Jesus to cultivate our barren souls, to coax new growth over graves watered by tears, to "speak tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her that her sins are forgiven and she shall receive from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins." (Isaiah 40:2)

The Gospel of John tells us that Jesus freely offered himself as the seed that must die so that a multitude might spring up. We, the Church universal, are his heritage. We, the church in this place and time are his beloved descendants. We, in our turn, are called to spend our lives freely for others, and, by our humility and sacrifice, to enrich the ground for future generations.

This day, God gives us vision in our darkness, fertility in our bleakness and green shoots even in the wasteland of our winter dross. Today, we sing of sorrow. We remember the dead. We lift up those who grieve. We honor those who struggle.

And, we turn to the light of Christ, the hope of the world, the one who gave his life that we might live, the one who was lifted up so that our spirits too might rise with him.

Today, the hour has come for us. Jesus invites us to his holy feast. There we will nourish our souls with bread broken for us and drink from the cup poured out for our salvation. We are God’s beloved children, all of us. God invites us to bask in God’s healing power. God sends grace upon this Church as we hope, and dream and work for renewal. God blesses us as we come, seeking to be disciples, desiring to grow in love and concern for one another and for the world God loves.

We come to sing a song of trust as we wait in hope for the dawning of God’s glory.

AMEN and SHALOM