This sermon was given by Student President Graham Simpson '13 on Good Shepherd Sunday, 21 April 2013. The readings for the week can be found here. See also this article on Episcopal Cafe written by our Chaplain, which uses Graham's sermon to reflect on the events of the past week.
In 1749, Johann Sebastian Bach was 64 years old and had
written over 1000 pieces of music through his lifetime, pieces for organs,
orchestras, and choruses. By
modern accounts, he was nearly blind and suffering from illness that would
bring him to his passing within the next year. Over the last decades of his life, Bach composed the various
sections of his Mass in B minor, setting the complete Latin Mass to music. His different personal compositional
styles and different historical musical styles are seen within the
hour-and-a-half musical masterpiece that today is considered one of the very
greatest choral works of all time.
As he lay dying in 1749, Bach decided to rewrite one final
section of the B minor Mass, the “Et incarnates est” section of the Creed. Bach had already written music for this
portion of the text as part of the preceding Soprano-Alto duet. That duet sets this portion the text
that we will recite shortly in the Nicene Creed:
“We believe in on Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God,
eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from
true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father. Through him all things were made. For us and for our salvation he came
down from heaven.”
In 1749, this sick, blind 64-year-old decided to throw out
the last page or so of the duet and write a new chorus for the text that
follows. Unlike the duet which is
in a major key, G major, “Et incarnatus est” is in the tragic, lamenting key of
B minor, one of only five movements in the B minor Mass that is actually in B
minor. The entire chorus sings the
words:
“By the power of the
Holy Spirit
he became incarnate
from the Virgin Mary,
and was made man”
“Et homo factus est”
“And was made man”
In Bach’s massive catalogue of compositions, this is
generally thought to be the last piece of music that the composer ever wrote
for choral voices. “Et incarnatus
est de Spiritu Sancto, ex Maria virgine; et homo factus est.” “And was made
man.”
I am not really an expert on Bach’s life or composition and
so I apologize if any of my music history is off. But I am a singer and was fortunate enough to have rehearsal
on this Tuesday afternoon when I rehearsed the B minor Mass with the Harvard
University Choir. It had been a
long day since returning back from the Marathon on Monday. I hadn’t any time to put my thoughts in
order and was feeling anxious and tense.
In that moment, in our first rehearsal with strings, Bach’s music calmed
me. And moved me. “Et homo factus est.” “And was made man.” The Creed continues, “For our sake he
was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered death and was buried.” I imagined this aging, blind composer
at death’s door, coming to grips with the suffering of this Earth and
connecting to God through the shared suffering of Christ on the cross. Christ was made man to share with us in
our suffering on Earth, to experience the pains and trials that we face as
humans.
In today’s familiar Psalm, the Psalmist tells us that the
Lord is with us at all times, even when “we walk through the valley of the
shadow of death.” For Christ
suffers with us, in pain, in death, in sorrow.
I must say, when I agreed to preach on a Sunday evening, as
has become the custom of graduating Presidents of the Chaplaincy, I did not
expect to speak after a week like this one. When Luther gave me an out to give up this pulpit on this
challenging Sunday, I was tempted to take him up on it. How could I speak on Good Shepherd
Sunday following a week like this one where we, the sheep, had felt so
abandoned by the shepherd? How
could I talk about the experiences, shared, but also unique, of such intense
fear, sadness, and anger? How
could I come to grips with the fact that my city had been the focus of such an
act of terror?
And obviously, I don’t have answers. But I do know that Christ is with us in
our losses. In the words of Henry
Baker’s paraphrase of the 23rd Psalm that we sang,
“In death’s dark vale
I fear no ill
With thee, dear Lord,
beside me;
Thy rod and staff my
comfort still,
Thy cross before to
guide me”
And we remember that though Christ suffered and died on the
cross for our sake, but that is not where the Easter story ends. After all what would Bach’s
“Crucifixus” be if it were not followed by an “Et resurrexit”, that is “And he
rose.” The Good News of Easter is
that Christ’s story and our story is more than pain and suffering. We remember that we are promised
eternal life with Christ in the Resurrection.
But how do we reconcile this faith in eternal life with the
intense darkness of a week like this past one. The Good News of the Easter Season is not just about the
future. There was indeed Good News
in this terrible week. We find
examples of God’s presence over and over again in terrible situations like
Boston experienced this week. We
have by now all heard stories of
heroic actions taken by people in the immediate aftermath of the bombing on
Monday. In the videos of the
explosion, we saw people running towards the explosion to help others who had
been hurt. I learned about another
hero yesterday while watching the First Pitch during the Red Sox pregame
ceremonies. Matt Peterson was an
off-duty firefighter who ran towards the blast site to rescue a little boy who
had lost his leg. He was one of
many who carried people to safety, gave blood, or helped however they
could. In such acts of love and
compassion, we see the Good News of the Easter season. But even though I know this, I struggle
to sort through the conflicting emotions and feelings. How can we see any glimmer of hope when
we are surrounded by suffering and confusion.
On Monday, I skipped my classes to watch the race and was
hanging out near the 25th mile, near Fenway Park, when the two bombs
exploded. I had no idea what had
happened until I started receiving texts from people asking me if I was okay
and what was going on. It seemed
impossible to believe at first, but we started walking back towards campus,
deciding right away not to take public transportation. I was overwhelmed as I tried to sort
out what was going on and what my friends and I should be doing. I first tried to contact my brother
James since I knew he was hanging out near the finish line. Fortunately, he was back at
Northeastern by this point and was able to contact me and my parents to let us
know. I got in touch with my
parents relatively quickly as well.
In the confusion of busy signals and failed texts, my roommate Michael
managed to get a text to my father before I did and I sent one to his mother as
his cell phone battery died.
Even once I crossed the river, the situation continued to
overwhelm me. I was safe and so
was everybody that I knew. But it
was immediately clear that dozens, if not hundreds, were hurt and that at least
two people were dead including an eight-year-old boy. My phone continued to buzz with texts asking me if I was
alright and if I knew what was going on.
I received just as many texts that read “Love you” that had never felt
more heart-felt and sincere.
Sadness, relief, anger, sympathy, fear, and love all swept over me, in a
cloud of contradictory emotions.
This whole week has continued to be a confused jumble of
these feelings. I continued to
feel uneasy and afraid. I mourned
for those who had died, lost limbs, or suffered other injuries. But I also spent more time talking
about love, feelings, and life with friends and my girlfriend than I normally
do. I got lunch with my brother
James on Tuesday and stayed in touch with him throughout the week. Amidst the craziness, I managed to find
moments of peace and happiness.
When I awoke Friday morning, the news brought out
conflicting feelings and emotions in fuller force. Violence had exploded in our city again, a police officer
was slain, and the situation was only more confusing, if anything. Reliable information was a challenge to
come by for hours. Harvard was
shut down in lockdown. The streets
were eerily empty and anxieties ran even higher than they had on Monday. As we learned about the two brothers,
we felt upset, mad, confused, and disturbed. Sirens and bomb threats terrified us.
But again, at least for me, the day was more than one of
darkness and despair. There were
moments where it felt more like a snow day than anything else. No one tried to read or work. Tutors cooked food in their suites for
students. I watched two
movies. I spent the entire day
with those closest to me at Harvard and stayed in touch with those beyond our
campus. Students genuinely
appreciated the dining hall staff, the police force, and each other far more
than on a normal day. It was a
bizarre day, but not a day without joy or love, or even without fun or
laughter.
When Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was captured at night, I felt
relief. I hoped for some sort of
justice. I was satisfied that our
law enforcement had successfully pulled off their manhunt. But I felt very uneasy. Confused and perhaps further
saddened. How could a 19-year-old
that lived within two blocks of one friend, had worked at a Harvard pool with
another friend, and had played one-on-one basketball with a third committed
such hateful acts? He seemed like
such a normal American citizen. He
had wrestled at his high school, won a scholarship, and liked to play FIFA. It doesn’t fit for me. I could feel no joy at Facebook
statuses of “Got him” or consider going out to the parties that had been
rescheduled in celebration of his capture. I did not – and still do not know – how to react. An unclear muddle of thoughts fills my
head.
But I am trying to accept that it is okay to feel conflicted
and confused at times like this.
That is part of what makes us human. And it is in these moments that we can reach out to God and
feel the Holy Spirit. The Lord is
with us in green pastures and he leads us beside still waters. The Lord also
walks us through the valley of the shadow of death with his rod and his
staff. And sometimes we are not
sure whether we are in the green pastures or the valley of shadow. Maybe we can be in both places at the
same time. We can experience the
suffering of the cross and the hope of the resurrection.
The Lord is my shepherd. Christ is also the Lamb of God. Christ gives us eternal life. Christ also suffers with us. The shepherd protects and guides us, but the shepherd also
feels our pain and fear. And as
Christ is in all of us, we must all feel each other’s pain and also protect one
another. We look to the hope of a
new day, but that does not mean that we cannot mourn and lament. We can live with both
contradictions. We pray today for
the families and friends of Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell, Lu Lingzhi, and
Sean Collier and remember their lives which were cut too short. We pray for all those injured in the
events this week, especially those that are still in the hospital. And we pray that we can continue to
find hope and peace in God. We
pray the prayer from the end of Bach’s B minor Mass, “Dona nobis pacem.” “Grant
us peace.”
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