burying the alleluia

2 Kings 2:1-12 Psalm 50:1-6 2 Corinthians 4:3-12 Mark 9:2-9

Have you noticed how many alleluias we have said and sung already today? And how much glory there is in our bible readings…

There was a chariot of fire, a bodily ascension, a whirlwind, glory shining, tempests whirling, booming voices from heaven. And then Jesus, standing face to face with the long dead patriarchs of the church. Knowing and touching and being entirely consumed by the glory of God. It’s quite something, isn’t it.

But life isn’t always like that, is it? For most of us, life is probably never like that. If we are honest, life as a follower of Jesus is much plainer, much more normal, sometimes much more painful and lonely than these readings express today. And for some people, even in our church and in our town, it is never like that. And the church year recognises that and provides ways to remind us to think and pray and lament and celebrate, with our brothers and sisters worldwide.

So today we are on the Sunday before Lent – our Lenten observances begin this Wednesday when we recall our own humanity, in sorrowfulness and repentance, and are marked with the sign of the cross in Ash.

But today, before then, we take part in this ancient practice where we bury, or lock, the Alleluia. It dates way back, to before the 10^th Century and is a practice where we symbolically bury, or plant, or hide the word ‘alleluia’ in the ground – and stop singing or saying it in our worship – as a conscious prayer and in the hope of it returning with the dawn of Easter day.

We first did this together 2 years ago and it was intensely significant. Do you remember, we buried the alleluia in Aref’s lunchbox that he had been given in detention. And, we used that as a reminder of our brothers in detention, and what life was like for them, and how glory couldn’t be further from their experiences.

That year we buried our alleluia, as a prayer for those who have lost their alleluia. And then, on easter Sunday, we dug it up and brought it back into church. Except by then, Aref was here with us, and it became the day of his baptism. I can’t put into words what happened in those 40 days, nor the symbolism and significance of that buried alleluia in Aref’s box but, somehow we were witnesses of something close to resurrection.

So last year, it was with some trepidation that we buried, or planted the alleluia. What would God do with it? And I feel the same today, because the world is in a different place to where it was 2 years ago. And we are not the same people who sat here last year, or even last week. Time moves on, situations change, life deals us new things – some better, some worse.

So, our burying of the alleluia, our prayer for what might grow or blossom, our hopes for this lent are different. What will we bury? What will we pray for each time we notice the alleluia is missing from our praise? What people and places and situations will we carry with us this lent?

We bury our alleluia as a lovely reminder of a 10^th century tradition. But it is so much more than that. It is in solidarity with those who cannot lift their heads to proclaim alleluia, those for whom Alleluia is the furthest word from their lips because of their own situation. These are our friends, our brothers and sisters, our family members, this is us. And by acknowledging that praise is sometimes impossible, or paralysing is, in itself, a simple but powerful prayer for those who are suffering.

At the end of your pew you will see paper and pens. Would you pass those along so that everyone has one. And then we will take a few moments to hold that paper and to consider for whom and for what situation we are ceasing our alleluia this lent. You might want to write a list or some names or you might want to simply sum it all up by writing alleluia on your piece of paper. And then we will collect them and place them in this box and bury them as our prayer and in hope that new life might grow and that we might even witness it when easter dawns.

So let us pray.

Planting the Alleluia

Exodus 24:12-18 Psalm 2 2 Peter 1: 16-21 Matt 17: 1-9

Sometimes it is easy to become complacent about our bible readings – we have these readings every year – we know the story of Transfiguration – there’s Jesus, a mountain, Peter, James and John and a bright light and we know the rest. Sometimes it seems easier to be more enamoured by transfiguration when it is in Professor McGonagalls class at Hogwarts than when it is in our church. But Jesus’ disciples fell to the ground at the sight of the transfiguration. When was the last time I was ever that overwhelmed by the glory of God? Was I ever?

Several years ago, I first heard about this ancient practice, dating back to the 10^th century, that can help us to do recapture something of the enormity of these readings – or at least be able to approach them afresh. it is a practice I introduced in my last parish back in 2020 and we did it here last year. It is the practice of burying or locking the alleluia. Do you remember? Let me recap with the words I first read about it. They said this…

‘…nine weeks before Easter, the custom of ceasing to sing ‘Alleluia’ at mass [begins]; a practice referred to in medieval England as ‘locking the Alleluia’. The word was symbolically [and literally] locked away, to be unlocked again amid the celebration of Easter – then the word was released from its captivity, just as Christ would break out of the tomb and human beings would be liberated from captivity to sin.’

I love symbolism in worship, and I love ritual, so I was eager to reintroduce it.

In 2020 I got every child in our local primary school to make their own alleluia on a piece of paper and bring it to church – 350 alleluias in total. And during the Sunday service each member of the congregation made one. They all went into a box and were ‘buried’ underneath the high altar, ready to be spectacularly released on Easter Sunday. Then COVID hit and those symbolic songs of praise were left there, unsung for the next 6 months and they were never resurrected in the way it was intended. And the symbolism of not being able to celebrate the resurrection but rather it being recycled into something else felt very 2020.

Then, last year, we buried the alleluia here.

At the time, we were visiting three friends who were incarcerated at the prison at Perth airport, for seeking asylum here; Ned, Javad and our dear Aref. I had visited them a few weeks before and Aref had given me a Tupperware container with his name on. Do you remember it? In that container, we placed our alleluia letters.

And, with Aref’s box in front of us, we thought about our brothers in detention, and what life was like for them, and how glory couldn’t be further from their experiences. Our readings tell us about standing in glory, with the Divine. But how do we stand, what do we say to our fellow siblings, when we and they are far from that experience.

Well, what we did, as in every lent, is to stop saying the church’s great word of praise and we buried it, as a prayer for those who have lost their alleluia. And then, on easter Sunday, we dug it up and brought it back into church. Except something had changed, something very significant had changed. Two of our friends had been released – Aref was right here when we dug up his now-holy lunch box – in fact, it became the day of his baptism. I can’t put into words what happened in those 40 days, nor the symbolism and significance of that buried alleluia in that box with his name on but, somehow, together, we were witnesses of something close to resurrection.

So it is with some kind of trepidation that we bury the alleluia again this year. Because, what if we aren’t actually burying it at all. What if we are actually PLANTING it? Burying something, digging a hole and putting it into the ground, is very similar to planting, isn’t it? But burying is about marking death and planting is the absolute opposite – planting is about looking for, and waiting for, life.

At the end of the service today we will take our word – alleluia – and we will place it into this tub and we will put it into the ground where we wont see it again until our dawn service on Easter Sunday. But I wonder what we want to see grow here – what and who do we want to see spring into life, or show the first buds of some new creation? What will we place, symbolically, into this tub that God might feed and nurture and break open and transform to add to God’s glory; the glory witnessed on the mountain by Moses and Jesus and Peter and James and John and Elijah.

And as it is buried – as it is planted – so we will no longer use the word Alleluia in our worship. There will be a gap where it once was. May we really notice it is gone. May our liturgy and worship take on a sombre tone, a more serious meaning. And each time we notice its absence – in that silence, may that be our prayer for those who are currently unable to murmur that word of praise; may it be our prayer for the trafficked, the asylum seeker, the traumatised family fleeing war, the homeless, the lonely, the addicted, may it be our prayer for the deepest saddest parts of ourselves. And may it be a cry to the Divine Gardener – the one we will meet in that garden on easter Sunday – may it be a cry for an outpouring of watering and tending and caring for the shoots that may grow from this planting. And may it all be for the glory of the one who creates and recreates. Amen.

When the world isn’t glorious, but the bible readings are…

A few Sundays ago, I woke up before my alarm and in that half-asleep-half-awake state I had to decide whether to go back to sleep or get up and get in the ocean. By some minor miracle I hauled myself out of bed and went for a swim…and as I did, so a family of dolphins went right past me, so close I could almost touch them, and I was reminded of this morning’s gospel passage…

Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory

Since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory.

Since I had been awake, I saw the glory of those dolphins.

And I committed that moment to memory, thinking ‘that’ll preach’. And, oh how I intended to use that as a springboard into the importance of keeping alert to see God’s glory. And then the events of this week happened, and it turns out that the glory that we hear about in our readings today isn’t how life is right now.

Life isn’t always shiny bright faces and booming affirmations from the almighty.

Life isn’t always feeling the Divine One so close we can reach out and touch them.

Life isn’t always mountain top experiences and dolphins at dawn. Most often we just trudge on, one foot in front of the other, trying our best to follow Jesus – two steps forward, one step back.

Today’s readings are all dazzling and full of glory but, for most of us, life is probably rarely like that. For our brothers in detention, and our sisters and brothers in the Ukraine it couldn’t be further from that. And what can we say, today, when our readings say one thing and our news says something hideously different… Sometimes there just aren’t the words for how terrifying, how horrendous, how utterly devastating life gets.

Standing with Jesus, on top of a mountain, is one thing. But what can we do, how do we stand, what do we say to our fellow siblings, when we and they are far from that mountain top. Far from that light. Far from anything resembling beauty.

You know, some of the ancient churches in the Ukraine have opened their crypts – their deep, rock hewn, dark crypts, where long-dead saints have been resting for generations and generations – they have opened these places for the dead with an invite for residents to find their way there, for safety. These ancient graves are being used to preserve life. Maybe that says more about glory, more about hope, more about the role of the church and the goodness of humanity. The image of finding refuge – preserving life – in this place of death is so deep, huge, and I don’t have the words for it, but somehow perhaps it shines with the radiance of God. And maybe words just get in the way, anyway. Sometimes, often, I think we need fewer words.

Which brings me to this…

Today is the Sunday before Lent – Lent begins this coming Wednesday and we recall our own humanity, in sorrowfulness and repentance, as we are marked with the sign of the cross in Ash.

Two years ago, before any of us knew a pandemic was around the corner, I read about an ancient practice that takes place on this day, in churches worldwide, called burying or locking the Alleluia. It dates way back to before the 10^th Century and begins to explain why we stop singing and saying Alleluia, in church, during Lent.

Burying the alleluia, which we will physically do at the end of the service today, is a kind of gimmick, but with beautiful imagery and deep reason. The word is buried, locked away, until the Easter Vigil, when it is ‘released from captivity’, like Christ in the resurrection. That, in itself, is enough, but there’s another aspect that resonates with me today, at this time, when the world seems even more intent on destroying itself and her children.

By burying the Alleluia, as a physical reminder that we will stop proclaiming this word of deep praise for this while, this is an act of solidarity with those who currently can’t proclaim Alleluia, those who have lost or let go of their Alleluia, because life or death or external or internal factors are preventing them from being able to; those for whom Alleluia is the furthest word from their lips because of invasion and war, or their own captivity, or mental ill health, or addiction, or homelessness or hunger, or bereavement or loneliness. These are our friends, our brothers and sisters, our family members, ourselves. And by acknowledging that praise is sometimes impossible, or paralysing is a simple but powerful prayer for those who are suffering. Sometimes not speaking is at least as powerful as prayer, maybe more so.

And, in our worship, during Lent, we no longer use the word Alleluia. There’s a space, a gap where it once was. This lent, may we really notice it is gone. May our liturgy and worship take on a sombre tone, a more serious meaning. And each time we notice its absence – in that silence, may that be our prayer for those who are currently unable to murmur that word of praise; may it be our prayer for the trafficked, the asylum seeker, the traumatised family fleeing war, the homeless, the terrified world leaders, the lonely, the addicted, may it be our prayer for the deepest saddest parts of ourselves. And may we reach Easter, together, in full anticipation of being able to unlock, dig up, our Alleluia, and see it resurrected with the Risen Christ; for each of us, and for those who we remember in love and solidarity this Lent. Amen.

Responsory for Burying the Alleluia:

When Jesus came down from the mount of Transfiguration, he began to tell his disciples that he would be betrayed and crucified.

SOMETIMES WE LOSE OUR ALLELUIA.

Jesus did not enter into glory before he stretched out his arms on the hardwood of the cross.

SOMETIMES WE LOSE OUR ALLELUIA.

Jesus told his disciples, “If you want to become my followers, deny yourselves and take up your cross and follow me.”

SOMETIMES WE MUST LET GO OF OUR ALLELUIA.

For the days of Lent, we stop singing and saying, “Alleluia.”

SOMETIMES WE LET GO OF OUR ALLELUIA.’

At Easter we will again celebrate the Resurrection and sing “Alleluia! Christ is risen.”

IN GOD’S TIME, WE WILL FIND OUR ALLELUIA!