If it looks like love… and if it smells like love…

The Rev. Jennifer L. Adams – April 12, 2015 – Easter 2, Year B: John 20:19-31

Happy Easter! Still!

We get to say that for fifty days as we celebrate resurrection right up through the day of Pentecost. And actually every Sunday all year is a celebration of resurrection, that’s what we are about in this place all the time. But during the actual season of Easter that we hear the resurrection stories, we sing the “Alleluia” hymns, we decorate to proclaim that “He is Risen!” and we pray the prayers that remind us what it means to be a resurrection people.

Now on the second Sunday of Easter we always hear the story of Thomas, “The Twin.”  Note that he’s not referred to as “the doubter” in the gospel although that’s how tradition has come to speak of him. Thomas was the one who needed more than the disciples testimony in order to believe and so he’s gotten a bit of a tough rap through the ages. Even after all the other disciples had come to believe, Thomas was clear with them that he needed to see for himself: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails, and my hand in his side, I will not believe,” Thomas told them.

And so Jesus came back to the room where the disciples met again. And that in itself was a beautiful thing, a gift of sorts. Jesus came back again and without hesitation, gave Thomas what he needed.  The famous artwork by Caravaggio depicts that moment with Thomas actually placing his hand in the side of the wounded yet risen Christ. It’s a powerful piece that communicates both the humanity and the grace of the encounter as Jesus actually guides Thomas’ hand to the wound in his side.  There was touch and there was forgiveness; there was reconciliation and there was recognition of a miracle all wound up in Jesus’ granting Thomas and the others a profound, resurrection-like peace.

And so here we are today and one of the things I always do on this Sunday is remind us that there is room in this place for doubt, for questions, for the kind of wrestling that Episcopalians believe strengthens faith rather than threatens it.  I have told you before that I consider Thomas one of the patron saints of the Episcopal Church because I know that many of us found our way here, or stayed here in this denomination because there’s room for us to question and to continue searching even as we proclaim a budding or a changing, evolving faith.

Life brings new questions to us all.  And our needs change in terms of what sustains belief in us.  And so we make room for the kind of growth that comes from doubts and that springs from honest questions of faith.  As a general practice, we invite the Thomas’ in to be here among us; we even call out our inner Thomas’ and ask them to be at home here.  And it’s important that we make that known to all who come.

I want to take this one more step this morning, because making room for Thomas is an important piece this story but this isn’t only a story about an individual’s journey in faith.  This isn’t only about Jesus accommodating Thomas. I think that Thomas is also giving a gift to the Body.

Here’s what I mean:

Thomas actually calls the Body of Christ to a certain level of accountability in this story and in our story too.  He demands that there be some evidence behind what we say, and what we preach, and who it is that we say we are.  I think Thomas very faithfully raises the bar for how we come to express being the Body of Christ, for how we are church for one another and for this world.  He raises the bar because he wants resurrection to be more than testimony.  He wants it to be an experience.

Remember that Thomas came to Jesus having seen all that went before this moment.  He’s often quoted as the one who needed to see more, but sometimes I think Thomas’ challenge was that he’d seen too much.  For several years at this point in the story, Thomas had witnessed all the people who needed healing; they’d come to Jesus in droves.  He’d seen all the people who were hungry gathering in crowds around Jesus asking for bread.  He’d walked with Jesus throughout the entire region and so Thomas had seen the brokenness in this world. And in this gospel, Thomas was actually the only disciple who had said that he would follow Jesus all the way to the cross.  So he’d watched the arrest, the trial, and witnessed the crucifixion too.

And so when it came to resurrection Thomas’ bar was high because his experiences had been painful and they had been real. So words alone weren’t going to do it for Thomas.

And he makes me wonder if words alone ever should.

Part of what this story tells us is that as Body of Christ we have a responsibility to be more than our words.  We have a responsibility to be an experience of all those things that we say we are about, a visible, tangible experience of forgiveness, reconciliation, love, healing and peace. That’s what the Thomas’ of the world need.  That’s what the Thomas’ in us need.

The words matter a great deal, but only because they shape us. The words have genuine, transformative meaning when we embody them (which is in itself a theological, Christological statement).  “The Word became flesh” is how this gospel began and it’s how we are to live, as Body of Christ.  It’s the shape we take that matters most to the Thomas’ of this world.

Absolution takes hold when our sides are open enough to receive those who seek forgiveness. The passing of the peace means something even more when we reach out beyond our own walls and be that peace for others.  “The gifs of God for the people of God” transforms all of us when all of God’s children are welcome and encouraged to receive that for which we hunger.  And proclamations of “Alleluia!” truly change lives when lives that have been changed are willing to be that kind of new life for the world everyday.

There are so many people in this world who are hungry for an experience of resurrection.  People who are tired of just words. Or people who are exhausted by the words and the actions of faith actually contradicting each other.  Thomas set the bar high while demanding something of us that is gift to us all.  While he’s growing in faith, Thomas’ needs grow the Body in our ability to offer that faith, to proclaim it and live it with integrity. The opening collect put it as a prayer: “May we show forth in our lives what we profess by our faith.”

The good news of the gospel is that that as Body of Christ, with God’s help we’re up to the challenge. Not a perfect people by any means.  We are a wounded people who, like Thomas, have seen a lot; but we are on the rise, we are always on the rise.

So place your hands, those who hunger, those who search, those who hurt.  Place your hands, those who question, those who doubt, those who fear.  Place your hands those who have seen too much or have yet to see whatever it is you need to believe.

Place your hands, all you people of God. And help us rise with you.

Amen.

The Rev. Jennifer Adams – Sermon preached on April 3, 2015

Good Friday

I’m coming down here in the aisle to preach, because this is where I want to be today.  Not alone up there, although it never really feels like that.  You’re never very distant. But today I want to be right here, so that we can reach out to each other more easily.  So that we can huddle if we need to.  So that nobody is alone, because today, of all days, nobody should have to be.

I actually think that is the message that’s tucked in to the story of Good Friday. Nobody is alone in this.  Humanity’s not even alone in this. “This” meaning life, “this” meaning death, “this” meaning hurt or suffering or injustice.  I think that’s the message tucked in to this story of Good Friday.  And I think that ‘s the message that Good Friday wants to tuck inside of all of us.

“Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.”  The beloved disciple was with them too and while none of them have gotten the fame that Judas or Peter or Pilate have gotten over the ages, they were right there at the foot of the cross, together.

And while they were standing there on what had to be the most painfully complicated day of their lives, they were given something.  Standing there by the cross, they were given one another.

“When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, Jesus said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother. And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home,” the gospel says.  So on this of all days, the people at the foot of the cross became family for each other.  And none of them had to be alone on this day or any day.

And so sometimes I’ve wondered if Good Friday is actually the birthday of the church. I know we have resurrection coming, so rebirth is on its way. And our numbers are higher on that day so in every way it’s more celebratory.  But on that day the women and the disciples all just ran in lots of different directions, frightened by the empty tomb.  I also know that traditionally we acknowledge the church’s birthday on Pentecost fifty-three days from now – because that’s when we celebrate that the Spirit came upon the disciples.  And so I promise that on Pentecost, we will celebrate birth.

But I wonder if today is a birthday too, or we should at least let it be.  This is that moment in the story when some of the people who loved Jesus sat together, close enough to reach out to each other, aware of the needs of the other and present to the suffering of this world. Together they watched the sky go black.  They experienced their leaders’ fears.  They knew the disciples’ struggles.  They shared their own pain and confusion and the unknowing of it all.  And in the midst of all of that something amazing happened.

Something holy happened.

As they sat there, God was not only present in Christ, but God was present to them too.  And this is a miracle not to lose today.  God was present to them – redefining their way of being together.  God was showing them how to love and giving them to each other.  They became household right there at the foot of the cross.  I would argue that in many ways, they were at least beginning to be church.

And so I want to say that as hard as this is, we’re OK here today. We’re beginning again here today.  We have been called to be church here in this place, maybe to help rebirth the church as a people who know our place among the suffering of this world.

Here at the cross God is showing us how to love. God is giving us one another.  So remember to stand close enough to reach out to one another and to others too. Behold our brothers, our sisters, our kids!  Behold one another as church! Because from this place, maybe most especially in this place, God is holding us.

From this place we can become the kind of household that redefines what it means to do love in this world.

Amen.

Sermon by The Reverend Jodi L. Baron, Lent 5

Jeremiah 31:31-34
Psalm 51:1-13 
Hebrews 5:5-10
John 12:20-33

Years ago, I had a group of high school students whom I met with on Sunday evenings to have conversations about virtues of God,  like truth, beauty, and story. Together we explored the ways in which these things are present, if we are attentive to them, all over our daily experiences.

Our theme for this particular year was “beauty.”

On this one particular evening we were exploring the beauty of death.

At first, many of the students were creeped out with the prospect of even talking about death.

But really, I explained, it’s not something we get to avoid talking about.

In fact, the pain and sorrow that come with physical-literal death are good stories to talk with someone about.

Telling those stories heal us, restore us to community, and reconcile our hearts to God.

Death, so it seems, is so much a part of the human experience that even the food we eat (yes even the plant-based ones) must go through a process of death in order to become something else.

*more on that in a moment.*

This particular fall evening, my partner and I drove our students to one of the city cemeteries for a walk in the moonlight.

We were on a quest, of sorts, to determine if there was, in fact, a strange sort of beauty in a place that often times is seen as the epitome of sadness and pain.

Darkness has a way of revealing a different perspective on things, if we allow our eyes to adjust and embrace the little bit light from the sky, and ponder what, if anything, it is trying to show us.

As we stood among the tombstones of all the faithful departed, I could sense that the students were beginning to imagine the stories of the lives represented here based solely upon the inscription on their tombstone.

Some stories must have been extra sad, they determined, as they calculated the ages of some.

Others left us with questions about who their community consisted of that this is what was there.

There, in the darkness of night, the moon cast shadows from the trees that by day shaded those very graves we were standing among.

I remember noticing the light shone brightest along the stone paths between the plots of land filled with graves.

We were attentive to the holiness of the space we occupied that night and how daily when we drive by places like this we hardly take notice of their existence at all.

Death is one of those strange paradoxes of the human experience, isn’t it?

It’s necessary and unavoidable and yet we strive to find ways to stave it off or deny its presence and the ways in which it can teach us about God, humanity, and why we’re here.

That’s just the human side of physical death.

Our food was once living as well. Our bread was once wheat, our apples were once seeds, our hamburgers and hotdogs were once walking  the earth.

The point is that all living things must go through death in order to bring forth life to something else.

In this morning’s gospel Jesus is explaining to us the meaning behind his whole program on earth and why he must undergo suffering upon the cross, and what is more, he links his pending death to the resurrection and finally ascension that will happen soon after.

He uses the metaphor of a grain of wheat and the death it must experience in order to bear “fruit” to talk to us about our faith.

That “fruit” that Jesus was referring to is the community of disciples who would come to follow him after he returned to heaven.

Jesus was speaking of the community of believers who would come to believe in him even though they had never “seen” him.

In this morning’s gospel, Jesus honed in on the unique beauty that comes from the seed going through the process of death.

Of breaking open so that new life could sprout forth and fruit come to bear.

He uses this seed to reveal the salvific power that abides within this community that assembles weekly to remember his death, proclaim his resurrection, and await his coming in glory.

When we do life in community, when we take the time to allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness, it’s never truly void of light, not all together.

That is what Lent is about, I think.

That is what Christian disciplines are meant to create.

By my committing to certain practices for 40 days, I am offering those practices cultivated to strengthen our christian community.

When I give alms for the poor I am proclaiming God’s kingdom by attending to the needs of those most vulnerable.

We cultivate patterns for holy living so that when darkness comes, as it does every lunar cycle, we won’t be overcome with fear but will trust that God is there, just as always, until our senses allow us to see.

This morning’s gospel ends with Christ declaring, “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

A universal call to salvation. restoration. reconciliation.

And the salvation that will come, and does come, through the assembled body of believers.

The community of us; you and me.

When we take on the task of following this Jesus, we do so not in isolation or a vacuum. but in community.

To be a follower of Jesus was to be like him, speak like him, love like him, and die like him. To be a “little Christ” in the world and to each other.

These seasons our church observes, they aren’t for show.

They aren’t arbitrary ways to mark time.

They are meant to help us order our common life together and retell God’s salvific act in Jesus’ incarnation, death, resurrection, and ascension.

The reason we retell the story of Jesus’ death is because without his death, there wouldn’t be the resurrection and ascension, and without the resurrection and ascension, there wouldn’t be this thing we call Christianity, our community of faith.

Ash Wednesday we were invited, as a church, to the observance of a holy Lent. We had the ashes from last year’s palms smudged onto our foreheads while the priest reminded us,

From dust you came and to dust you shall return.

We name the departed in our prayers of the people forever claiming them in the place among the cloud of witnesses.

We spread or bury their ashes or bodies as representatives of our community of faith and they point us to the promises of the nearer presence of Christ.

We sacrifice a little bit of comfort, a few of our desires, employ a bit more discipline and practice temperance to heighten our senses to the needs of others.

The gospel is emphasizing for us the ministry of reconciliation God set forth first in the incarnation and completed with his death, resurrection, and ascension we are about to walk through, together, with Christ, from Palm Sunday to Easter.

And so, beloved community of “little Christs,” be attentive this final week of Lent to what God is inviting you to be, do, or change.

Be mindful of the needs of others in your daily occupations and decisions you make with your time and talents.

And pray for eyes to see God in the dark hours of his Passion, for what it means for your faith and that of our community’s.

Amen.

The Rev. Jennifer L. Adams – Epiphany 3, Year B: Mark 1:14-20

So the gospel passage we just heard is one of those passages that I both love and struggle with all at the same time.  It’s beautiful in so many ways and it’s certainly inspirational. The scene was lovely.  There they were down by the Lakeshore.  Jesus strolling.  Guys fishing. Waves lapping up on the sand. Nets were being mended . . . If you listen closely you can even hear the gentle music that was playing in the background.  And as Jesus was walking the shores, he invited those guys to follow him.  First Simon and Andrew and then James and John. With three simple words, Jesus broke their world wide open.  He tapped into their hopes, offered new opportunities and apparently in that one moment revealed to them something of salvation.  And so those guys literally dropped everything and followed right in that very moment.

And so part of me admires the spontaneity of that.  Not something, by the way that Episcopalians are particularly known for.  And I’m struck by the passion and the ease of it all because if there’s something that we as church folk can do, it’s complicate the faith.  We aren’t always known for our ease! But right here at almost the very beginning of the gospel of Mark there is this very simple story: There was Jesus.  He invited some people to walk with him.  And they followed.  The end – and also their beginning.  Nice.  Those are the parts that I love.

But then there are the pieces I struggle with. First, what about Zebedee?  Every time I hear this story my heart breaks a little for him.  There he was having begun to hand off the family business to his sons, mending one net a day instead of two, beginning to vision afternoons sitting on the dock with his buddies letting go of the (until now) sun-up to sun-down demanding labor of what it meant to be a professional fisherman.   And then Zebedee just got left holding the nets and others who happened to be around that day probably had to kick in a little extra and hold onto him.

The second thing I wrestle with, and this is where I’m going to focus this morning is the whole fishing metaphor as applied to the work of evangelism.  Because that’s how this story gets applied right?  We hear this lesson and then the sermon goes on to say that we should be out there fishing for people. Fill those nets! Everybody go out there now and do it!  Fish on!

Now some of my hesitancy here might be my Episcopal roots.  There’s a joke that the Episcopalians approach this whole topic of evangelism and fish like this: we build little aquariums and plant them about twenty yards back on the beach. The aquariums are of course, beautiful and not only that they’re tasteful. But after building them, we expect the fish to come find us and when they do, we expect them to navigate the walls and jump in.  And there’s some truth to that.  It’s not as if “gone fishing” is a phrase that tends to fit most of our denominational approaches to sharing the good news of Christ.  And so we, like everyone, have something learn here.

But I’m not sure the fishing metaphor is a great fit.  Truth of it is is that getting caught is never good news for the fish.  I have yet to hear the story of a fish who in the process of getting caught believes they are experiencing salvation or freedom or healing.  They are very simply trapped by something larger than themselves. Dragged out of their natural habitat purely for the sake of those who catch them. And very soon after the catch, the fish can’t breathe any more.

(Which is not an argument against actual fishing. I eat fish and I’m glad people are willing to go get them for me.  I’m just saying that if we’re talking evangelism – which we need to be – I think we can do better than this if for no other reason, than breathing matters.)

And so I want to be honest about our Episcopal shortcomings, allow for a little wrestle and also run with some of what’s going on here in the gospel. That’s not too much to ask is it?

So let’s back up and start with the basic assumption that we are supposed to be inviting others to experience Christ. Even Episcopalians are supposed to be inviting people into this experience we call God’s grace (small ‘g’ grace – and capital ‘G’ too.) And we’re supposed to do this not because God can’t find these people him or herself.  Not because we have a handle on the absolute truth and others should too. Not even because their or our salvation absolutely depends on this. God is bigger than all of that.

We should invite people in or over or out with us because we have gifts of God to share with them.  Period.  Good news, and things like love, forgiveness and food; things like grace and mercy and hope are what people need to be able to able to thrive; it’s what everyone needs to be fully alive and we have some of all of that to offer.  Now there’s more to say here, to get more specific in all of these areas, but one of my Episcopal limitations is that I’ve got about fifteen minutes max to get this all in – so let this piece stand for today as a simple, very basic assumption and starting point that is this: we need to be sharing and inviting and proclaiming because through us, Christ has something to offer this hurting world.

But I’m not into surprising people with nets or dragging them out of their natural habitats no matter what you all say you want me to do.  So let’s take another step and adapt all of this a little bit.

What if we simply moved our aquariums closer to the water?  And then what if we just sort of threw all caution to the wind and moved our aquariums out into the sea?  And then what if, in one big Episcopal moment of letting go, we broke down the walls of our aquariums and swam around for a while with the other fish?  Just a thought.

And what if we noticed the incredible diversity swimming around out there.  The beauty.  The possibility.  We might even notice out there that some of the other fish are hungry too, or lonely or just searching for a place to be.

Note that most of these fish I’m talking about are fish who don’t have anything to do with other little aquariums or even large mega-pools. These are just all those other fish who are still out there in the water. They’re resistant to getting caught many of them – but in all likelihood, they are hoping to get fed or companioned or maybe they just want us aquarium-prone types to notice how at certain times of the day the sun hits the water and puts on a show! A show that is for all intents and purposes a miracle that reveals something of God grace too.

These are the fish who have probably managed to avoid nets most of their lives but still hunger on some level to be gathered with others– as long as they can still breathe when that happens.  These are the fish who may have never let their fins touch sand, who swim as fast as they can away from approaching boats, but who know that their habitat is in danger too. They know that the sea is a tough place for a lot of fish who are just trying to make it. And they know as well as we do that it will take other fish, and a holiness greater then us all to bring about an ocean-wide process of redemption.

And so we have good news to share, Episcopalians! Episcopal fish that we are.  And not sharing is not an option, even for us.

Gone fishing?  Maybe that’s not quite it.  Gone swimming?  Absolutely. Willing take the dive?  Sure. Immersed in water.  Aware of creation. Looking for the sun to reach into the depths, sharing food that comes from above and below too, and following in ways that bring the gospel to places it has yet to reach.

Now, let’s get to it.  Swim on!

Amen.

The Rev. Jennifer L. Adams

Lent 2, Year B:Genesis 17:1-7,15-16;Psalm 22:23-31;Romans 4:13-25;Mark 8:31-38

Jesus told the crowds, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lost it, and those who love their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel will save it.”

So I think it’s time we had a little talk about the cross. As hard as this is, the time seems right doesn’t it? We’re surrounded by crosses this season. We’re singing about them in almost every hymn. Crosses are in the gospel every time we turn around, and this whole 40 days and 40 nights is headed straight for Good Friday and Easter. Given the theological and liturgical trajectory we’ve got going on here, the cross can’t be avoided. And according to the gospel passage it shouldn’t be avoided. We should even be picking up our own crosses as we go! Starting now. And so this morning I want to ask what a cross is and try to identify what it isn’t.

I’m going to start with the “isn’t,” because if there is any symbol that is misunderstood, misused even it’s this one. And just as an opening disclaimer, I should let you know that I don’t fully understand it either. There is holiness, there is God here and whenever that happens, there’s an element of mystery and we need to leave room for that mystery’s presence. And so while I can’t speak to you from a place that involves absolute, conclusive proof, I can speak to you from a place of faith which is seeking understanding. And that understanding ebbs and flows and grows over time. And I hope that speaking from that place will at least give us room to talk and to pray about the cross together.

OK – what a cross is not. I don’t believe that a cross is something that is from God. Which might sound strange, or wrong or borderline heretical, so let me explain a little more.

I don’t believe God wants crosses, or wills crosses for us or for anyone. The cross is not what God is ultimately about which is why the gospel story, the story of Christian faith doesn’t end on a cross. And it’s why the story didn’t begin on one either. I don’t think that when God saw that Creation was good, God had already tucked a cross over in the corner of paradise in order to make the world complete.

I think that we put the crosses in this world. And that evil – however you explain that put crosses in this world. The cross is of our making, and occasionally it’s simply because of our limitations, but what I want to emphasize is that I don’t believe that crosses are of God’s intentions. And that distinction matters a lot.

And it leads us into what I think a cross is.

I actually think that the cross symbolizes everything God does not will for us – crosses are injustices on the backs of so many, illnesses that steal away wholeness, inner and outer demons. Crosses are poverty that demeans and kills, policies and practices and even pieties that bring about some sort of death – inner, outer, spiritual, or physical death – of a child of God. And so God mourns crosses. God doesn’t will them.

Remember that in the gospel the cross was a tool of torture used for public shame and punishment, and in the case of Jesus, it was a tool used by those who were afraid of losing their own power. And none of that is what God’s will played out looks like.  It is, however, what occasionally our wills, our frailties, our fears played out to extremes, or sometimes just plain evil look like. Crosses are where we suffer, where we hurt, where this world misuses or warps creation and hurts, we all hurt (and I believe God does too) because of it.

So I believe that the crosses in our lives and in this world are those places in which we we are missing out on what it is that God wills for us. Crosses are places where our neighbors are missing what it is that God wills for them.

And so here in this gospel and in this season that is Lent we are being asked to take up those places in ourselves and in this world and it’s some of the hardest work that we’ll ever do, because first we have to look at those places and acknowledge how wrong they really are.

Which means that we have to let something in us die before we can even take it all in. And that’s part of what we risk this season. We risk the death of a naive sort of hope. We risk the death of that part of us that rightly holds tight to a vision of a kingdom coming now, present now. We risk awareness of our pain and the pain of others in this world. All of which means that we lose some innocence, some distance, some privilege when we take up a cross. It means that we lose at least pieces of our lives.

But here’s the amazing thing, the amazing grace of it all, the holy paradox if you will: While God does not intend crosses, God is there with us on them, in them, helping us, even carrying the cross for us when we can’t bear it any longer.

God’s love is so great that God goes to those places that are not of God in order to do the work that is redemption. And I think that that in itself is the mouthful that is Lent. The cross is not a sign that God wills pain or death, but that God is present with us in those realities pulling us and re-birthing this world into something new, something beyond the cross. God’s love is so great that God goes to those places that are not of God in order to help make something else, something new happen there. God goes to those places that run contrary to God’s will, in order to redeem them, to redeem us, ultimately to save us.

And so we take up our crosses and the crosses of this world because they are neither the beginning nor the end of the story. From the cross there is more, there is always more. The cross is neither a beginning nor an end. Due to forces beyond what God has chosen to control, sometimes free will, sometimes just plain evil, sometimes physical weakness or limitation, sometimes sin – due to so many things that come together to make this world not the kingdom of God yet, there is suffering and there is pain. And due to a love that is greater than all of it, God is there too working what theologian Jon Sobrino called “the theology of love in our real world.” The theology of love in our real world. God is there on the cross willing something new in the midst of all that runs contrary to that grace.

“What is this rising from the dead all about?” we asked as we headed into the season of Lent. Well, pick up your crosses and together let’s awaken ourselves to the crosses of the world and stand with those who carry them. And in those places we will grieve. And in those places we will pray. And in those places we will sing! And in those places we will proclaim God’s vision and help birth a new hope, a deep and real hope, because in those places we will love.  And then, by grace, we’ll come to discover what rising from the dead is all about.

Amen.