The Reverend Dudley Atkins Tyng, Jr., once preached to a crowd of some 5,000 gathered in Philadelphia, as part of the great revival of 1853. The record of this event tells us that at least a thousand of those attending were “the slain of the Lord.” I’m not exactly sure what that means—“the slain of the Lord”—except that it surely confirms the sermon was powerful and well-received.

Tyng was the Rector of the Church of the Epiphany in Philadelphia, and the days following this sermon would prove momentous in his life and in the life of the church—and not only the Episcopal Church. Just days after preaching his phenomenal sermon, Tyng left his study for a moment and went to the barn.

It may seem odd to us in 21st-century New York, but in 19th-century Philadelphia, apparently the rectories had barns next-door! And, in the barn, there was a mule at work on a grinding mechanism, shelling corn. Tyng patted the mule on the neck, and as he did so the sleeve of his silk study gown became caught in the cogs of the wheel. His arm was torn out by the roots. His terrified family and staff heard his anguished cries, but they were unable to do more than comfort him in his last moments on earth. His painful death occurred in just a few hours, but not before he uttered one amazing phrase.

Dudley Tyng’s last words? “Tell them to stand up for Jesus.”

The following Sunday, the Reverend George Duffield, Jr., a Presbyterian minister, preached on St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, the sixth chapter, beginning at the 14th verse. “Stand, therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness.”

In just three days, Duffield had written an exhortation to conclude his sermon—a poem inspired on Dudley Tyng’s dying words. His words are still with us, known as the hymn “Stand up, stand up, for Jesus.”

Dudley Atkins Tyng, you see, was a tireless advocate for the emancipation of slaves. He was ridiculed and persecuted for his view, and even criticized for bringing politics into the pulpit. There are those who insist his words were directed not to his family, but to his servants.

In that context, “Tell them to stand up for Jesus” sounds more like a message to the servants’ relatives in the south, who would still have been subject to slavery.

Stand up for Jesus, don’t bow down for “Massa”—something like that.

Just like the barn next door to the rectory in downtown Philadelphia, the hymn text that was inspired by this event may seem odd to us. It is very militaristic. “This day, the noise of battle, the next the victor’s song”—that sort of thing. And, yes, these warlike colors may clash with our more pacifist stripes. But remember two things: the hymn was written in the passion and anger of grief over a life wasted, and the hymn was written on the brink of the American Civil War.

Those of you who were here last worshiped at Ascension during Eastertide last year may remember that one of the directions printed in our service bulletin had changed. After the singing of the Sanctus, the direction said, “In the Easter season, the people are invited to continue standing.” You see, the year before, after the Eastertide was over, I created a new template for our Sunday bulletins in the Easter season. Being a seditious sort, I changed this little rubric, thinking that we would discuss it in staff meeting, prepare you all for it by copious announcements and articles, and then probably wrestle you to your feet, one by one, over the course of the seven weeks of Easter.

Greatly to my surprise—and joy—almost all of you remained standing last week. Bravo. You actually read what’s printed!

And you are to be congratulated as well for taking the risk. Bodily memory is a powerful thing, and so standing may caused you to feel awkward and strange, instead of joyful and celebratory.

If this is the case, you’re in some very good company. For, remember, the disciples were startled and terrified to be standing with the risen Christ.

They startled and terrified, partly because he appeared to them with flesh and blood, with bones and sinew—not as a ghost or even a god, who might hover over them, and whom they could not touch. This real, live, embodied Jesus who actually eats with them, stands among them. And he tells them that they are witnesses, charged to proclaim repentance and forgiveness of sins in his name.

Now, kneeling is pretty much an unambiguous posture. It can mean worship, or submission, or showing respect. But it is always about setting oneself in a status below another. Kneeling always sets up a hierarchy. “Humbly I adore thee,” you are more important than I am, I bow down in respect for your awesome power. And that’s not such a bad thing when it comes to God, by the way.

Standing, on the other hand, is more complex.

We stand in respect when someone important enters a room—so it can be quite like kneeling.

But we also stand in protest, as when a lawyer rises in court to raise an objection.

We stand in exhilaration, to give an ovation at a performance.

And we stand in defiance—like the slaves of the American South, as if to say “you will respect me.”

We Christians stand up to powers of oppression, we stand firm in our faith, and we stand down when violence becomes the only option, because what we stand for is the very peace Jesus proclaims to his disciples today.

So, I want to thank you for standing with me last week. In the very midst of proclaiming the eucharistic prayer, I had a new and vivid image of what it is to proclaim a priesthood of all believers. All of us, standing together around this holy table, in thanksgiving for all that God has done for us.

And I want to encourage those of you who weren’t quite ready to give it a try today. I beseech you, my sisters and brothers, by the mercy of God, to help make this Easter season different from Lent by demonstrating with your posture what you believe in your heart—that God has made you worthy to stand before him.

I encourage you to stand up, because the Council of Nicea forbade kneeling on Sundays in the year 325.

Stand up, because, as the character Celie says in The Color Purple, “If God would just listen to a poor colored woman, the world surely would be different.”

Stand up, because you too are startled and terrified, and you need the support of your brothers and sisters who stand with you.

Stand up, because Jesus has been resurrected from the dead, and death no longer has dominion over us.

Stand up to show respect for every immigrant who comes to our shores; stand up in defense of a living wage for honest, hard-working Americans.

Stand up to repent of mistakes you have made; stand up to begin a new life walking in God’s holy ways.

Stand up to support our troops; stand up in protest to war. Stand up in joy; stand up in fear. Stand up to make your voice count; stand up to blend into the crowd.

Stand up for the equality of women. Stand up for an end to homelessness. Stand up for God’s justice, mercy, and truth. Stand up to protest something—like our national debt, the bungled recovery efforts in New Orleans, or the increasing dangers of greenhouse gases. Stand up to affirm something—like the importance of a healthy economy, the need for peace and cooperation in the Mideast, or hope for the future of humankind..

Stand up to show your vulnerability in this safe place. Stand up for peace. Stand up for hope. Stand up for love. Stand up, stand up, stand up for Jesus. Amen.

—Adapted from a sermon preached April 30, 2006, by Father Barrie

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