When the sabbath was over,
Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and
Salome
bought spices, so that they might go and anoint Jesus.
And very early on the first day of the week,
when the sun had risen,
they went to the tomb.
They had been saying to one another,
“Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to
the tomb?”
When they looked up,
they saw that the stone, which was very large,
had already been rolled back.
As they entered the tomb,
they saw a young man,
dressed in a white robe,
sitting on the right side;
and they were alarmed.
But he said to them,
“Do not be alarmed;
you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth,
who was crucified.
He has been raised; he is not here.
Look, there is the place they laid him.
But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead
of you to Galilee;
there you will see him, just as he told you.”
So they went out and fled from the tomb,
for terror and amazement had seized them;
and they said nothing to anyone,
for they were afraid.
***
Each Easter season we start our worship by reciting the
words, “He is risen,” and responding, “He is risen indeed,” but maybe our
liturgy should instead echo silence. Maybe Easter isn't about fact, but about
miracles and the unknown, about wonder and amazement. Maybe Easter isn't as
sure as an answer, but instead as sacred as a promise.
The scripture doesn't read like a science book, it reads
like C.S. Lewis’, Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe, it reads like Harry Potter and
the Sorcerer’s Stone. It reads like a story written to point to a greater
story, the story of humanity and its intersection with the divine. The
scripture begins, very early, when the sun had risen, the women came. They came
in the morning when their eyes were adjusting from sleep’s haze. They came in
morning when the fields were shedding their covers of dew, as shadowed beams
light streaked patches of ground - dry. They came in the time of mourning,
where tears blotched their view, and their steps were taken but by ritual, the
gait of processing onward, without outward purpose, but with inward resolve,
pacing to anoint, pacing toward the tomb. Their minds were muddled by grief,
walking toward a locked door without a key, a tomb covered by a very large
stone, and they looked up.
They saw the boulder rolled away. Still too early ask
details, too insignificant yet for explanation, a tomb too unfamiliar to
recognize the unfamiliar, they entered in, past the light of daybreak, and into
the cave’s sleeping shadow, where darkness surrounds. Into that deep dark
formless and void, they moved forward, hoping their eyes would adjust to a
world before the dawn. But instead, like a match to a candle, a man’s white
robe shown before them.
Of course they were alarmed, an unexpected waking. His
reassurance like a steading, grounding hand touching their shoulder, “Do not be
alarmed.” Reminding them where they had awoken, “You are looking for Jesus of
Nazareth, who was crucified.” And in the promises of pillow talk, “He has been raised;
he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him.” And then perhaps too
many directions for so early on the first day of the week. “But go, tell his
disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee;
there you will see him, just as he told you.”
“So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and
amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were
afraid.”
This is not the people shouting and responding, “He is
risen,” and “He is risen, indeed.” It is the pause, stillness and held breath,
after an aria, when the busy world is hushed, before the clapping begins. It is
the quiet of waking before the alarm and hearing the solo of one songbird out
the window, before it is joined by the chorus. It is the crocus that sprouted a
month ago despite this morning’s snow. It is this morning’s fat whimsy flakes
and the paradoxical predicament of Easter Dresses worn with boots. It is a
generous scholarship matched by gracious humility. It is a funeral’s standing
room only overflowing into the adjacent room. It is loves and fishes that
multiply so that there is enough food to feed the multitude. It is a bow
perfectly tied around a glass vase of purple tulips. It is the surprise of a
dozen friends all showing up by happen stance to the same dinner spot and the
pulling over of more chairs. It is pulling over to push a stranded women’s car
out of an intersection and who else shows up but another friend and her new
crush you hadn’t met. It is having met someone once, a year before, and their
gave feedback on this sermon. It is me actually liking the Easter text. It is
the youth frantically folding, and two congregants early this morning, hanging
butterflies before anyone arrived. It is awe, it is wonder, it is quiet, and
unexplained.
Jesus didn’t come in the flesh for which the women had
brought spices. Instead, all that is tangible is an empty tomb and the place
where they laid him. In coming for closure they received an open-ended promise
of an eternal being. Told to go and tell his disciples, the women left in
silence and said nothing to anyone. Yet, today, we begin our worship, “He is
risen,” “He is risen, indeed.” Perhaps what we know, is as much fact is to
story, as silence is sound. Perhaps it is more than knowing, more than
believing, more than faith. Perhaps Easter is about hope, and promise, and the
joy of wonder unexplained.
