Getting to Easter
Dr. Jim Wilson, March 23, 2008 A story is told about the glorious Easter service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City. The service overflows with pageantry, magnificent music, captivating liturgy---all a wonderful expression of “high” church at its very best. It all begins as it did in the early church, with the bishop standing outside before the great doors of the cathedral. The bishop is to knock on the great doors and as they are swung open to proclaim the message of this day: “Christ is Risen!” to which the worshiping congregation responds, “He is Risen indeed!” And thus begins the grand and glorious Easter processional. A few years ago, the bishop was wearing a wireless microphone. He dutifully knocked three times on the great doors only to have those who were to swing open the door miss the signal. The doors stayed shut. The good bishop again knocked. Still there was no response. Then all those gathered for worship heard the bishop, whose microphone was on, say, “This is really awkward!” As I heard this story, I thought the bishop’s comment was at best an understatement. Easter is, in a word, awkward. It is not easy to get to Easter. Something always seems to get in the way. After all, Easter makes a rather incredible claim---that a Crucified Jewish teacher was raised from the dead by God and thus had his identity as the Messiah, the Son of God, confirmed. And through his resurrection the powers of sin and death, along with all their cousins have been defeated so that your life and mine can be transformed. Easter is the pivotal event in the Christian Faith as St. Paul reminds us. He writes, “If Christ has not been raised then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain.” If Easter is not true, we have no reason to be here this morning, or, for that matter, any Sunday morning. Easter is pivotal, but it is still awkward. If it is any comfort, it has always been awkward---hard to explain, difficult to believe, a challenge to understand. I learned a long time ago, I can neither prove Easter to be true beyond any reasonable doubt, nor argue anyone into belief. The best I can do is what I believe the biblical writers did---point to the witnesses, those who managed to get to Easter in spite of the awkwardness. So we come once again on this Easter Day to hear the story that lies at the heart of our faith and listen to the witnesses speak that we too might get to Easter. And there is no better place to begin than with John’s version of the story. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark…” John tells us, a woman, Mary Magdalene by name, makes her way to the tomb, the place of death where her hopes and dreams had been buried on Friday. What she finds there is disturbing. The large stone used to seal the tomb, indeed to mark the boundary line between life and death, had been rolled away. Understandably, she becomes distraught. She runs to tell Peter and the other disciple. Note what she reports to Peter. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb and we do not know where they have laid him.” Mary does not get to Easter immediately. The empty tomb does not generate faith for her. Instead, she concludes that someone has inflicted a final insult---they have taken the Lord’s body. Upon hearing Mary’s disturbing words, Peter and the other disciple run, no race, to the tomb. As they stoop to peer in, Mary’s report is confirmed. The body is not there, only the burial cloths lying neatly in place. While the other disciple, the one Jesus loved, sees this rather meager evidence and believes Jesus is risen, the same evidence does absolutely nothing to move Peter to faith. John tells us he simply goes home. He doesn’t get to Easter. Alone now, Mary stands outside the tomb weeping---that’s what grieving people do. Maybe it was impulse, one last look to confirm the reality of it all, whatever the reason, Mary stoops and peers into the tomb. When she does, she sees two angels sitting on the shelf where Jesus’ body had been placed. “Woman, why are you weeping?” they ask. Through her tears, Mary replies, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Not even the appearance of angels impresses her so as to move her to Easter. She has begun to adjust to the fact of death. Now the question is asked again, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom do you seek?” Mary turns to see who is asking. Eyes swollen in grief and tear-filled, she can see only one she assumes to be the gardener. Her answer is the same: “Sir if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him.” Then comes the moment of recognition. It comes in a word, a personal word. “Mary,” the stranger calls out to her. “Rabbouni!” she responds in joyful recognition of the voice, the voice of the now Risen Jesus. She rushes to embrace him. “Do not hold me,” he commands, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go and give the news to my brothers and sisters.” Resurrection does not simply recreate the past. It calls us to a new day. Now it is Mary’s turn to run, to run filled with joy. “I have seen the Lord!” she proclaims to the befuddled disciples. She might have added, “I’ve been to Easter.” Did you notice how everyone seems to be running in this story? For some reason this detail struck me as I studied the text. Some are running toward Easter. Others are running from Easter. Now I took a few minutes to watch you arrive this morning. Some of you walked briskly across the parking lot. Others of you took a much slower pace. All of you were vigilant about patches of ice and snow. But I did not see any of you running, running either to or from Easter. Yet, I also know that you come here this morning with many differing expectations. Some come wondering “Is Easter true?” “Will something happen this time to convince me? Others come hoping we can get to brunch before Willow Creek lets out. It is not easy for you and me to get to Easter. There are many things that get in the way, just as there were for those on that first Easter morning. First, there is the darkness. Mary went to the tomb, John tells us, “while it was still dark.” That I think is important. It is hard to get to Easter when it is still dark, not just in clock time but even more importantly in term of our life condition. Living in the darkness limits or ability to see, to perceive what is happening, to envision new possibilities. Darkness confines us to things as they are. A story is told about a group of Laplanders who lived about 200 miles or so up the coast. For many months after the conclusion of World War II they did not hear of the Allied victory. While it s dark for most of the 24 hours each day where they live, these folks continued to live as if the war were in full swing. They huddled together and lived in fear. They blacked out their small communities to protect themselves against air raids. They lived in virtually total darkness. They did not hear the news. The war was over and the victory won. A new day had begun. Is this parable for us? Does the darkness imprison us and keep us from getting to Easter. Without question the darkness keep us locked in fear, limits or choices, narrows our possibilities, prevent us from seeing new opportunities. Mary can perceive only one explanation for the empty tomb---someone took the body. How often do you and allow the darkness to limit our understandings, keep us locked in our fears, so much so we miss the news, the victory has been won, a new day has dawned, the light has come to shine in the darkness, a light no darkness can even put out. Easter announce the light has come. We no longer need to be imprisoned by the darkness or held hostage by fear, or remain a resident of the night. As we hear the promise of a new day, we can get to Easter and the new life it promises. We are transformed by the promise and set free to live fully and generously, without fear for we have been brought from death to life. A second obstacle is that of grief. Grief too can keep us from Easter. Who among us hasn’t known the sense of hopelessness and despair, powerlessness and weariness that haunts us as we grieve? Think about what happens at the death of a loved one, or, for that matter, whenever you experience the loss of something significant---a relationship, a job, a home, friends, even your health. We grieve. I believe grief is a significant ingredient in the reactions of the disciples to the news of Easter. There is no unmitigated joy. Instead, the Gospel writers tell of fear, confusion, doubt, disbelief, shock. The disciples were filled with grief. There hopes and dreams, their future and faith all died on Friday and were buried. Why doesn’t Mary immediately recognize the Risen Jesus? Because she is filled with grief, a grief that blinds her and keeps her locked in despair. So we grieve you and me, sometimes openly, at other times subtly, but at all times really. Dr. Ron Lee who taught Pastoral Care at Garrett would remind us over and over that everyone is grieving about something; if not the death of a love one, maybe a divorce, or children leaving home or perhaps a lost opportunity. After many years, I think he is right. Grief keeps us from getting to Easter as it discourages trust; mocks hope; erases the future; sneers at belief; and, even if by omission, encourages cynicism. I hunch some of that was present at the first Easter preventing the disciples from getting to the Easter reality. I also hunch it is present among us this morning. John tells us that one of the reasons the disciples could not get to Easter is that they didn’t understand what Jesus had said about being raised from the dead. In other words they did not hear the promise. Have you heard the promise, the promise that Jesus would be raised from the dead, that God will wipe away every tear and death will be no more. That is the promise that gets us to Easter, the word of Gods transforming love renewing and transforming love freeing us from our grief to receive the promise fulfilled. George and Rosie had been married for over 40 years. They loved each other deeply. They were inseparable in every aspect of their lives, save one. When George drove to church on Sunday, Rosie went in, he did not. He sat in the car and read the Sunday paper. Rosie became ill and died rather suddenly. For many Sundays after Rosie’s funeral, members looked for George’s car in the parking lot. It was not there. Several months later, on Easter Sunday George drove into the parking lot and went into church. The pastor preached a stirring Easter message about the resurrection and then, as was his custom, invited the congregation to respond. George stood up and with deep emotion said firmly, “Rosie lives!” Then he began to sing, “My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows…” One person after another joined in, until the entire congregation was singing perhaps the strangest but just maybe the most meaningful songs ever sung on Easter in that church. George got to Easter. God’s promise of new life was heard and experienced. Grief gave way to joy. So it is for us, as we hear the promise and know its transforming power. One final obstacle that keeps us from getting to Easter is our perspective, perspective on how we understand what is real. We live in a time when what is real is limited to what we can compute, categorize or program on our computers. Ours is a very empirical notion of reality, born of our scientific world view. Reality is that which we can see, touch, taste or put into a formula. Now I have no major quarrel with such a view, except to say it is not enough. There is more to reality. You cannot compute love, or program forgiveness or make passion an equation. And trust often defies a rational explanation. My point is simply that reality is larger that a scientific world view permits. In fact, the things in life that matter most do not fit neatly into a scientific explanation. Things like resurrection and liberation from the power of death, life transformed by grace all seem to demand a different reality. And that too can be an obstacle to our getting to Easter. But it is what Easter is, a new reality, a new reality created by God’s transforming love. Easter is neither wishful thinking nor a call to stretch our credible thinking beyond our present categories. It is a new reality in which things like love, freedom, passion, joy and hope really matter. A story is told about the Canadian photographer, Yousaf Karsh. Karsh was invited to photograph the world renowned cellist, Pablo Cassals, many years ago at a small French abbey. When Karsh arrived and began setting up his equipment, Cassals began playing Bach. Karsh became so enthralled by the music he almost forgot why he was there. He took a picture of Cassals from behind him as the little bald-headed man bent over his cello, frozen against the plain wall of the chapel. Karsh said he took the picture that way to capture the loneliness of a truly great artist and the loneliness of exile. Years later the photograph was part of an exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Each day another old bald-headed man came and stood in front of the photo. The curator noticed the man. Finally one day his curiosity got the best of him and he went over to the old man and tapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Why do you stand here day after day?” The old man with obvious irritation, turned and replied, “Hush, young man, can’t you see I am listening to the music?” Something like that happens, I believe, when we hear the promise and get to Easter. God promises, “Behold, I am doing a new thing. Do you perceive it?” When we do, we get to Easter and hear the music of resurrection and new life. I pray that each of us will get to Easter; that we will hear the Promise that calls us from the darkness to the light of a new day; that announces a love that casts our fear and transforms our grief; that opens the door to a new reality for us. And we can say with Mary, “I have seen the Lord!” “He is risen indeed!” Thanks be to God! Amen! |
