Texts/
John 20:1-18
Acts 10:34-43
Let’s pray:
May the
words of my mouth
the meditations of our hearts
be acceptable in your
sight,
O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.
Amen.
‘Early on
the first day of the week...’
The
beginning of an old, familiar story.
The
beginning of a story that cuts to the heart
of the
Christian faith.
A story of
darkness and light, for John’s recounting of that story begins
in the
gloom and dark before dawn.
But we, as
his audience,
know that
light is coming...
The lone
figure of a woman, Mary of Magdala,
makes her
way through the darkness
to the
garden tomb.
A tomb in
which her beloved Lord has been placed
after his recent, horrific execution.
As dark as
it is outside,
Mary’s
interior world is darker still.
She’s
bereft.
She’s grief-stricken.
And for
Mary, the darkness is compounded
when she
arrives at the tomb:
the
massive stone covering the entrance
has been
rolled away.
What’s
going on?
What fresh
horror is this?
In shock, she runs.
Actually,
there’s a lot of running
in this
particular story.
She runs
to find Simon Peter and the unnamed ‘other’ disciple -
who most biblical commentators
believe to be John.
She’s not sure what’s happened at the grave,
but
whatever it is, it surely can’t be good.
Is there
some conspiracy afoot?
‘‘They’
have taken the Lord out of the tomb,’ she says,
‘and we don’t know where ‘they’ have put
him.’
Even
though they've killed him,
have the
enemies of Jesus played one last cruel
trick?
There’s no
inkling here of resurrection,
of death
defeated’,
only shock
and maybe panic.
All of this happens, while it is still dark -
and for
the writer of this Gospel,
darkness
is working on several levels:
the
darkness of pre-dawn;
the
darkness of grief and despair;
and the
darkness of confusion.
But we, as
his audience, know that light is coming...
More
running.
Peter and
the other disciple run to the tomb.
The open
tomb.
The first
disciple peers in -
sees
strips of linen,
the burial
cloth,
grave
clothes without a body.
And Peter,
less hesitant, goes inside.
The cloth
is folded neatly.
What’s
happening here?
Does he
think back to Lazarus,
remembering
another tomb?
But when Lazarus emerged,
he was still
bound in his grave clothes,
and needed
help to get out of them.
This...is
different.
There’s
nobody here:
or, more
to the point, no body.
The other
disciple finally goes into the tomb.
We’re told
that ‘he saw and believed’ -
but what
is it that he believes?
Mary’s
story of an empty tomb, sure.
But are we
so sure that he believes
there’s
been a resurrection?
Because,
in our story, we have a
small
editorial comment:
‘they
still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead’.
Both
disciples leave the tomb,
the rolled
stone,
the
garden...
and go
home.
And, as
they head for home,
is there a
glimmer of belief, of light -
or are they still in the dark?
But we,
who know this story well,
know that
light is coming...
Light is
already filling the skies:
as the
morning sun breaks over the horizon
so too,
the Son of God breaks the power
of death
and darkness
and brings
the light of hope,
the light
of eternity into the world.
In the quiet
of the early dawn,
the lone
figure of a woman
can be
seen in the garden,
weeping
outside the tomb.
Having run
back to the garden
with the
two disciples,
she now dares to peer inside the open tomb.
The open
tomb, that’s no longer empty:
Where the body should have been,
two
shining figures are seated.
They ask a
strangely obvious question:
‘why are you weeping?’
Obvious,
because she’s standing there,
inside a tomb,
obvious,
because the tomb contains - contained
-
someone
dear to her.
In the
darkness of her grief,
she
replies to the shining figures:
‘They have taken my Lord away,
and I don’t
know
where they’ve put him.’
And then,
another person enters the scene.
She has no
idea who the stranger is,
but he,
too, asks the same question
that the
angels have just asked:
‘Why are you crying?’
And he follows
it with another:
‘Who is
it you’re looking for?’
She’s
still in the dark as to who this stranger is.
All she
wants to know is:
where have they put Jesus, and...
can she
get him back?
For, at
least if she can recover the dead body,
she can
perhaps restore some dignity
to him at
the last.
Do one
last kindness to him.
But she’s
already living in the past:
clinging
to it,
clinging
to the comfort of the familiar -
for that’s
what we do in the darkness of grief.
And,
piercing through her darkness,
his voice:
he calls
her name -
‘Mary’
and, in
hearing her name,
the
darkness is lifted,
the light
pours in,
and she
finally sees the Teacher.
Tries to
comprehend this staggering truth -
he is not
dead.
And she is
the first to witness this.
Having followed him before his crucifixion,
she’s now sent to be a messenger -
an apostle
in the broadest sense,
for that’s
what the word means.
She’s sent
to tell the other followers -
to bear
witness.
As he calls her by name,
so Jesus
calls her to tell the news,
the Good
News:
to spread
the light of hope,
the light of
the resurrection,
the light
of new life...
of
freedom,
forgiveness,
and
unconditional love.
Having
wanted to cling to the past,
she’s
shown, in the present,
in the
garden of that first Easter morning,
the One
who is the light
that
shines in the darkness:
the light
that can never be put out,
the light
who even the darkness
cannot
consume or contain.
Mary goes,
as bidden, to the disciples,
begins to
tell the story of the One
who died
and rose again.
A story,
which, 2 000 years later, is still being told.
We, who
are gathered here on this Easter morning, know this story:
know that
the light has come.
That
Jesus, through his life, and death,
and
resurrection,
offers us new life in him -
a way out
of the darkness -
the darkness of harmful cycles of behaviour,
the darkness of grief and despair,
the darkness of injustice, hate, and oppression.
He offers us a new way
of being of living as his people,
his body
here on earth:
a people who live in the power of the resurrection here and now.
Over these
last weeks,
we’ve
walked through the wilderness of Lent:
and, in
this last week, have journeyed
with Jesus
through Holy Week,
through
the palms and the cheers,
to Gethsemane
and betrayal in the garden,
to arrest,
and trial, and jeers, and crucifixion.
And in the
darkness of that death,
held our
breath
as time
stood still,
and watched
and waited.
And, we
have dared to hope -
for we
know how this story ends:
that there shall be no more tears,
that
darkness is overcome,
that death
is defeated,
that the
light of the world can never be put out.
Here, with
an empty cross,
grave
clothes folded,
and with resurrected
alleluias,
the
questions Jesus asked of Mary
in the
garden echo down through the ages:
‘why are you weeping?’
‘who is it
you’re
looking for?’
And, like
Mary,
he calls
each one of us by name -
for in his
life,
his death,
his
resurrection
he brings us life, and light, and hope.
He calls
us not to cling to a dead body -
not to
cling to the past,
but to walk
in his light here and now
and also to
look ahead to the light of eternity.
Like Mary,
he calls
each one of us to go,
to tell,
to share
the Good News -
to call
others,
to watch
the darkness lift,
and the
light pour in
as they,
in turn, see the Teacher
and
comprehend the staggering truth -
that he is not
dead.
He lives
still.
And we are
his witnesses -
called by
name
and brought
out of the darkness
into his
marvellous light
For we are
an Easter people
and ‘alleluia’
is our song.
Christ is
risen!
Alleluia!
He is risen indeed!
Amen.
vvvvvv
