While It Was Still Dark…

John 20:1-18
I need to be careful here in your pulpit today and tread lightly.  And no, it is not because this is my first Easter with you and I don’t want to mess it up.  I come treading carefully and lightly because I do not want to say too much this morning.  I come into this space of proclamation with a genuine concern over my words.  

For as all of you retired clergy know, on Easter Sunday morning, we preachers are in a bit of a bind.  And we are in a bit of a bind because none of us can stand in this space and make logical sense of the resurrection.  I cannot stand here and make any honest attempt to explain Easter to you.  One of my favorite sayings from preacher Barbara Brown Taylor is that the actual resurrection is the one and only event in Jesus’ life that was entirely between
Jesus and God.[i]   The rest of us simply stand on the outside of the tomb, unaware of what took place inside its rock walls, sure of only one thing—that what happened in that tomb remains pure mystery—pure, unfathomable mystery.  A mystery that began in the dark. 

 Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene walked to the tomb.  Three days earlier her Lord, her beloved friend, had been put to death by the most horrific and humiliating state form of execution-- crucifixion.  And as she made her way to the tomb with that picture in her mind, I’m sure Mary felt grief choking her soul.  John’s Gospel does not tell us why she was going to the tomb on that early, dark morning.  Perhaps she was going to anoint the body—a customary practice three days after death.  Or, maybe she was going to cry in private.  She had had enough of other people—enough of their tears, enough of trying to comfort them, enough of putting on a good church face and acting like it was all going to be okay.   

Or perhaps on that early morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene just needed to be alone with God.  She needed to get down and dirty with her own anger and her loss.  She needed the time and the space to let God know exactly how she felt at that moment—to tell God how God had let her down by letting Jesus die.  And she needed to figure out a way to deal with the reality that her hope had died with Jesus and she felt completely wrung out.  And in her dark, her soul ached.  

Earlier this Holy Week, while it was still dark, the Asheville Citizen-Times ran another story about domestic violence.  The story was at least the third one recently printed.  This time, the scope of the violence claimed not just the mother’s life, but also the life of their child.  Splashed across the front page were pictures of the mother and child, details about the crime, statements of remorse from the abuser.  Read all about it.  And I bet that as the woman’s family prepared to bury their daughter and their grandchild, their spirits felt completely numbed by the overwhelming anger and sense of loss.  I am sure they felt wrung out.  Guilty.  Empty.  In their dark, I can only imagine how their souls ached.

 Earlier this week, while it was still dark, a woman went in for a biopsy.  She was trying not to be nervous, trying not to immediately assume it was the C word, cancer, but she knew what a biopsy implied.  And she knew that cancer ran in her family.  But she also knew that if it was cancer, it was probably early and there were many treatments, but still…  There is no way to prepare for that diagnosis.  After the procedure she was told to go home.  The doctor would call later in the week.  So she went home and sat in her living room and began to wait.  That was all she could do.  Just wait.  And in her darkness, her soul ached.

 Earlier this week, while it was still dark, another marriage unraveled, another job was lost, another person came forward with a story of clergy sexual abuse and church cover-up.  Earlier this week, while it was still dark, another couple walked into the church and asked for help with a night’s housing.  Earlier this week, while it was still dark, another wife was placed on Hospice care as her husband sat by her bedside and wondered where all of their time had gone.  And in all that darkness, souls ached. 

 Earlier in the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdelene made her way to the tomb.  Perhaps she went to grieve, perhaps she went out of ritual, perhaps she went because she had nowhere else to go.  But when she arrived, she was shocked by what she found.  The tomb was empty.  She rushed to the rational conclusion that someone had taken the body.  It was the only thing that made sense.  She ran back to tell the others.  Peter and another disciple ran to the tomb and saw its stark emptiness for themselves.  They were confused and did not understand.  And so, in their confusion, in their grief, in their fear, they went back to the safety of their locked rooms.  They did not know what to think in the face of an empty tomb.  So they chose to go back into the sadly familiar presence of the darkness.

 Mary, though, could not leave.  Her hope had died with Jesus.  She was as limp and as wrung out as an old dish towel.  And she felt like she had to figure out what had happened to his body.  If she could just have the body, then she could bury it alongside her dead hope and be done with it all forever.  She peered into the tomb again and saw two angels, but her eyes, heavy and wet with pain, did not even register shock. 

 “Woman, why are you weeping,” the strangers asked.  “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”  Her pain was laid clear.  Her sorrow and loss, made manifest in the darkness of the early morning, tumbled out with her words.  And as she wiped her eyes, Mary turned around and saw another stranger.  “Woman,” he said, “Why are you weeping?  For whom are you looking?.”  The weight of her grief was so heavy she could barely speak, but she begged him to give her the body so that she could be done with it all forever. 

 “Mary,” the stranger said, calling her name.  And at that moment, her eyes were opened and she recognized him.  “Rabbouni, my teacher.”  She was confused and a little frightened.  What was happening?  Was she going crazy?  It did not make any logical sense.  Jesus was dead, right?  Dead people stay dead. 

And yet, there he stood—her Lord, her beloved friend—calling her by name.  It was pure unfathomable mystery.  She thought all hope was lost, that the darkness and chaos had won.  Mary thought it was all over.  But, there he was, newly alive, calling her name.  Telling her to share the news with the others.  Reminding her that he was soon going back to God to finish what he had started.  Promising her it was not over, death had not won, Easter always rises. 

And as Mary ran back to tell the others, I am sure she thought about what she would say.  No – she was not having a nervous breakdown.  No – she could not explain it.  No – she did not even understand it.  No – it made no logical sense.  All she knew was the in the midst of her darkness, in the midst of her chaos and grief, in the midst of her feelings of God-forsakenness, God was still at work.  God was not finished yet.  Death had lost its sting and she felt as new as a newborn baby.  And as the sun started to make its way across that early dawn sky, she remembered him calling her name and her hope sprouted wings again and started to flutter and fly. And she realized that though they had killed God’s Love, no one could keep it dead and buried[ii].  Easter always rises.   

 As the sun began to make its way across the dawn sky, I got out of bed on Monday.  I put on pants and a long sleeve shirt that would work for my walking tour of the Presbyterian Home for Children.  And as we walked, Tom Campbell told me about some of their kids. These days, their kids have typically been in and out of many different foster families by the time they land at the Home.  They have often been deeply wounded.  They deal with all kinds of psychological distress that might take them lifetimes to manage.  But then Tom told me about an experience he had with some of them last Fall, after kids from the Home partnered with kids from this congregation to feed families at Thanksgiving. 

 After that experience, three of the girls from the Home could not get one particular family out of their heads.  It was a single mother with three kids under age 5.  These three teenagers decided they needed to help those kids at Christmas, too.  Tom said that was fine, but they would have to raise the money and figure out how to make it happen.  So that is exactly what they did.  Those three teenage girls went to their peers at the Home and asked for donations out of the 2$-8$/week allowance that each child receives.  And their peers responded.  And in three weeks, they collected 80$ and proudly bought those three little kids gifts and food and personally delivered the packages on Christmas.  And I am certain that as those three teenage girls rang that bell holding packages that symbolized their care for those kids, they heard their own names being called and felt their own hope sprouting wings and learning to fly again.

 As the sun began to make its way across the dawn sky few months ago, a group of Mexican rescue workers arrived in Haiti[iii].  Their nickname is the Gophers.  The Gophers got their name because they learned through their own experience of earthquake destruction how to quickly tunnel into rubble and make tunnels in order to pull out survivors.  It meant they put their own lives more at risk, but it was very effective.  Seven days after the quake, the Gophers were working in the shadow of a church in Port-Au-Prince, when they heard faint singing.  They tunneled in and found a 70 year old woman, weak with dehydration, singing praises.  And as they carefully pulled her concrete dust-covered body out of the rubble, the rescuers began to cry for the woman’s joy was infectious.  And other rescuers began to applaud.  And though she was incredibly weak, the woman kept on singing praises to her Easter God.  And I am sure that at least for a few moments, in the middle of all that chaos, those rescuers and that woman heard their own names being called and felt some hope sprouting wings and starting to fly again.   

As the sun began to make its way across the dawn sky a few years ago, a man on Hospice breathed his last.  His wife wept with both heartbreak and relief.   For she knew that his healing had finally happened.   It was not how she would have chosen it, but she knew he was finally free and whole in a way he could no longer be there with her.  And as the family began to gather and stories of his life were told, his widow found herself in a place of unexpected peace.  She was still deeply sad, and her grief would be a long journey, but she undeniably felt God’s presence.   

I was her pastor at the time, but I was unable to do the memorial service.  I had just given birth to Ryan.  But after the service, Ryan and I went to see her.  And as she held my newborn son in her arms, she talked to me about her Easter.  And through her tears, I could tell that even in the midst of her loss, she heard her name being called and she trusted that one day, her hope would again sprout wings and start to fly.  For she knew that her God was not finished yet and that Easter always rises.   

Mary Magdelene burst through the door and looked into the faces of her friends.  “I have seen the Lord!” she proclaimed.  And she told them what she had seen and heard.  And Hope started to flutter and fly, perching in their souls once again[iv]. 

The Lord is risen.  He is risen indeed.  Alleluia!  Amen.