Easter People

 Matthew 28:1-10
Verbs of seeing are important in this Gospel…They are used throughout Matthew to metaphorically describe understanding or insight into Jesus’ teaching.  In Matthew’s Gospel, being able to see—not just to look at, not just having the sense of sight—but to really see Jesus for who he is and to really see the reality of God’s reign that he ushers into being—that ability to really see is what separates disciples from the non-comprehending crowds[i].  I suppose we could describe it as seeing with one’s heart.  Having God’s vision.  However you define it, you cannot get away from it for much in this Gospel is about seeing.

 The women needed to see on that day.  They needed to get the full picture of reality.  They needed to see with their hearts, not just with their eyes, that he was really dead.  Really gone.  Their Jesus, crucified.  So after the Sabbath, as the first day of the week, the day of beginning, was starting to dawn, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb.  They went to the place that held his body.  They needed to run their fingers along the big rock that covered the entrance, like tracing the epitaph on a gravestone.  Born on…died on…  They needed to touch and feel and see with their hearts that it was over.  The promises were over.  The dream, the hope, the possibility were over.  His life was over.  Death had won.  Mary Magdalene and the other Mary needed to go, to be there, to find closure in the graveyard.  They needed to see it for themselves.

 Last October, I told this congregation about a woman we’ll call Sherry.  She had come to my office when I was a pastor in Texas.  Though she did not know me, she wanted to tell me her story.  Sherry lived in a home of abuse, of violence.  Fear was all that Sherry could see.  And as a result, she did not just go to the graveyard on the first day of the week.  In her mind, she went there every day.  Every argument, every cross look, every moment of tense silence caused her to feel like she was taking another step closer to the tomb, her tomb.  But when she saw the name of a clergywoman on a church sign, for whatever reason, she stopped.  She wanted to know what a female preacher might have to say in response to what she saw every day.  Would I tell her that I saw God’s word in Scripture requiring her to stay, to submit, and to bear her cross of abuse?  With my Scriptural interpretation, with my prayers, would I, like her own pastor, like so many other good Christians, verbally roll the stone in front of her tomb, not really seeing her at all?  

 As she told me her story, I had felt like taking her by the shoulders and telling her, “No! You are a daughter of God.  Go.  Run.”  But I knew I had to be respectful of her decisions.  Goodness knows she did not need to see disappointment in anyone else’s eyes. 

So on that day, we quietly spoke about how she was a person of worth.  How God did not will for her to be hurt or abused.  And I gave her a book, the number of the domestic violence hotline, and asked her to call me the next day and to let me know what she had decided about leaving.  But as we prayed, I noticed her slumped and defeated posture and I realized she had already decided.  On that day, she was unable to see a different future for herself.  I could see in her face that she was already walking to her tomb.  I could hear in her voice that she was writing the epitaph for her gravestone.  I looked into her eyes for a glimmer of hope and, well, she had the eyes of Good Friday.  Ending was all she could see with her heart.  And I knew I would not get a phone call that next day.  And indeed, I did not. 

 Mary Magdelene and the other Mary went as that first day of the week, that day of beginning, was just barely starting to dawn.  The shadows still spilled across the path.  The grass was still wet from evening’s blanket.  They were going in order to see the tomb.  To see the ending with their hearts. 

 But when they arrived, the earth shook.  It must have felt like the end of the world.  They were terrified.  And then, with their own eyes, they saw an angel roll back that stone as if it were made of paper mache, and then sit down on it.  The angel looked as terrifying as lightening—bright and powerful, loud and uncontrollable.  The guards appointed by Pilate to watch the tomb froze and fainted dead away, unable to process with their minds what they were seeing with their eyes.  The women clung to each other, paralyzed by fear and wonder, but still with eyes wide open.  They waited.  The angel spoke. 

 “Do not be afraid.”  Those were the first words from the angel’s mouth—important words for those women had seen so much.  From the distance, they saw Jesus take his last breath.  They saw Joseph bring his body to the tomb. They saw the stone rolled in front of it.  Their eyes had seen so much ending.  On that day, fear loomed large. 

But the angel was not finished speaking.  “He is not here!” he exclaimed.  “He has been raised, just like he promised.  God did it!  Come on, see for yourselves.  No body.  No Jesus.” 

 The women did not know how to respond.  They had gone there for endings.  But the angel was proclaiming God’s shattering newness.  They had gone there to see the dead.  But the angel was testifying that God had wrenched forth eternal life, starting right then and there.  The women had gone there to say goodbye.  But the angel was promising a new start, a new beginning.  They had gone there with dried up hearts.  But the angel was pointing to hope pouring out of the empty tomb and saturating everything and everyone in its path.  “Daughters of God,” the angel said, “The Lord is risen!  He is risen indeed!”  The angel, the scary lightening-flaked angel, might have almost chuckled.  “He is waiting for you in Galilee.  Go and see.”

 The women’s mouths dropped open.  They looked in the empty tomb.  They looked back at the angel.  They were filled with fear.  Terrifying, what just happened to me, earth-shaking, end of the world, crazy fear.  And joy.  Great, great, joy.  And “what if it is true” kinds of possibilities.  And more than anything else, tidal waves of pure hope.  The tomb was empty.  It was like Good Friday scales fell from their eyes and the brightness of Easter resurrection was all they could see. 

 Two years after meeting Sherry, during Holy Week, I received another phone call.  It was another woman whom I had not met.  She was terrified, full of nervous energy.  “I need to get to another state,” she sputtered.  “I cannot stay here.  He has already tracked me to the shelter.  He knows.  I have no money.  Will you help?” 

 I am not proud of it, but I was initially irritated by her call on my cell phone.  It was the Wednesday of Holy Week and I had things to do.  But I tried to ignore my self-centeredness and cynicism and met her at the church with a gas card for her, a small offering.  She eagerly showed me all of her paper work, all of the proof that she was not a sham.  It was true.  She was running for her life, for the life of her girls. 

“I have cut off my hair,” she showed me.  “And see, I have the papers for a new name right here.  A shelter in a different state is waiting for us.  Do you need to see anything else?”  “No,” I responded.  But I did have a question for her:  “How did you get my name?” I asked.  “You said on the phone that someone at the shelter referred you, but I have thought about it and I do not know anyone there.”  “It was not from staff,” she said.  “It was from someone staying there.  She said your church would help.”  My heart stopped for a moment.  “What was her name?”  She paused.  You are not supposed to give out names.  But then she saw my face and she broke the rule.  “It was Sherry,” she said.  “A woman named Sherry.” 

 At that moment, I promise you I felt the earth shake.  I reached out to steady myself.  If a lightening-flaked angel had shown up sitting on the hood of her car, I would not have been a bit surprised.  “Sherry?” I sputtered, “She is okay?  She got out?”  The woman nodded affirmatively.  “She said this church would help.  You all saw her and your church helped her.” 

 Mary Magdelene and the other Mary felt their feet begin to move in response to their soaring spirits.  And they ran from the tomb, dropping their silk flowers, their grief, and their despair as they went.  And the sun on this day of beginning, this first day of the week, began to shine brighter and slowly rise.  Its rays were all you could see.  The lingering shadows of death were absolutely overcome by its brilliance. 

 The women ran smack dab into Jesus and immediately fell down at his feet to worship him.  To thank him.  To bear witness to Easter vision in their Good Friday world.  To testify to the reality of eternal life that started right then and there, not only in the sweet-by-and-by.  To recognize that Death had met its death, and that Sunday always comes, and Easter always rises.  They fell down in worship because that is what you do when you are overcome by God’s reality of Hope and new life.  “Don’t be afraid,” he told them.  “Go on to Galilee.  Tell them all I will meet them there—in Galilee—I will see them there.  They will see me there.”

 “We are free!” she shouted.  She quickly apologized for her outburst.  We were standing at the gas station as we filled her tank.  “I am really going to be able to do it this time,” she said.  We had another Presbyterian pastor on the phone who was meeting her with a second gas card for the journey.  It would make enough so they would not have to stop on the way.  “I really am leaving!  We really are free!  Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus,” she cried, holding the steering wheel, ready to put the van in gear. 

 I watched her pull out onto the road.  As I watched her drive off, I peered into that empty tomb and my eyes saw nothing less than pure and total resurrection, new life, a brand new creation.  For that moment, I was given Easter vision.    

I stayed there as long as I could at the gas station, not wanting to let her out of my sight.  For me, during that Holy Week, she was the Easter promise.  She testified to me that God really is as good as Jesus says.  That God really is able to make resurrection newness in a world that has grown stale and fearful and cranky.  She was my living, breathing, Easter witness.  I did not want to leave that holy ground. 

 But after a few minutes, I got back into my car to go home.  And for a moment, my clothes of a Good Friday world were transformed into Easter brightness.  The sun filled me with its warmth and the shadows disappeared.  I left that holy ground of a gas station filled with awe and joy and great saturating hope, resurrection newness breaking out as far as my eyes could see.  Easter all around.

  “We are free,” she had shouted.  Mary Magdelene and the other Mary were running and skipping and leaping to Galilee.  God’s daughter Sherry was safe.  And in my car, the first words out of my mouth were “Death—Ha—where is thy sting.  He is risen.  The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!  Alleluia! Alleluia!”