Easter

March 31, 2024

Over the years, I’ve developed a cherished Sunday routine. I try to leave the house around 6 am. If it’s Summer, and the weather is nice, I’ll ride my bike on the southwest commuter path. Other times of the year, I drive of course, but if the sun is rising, or risen, I’ll cut down Vilas Avenue so I can catch sight of Lake Wingra and then Brittingham Bay. When I get to church, I’ll take some time to say Morning Prayer, to put finishing touches on my sermon, and then in the quiet and stillness of the nave, I’ll prepare for the early service—put out the items for the Eucharist, unlock the doors, if there’s time, just sit in the holy quiet of the morning. On days like today, there’s also the added pleasure of the lingering aroma of the incense we used last night—although I could do without the scent of lilies, even on Easter. It’s funny, really, because truth be told, I never sleep well on Saturday nights; there’s always too much to fret and worry over, but when I get here, in the holy silence of this place, my soul becomes quiet in the presence of God.

I’m sure many of you have similar routines that mark your days and your lives, and for many of you, those routines, in some way or fashion, also help to bring you into touch with the divine, whether you mean them to or not. 

On those Sunday morning drives, in the dark, or growing light of sunrise, I often think of Mary Magdalene, coming to the tomb, early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark. 

It’s a familiar story, so like all familiar stories, we think we know its details. And too often, we fill out one version of the story with details gleaned from others. That’s particularly true when it comes to scripture. So, I wonder, have any of you ever asked why Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb in John’s gospel?

No, the bit about bringing spices and ointments to anoint his body, that comes from the other gospels. In John, all that’s been done already—Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea had prepared Jesus’ body for burial. Nicodemus, we were told a few verses earlier had brought 100 pounds of spices—a wildly extravagant and superfluous amount. So Mary had not come to anoint Jesus’ body. 

She came for another reason, to mourn her beloved teacher and friend, to grieve her dashed hopes, to sit at the tomb for a while to collect her thoughts and to figure out what she was going to do next, to pick up the pieces of her life.

Imagine, if you can, Mary, on that walk from wherever she had been staying to this place, to this garden tomb. Her world had been shattered, her life upended, again. We don’t know how, or when, or where she encountered Christ for the first time. We don’t know how long she had been following him. The gospels are silent on all that, though the Christian tradition and popular culture have filled out her story with all sorts of fantasy.

What we do know, or can assume, is that her life had been changed by her encounter with Christ—the abundant life of which he spoke had been hers, or within her grasp. She had heard him speak, watched him heal and perform other signs, and only a few nights earlier, had her feet washed by him in a sign and symbol of love and service. And she had hoped—for the restoration of Israel? The defeat of Rome? A changed world? The kingdom of God on earth? What she hoped for, we cannot know. But what we do know is that all of those hopes had come to nought.

Still, early that morning on the first day of the week, she came here, alone, in the darkness, to be close to the one she had thought was her savior, the savior of the world. She may have wanted to be alone, close to her beloved teacher, to remember, to grieve, and probably to begin to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

But instead of a silent tomb, she discovers something that adds insult to injury, that makes everything seem so much worse. The indignity, the inhumanity, the disrespect. The tomb is empty and there’s only one conclusion to draw, that someone, the Romans? The Jewish authorities? Vandals—had desecrated the tomb and stolen Jesus’ body.

This then, at last is more than she can handle by herself. So she runs back to tell the other disciples, and Peter, and the Beloved Disciple, run back with her to check out her story. And this is where the story gets interesting. 

A couple of things happen. First, the two disciples enter the tomb and see the grave clothes. And they go home. Are they so flummoxed by this turn of events that they don’t know what to do? Are they so bewildered by all that has happened that they just want to go back to bed and pretend none of it has happened? Whatever the case, they leave the scene. This is not their story, it’s Mary’s.

And only now, alone again, does she do as they had done and look inside the tomb. And only now, finally, she receives the news that Jesus has risen. And only now, finally she encounters the Risen Christ. In the ashes of her hopes, in the shattered dreams of her life, the Risen Christ comes to her, names her, and makes all things new. 

Many of us, most of us, perhaps all of us, have been on long, lonely walks in the darkness like Mary on that long-ago morning. We have wandered through wildernesses, through dark nights of the soul, grieving lost loved ones, dashed hopes, bad decisions. We have wondered what next, how we can even go on, why take the next step? We have been alone, friendless, hopeless, in despair, our lives in shambles. No doubt, some of us feel that way today.

Mary was like us. We are Mary. She came to the tomb. She encountered a gardener. When Jesus called her by name, she replied, “Teacher.” But Jesus was much more than a teacher, and in the brief exchange that follows, Mary comes to realize what it all means, what everything means. She comes to know and believe what Jesus has been telling her, his other disciples, and us, throughout the gospel. She comes to know and understand who he is, what the crucifixion and this experience, resurrection mean. When she returns to the other disciples to tell them what happened, she makes it all clear, “I have seen the Lord.”

Here we are, all of us. We have come with our hopes and desires, with our cynicism and doubts, with our faith and with our uncertainty. We have come to this place to hear again the good news of Jesus Christ’s resurrection. We have come to experience the joy of that good news. We want it tied up in a neat package, like a rolled up ball of linen. We want it on our terms, in our categories, we want it to fill our needs.

But Jesus Christ comes to us in unexpected ways. Jesus Christ comes to us in ways we can’t imagine, in encounters we can’t control. The risen Christ comes to us in bread and wine, in the community of the faithful, and in ways we can’t express. The risen Christ comes to us, to shatter our expectations, break down the barriers that prevent us from seeing and experiencing him. The risen Christ comes to us, to remake us, to fashion us in his image and likeness. The risen Christ comes to us. Dare we say, with Mary, “We have seen the Lord?”

Thanks be to God.

Alleluia. Christ is Risen!