The Word That Is Easter
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John 20:1-18
The first time I was in a room with a person who had recently died, I was unprepared for what it would be like. As the on-call chaplain at St Luke’s in City by the Big Lake, where I was training, it was my job to escort a family into the small room where their loved one was laid out for viewing after dying in surgery.
Death happens in a place like St Luke’s every day. There is a special room, called “the black room” for just this purpose. It is hidden in a twisted maze of hallways in the surgical unit. There is a black piece of paper covering the little window so that passers by cannot peek in and see who is laid out there. I suppose it also allows families some privacy when they are in the black room doing what it is there for.
An elderly gentleman lay peacefully under sheets, his hands folded on top of them, so that family members could touch him if they wanted to. I don’t remember asking them about the nature of his surgery. I think I was too frightened by what my own reaction would be to speak to them much at all. I stood by, in case one of the family members should need me—for what I don’t know—but I offered a prayer, the family said good bye to the gentleman, and I escorted them to the social worker, who had paperwork for them to fill out. It was as tidy and clinical as that.
In the ancient world, they had their own rituals surrounding death. In the verses immediately preceding our passage in John, Nicodemus is described as anointing Jesus’ body with spices and myrrh, and wrapping it in linen cloths. These acts and the cloths that are used to perform them become important later in the story. The ritual of visiting the tomb makes me think of that evening when the family wanted to say goodbye to the elderly gentleman. Mary wasn’t expecting to actually see his body, or to touch it, only to be near it. Perhaps she would put her hands on the stone that blocked the door of the tomb as she remembered this one who had understood her, had released her from the demons in Luke’s account of the gospel.
Mary had traveled beside Jesus as he taught, healed and tried to help his friends understand what it was he had come to earth to do. She had stood at the foot of the cross as Jesus was being tortured and his clothes were being gambled away. I imagine she stood next to the other Mary, Jesus’ mother, as he said goodbye to her. She saw all of these things; she watched him die, and on that very early morning she went to be as close to him as she could get, now that he was dead.
When she got there, the worst possible thing had happened: his body was gone! If the family I had escorted to the black room had shown up and all there was to see, to touch, was an empty hospital gurney, there would have been hell to pay, and somebody would have been in trouble. So for Mary Magdalene, the only thing to do was to run back to find the people who had loved him as much as she had and to break the tragic news: he is gone. Someone has stolen his body.
This next scene is so artfully described as to make it seem as if it will be the apex of this story—only those of us gathered here, who know what today means know that it is not, of course, the real point. But the description of Peter and John the Beloved running together to the tomb, makes John a master story teller. There is racing, and arriving first, and stooping, and seeing, and entering, and observing the cloths, how they are rolled up, then more going in, more seeing, and finally believing. (In what, we don’t know, but surely he believed in something.) And then, they go home. They go home?? They go home.
And all the while, Mary stands at the tomb, weeping. While the others are busy stooping and looking and seeing and supposedly understanding, she simply stands there crying. Nothing has changed for her yet. He’s still dead, only now he’s missing. And whoever took him didn’t even have the decency to take his grave clothes with them. And so she weeps.
Dejected, broken-hearted, desperately afraid. Somewhere, early this morning, someone felt that way. Maybe it was you. Somewhere, somebody got unspeakably bad news: the tests came back positive, the loan didn’t go through, the company is moving the plant to Mexico, the marriage is over, “I never loved you.” he says, the checks bounced, the account is hopelessly overdrawn, the Jeep overturned on an Iraqi supply road, the helicopter got shot down, the driver was found to have been intoxicated, “There was simply nothing more we could do for her, I’m sorry.” They’ve taken my Lord, and we don’t know where they have put him.
And so Mary weeps. And as she does, the whole of creation weeps with her, as in her tears she pours out the grief and fear of a world gone terribly wrong. Mary weeps for every wound we ever carried around with us, every burden we were ever afraid to lay down. She weeps for every plan we made that didn’t quite turn out right, every hero we ever had who turned out to be a phony, every idol we ever constructed that turned out to be made of tin instead of gold.
In her weeping she decides to stoop herself, to look in and see what the others saw. It is the only hopeful thing she can do. We who are hearing this story with 21st century ears cheer her on: “Look, Mary, look! There is something wonderful to behold, there is a surprise waiting for you if you will only look.” But for Mary there appears no wonderful surprise inside, only more confusion. Even the reassurances of the angels could not make her fear, desperation and disappointment disappear.
“Turn around, Mary, oh please just turn around.” We want to tell her. “Turn around and all shall be well.” And she does. She turns around and sees someone she does not recognize. This cannot be him, he is dead. This must be a caretaker. In desperation she asks him where the Lord has been taken; she must have begun weeping again, for John tells us that in the next moment when she hears the stranger calling her name, she turns to him in recognition.
“Mary.” The word that is Easter. The word on which everything turns, the word that changes the world forever. The word that swallows her sorrow, her fear, in joy. It didn’t have to be Mary. It could have just as easily been Julie, or Karen, or Jenni, or Doug. Jesus speaks the name, and in doing so, speaks all our names. Suddenly we are no longer 21st century strangers, reading the story in a book, watching from the sidelines, waiting for Mary to do what she needs to do; we are no longer in the position to cheer her on—we are included in what is transpiring, we are included in the transformation that is happening on that dark morning outside the tomb. It is as real to us as this morning, as these flowers, as the music, as this beautiful parament. It is real because Jesus speaks it into existence. It is the only word that matters because it is the only word that would have made a difference to Mary, the only word that makes a difference to us. It is resurrection, redemption, recognition.
And that is what we want, isn’t it? When we are standing in the dark, weeping for what we believe has died forever, when all our hopes and dreams have been shattered, and when our hearts are irreparably broken, we long for, we need to hear our name. We need to know that we are known and recognized by the One who created us, the One who redeemed us, the One who came back to show us that we are known, the One who speaks our name, and in doing so speaks hope and redemption into existence.
And God is standing there showing us the wounds, showing us the places where Christ has taken on the hurts and disappointments, the unwieldy burdens, the shame and sorrow of the whole world—all so that God could recognize us—us.
For everyone who weeps in the early morning, for everyone who has heard the terrible news proclaimed in the dark, for every wounded hurting soul, for every weary wanderer, for everyone who hides behind the scars of anonymity, for all of these, all of us, Christ spoke the word that is resurrection, as surely as if he had spoken our own names.
Let your name be spoken, brothers and sisters. Let yourselves be seen and known and recognized. Mary spoke her worst fears—that Jesus had been stolen, that everything she hoped for and dreamed for had been killed right along side him. Not only that, but that she could not longer find him, could no longer mourn him. She said those things. She shed light on that dark morning when she made herself heard, to everyone who would listen. She spoke her weakness so that she could be recognized, and she was. A favorite line from a favorite song says that to “take down your defenses like you’ve taken off your clothes is a glorious insurrection not to hold your secrets close. ”
It is scary, messy business to be people who speak truth to darkness and fear. It feels risky. If you’ve ever had to be a truth-teller, you know this. Were it not the way to redemption, to recognition, well, I’m not sure I would advise it. But the Good News commands that we do. We are commanded to live lives of integrity, authenticity, and transparency. Only then may our weeping be turned to joy. Christ is waiting to recognize us, to reveal Godself to us.
Jesus said to her, “Woman why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
And it was Easter. He is Risen, Christ is Risen indeed! Thanks be to God.
The first time I was in a room with a person who had recently died, I was unprepared for what it would be like. As the on-call chaplain at St Luke’s in City by the Big Lake, where I was training, it was my job to escort a family into the small room where their loved one was laid out for viewing after dying in surgery.
Death happens in a place like St Luke’s every day. There is a special room, called “the black room” for just this purpose. It is hidden in a twisted maze of hallways in the surgical unit. There is a black piece of paper covering the little window so that passers by cannot peek in and see who is laid out there. I suppose it also allows families some privacy when they are in the black room doing what it is there for.
An elderly gentleman lay peacefully under sheets, his hands folded on top of them, so that family members could touch him if they wanted to. I don’t remember asking them about the nature of his surgery. I think I was too frightened by what my own reaction would be to speak to them much at all. I stood by, in case one of the family members should need me—for what I don’t know—but I offered a prayer, the family said good bye to the gentleman, and I escorted them to the social worker, who had paperwork for them to fill out. It was as tidy and clinical as that.
In the ancient world, they had their own rituals surrounding death. In the verses immediately preceding our passage in John, Nicodemus is described as anointing Jesus’ body with spices and myrrh, and wrapping it in linen cloths. These acts and the cloths that are used to perform them become important later in the story. The ritual of visiting the tomb makes me think of that evening when the family wanted to say goodbye to the elderly gentleman. Mary wasn’t expecting to actually see his body, or to touch it, only to be near it. Perhaps she would put her hands on the stone that blocked the door of the tomb as she remembered this one who had understood her, had released her from the demons in Luke’s account of the gospel.
Mary had traveled beside Jesus as he taught, healed and tried to help his friends understand what it was he had come to earth to do. She had stood at the foot of the cross as Jesus was being tortured and his clothes were being gambled away. I imagine she stood next to the other Mary, Jesus’ mother, as he said goodbye to her. She saw all of these things; she watched him die, and on that very early morning she went to be as close to him as she could get, now that he was dead.
When she got there, the worst possible thing had happened: his body was gone! If the family I had escorted to the black room had shown up and all there was to see, to touch, was an empty hospital gurney, there would have been hell to pay, and somebody would have been in trouble. So for Mary Magdalene, the only thing to do was to run back to find the people who had loved him as much as she had and to break the tragic news: he is gone. Someone has stolen his body.
This next scene is so artfully described as to make it seem as if it will be the apex of this story—only those of us gathered here, who know what today means know that it is not, of course, the real point. But the description of Peter and John the Beloved running together to the tomb, makes John a master story teller. There is racing, and arriving first, and stooping, and seeing, and entering, and observing the cloths, how they are rolled up, then more going in, more seeing, and finally believing. (In what, we don’t know, but surely he believed in something.) And then, they go home. They go home?? They go home.
And all the while, Mary stands at the tomb, weeping. While the others are busy stooping and looking and seeing and supposedly understanding, she simply stands there crying. Nothing has changed for her yet. He’s still dead, only now he’s missing. And whoever took him didn’t even have the decency to take his grave clothes with them. And so she weeps.
Dejected, broken-hearted, desperately afraid. Somewhere, early this morning, someone felt that way. Maybe it was you. Somewhere, somebody got unspeakably bad news: the tests came back positive, the loan didn’t go through, the company is moving the plant to Mexico, the marriage is over, “I never loved you.” he says, the checks bounced, the account is hopelessly overdrawn, the Jeep overturned on an Iraqi supply road, the helicopter got shot down, the driver was found to have been intoxicated, “There was simply nothing more we could do for her, I’m sorry.” They’ve taken my Lord, and we don’t know where they have put him.
And so Mary weeps. And as she does, the whole of creation weeps with her, as in her tears she pours out the grief and fear of a world gone terribly wrong. Mary weeps for every wound we ever carried around with us, every burden we were ever afraid to lay down. She weeps for every plan we made that didn’t quite turn out right, every hero we ever had who turned out to be a phony, every idol we ever constructed that turned out to be made of tin instead of gold.
In her weeping she decides to stoop herself, to look in and see what the others saw. It is the only hopeful thing she can do. We who are hearing this story with 21st century ears cheer her on: “Look, Mary, look! There is something wonderful to behold, there is a surprise waiting for you if you will only look.” But for Mary there appears no wonderful surprise inside, only more confusion. Even the reassurances of the angels could not make her fear, desperation and disappointment disappear.
“Turn around, Mary, oh please just turn around.” We want to tell her. “Turn around and all shall be well.” And she does. She turns around and sees someone she does not recognize. This cannot be him, he is dead. This must be a caretaker. In desperation she asks him where the Lord has been taken; she must have begun weeping again, for John tells us that in the next moment when she hears the stranger calling her name, she turns to him in recognition.
“Mary.” The word that is Easter. The word on which everything turns, the word that changes the world forever. The word that swallows her sorrow, her fear, in joy. It didn’t have to be Mary. It could have just as easily been Julie, or Karen, or Jenni, or Doug. Jesus speaks the name, and in doing so, speaks all our names. Suddenly we are no longer 21st century strangers, reading the story in a book, watching from the sidelines, waiting for Mary to do what she needs to do; we are no longer in the position to cheer her on—we are included in what is transpiring, we are included in the transformation that is happening on that dark morning outside the tomb. It is as real to us as this morning, as these flowers, as the music, as this beautiful parament. It is real because Jesus speaks it into existence. It is the only word that matters because it is the only word that would have made a difference to Mary, the only word that makes a difference to us. It is resurrection, redemption, recognition.
And that is what we want, isn’t it? When we are standing in the dark, weeping for what we believe has died forever, when all our hopes and dreams have been shattered, and when our hearts are irreparably broken, we long for, we need to hear our name. We need to know that we are known and recognized by the One who created us, the One who redeemed us, the One who came back to show us that we are known, the One who speaks our name, and in doing so speaks hope and redemption into existence.
And God is standing there showing us the wounds, showing us the places where Christ has taken on the hurts and disappointments, the unwieldy burdens, the shame and sorrow of the whole world—all so that God could recognize us—us.
For everyone who weeps in the early morning, for everyone who has heard the terrible news proclaimed in the dark, for every wounded hurting soul, for every weary wanderer, for everyone who hides behind the scars of anonymity, for all of these, all of us, Christ spoke the word that is resurrection, as surely as if he had spoken our own names.
Let your name be spoken, brothers and sisters. Let yourselves be seen and known and recognized. Mary spoke her worst fears—that Jesus had been stolen, that everything she hoped for and dreamed for had been killed right along side him. Not only that, but that she could not longer find him, could no longer mourn him. She said those things. She shed light on that dark morning when she made herself heard, to everyone who would listen. She spoke her weakness so that she could be recognized, and she was. A favorite line from a favorite song says that to “take down your defenses like you’ve taken off your clothes is a glorious insurrection not to hold your secrets close. ”
It is scary, messy business to be people who speak truth to darkness and fear. It feels risky. If you’ve ever had to be a truth-teller, you know this. Were it not the way to redemption, to recognition, well, I’m not sure I would advise it. But the Good News commands that we do. We are commanded to live lives of integrity, authenticity, and transparency. Only then may our weeping be turned to joy. Christ is waiting to recognize us, to reveal Godself to us.
Jesus said to her, “Woman why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
And it was Easter. He is Risen, Christ is Risen indeed! Thanks be to God.
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