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Words of Hope and Inspiration

Easter Sunday, March 30 1997, Sermon 7

Texts:

Acts 10:34-43 or Isaiah 25:6-9

Psalm 118:14-24

1 Corinthians 15:1-11 or Acts 10:34-43

John 20:1-18 or Mark 16:1-8

Theme: The resurrected Jesus greets Mary Magdalene and makes a claim upon her

life–as he does upon ours.

Subject: grace, unexpected miracles

Our Great and Gracious God: we wait with eager ears to hear your truth

through the drama of the Easter story. Let us hear, let us be moved,

let us respond. Amen.

Something happened that day. Something so breathtaking, so unbelievable,

that the sighs of those who witnessed it echo and shudder through twenty long

centuries. Even we can hear it. On this holiest of holy days, we listen in

wonder to a story. A story that does not make complete sense

to us, but a story of such beauty and power that even the most cynical and rational

among us, still our breathing to hear. And even the most believing

among us, find our breath taken away.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary

Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb.

Why did she come? Why was she here? She came to attend to the unfinished

business of grief. Mary, remember, was one of Jesus’ closest friends, probably a

wealthy patron of his ministry. Only she could have afforded to buy the

perfumed oils and ointments that were used in biblical times to anoint

the bodies of the dead. Mary came, her hands heavy with spices and oils, her

heart heavy with sorrow.

She came to the tomb while it was still dark. It was still dark. Was she restless?

Couldn’t sleep? Was she afraid to be seen performing loving rituals for one who had

been executed for blasphemy and high treason?

She found the doorway gaping open. Something was wrong — terribly wrong. The

expensive flasks of oil slipped from her limp hands and shattered on the rocks.

Without a word, she turned and ran to get Simon Peter and the unnamed disciple whom

Jesus loved. She wrenched them out of sleep, crying, “They have taken the Lord

out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him!”

They reached the tomb, breathless, and Simon Peter crawled inside. John

tells us that “he saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that

had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings, but rolled up

in a place by itself.” Why has John recorded such careful detail

about these burial wrappings? Did the shocking contract of rumpled white cloth

against empty gray stone sear forever in Peter’s memory this image — to be told,

and told, and told again, like a ghost story?

Or was John trying to tell us something about how Jesus left? That his

departure was not sudden or dramatic but rather, unhurried? Leisurely?

Plenty of time to roll up the linen wrappings and tidy up the place?

Peter scrutinized the scene, but didn’t get the point. The other disciple

took one look and understood everything. John tells us that he believed.

No wonder this disciple was so beloved by Jesus. No wonder Peter

so often disappointed Jesus.

Peter and the disciple made their way back home. To bed? To tell the

others? We’re not told.

But Mary stayed behind. The disciples’ footsteps grew more distant and the stillness

gathered around her. Quietly, slowly, she fell to pieces. What has happened?

What has happened?

She walked over the tomb and bent over to look inside. At first, she saw nothing —

darkness against darkness. But as her eyes began to adjust, she could just

make out two white shapes. Blinking her eyes, she finally saw them — two angels

sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying.

The angels spoke. “Woman, why are you weeping?”

All the exhaustion, the rage, and the ache, closed down over Mary, and the words

flowed out like a lonely, mournful wail — “They have taken my Lord away,

and I don’t know where they have laid him!”

And for one breathless, excruciating heartbeat of a moment, they stood there

together in silence.

“It’s no use, no use,” she thought. “He’s gone.”

“It’s no use,” he thought. “She’ll never know it’s me.”

“Mary,” he said.

He called her by name. Just as he had done a thousand times before, he called

her by name. And something happened inside her. In the time it takes to say one

word, she suddenly saw things in a new and startling way. All that she had

ever heard about life and death and the ways of God’s love just fell into

place with the shuddering sound of her own name. “Mary,” he said. And the

word hung in the air between them, shimmering in the twilight of dawn. And

she knew in her heart.

There are times in our lives when we stand, like Mary, suspended somewhere

between tears and laughter, somewhere between death and life. Times when a

person comes into our life like a gift, and speaks our name, and calls us into

hearing, into understanding, into living. Times when we hear, in the

calling of that name, a claim on our life. And we know beyond all knowing that

we have been in the presence of Christ resurrected.

Mary walked home that morning, just as the sun was breaking over the Judean hills.

Most of Jerusalem was still asleep. Only the sounds of animals stirring, the crackle

of breakfast fires, the echo of her quickening footsteps.

When she saw the house, she started running. She threw herself against the door,

and pounded with both fists, and called out, “Wake up! Wake up!”

They came to the door at once, and flung it open, and squinted out with sleepy eyes.

There was Mary, laughing like a madwoman, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s a miracle,” she gasped. “My name is Mary! Mary! He called me Mary!”

Something happened that day. Something so breathtaking, so unbelievable,

that the sighs of those who witnessed it echo and shudder through twenty long

centuries. Even we can hear it.

Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Elizabeth Chandler Felts