A meditation on Easter Sunday, the story of resurrection in John 20:1-18.
1
The great English writer G. K.
Chesterton once quipped: “Look at things familiar / Until they look unfamiliar
again.” Look at things familiar, until
they look unfamiliar again. Think about
the way the sun rose in the east this morning.
You’ve seen the sun rise maybe a hundred times before. But never the way it rose this morning. Did you see it? There was something new, something
unprecedented, something spectacularly sacred in the way the sun rose this
morning. The way all the colors of the
universe blushed in its rising. The way
it lifted its gaze and smiled on your Easter Sunday. Did you see it? It seems to me that our human challenge is to
unlock our own astonishment. To let the
new and wondrous be new and wondrous. Look
at things familiar, Chesterton quipped, until they look unfamiliar again.
In a sense, that’s our challenge,
every Easter Sunday. Because it’s so
easy, every spring, to take this story for granted; to assume we know all there
is to know about Easter and resurrection.
After all, we’ve heard it a hundred times before. It’s so familiar as to risk becoming routine. You’ve got the empty tomb. You’ve got the befuddled friends. You’ve got the risen Lord. What else could there be? It’s so tempting to anticipate this story’s
trajectory—without investing in its pain, its sadness and its sudden
surprise. After all, we know where it’s
going.
But, of course, we don’t. We don’t know where this story is going any
more than we know where our own stories are going. Look at things familiar, until they look
unfamiliar again. This Easter story—this
story of fear and fearlessness, this story of grief and resurrection—it’s new,
it’s different every year. Like that sun
rising over the hills this morning. If
we dare to invest in Mary’s courage. If
we dare to identify with Peter’s fear.
If we risk looking for Jesus in that garden tomb. So we return to this sacred story, to this
Easter story, not because we’ve heard it all before. We return—to be surprised, to be astonished,
to be stunned by the wonders of life.
Your life. My life. Our life together on this planet.
2
For starters, don’t you find it kind
of curious that it’s Mary Magdalene who goes back to the garden tomb? After everything that’s happened—the
betrayals in Gethsemane, the violence on Golgotha—Mary Magdalene’s the one who
goes back first, in the dim hours of a new day, while it’s still dark. Not Peter, not James, not John, not the
others. We remember that, in the last hours of Jesus’ life, Peter and James and
John: they fled, scattered in a dozen different directions. Their anxiety is familiar to us. Fear sends us scurrying for safety in the
shadows. No matter how much courage they
thought they had; no matter how much enthusiasm; Peter and the others are
easily intimidated. They’re hiding out,
sleeping in, waiting for things to settle down in the frenzied city.
But not Mary Magdalene. Mary Magdalene refuses to hide. No closets for Mary. No doors double-bolted. She refuses to hide. It’s as if love—this extraordinary love—dissolves
any fear, all fear in her heart. It’s as
if compassion overrides anxiety. And she
rises early in the morning and goes back to the tomb. To see.
To hope. To keep this strange
story alive for us. This is a woman,
this is a disciple who fears nothing.
Mary Magdalene.
What do we know about Mary
Magdalene? Not a whole lot. Rumors abound, of course. A questionable reputation. A curious past. You have to wonder if the others are just
jealous: her courage, her devotion, her getting there first. This woman whose shadows dance with light, this
woman who discovers in Jesus the hidden wholeness she’s ached for all
along. Jesus promised her that he
wouldn’t leave her orphaned. Jesus
promised her that even if world could see him no longer, she’d find a way. To see, to know, to love, to befriend. “Don’t let your heart be troubled,” Jesus
said. “Don’t let it be afraid.” So here’s Mary Magdalene, while it’s still
dark, going back to the tomb, taking Jesus at his word.
Imagine her courage. She’s been through everything the others have
been through: watching Jesus arrested and beaten, spat at and stripped of his
clothing. She’s seen him carry a huge,
ugly cross up the hill and seen him crucified there with other criminals. And still, and still, she goes to the tomb on
the first day of the week. Love
dissolves fear. Compassion overrides
anxiety. Mary’s taking Jesus at his
word.
The thing is, this is just what
Jesus taught her. Her teacher, her
rabbi: this is just what he taught her along the way. Be curious.
Fear nothing. Keep your heart
open. Love your brothers and
sisters. And look for me, look for me
there. So Mary Magdalene takes Jesus at
his word. She fears nothing. Nothing in her past. Nothing in her future. Nothing others say about her. None of their gossip. Jesus said, “No longer do I call you servant,
for you are now my friend.” My friend,
he said, my friend! Mary gets it. She believes him. And she fears nothing.
3
And there, in the garden, in the dim
light of morning, she sees someone who looks something like a gardener. Is that because he’s got dirt stains at his
knees and his elbows? Is it because he
seems delightfully at home amidst the blossoms, the greenery, the wildlife of
spring? Mary supposes him to be a
gardener, and she asks for help in finding her dear friend’s body. “If you’ve carried him away,” she says, “tell
me where you’ve laid him. I need to
know.”
And Jesus says that one word, that
one lovely word that reveals the hidden wholeness in her heart. The blessing in her being. The peace that will always be hers. “Mary!”
He promised never to leave her orphaned.
He promised she would see him always at play, always alive, always dancing
on the good earth. And now Mary
Magdalene hears him speaking that one word, that one lovely word. Her name.
Mary.
You see, this isn’t just a story
about Jesus’ resurrection: it’s a story about Mary’s as well. It’s a story about fearlessness and
tenderness. It’s a story about love
being stronger than death and perfect love dissolving all fear.
And when you get to that point in
the story, to that moment, when the nicked up gardener calls Mary by name, I
want you to make this story your story too.
I want you to hear Jesus calling you by name. Life seems frenzied, disjointed, yes. But there is a hidden wholeness in your soul. The world pulses with violence and
danger. But there is a peace in your
heart that will bind up all the broken parts.
Jesus calls you by name. Mary,
Roger, Gabriel, Lynn, Nancy, Elizabeth.
Fear nothing. Fear nothing. You are mine.
4
So, friends, here’s the Easter
challenge. What if you walked out of
here this morning, what if I walked out of here this morning—and we simply gave
up on fear? The little stuff, the big
stuff. We just gave up on fear. For the next three months. Let’s say three months. What kind of difference would that make in our
lives? In our world? That’s the Easter challenge. What kind of difference would it make?
If you rolled out of bed every
morning, put on your pot of fair-trade coffee, and you feared nothing? You don’t fear those ten extra pounds on the
silly scale in your bathroom. Ten extra
pounds of you is ten extra pounds of sweetness.
And you’re not afraid of getting sick; the journey into old age thrills
you. Better than Disneyland. You don’t fear getting a C on your history
final. And you’re not afraid of bullies at
school and the bully bully things they say.
Who cares about bullies? What if
you and I walked out of here this morning and simply gave up on fear?
For three months, say. You don’t fear your boss. And you’re not afraid of losing your
job. You’re just going to live your life
with passion and integrity—and let all the rest work itself out. You don’t fear vulnerability or your own
weakness. The people you admire most are
vulnerable folks, willing to take risks.
So you’re not afraid to tell your friends the truth: what you really
need, what you really crave, what you really want to be. You could walk out of here this morning and
give up on fear. Say, for three
months. See how it goes.
Albert Einstein, remember Albert
Einstein: rarely accused of being a simpleton.
But he simplified things just the same—on occasion. He once said: “There are only two ways to
live your life.” Remember—this is
Einstein. “There are only two ways to
live your life,” he said. “One is as
though nothing is a miracle. The other
is as if everything is.” Everything is!
If there’s a choice to be made this
morning, if there’s a fork in the road this Easter, it may just be this
one. Two ways to live your life, Einstein
said. One, as though nothing is a
miracle. The other, as if it all is. Think about it. Think about that pot of coffee, that pot of
fair-trade coffee, on your table tomorrow morning. You’ve had a good night sleep, a warm
shower. What if the whole thing is a
miracle? The whole of your life. The whole of our cosmic life together. What if you feared nothing?
5
Rumi |
Suddenly, though, the man realized
there were bricks all around. He picked
up a loose one, just a brick, and tossed it into the water. The sound of the water struck his ears like
words spoken by a delicious friend. And
because he was so happy hearing the water sing, the man began to tear down the
wall, tossing brick after brick into the stream.
He imagined someone, somewhere
asking, “What do you think you gain by doing this?” And the thirsty man replied: “Two things I
gain. The first is that I hear the sound
of the water—which is like an oboe, a clarinet, a lullaby to a thirsty
man. The sound’s for me like the Angel’s
trumpet: it awakens life in one who was dead!
And the second gain for me,” he said, “is that with every brick I tear
down and throw in I come closer to the running water. Every brick removed makes the wall lower—and
lowering the wall is a way of reaching the water.”
And the great mystic, Rumi, concludes:
The thirstier the man on top of the wall is, the quicker he tears down the
bricks and tufts of grass. The more in
love with the sound of the water, the greater are the clumps of brick he tears
down.
So I imagine, this Easter Sunday,
that every one of us is sitting on some kind of wall. There’s a stream below, a running stream with
living water, and we’re thirsty. Oh, how
we’re thirsty! But these walls, these anxieties,
these fears make us sad. We sit and
watch and wonder.
But then, in a hymn or a prayer, in
the words of a friend or a stranger, in the rising sun of a new day, you hear
your name. Mary, Roger, Gabriel, Lynn,
Nancy, Elizabeth, Clara, Matilda, William.
And now you know. You’re in love
with the water below. You’re in love
with life itself. You’re in love with
God—whose love shines in you in a precious and unique way. And the wall you’re sitting on? Just a bunch of bricks. And one by one, you take them. One by one, you bless them. One by one, you toss them into the stream,
into the running waters, into the singing waters below. Here’s the thing: the wall is just a
wall. And fear is really just fear. You are created to swim. You are created to splash and laugh and
love. You are created to play in the
living waters of God’s joy. The wall is
just a bunch of bricks. And brick by brick, you have everything you need to dismantle it. Faith, hope, love, courage. Christ is risen, this
Easter Sunday! The wall's coming down. And it’s time to
swim. It's time to swim. Amen.