Sunday, March 31, 2024
John 20:1-21
1.
If you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself in the ruins of a city shattered by violence; if you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself hoping against hope that there is some other way this all turns out; if you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself stumbling toward a tomb in the darkness—you should know that every resurrection story begins in that darkness. That bewildering, befuddling darkness. That strange brew of the unknown and the unbearable. It’s a crisis of conscience in a season of war. It’s a commitment to recovery on the worst day of your life. It’s a disruptive and unforgettable dream in the middle of the night. It’s a brutal ending that somehow, somehow becomes a new beginning. Every resurrection story begins in that darkness.
There’s a lovely little poem by the irreplaceable Mary Oliver, where she writes: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.” It’s one of her shortest poems. Heartbreak and redemption. “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years”—she writes—“to understand that this too, was a gift.” So it is that Mary Magdalene stumbles through the besieged city, while it’s still dark, kicking at stones thrown and clubs wielded in rage, just days ago. And it’s curious, right, because her despair has to be real, and it’s got to be overwhelming; but it’s not so destructive that she sleeps in that morning. Because she doesn’t sleep in that morning. Stumbling through the city, while it’s still dark, kicking at stones and clubs. All the way to the tomb where they buried her teacher’s body.
And this is the first sign, I think, that something is stirring in this story; and something is stirring in Mary’s soul, in her spirit; and something could well be stirring in yours and mine as well. Even two days after the crucifixion. Even two days after the scattering of her friends. Even two days after his body’s sealed up in that tomb. Because Mary has experienced a love so deep—on the road from north to south—a grace so liberating, that she rouses her weary soul, shakes off sleep, and sets out anyway. To the tomb. Where they buried his body. Jerusalem is Gaza. Jerusalem is Haiti. Jerusalem is a city of broken dreams and crucified prophets. And she sets out anyway. And she shakes off sleep. Stumbling through the city, “a box full of darkness,” hoping against hope that even that darkness bears some kind of gift. Some kind of possibility and grace.
You see, sometimes this kind of love is more of an instinct than a conviction, more restlessness than certainty. It isn’t just his teaching that captures her imagination; it was the courage of his loving, it was the authenticity of his welcome, it was his refusal to judge anyone for anything. Jesus didn’t save her soul; he woke it up. It’s my own fanciful midrash, perhaps, but I kind of like the image of Mary kicking away those stones and clubs on the way that morning, maybe a Roman spear or shield for good measure. Her rejection of each and every symbol of violence, vengeance and war. With every breath, she chants into the darkness: “Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers.” I can hear her even now.
And she finds the tomb, even in the dark, she finds the tomb. And she discovers that the stone that had sealed it shut hours before has been rolled aside. Now the darkness is not only dark, but strange and bewildering and even full of surprise. So now she runs to find the others, her brothers, her sisters, her siblings in the movement. Again, through the sleeping city. Again, through the darkness. Again, kicking aside every instrument of violence and vengeance.
2.
At our potluck the other night, one of you told me that you’re not at all sure you believe in Jesus, or in the scaffolding of belief and theology that gets built up around his stories. Kind of a gutsy thing to say to a pastor during Holy Week! But, you know, I love that this is the conversation we can have at our tables here. And I’m so grateful for your confession, because (to be honest) it’s my confession too, a good bit of the time. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus had to die to atone for our sins, to make right all our wrongs”—I’m skeptical. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus suffered in my place, took his punishment so I wouldn’t have to”—I’m skeptical. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus is the only Truth, and the only Way, and the only Love that matters to the world”—I’m suspicious. That kind of belief seems designed in human institutions (and, frankly, patriarchal privilege) to control and manipulate. It’s the ideology of empire, the spirituality of shame. And that’s simply not the Jesus I come to know, the Jesus I come to love in the stories we read and explore, and then invite into our lives every week.
Instead—and see if this makes any sense—I discover Jesus (and Jesus’ intention for my life) in Mary Magdalene’s perseverance, in her restlessness. The two of them together. As friends, they make faith make sense. I find Jesus’ spirit and Jesus’ love stirring in her feet, as they scurry through the city in the darkness, and then as they kick aside weapons and cruelty on their way to a world redeemed. Again, the two of them. Together. As partners in resistance. As companions in community. So moved is Mary Magdalene by his creativity in crisis, by his loving inclusion of all children—that she cannot let him go. So touched is she by his example—washing their feet, feeding the hungry, praying for his persecutors—that she cannot imagine another kind of life. It’s hers now. Blessed are the peacemakers.
And so, even after the others return to their homes to mull it all over, Mary lingers outside the tomb. She stays behind. Because still, she can’t let him go. Because still, she can’t imagine another kind of life. And here, too, is a sign that something is afoot. Because she’s weeping. Because she’s weeping. And isn’t it so often the case that our stories of rebirth and reawakening are foreshadowed by tears, that our grief is often the midwife of new life? Mary’s weeping. Her tears like sacraments of possibility. Her grief like a memory she can almost touch.
And she turns and she sees a gardener, a migrant perhaps, a country fellow who’s found work in the city. And his face is streaked by sweat and the good earth; and he’s at home in the dirt, in the soil, in the land itself. And Mary wonders aloud: “Where have you taken him? Where have you laid him?” And this same gardener, this same migrant, is Jesus, of course. And he says just this: “Mary.” Through his own tears perhaps. Through the sweat and dust on his brow perhaps. He says her name: “Mary.”
3.
He doesn’t say: “You’d better believe in me, and in everything the church will say about me, or else.” And he doesn’t say: “Isn’t it impressive that I died for you, that I suffered to save you from your wretchedness!” He simply and deliberately and lovingly says her name: “Mary.” Much like he’d say “Milo” or “Lyle” or “Ben” or “Wes.” Much like he'd say “Ernie” or “Eunice” or “Liang” or “Sephora.” And so Magdalene goes off from there, she’s been running all day, and she’s running still. She goes off from there to her siblings in the movement, to her friends in the neighborhood, to every broken heart and every adversary who’ll give her a minute. “I have seen the Lord,” she says. “I have seen the Lord.” She is the church’s very first preacher. “I have seen ther Lord.”
You see, believing in Jesus really isn’t the point of all this. In a sense—and we can thank Dietrich Bonhoeffer for this phrase—believing in Jesus devolves pretty quickly into something like “cheap grace.” You learn the language. You read the books. You sound convinced. And you settle for cheap grace. But Easter grace is costly grace. And again, we have Brother Bonhoeffer to thank for the phrase. Easter grace is costly grace. In the graveyard of an empire, in the fog of war, Jesus says your name: “Mary” or “Paul” or “Emily” or “Ann”—and he sends you off to speak of peace, and he sends you off to tell the story, and he sends you off to embody hope among the hopeless. “I have seen the Lord.” In a world of wonders, at daybreak in New Hampshire, Jesus says your name: “Pam” or “Bryn” or “Cassidy” or “Sonya”—and he sends you off to love the lonely, and he sends you off to dance with widows, and he sends you off to feed the starving orphans of Gaza.
It is grace. It is amazing grace. That God so loves the world, that God’s Child so desires our reconciliation and peace—that God overcomes evil with good, and redeems violence with mercy, and endures human cruelty not with magical thinking or theological equations—but with love. Always, always, always with love. And here, my friends, is how Jesus says love: Jesus says: “Mary.” It’s really quite simple—but it couldn’t be more beautiful, more to the point, or more personal. Jesus says: “Brenda.” Jesus says: “Matt.” Jesus says: “Dan.” Jesus says: “Sandy.” Go to my brothers. Go to my sisters. Go to my siblings. And tell them. Show them. Love them.
4.
On Friday night, a group of us listened in on a sermon by the Reverend Munther Isaac, a Palestinian and Pastor of the Lutheran Church in Bethlehem. I guess it was a sermon—but it manifested more accurately as a lament, as an heartbreaking expression of despair in wartime, and then as a cry for global solidarity in a season of genocide. Those seventeen minutes were the toughest seventeen minutes of my week, and I think those who listened in Friday night would agree. We were shaken by Munther’s sadness. We were challenged by his disappointment in the Western Church. And we were aware, all the while, of the mounting crisis of death, destruction and starvation among his people. A good bit of which we’re paying for.
Make no mistake. What happens Easter Sunday happens in wartime. What happens outside that strange and strangely opened tomb happens in the graveyard of an empire. You just can’t divorce what happens on Easter from all that happened on Good Friday. And what happens between Jesus and Mary, then, happens not to coerce, not to convince, not to intimidate, not to subjugate. Mary is moved, not by fear, but by love, by gratitude, by grace. Amazing grace. Forever grace. Costly grace. Her story is a story of light shining in darkness. It’s a story of hope rippling through tears. It’s a story of God’s people claiming love as a birthright, peace as a path, and nonviolence as God’s redeeming intention for all creation. It’s grace. But it’s the kind of grace that gives us something to do.
So maybe you’re shaken or angry about the bombardment of Gaza, and our American complicity in such violence. As I am this morning. Jesus rises now, like the morning sun, and calls us by name. It’s not just ancient history; it’s our story. It’s the kind of grace that gives us something to do. Or maybe you’re anxious for the fragility of our democratic project, as I am, and disturbed by a legitimate presidential candidate selling gold-plated Bibles, and encouraging political violence, and maybe you’re worried where the next 7 months will take us. Whether the project itself is at risk. Jesus rises now, like the morning sun, and calls us by name. Calls us all to loving resistance and fearless service and joyful collaboration. It’s the kind of grace, this grace, that gives us something to do.
Or maybe it’s just so personal for you. Maybe you’re just not sure where your own life is heading. There are questions you can’t answer, doctors calls you hesitate to return, or dear ones whose hurts you bear like fresh scars in your own heart. Know this, my friends. Trust this good news. Jesus rises now, and not just on Easter but every day, like the morning sun, and Jesus calls us by name.
God’s grace is Jesus like a gardener—sweat across his cheek, dirt smudged on his arms and legs. Happily planting seeds he trusts will grow. Lovingly tending plants and trees, blossoms and bushes, signs of divine creativity and holy resistance. God’s grace is Jesus outside the tomb. Calling you and me, and the church (oh, yes, the church)—calling us to life and love and resistance and mercy. Calling us to follow. Not simply to boast. Not simply to believe. But to follow.
And following will cost us everything. Following always does. But it will open our eyes to the endlessness of grace, and to the depths of divine love, and then open our ears to the hymns that awaken a new day for the whole wide world.
Amen and Ashe!
1.
If you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself in the ruins of a city shattered by violence; if you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself hoping against hope that there is some other way this all turns out; if you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself stumbling toward a tomb in the darkness—you should know that every resurrection story begins in that darkness. That bewildering, befuddling darkness. That strange brew of the unknown and the unbearable. It’s a crisis of conscience in a season of war. It’s a commitment to recovery on the worst day of your life. It’s a disruptive and unforgettable dream in the middle of the night. It’s a brutal ending that somehow, somehow becomes a new beginning. Every resurrection story begins in that darkness.
There’s a lovely little poem by the irreplaceable Mary Oliver, where she writes: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.” It’s one of her shortest poems. Heartbreak and redemption. “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years”—she writes—“to understand that this too, was a gift.” So it is that Mary Magdalene stumbles through the besieged city, while it’s still dark, kicking at stones thrown and clubs wielded in rage, just days ago. And it’s curious, right, because her despair has to be real, and it’s got to be overwhelming; but it’s not so destructive that she sleeps in that morning. Because she doesn’t sleep in that morning. Stumbling through the city, while it’s still dark, kicking at stones and clubs. All the way to the tomb where they buried her teacher’s body.
And this is the first sign, I think, that something is stirring in this story; and something is stirring in Mary’s soul, in her spirit; and something could well be stirring in yours and mine as well. Even two days after the crucifixion. Even two days after the scattering of her friends. Even two days after his body’s sealed up in that tomb. Because Mary has experienced a love so deep—on the road from north to south—a grace so liberating, that she rouses her weary soul, shakes off sleep, and sets out anyway. To the tomb. Where they buried his body. Jerusalem is Gaza. Jerusalem is Haiti. Jerusalem is a city of broken dreams and crucified prophets. And she sets out anyway. And she shakes off sleep. Stumbling through the city, “a box full of darkness,” hoping against hope that even that darkness bears some kind of gift. Some kind of possibility and grace.
You see, sometimes this kind of love is more of an instinct than a conviction, more restlessness than certainty. It isn’t just his teaching that captures her imagination; it was the courage of his loving, it was the authenticity of his welcome, it was his refusal to judge anyone for anything. Jesus didn’t save her soul; he woke it up. It’s my own fanciful midrash, perhaps, but I kind of like the image of Mary kicking away those stones and clubs on the way that morning, maybe a Roman spear or shield for good measure. Her rejection of each and every symbol of violence, vengeance and war. With every breath, she chants into the darkness: “Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers.” I can hear her even now.
And she finds the tomb, even in the dark, she finds the tomb. And she discovers that the stone that had sealed it shut hours before has been rolled aside. Now the darkness is not only dark, but strange and bewildering and even full of surprise. So now she runs to find the others, her brothers, her sisters, her siblings in the movement. Again, through the sleeping city. Again, through the darkness. Again, kicking aside every instrument of violence and vengeance.
2.
At our potluck the other night, one of you told me that you’re not at all sure you believe in Jesus, or in the scaffolding of belief and theology that gets built up around his stories. Kind of a gutsy thing to say to a pastor during Holy Week! But, you know, I love that this is the conversation we can have at our tables here. And I’m so grateful for your confession, because (to be honest) it’s my confession too, a good bit of the time. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus had to die to atone for our sins, to make right all our wrongs”—I’m skeptical. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus suffered in my place, took his punishment so I wouldn’t have to”—I’m skeptical. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus is the only Truth, and the only Way, and the only Love that matters to the world”—I’m suspicious. That kind of belief seems designed in human institutions (and, frankly, patriarchal privilege) to control and manipulate. It’s the ideology of empire, the spirituality of shame. And that’s simply not the Jesus I come to know, the Jesus I come to love in the stories we read and explore, and then invite into our lives every week.
And so, even after the others return to their homes to mull it all over, Mary lingers outside the tomb. She stays behind. Because still, she can’t let him go. Because still, she can’t imagine another kind of life. And here, too, is a sign that something is afoot. Because she’s weeping. Because she’s weeping. And isn’t it so often the case that our stories of rebirth and reawakening are foreshadowed by tears, that our grief is often the midwife of new life? Mary’s weeping. Her tears like sacraments of possibility. Her grief like a memory she can almost touch.
And she turns and she sees a gardener, a migrant perhaps, a country fellow who’s found work in the city. And his face is streaked by sweat and the good earth; and he’s at home in the dirt, in the soil, in the land itself. And Mary wonders aloud: “Where have you taken him? Where have you laid him?” And this same gardener, this same migrant, is Jesus, of course. And he says just this: “Mary.” Through his own tears perhaps. Through the sweat and dust on his brow perhaps. He says her name: “Mary.”
3.
He doesn’t say: “You’d better believe in me, and in everything the church will say about me, or else.” And he doesn’t say: “Isn’t it impressive that I died for you, that I suffered to save you from your wretchedness!” He simply and deliberately and lovingly says her name: “Mary.” Much like he’d say “Milo” or “Lyle” or “Ben” or “Wes.” Much like he'd say “Ernie” or “Eunice” or “Liang” or “Sephora.” And so Magdalene goes off from there, she’s been running all day, and she’s running still. She goes off from there to her siblings in the movement, to her friends in the neighborhood, to every broken heart and every adversary who’ll give her a minute. “I have seen the Lord,” she says. “I have seen the Lord.” She is the church’s very first preacher. “I have seen ther Lord.”
 |
| Jesus Breaking Rifles (Kelly Lattimore) |
It is grace. It is amazing grace. That God so loves the world, that God’s Child so desires our reconciliation and peace—that God overcomes evil with good, and redeems violence with mercy, and endures human cruelty not with magical thinking or theological equations—but with love. Always, always, always with love. And here, my friends, is how Jesus says love: Jesus says: “Mary.” It’s really quite simple—but it couldn’t be more beautiful, more to the point, or more personal. Jesus says: “Brenda.” Jesus says: “Matt.” Jesus says: “Dan.” Jesus says: “Sandy.” Go to my brothers. Go to my sisters. Go to my siblings. And tell them. Show them. Love them.
4.
Make no mistake. What happens Easter Sunday happens in wartime. What happens outside that strange and strangely opened tomb happens in the graveyard of an empire. You just can’t divorce what happens on Easter from all that happened on Good Friday. And what happens between Jesus and Mary, then, happens not to coerce, not to convince, not to intimidate, not to subjugate. Mary is moved, not by fear, but by love, by gratitude, by grace. Amazing grace. Forever grace. Costly grace. Her story is a story of light shining in darkness. It’s a story of hope rippling through tears. It’s a story of God’s people claiming love as a birthright, peace as a path, and nonviolence as God’s redeeming intention for all creation. It’s grace. But it’s the kind of grace that gives us something to do.
So maybe you’re shaken or angry about the bombardment of Gaza, and our American complicity in such violence. As I am this morning. Jesus rises now, like the morning sun, and calls us by name. It’s not just ancient history; it’s our story. It’s the kind of grace that gives us something to do. Or maybe you’re anxious for the fragility of our democratic project, as I am, and disturbed by a legitimate presidential candidate selling gold-plated Bibles, and encouraging political violence, and maybe you’re worried where the next 7 months will take us. Whether the project itself is at risk. Jesus rises now, like the morning sun, and calls us by name. Calls us all to loving resistance and fearless service and joyful collaboration. It’s the kind of grace, this grace, that gives us something to do.
Or maybe it’s just so personal for you. Maybe you’re just not sure where your own life is heading. There are questions you can’t answer, doctors calls you hesitate to return, or dear ones whose hurts you bear like fresh scars in your own heart. Know this, my friends. Trust this good news. Jesus rises now, and not just on Easter but every day, like the morning sun, and Jesus calls us by name.
God’s grace is Jesus like a gardener—sweat across his cheek, dirt smudged on his arms and legs. Happily planting seeds he trusts will grow. Lovingly tending plants and trees, blossoms and bushes, signs of divine creativity and holy resistance. God’s grace is Jesus outside the tomb. Calling you and me, and the church (oh, yes, the church)—calling us to life and love and resistance and mercy. Calling us to follow. Not simply to boast. Not simply to believe. But to follow.
And following will cost us everything. Following always does. But it will open our eyes to the endlessness of grace, and to the depths of divine love, and then open our ears to the hymns that awaken a new day for the whole wide world.
Amen and Ashe!
