Our resurrection in Easter
Our resurrected life after Easter
John 20:1-8
As I compose this sermon on a Saturday morning, I am sitting in the sunroom of my home, and the sun is shining. I see the dogwoods at the rear of the backyard in bloom, and I see cardinals flying around, looking for a place to build their nests. The grass is getting tall, and I will cut it later today. My backyard neighbor is out puttering around, and has sneezed multiple times from the pollen in the air. My large black cat, Hunter, is sleeping beside me. Life is happening all around me in bright colors, bright light, and in many different forms. Sitting in my sunroom for a while during the week-end has become important, because I otherwise spend 40 hours a week in my basement office, with no windows to look out of, and light yellow walls and a fluorescent light overhead. My connection to the world is only through a computer monitor and my phone, on occasion. I will not look at social media today, or the news headlines. I am setting aside the world in crisis this week-end to find the joy of Easter.
The Gospel reading this morning has become one of my favorites, especially after the death of my father in 2013. In it, Mary Magdalene comes to Jesus’ tomb, and finds it empty. Mary runs back to the other disciples and tells them what she has seen, and they come running to the tomb to see for themselves. But Mary stands away from it, distraught, and eventually alone again as the others leave. She is crying because she has not only lost her close friend and savior to a horrible, tortured death, but now his body is gone as well. She had been by his side faithfully, knew his habits, his appearance, his demeanor. She was comfortable around him, felt affirmed by him, and she loved him. She knew who she was, and how she fit into God’s Creation because of Jesus. How could things get any worse?
A man whom Mary doesn’t recognize addresses her, asking her why she is so upset, and she pleads with him to tell her where Jesus’ body was. With so much taken away from her, she wants to try to grab on to some small part of it again. Even if it is his embalmed body, it is something real to her that would be the focus of memories and re-lived experiences of a life with him at the center. Jesus was her anchor in life, and she needs that anchor now more than ever because the future is so uncertain as to seem impossible without him. She is lost until he calls her name, in that familiar voice, in the way that no one else could call to her: “Mary.” In that moment, she has found her savior again, her anchor, her teacher. The power of God is made real in Jesus, who was alive again after having died two days ago. Death had not won over life.
Jesus next says to Mary, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.” Jesus had always known how he was to die, and that that death would be an outrageous act, not only on the part of the people who called for his crucifixion, but also on the part of Jesus, who said he would return from the dead. So here he was, standing in front of Mary, alive as far as she was concerned. What he was telling Mary was that he was alive in a different way now, called by God to live his life differently from a new place. He would no longer be with the disciples in person, but would always be with them in spirit, and in their hearts. He could no longer be touched, but would always be within reach. This was the beginning of his resurrected life, and Mary and the other disciples would have to change the way in which they experienced his presence. The joy and amazement that Mary had in finding Jesus again was mixed with a dawning realization that things were going to be different. The old life of following Jesus around the countryside, experiencing God incarnate and inviting others to join them was gone. It was going to be replaced by a life that wasn’t so clear or familiar, even though they may do a lot of the same things that they did before Jesus’ death. Their lives were going to be resurrected, too.
The celebration of Easter, of Jesus’ resurrection is going to be very different this year. I will likely be shut away in my office, participating in Morning Prayer by Zoom, along with others from my internship parish. I won’t smell the incense, or be physically present with others I have come to know. I and others will come together as a parish, but in a different way that pushes us to be present in spirit, to be the church beyond the building. We have watched as our familiar, comfortable way of life has died as we have isolated ourselves from the novel coronavirus to prevent its spread. We are where Mary was in the garden of the tomb, isolated and distraught, feeling that we have lost most of what we cherished, whether it has been the life of friend or family, a job, career, a place to live, a reliable source of food, or our cherished freedom. We know that the old way of life is no longer possible because we have seen the consequences when an unstoppable force enters it. But we have no idea what life will be like in the future, and we are loath to give up what worked, what made sense to us. It is an uncomfortable feeling, seeing familiar activities of daily life happen around me, yet I can’t participate in it like I used to, and I don’t know how to now.
Our response to the viral pandemic has brought out the best of us and brought us closer to being Christ to each other and the world through tireless medical care and social distancing. But it has also shown the worst of us through selfishness, self-centeredness, actions out of fear, and sacrificing common sense to our principles. The virus that has no national boundaries or political preferences has laid bare the artificial racial, political, and moral divisions that we call fair or our rights. Laws that enforce economic and political divisions and thwart opportunities and support for minorities, the poor and the underpaid are being exposed as unfair to those who are the last and least socially and economically. Those who we have denied a living wage to by failing to raise the federal minimum wage are now the ones who we depend on for food at groceries and restaurants and goods at retail stores. We oppose abortion to protect innocent unborn lives while at the same time we call for an early end to social distancing, placing the economic gain from reopened businesses ahead of innocent lives that we know will be lost to the further spread of the virus. This is the old life to be mourned.
We are leaving the old life in an extended Good Friday and Holy Saturday, lost and mourning the life we had before the virus spread around the world. We try to find some shred of that former life by ignoring orders to not congregate in groups, visit family or friends, or go shopping for hours. We look back because looking forward is too frightening. Yet, today, we can hear the risen Jesus calling us by name in the way only he can call to us, as we stand next to the tomb of social isolation. And he is calling us to love our neighbor as ourselves, heal the sick in body and mind, feed the hungry, put the last first in line, and elevate the least to our level, and see them as worthy as ourselves. We are beginning to see that new life in the spontaneous outreach of neighbors to other neighbors who need help with getting food, medication, or simply a conversation. We see that life beginning in pay raises to those in essential jobs and in corporate leaders donating their salary to keep their employees paid; we see that life in the beginnings of conversations around how our healthcare delivery could be better; we see that conversation around supporting those who have lost jobs because of the economic shutdown. Our isolation is to protect us from one very small part of God’s Creation, not to distance ourselves from our responsibility to our neighbors in Creation. This is where our resurrected life begins, life after death from the coronavirus.
Until this year, Easter has been a burst of joy and thanksgiving on a single day. It is an emotional and spiritual release from the dark days of Good Friday and Holy Saturday. We will not find that sudden release this year, because of the way that the coronavirus moves through the human population and because of our efforts to slow its spread. We will not have that sense of a new life dawning on Easter morning because of the many conversations we will have around what life will need to be like and how the world will need to work, post-pandemic. But at some point in the future, whether it is in June, or in the heat of August, or in the colors of fall, I will feel that Easter has come. I will feel that a new life that I am comfortable living, free from the dread of getting sick or making someone else sick, has come. I will still sit in my sunroom, enjoying life as it happens around me, and I will enjoy the fellowship I find in daily life. That part of my resurrected life will not change. What will change is that I will be connected to everyone else in the world, that I will find compassion for everyone, and that I will be aware that my actions will affect other people and other parts of Creation. The hope that comes from the resurrection we celebrate today will carry me, knowing that our resurrected life will triumph over the present looming death from the virus. Someday in the near future, I know that I will, with my heart bursting with joy, proclaim
“Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ has risen from the grave!
Alleluia! We have risen! We have risen from the pandemic!”
John 20:1-8
As I compose this sermon on a Saturday morning, I am sitting in the sunroom of my home, and the sun is shining. I see the dogwoods at the rear of the backyard in bloom, and I see cardinals flying around, looking for a place to build their nests. The grass is getting tall, and I will cut it later today. My backyard neighbor is out puttering around, and has sneezed multiple times from the pollen in the air. My large black cat, Hunter, is sleeping beside me. Life is happening all around me in bright colors, bright light, and in many different forms. Sitting in my sunroom for a while during the week-end has become important, because I otherwise spend 40 hours a week in my basement office, with no windows to look out of, and light yellow walls and a fluorescent light overhead. My connection to the world is only through a computer monitor and my phone, on occasion. I will not look at social media today, or the news headlines. I am setting aside the world in crisis this week-end to find the joy of Easter.
The Gospel reading this morning has become one of my favorites, especially after the death of my father in 2013. In it, Mary Magdalene comes to Jesus’ tomb, and finds it empty. Mary runs back to the other disciples and tells them what she has seen, and they come running to the tomb to see for themselves. But Mary stands away from it, distraught, and eventually alone again as the others leave. She is crying because she has not only lost her close friend and savior to a horrible, tortured death, but now his body is gone as well. She had been by his side faithfully, knew his habits, his appearance, his demeanor. She was comfortable around him, felt affirmed by him, and she loved him. She knew who she was, and how she fit into God’s Creation because of Jesus. How could things get any worse?
A man whom Mary doesn’t recognize addresses her, asking her why she is so upset, and she pleads with him to tell her where Jesus’ body was. With so much taken away from her, she wants to try to grab on to some small part of it again. Even if it is his embalmed body, it is something real to her that would be the focus of memories and re-lived experiences of a life with him at the center. Jesus was her anchor in life, and she needs that anchor now more than ever because the future is so uncertain as to seem impossible without him. She is lost until he calls her name, in that familiar voice, in the way that no one else could call to her: “Mary.” In that moment, she has found her savior again, her anchor, her teacher. The power of God is made real in Jesus, who was alive again after having died two days ago. Death had not won over life.
Jesus next says to Mary, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.” Jesus had always known how he was to die, and that that death would be an outrageous act, not only on the part of the people who called for his crucifixion, but also on the part of Jesus, who said he would return from the dead. So here he was, standing in front of Mary, alive as far as she was concerned. What he was telling Mary was that he was alive in a different way now, called by God to live his life differently from a new place. He would no longer be with the disciples in person, but would always be with them in spirit, and in their hearts. He could no longer be touched, but would always be within reach. This was the beginning of his resurrected life, and Mary and the other disciples would have to change the way in which they experienced his presence. The joy and amazement that Mary had in finding Jesus again was mixed with a dawning realization that things were going to be different. The old life of following Jesus around the countryside, experiencing God incarnate and inviting others to join them was gone. It was going to be replaced by a life that wasn’t so clear or familiar, even though they may do a lot of the same things that they did before Jesus’ death. Their lives were going to be resurrected, too.
The celebration of Easter, of Jesus’ resurrection is going to be very different this year. I will likely be shut away in my office, participating in Morning Prayer by Zoom, along with others from my internship parish. I won’t smell the incense, or be physically present with others I have come to know. I and others will come together as a parish, but in a different way that pushes us to be present in spirit, to be the church beyond the building. We have watched as our familiar, comfortable way of life has died as we have isolated ourselves from the novel coronavirus to prevent its spread. We are where Mary was in the garden of the tomb, isolated and distraught, feeling that we have lost most of what we cherished, whether it has been the life of friend or family, a job, career, a place to live, a reliable source of food, or our cherished freedom. We know that the old way of life is no longer possible because we have seen the consequences when an unstoppable force enters it. But we have no idea what life will be like in the future, and we are loath to give up what worked, what made sense to us. It is an uncomfortable feeling, seeing familiar activities of daily life happen around me, yet I can’t participate in it like I used to, and I don’t know how to now.
Our response to the viral pandemic has brought out the best of us and brought us closer to being Christ to each other and the world through tireless medical care and social distancing. But it has also shown the worst of us through selfishness, self-centeredness, actions out of fear, and sacrificing common sense to our principles. The virus that has no national boundaries or political preferences has laid bare the artificial racial, political, and moral divisions that we call fair or our rights. Laws that enforce economic and political divisions and thwart opportunities and support for minorities, the poor and the underpaid are being exposed as unfair to those who are the last and least socially and economically. Those who we have denied a living wage to by failing to raise the federal minimum wage are now the ones who we depend on for food at groceries and restaurants and goods at retail stores. We oppose abortion to protect innocent unborn lives while at the same time we call for an early end to social distancing, placing the economic gain from reopened businesses ahead of innocent lives that we know will be lost to the further spread of the virus. This is the old life to be mourned.
We are leaving the old life in an extended Good Friday and Holy Saturday, lost and mourning the life we had before the virus spread around the world. We try to find some shred of that former life by ignoring orders to not congregate in groups, visit family or friends, or go shopping for hours. We look back because looking forward is too frightening. Yet, today, we can hear the risen Jesus calling us by name in the way only he can call to us, as we stand next to the tomb of social isolation. And he is calling us to love our neighbor as ourselves, heal the sick in body and mind, feed the hungry, put the last first in line, and elevate the least to our level, and see them as worthy as ourselves. We are beginning to see that new life in the spontaneous outreach of neighbors to other neighbors who need help with getting food, medication, or simply a conversation. We see that life beginning in pay raises to those in essential jobs and in corporate leaders donating their salary to keep their employees paid; we see that life in the beginnings of conversations around how our healthcare delivery could be better; we see that conversation around supporting those who have lost jobs because of the economic shutdown. Our isolation is to protect us from one very small part of God’s Creation, not to distance ourselves from our responsibility to our neighbors in Creation. This is where our resurrected life begins, life after death from the coronavirus.
Until this year, Easter has been a burst of joy and thanksgiving on a single day. It is an emotional and spiritual release from the dark days of Good Friday and Holy Saturday. We will not find that sudden release this year, because of the way that the coronavirus moves through the human population and because of our efforts to slow its spread. We will not have that sense of a new life dawning on Easter morning because of the many conversations we will have around what life will need to be like and how the world will need to work, post-pandemic. But at some point in the future, whether it is in June, or in the heat of August, or in the colors of fall, I will feel that Easter has come. I will feel that a new life that I am comfortable living, free from the dread of getting sick or making someone else sick, has come. I will still sit in my sunroom, enjoying life as it happens around me, and I will enjoy the fellowship I find in daily life. That part of my resurrected life will not change. What will change is that I will be connected to everyone else in the world, that I will find compassion for everyone, and that I will be aware that my actions will affect other people and other parts of Creation. The hope that comes from the resurrection we celebrate today will carry me, knowing that our resurrected life will triumph over the present looming death from the virus. Someday in the near future, I know that I will, with my heart bursting with joy, proclaim
“Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ has risen from the grave!
Alleluia! We have risen! We have risen from the pandemic!”
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