Mark 16:1-8
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint [Jesus’ body]. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.
--
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint [Jesus’ body]. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb.
What did you expect to find here, women at the tomb? You, with your spices and your tears, with your fretting about who would have the strength to roll away the weight of the stone and the weight of your grief, that you might stoop to anoint a shell of a body with no breath left in it.
Did you expect a quiet garden in the first shimmering light of day, and did you expect to capture in your memory the beauty of the trees as a testament to the beauty and anguish of the task at hand? Did you expect to tuck away your hopes and your weeping along with the perfumes that you would nestle between the layers of the grave cloths?
What should anyone have expected to find here?
He came to earth, this Jesus, and the skies themselves tore apart to claim him as the beloved Son of God. He proclaimed a kingdom of God, not a future reality, not a dream held far-off, but a kingdom here. A kingdom now. And he set about doing the work of the kingdom, with each moment of liberation he won for bound spirits, with each ailing body he raised up to health, with each declaration of forgiveness he was bold to proclaim, with each hungry mouth he fed with a new miracle of bread. He was scarcely able to resist this work; where the world suffered, he could not contain his desire to restore wholeness, peace, life itself.
But he also said all the strangest things, about suffering, and sacrifice, and death.
Where the liberated and the healed wanted nothing more than to shout his name; he told them to tell no one. Where the demons themselves recognized him and recoiled in holy fear; he silenced them.
Those closest to him, those dear to his heart, could never quite know what everyone else seemed to know about this secretive savior; they could not get past the misconception that the kingdom of God was going to look like power and glory and might.
A kingdom of love, of sacrifice, of grace: if everything worked out right, perhaps this was a kingdom of weakness subverting power. But the powers won. Love threatened the status quo. Grace threatened the keepers and teachers of the law. Claims of kingship and kingdom annoyed Rome. And the right people in power were the right amount afraid and the right amount insecure and the right amount willing to make strange bedfellows, and so the cross happened. And Jesus cried out. He breathed his last. He was taken from the cross and buried.
What could you expect, really? That the vulnerability of mercy and love would somehow win?
And so the disciples traded hope for grief. Grief over a lost friend. Grief over a lost dream. Grief over naive dreams of a victorious king and a kingdom that had now died on a cross. All they had staked their souls on, now closed off in a stone cave, sealed with a rock, sealed with the weight of disappointment and embarrassment and shame, all piled up on top of each other.
They left the foot of the cross that Friday evening, made themselves disappear. Not one of them camped out beside the tomb, just in case, to see if resurrection might be real. Not one of them kept vigil, sitting in curiosity or faithful expectation; not one of them held guard, protecting the tomb.
What did they expect, after all? Did they really dare believe that resurrection would happen, after such suffering, after such a death?
What do we expect? Do we really dare believe that resurrection can happen, after all the sufferings of our day, after such deaths that we die?
What, with all the shootings, all the #metoo, all the race-based violence, all the divisions, all the anger around us; what could we hope to expect from a king and a kingdom staking their flag on stuff like love, generosity, sacrifice of self for the sake of others, literally a dying of self-interest and a rising to the common good? So can we help it if we also haven’t kept watch at the tomb to see what resurrection looks like while it happens?
But now it is the third day. The women come to the tomb, as is expected of them.
And nothing is as they expected.
The tomb, standing wide open to greet the morning. The stone, far off. No lifeless body laying in waiting. Instead, a stranger, definitely not Jesus, wearing white, waiting to give you a message: “You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here.”
This second-hand news of resurrection is unexpected. And yet everything we had hoped for. It is the news you never had dared to really believe could happen; it is the stunning joy and disbelief of getting exactly what you needed when you had convinced yourself you would always have to live without it. Your managed expectations managed no longer.
Because he is not here. He has been raised. And he is already ahead of you, again, beckoning you to follow, like he did at the beginning.
Jesus is on his way back to Galilee, and what else would we have expected him to do?
Jesus did not wake up and stick around the tomb, as if he were still to be counted among the dead. He did not wake up and wait for someone to find him, as if he needed somebody to give him a big thumbs-up for being not dead anymore. Jesus did not summon the disciples’ hearts, that they might witness the resurrection, as if resurrection needed an audience. Jesus did not leave the tomb and find the women, or the disciples, because he had more kingdom work to do, and he trusted that they would believe the young man’s testimony. On the far side of death, Jesus gets up and goes, picking up exactly where he left of.
He has been raised and he is going to Galilee, the place of the start and the heart of his kingdom work. He is going right back to the poor, the marginalized, the needy; to the ones who recognized him, who saw him for who he was, the Son of God, who turns weakness to strength, shame to forgiveness, death to life.
What else would we have expected of him?
There the women are; there we are: standing beside the stone of death, which has been shoved away to make room for new life, for more life, for the Lord of life to have burst onto the day like the rising of the sun, on the move ahead of us, leading us as he always has.
In the face of such a great mystery, only two responses are possible:
Amazement. And fear.
Amazement at the empty tomb, the messenger, the message of mysterious, ridiculous, unbelievable, too-good-to-be-true, scientifically-impossible, hope-defying, brain-bending, life-changing, life-giving good news of resurrection.
Fear of what a risen body looks like. Fear of a power so great that it can summon life out of death itself. Fear of what the world will think. Fear of what the world will fear. Fear that if resurrection is true, then so also are all the other things that Jesus did and asked us to do. If Jesus is alive, then it means that our calling stands true, to forgive relentlessly. To love unconditionally. To show love by serving. To put ourselves on the line for the sake of grace, mercy, justice, and care for our neighbors and our enemies alike.
We tremble at the tomb - are these tremors of terror or the quivering of uncontainable wonder? - because the story is not over. The story of Jesus has picked itself up from the ashes and it continues on, to Galilee, to all the ends of the earth. We who have shared in Christ’s life now share in his resurrected life.
Is this not so far from what the women expecting to find on the far side of the darkest night? How could they have expected a morning so bright, a day so full of promise, a message so full of shock and awe and wonder? And so they leave the tomb, in dumbfounded silence, still taking it all in, still figuring out their place in it all, still searching for the words to tell the rest of the disciples that the unthinkable has happened: Jesus is risen.
Their story is left without an ending.
Because God is still writing the story of creation’s redemption.
And your story, here at the empty tomb, is also left without an ending.
Because your story in Christ is still unfinished, still unfolding.
If you are coming to the tomb for the first time, curious, or if you are coming to the tomb yet again, out of duty, feeling dull or numb to the mystery that used to enchant you; if you are standing with arms open wide in joy and wonder, if you are afraid of what you see or what voice you are hearing in your heart; if you stand in the light of day or if you huddle in the shadows; whether your faith feels fervent or feeble or fumbling, if you leave today amazed or fearful or trembling or: there is a place for you in this story.
What were you expecting to find at the empty tomb this morning? What brought you to this place, at this moment, to say these “alleluias” into this watching and waiting world?
The message has been given to us: Christ is risen, risen indeed, alleluia! Christ is ahead of us, drawing us into the work of resurrection. If resurrection is a message of welcome that your heart needs to receive, take the open invitation of the tomb as a greatest gift. If resurrection is a message of mystery that your soul needs to wrestle with, find blessing in both your questions and your quiet. If resurrection is a message of healing that you need to bring to bodies or relationships in pain, bear it like a light in the darkness. If resurrection is a message of peace that we need to speak into our divided world, then let these words become sweet as honey as they fall from our mouths.
But know this: Whatever you expect, whatever you hope for, whatever you seek in this garden, in all the gardens of life - Christ, the power of God and the wisdom of God, will exceed every expectation, will crash through every ceiling of hope, will burst through all constraints to bring you life and life abundant, and to use you to bring life abundant to the kingdom of this world.
Christ is risen.
He is risen indeed, alleluia.
What else should we have expected on a morning so bright?
Tags:
sermon