Luke 24:1-12
On the first day of the week, at early dawn, [the women] came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.
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Has it ever occurred to you how much of our Christian faith is based on storytelling?
Last night, we gathered for the Easter Vigil, a time where we sit in the dark space between death (on Good Friday) and resurrection morning, candles flickering, watching and waiting to see if life really will rise again from death.
We passed the time by telling stories. Creation, a telling ofNoah and the flood involving hats and animal noises, Moses and the exodus and the parting of the Red Sea, Ezekiel, watching the dry bones rise up in the valley to dance again, a particularly noisy telling of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, saved from the flames of Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace. Each story, a tale of God’s saving mercy. Each story, a tale of deliverance. Each story, a tale of life winning over chaos, disaster, and death.
We tell these stories because they are true. Not because they make sense. Not because we understand them. Not because they can be proven or disproven. But because they speak the truth that our hearts most need to hear: God is faithful. Hope prevails. Life triumphs over death.
To borrow language from today’s gospel reading, stories like this perplex us. They dazzle us. They terrify us. They amaze us.
The stories of our faith are powerful. And none of the more powerful than the story at the heart of our faith, this deep mystery of Christ’s resurrection, which we celebrate today.
Resurrection, in today’s gospel from Luke, does not show up in the form of flesh-and-blood Jesus, standing in the garden, physical proof of a body and a soul brought back from the tomb.
Resurrection, in our gospel comes through sacred storytelling.
The mysterious men at the tomb, share a surprising story with the women, “Jesus is not here - he has been raised.”
The women pause, and then tell themselves the story their time with Jesus, how, when he was still with them, he told them the story that “The son of man must be handed over, crucified, and on the third day rise again.”
The women tell their own new story to the disciples: “The tomb is empty; Jesus is not there - he has been raised!” and the disciples dismiss this story as nothing but an idle tale, a whole bunch of...well....you know. ;) ;)
The disciples, unable to believe, stick to the story they know: “Death is real. Jesus died. The tomb can’t possibly be empty.”
But Peter, dissatisfied with his old story, goes to see the tomb with is own eyes, heads home amazed and alone, because the new story seems too good to be true and too mysterious to comprehend.
Not many of us, perhaps, have ourselves encountered the resurrected Jesus in the flesh, proof of resurrection standing right in front of us.
And so resurrection for us, too, comes through stories and testimonies. Through moments when we ourselves have been perplexed, dazzled, terrified, and amazed by life rising out of death, hoping rising out of despair, tombs that stand open and empty, mysteries that defy explanation, unexpected grace showing up against all odds.
In a world that wants proof, that asks you to cite your sources, that assumes there to be a rational explanation for everything, our own stories of resurrection will always appear to be idle tales.
But friends, our world needs idle tales. Our world needs stories that seem too good to be true. Stories that seem naive in their unwavering commitment to hope and love and all things made new.
I asked some women in my life about their own idle tales of resurrection last week; the responses were varied and stunning.
One woman reflected on her utterly miraculous journey through cancer. She says:
I was so near death that the obituary was written, funeral service planned, and burial plots chosen. It was suggested that it was time to call Hospice. Friends and loved ones practiced the hymns I wanted sung at my funeral. Then, suddenly and without warning, the oncologist said, "The cancer is gone and I don't think it is coming back. Go home and live like you used to live." Could I believe it? Would anyone else believe it? Even my doctors couldn’t believe it.
Another wrote about her recent journeys in the Holy Land, feeling grief over refugee camps, walls, and teen soldiers; feeling disillusionment as she visited holy sites overrun by tourists and vendors. "I wondered if God was still in this place," she lamented. And then she went to church. Sang hymns and prayed and listened to a sermon about bathing in the love of Christ and standing in solidarity with our siblings of all faiths. She says:
In the tug and pull between God’s will of love and our human will to be in charge, in the push and shove of pilgrims who just HAD TO TOUCH the next holy site, in the midst of my western rational skepticism, I remembered the women at the tomb, the woman with the flow of blood, the woman at the well, generations of women loving God and loving each other. There was God. There was resurrection.
Another shared her story of infertility. Reflecting on a low point in her journey, she says:
Everything felt hopeless and I felt so helpless and tired and trapped. I remember the care and the optimism of my doctors: the way that they carried a hope for me that I could not carry for myself - their kind voices, their gentle hugs, their measured assurances, their dedication to walk with us toward making a family. When I found myself squarely in the tomb of infertility, there were people who were willing to hold light and hope in my stead - a sign that resurrection might yet come for me. It is now, years later, reflecting back, seeing how far I am from a life where I was weeping over beer and prayers; it is now that I can understanding something of resurrection. Because I am still here, and still standing, and I have joy and I know love. The weight of grief and pain and despair that seemed endless and impenetrable have neither crushed me nor destroyed me. I am alive. I am well. This feels like resurrection to me.
And one more. A friend mourning the untimely loss of her best friend and fellow pastor says:
When Sarah died, I didn’t know how I would carry on as a person, much less as a pastor, spouse and mom. I cried all the way through worship on the Sunday after Sarah’s death. Congregation members members stepped in to preach and lead and I got to sit in the back, worshipping and crying. The next day, I helped lead Sarah’s funeral. Together with 800 other people, we cried and laughed our way through the day, remembering Sarah and remembering God’s promises, supported by family and friends who drove from a distance to sit with me and with my family at the service. Now two and a half years later, that which was sowed in tears is now bringing forth new songs of joy. Our preacher the day I cried through worship is now in seminary. Friendships in my life have been born and rekindled. Nearly $35,000 has been given to a fund in memory of Sarah that has been used to support two retreats thus far to connect, encourage, and empower women clergy. I still carry such sorrow about Sarah’s death. I will grieve her as long as I live. Yet God is doing a new thing for me, for other church leaders, and for the whole church. Joy has come out of the tears.
Each of these stories is an idle tale told by a woman, carrying burial spices, expecting to meet grief and death at the tomb; each is a story of the deep mystery of life emerging from beyond death. Each is a story that gives us a peek at what resurrection looks like and feels like.
Did you find yourself in one of these stories? Did these stories spark in your head and your heart a memory of your own idle tale of resurrection?
Friends, this morning, our world grieves with Christians in Sri Lanka, in shock and mourning over church bombings that have killed nearly 200 people. And we feel the sadness of worshipers in Paris, and of congregations in Louisiana, and even ourselves as we worship away from our usual sacred gathering spaces because of fires and damages. We know the dark tombs of illness, death, conflict, and loss.
And this is precisely why we need to keep telling stories of resurrection. Why we need to say “Christ is risen, alleluia!” Why we need to receive one another’s stories of hope as a gift to cherish. Why we need to come back and back again to the empty tomb, to be renewed in our sense of mystery, wonder, and possibility.
Because our idle tales are not just trifles. They speak the truth: God, the power of the entire universe, raises life out of death. When they thought they could torture and kill and silence God’s living word of love and mercy, God raised Christ to new life.
Death has not prevailed.
Love has not been silenced.
Mercy has not been suffocated.
Hope has not been destroyed.
Our idle tale of resurrection is the story that will save the world.
The late poet Mary Oliver writes, “Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.”
This is the charge I give you today, Easter Sunday: keep room in your heart for the unimaginable. Keep your eyes open for resurrection. Tell and tell again the idle tales of hope and faith and life. Be sustained for your life’s journey by every alleluia moment that comes your way.
Easter has dawned.
It is Christ’s resurrection.
And it is your story to tell.