Two weeks ago, we had that freak spring snow storm. At our house, we had 6” when we awoke, and it
was still snowing. It took the community
by surprise. Even the high school kids didn’t know it was coming; they weren’t
plotting for their imminent snow day, making plans in hopes that the weatherman
would help them out. Our neighbors had a
tree fall on their house, and we lost power.
Being transplanted Midwesterners, my husband and I braved the snow and
headed into work, even though the snow and branches were still falling.
By noon, we called it a day, and headed home. With
nearly 12” of snow on the ground, we had our power back, although I wasn’t sure
for how long. We steeled ourselves for
more outtages; I made soup, John found the candles, Jessie did homework that
required the computer. Sure enough, the
power went out again that evening. That
time, I felt slightly better prepared. Although
it still didn’t feel right. Being
without power, whether it’s a surprise, or there’s some advance warning, is
discombobulating. It’s so different from
what we’re used to, that although it’s not inherently dangerous, being in the
dark, even temporarily is surprisingly unsettling. And for as much as we expectantly await the
return of the light, it seems to also catch me by surprise. I’m sitting in the darkness and stillness,
and all of a sudden, there’s bright, disconcerting light.
I experience that same unsettled, somewhat disoriented state,
coming to Church for this night, the Great Vigil. Church is normally a place of
light and warmth. I come in to the
darkness and stillness and think, “that’s not right”, even though I know this
is only temporary. When the light
returns, it’s surprising, even though I know it’s coming.
This is the only service in the entire church year that has
that stark contrast between the dark entrance - a very Lenten feeling, and the
festive Easter Eucharist that ends the service.
Part of what makes tonight, like last night’s service feel so abrupt is
that we don’t start in the normal way. Tonight
is the last day of an extended three day service that began on Maundy
Thursday. That service didn’t end like
we’re accustomed. The Good Friday
service has neither a customary beginning or ending, as it is just a
continuation of Thursday’s service, which then continues on to tonight. Tonight, we pick up where we last left off,
last night. It’s unsettling. We know it’s just a part one night’s service,
and we know what’s coming. But
still.
During this part of the vigil, we hear several stories from
the Old Testament. These accounts tell
the story of our salvation. Of God’s
consistent and repeated care and attention to humanity. We hear about God the Father, fully
divine. The stories were originally
scribed by people trying to understand the unimaginable, God the Father. Tonight, the stories are retold, by other
people, from other perspectives. As we
read or hear the stories, there’s a great deal of human attributes ascribed to
God. God saw that it was good. God said.
God told Noah. We can’t possibly
know God, so we do our best to understand through the people willing to
interpret and tell the stories, beginning with the original authors, and most
recently by tonight’s story tellers. Stories,
told or written by humans about God, inspired by God, are how we can understand
God.
Contrast that with the later reading from Mark’s Gospel. In this story, three women went to Jesus tomb
to finish anointing his body. Jesus,
fully human. Throughout the Gospels, we
hear about what Jesus says, does, thinks.
Being fully human, I can better understand and empathize with Jesus’
story. We all can share in his story, because we’re all human, just as Jesus
was human. If you’ve ever shared a meal
with friends, helped a child, or been deserted or betrayed, you know. Our humanity we share with Jesus helps us also
understand the emotions of those around him.
Peter, the friend who’s worried because he’s gone too far, the mother
who fears for his safety, the women who watch him die. It’s not hard to understand the immense grief
of those women as they headed to the tomb.
Things were not right. They’d lost a dear friend in a dreadful cruel
way.
And when they get to the tomb, they find Jesus’ body missing.
Their only consolation are words of the strange messenger in the tomb, “do not
be alarmed”, he says. Jesus is not here.
He’s been raised.
After discovering the empty tomb, Mark writes that the women
fled in amazement and terror. From that dark,
unsettled place of death, amazement and terror seem like a fitting response. Jesus’ body is missing, and the first
witnesses are amazed and terrified.
While it may be appropriate responses in their circumstances, it does
not feel like a fitting ending to this, our first resurrection story of
Easter. And yet, that’s the end of our
story tonight. Amazement and terror.
Although there are a few additional verses in Mark’s Gospel,
which provide a neater resolution to this amazing story, many scholars believe
this was how Mark originally ended his Gospel.
And regardless of that argument
best left to scholars, it’s where our Gospel reading ends tonight. The
witnesses fled in terror and amazement.
It’s not much of an ending. Nothing
is resolved, and we, the readers nor the people in the story don’t even know
where the protagonist of the story is at this point.
But of course, we know the rest of the story. We heard about in the Exsultet, the ancient
chant that heralds in Easter. The risen Savior shines upon you, and
darkness is vanquished forever. Hatred
is cast out. Peace and justice find a
home. Beautiful images, and belief
in these are foundational to our faith. Christ is risen from the dead and his flame
of love still burns within us.
But what about Mark’s ending.
What about missing Jesus? Why end
there, on this festive night? I like
tidy endings. I like Hollywood movies
for that reason. This isn’t a Hollywood
ending. It requires much more thought,
and the resolution isn’t handed to us.
Jesus is not in the tomb.
He’s been murdered, and laid in a stone tomb. But he leaves. He cannot be contained by death. He’s not there. He surprises everyone by not being where
he’s supposed to be -in this story, throughout his life, and now, throughout
ours.
When we leave tonight,
we leave church, Easter, all of this. We
know Christ has risen, and that’s a good thing.
And tomorrow when we come back to church, we’ll rejoin the story, take
communion and again be connected with Christ.
But what if Christ doesn’t stay where we put him? What if he’s not in this church? What if he’s out there? He’s not in the tomb. He’s left the building.
Christ is out there. We meet him every day. If I meet him, and I’m not expecting him, not
loving him, not serving him, that is a
little terrifying.
I think that we, like the women of Mark’s story should be a
little nervous about just exactly where Jesus is. He’s not where we conveniently left him. He’s not waiting for us to return to our pews
to continue our relationship with him here.
Where’s Jesus now? He’s
present in your world, in your coworkers, your estranged family members, in the
person on the street corner. If Jesus
can’t be contained by a tomb or by death, he cannot be contained by our
convenience or comfort. He’s out there,
waiting to meet us.
At the beginning of this service, we heard again and again
about God’s covenant with us, and the dance between humanity and the Divine, through
the telling of our salvation history.
Later, we renewed our baptismal covenant where we continued that dance.
Through that covenant,
we committed to strive for justice and peace among all people. Because Christ is out there, how could we
not? Christ is present in the people
who need desperately need our striving.
We committed to seek and serve Christ in all people. Think
about that. Serve Christ in All
People. To live in easter joy, free
from any fear, we need to do that.
Christ is not in the tomb.
Christ is risen. Christ is among
us. Alleluia, alleluia.
No comments:
Post a Comment