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Easter Day, 04/05/2015
Sermon on Mark 16:1-8, by Richard O. Johnson
When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. 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. [NRSV]
Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!
Yes, he is risen indeed. Here we are, gathered once again to hear the story, the marvelous and incredible story, that has been told since the time of the apostles: how “they put him to death by hanging him on a tree, but God raised him up.”
Little five-year-old Susie went off to Kindergarten, her very first day of school. “Well!” exclaimed her mother, when Susie got home that afternoon, “did you learn anything today?” “Not enough,” sighed Susie. “I have to go back again tomorrow.”
Like Susie, we’re always having to go back—back to Jerusalem, back to that old rugged cross on that windswept hill, back to this empty tomb on this early dawn after the Sabbath. We haven’t learned enough yet, and we have to go back.
We haven’t learned enough about death
We haven’t learned enough about death. It’s kind of strange, really; we certainly have enough experience with it. Death is everywhere. Yet however much we see it—on the news, among our own family and friends—no matter how much we see it, death always comes to us as a stranger.
The late Peter Marshall—long before our current preoccupation with Iraq—told a story that is a popular legend in that part of the world. A merchant in Baghdad one day sent his servant to the market. The servant soon came home, trembling with fear. He said to his master, “Down in the market place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd, and when I turned around I saw that it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture. Master, please, lend me your horse, for I must run away from her. I will ride to Samarra and hide where Death cannot find me.”
The merchant lent the horse, and servant galloped away. Later the merchant went to the market place and he also spotted Death in the crowd. He strode over to her. “Why did you frighten my servant this morning?” he demanded. “Why did you make a threatening gesture?”
“That was not a threatening gesture,” Death replied. “It was only that your servant startled me. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”
There is no hiding from Death. Each of us has an appointment in Samarra, and we do not wish to go there. We have not learned enough. That’s why we must come back to this empty tomb, come back with these women who, with us, are terrified. We have not learned enough. We have not yet learned that on this Easter morning, Death is vanquished. Death has no more dominion over us. We have not yet been fully seized by that amazement which comes to us, not in the face of Death, but in the face of the God who conquers Death.
We haven’t learned enough about sin
And we come back here this morning because we haven’t learned enough about sin. Did you notice, in our first lesson, the closing words of the apostle Peter’s proclamation? “Everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.” Forgiveness of sins—we’ve been thinking about that all through Lent, as we’ve focused on the theme of repentance. Forgiveness of sins is really what the gospel is about. In the Bible, sin and death go hand in glove; they are part of the same reality. Both represent separation from God, estrangement from God.
And we haven’t learned enough about sin, for we haven’t fully learned that in conquering death, Christ also conquered sin. That victory is won. Though we still, as long as this life endures, struggle with the remains of sin, we know that Christ is victorious.
A few days ago in my daily prayer I was reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Paul paints a wonderful picture of wanting to know Christ and the power of his resurrection, a passionate account of his own longing to know Christ. And then he makes this fascinating promise: “Let those of us who are mature be thus minded; but if in anything you are otherwise minded, God will reveal that also to you.”
I don’t know about you, but I often am discouraged about my sins, my failings. I often think about them with despair, wondering if I will ever be able to get beyond them. In reading Paul’s words, it suddenly struck me that my discouragement about my sins does not really come from myself; it comes from God. It is God, revealing to me the ways I am “otherwise minded”; it is God, if you will, pointing out the places that I need to grow, the places I need to focus in my growth in Christ. And he does that, not to make me feel bad, but in order that I might be healed. “By the grace of God,” Paul writes in this morning’s lesson, “I am what I am, and his grace toward me has not been in vain.” His grace toward me. This empty tomb, you see, it is about his grace toward me—his grace in freeing me from sin, and making me his forever. “The Word of grace has purged away the old and evil leaven!” Yes, I still struggle with my sins—I haven’t yet learned enough! But at this empty tomb this morning, I’m learning that this victory, too, has been won.
We haven’t learned enough about faith
We come back here, to the empty tomb, because we haven’t learned enough about faith. We say it often here: faith simply means trust. It means trusting God, even when it is difficult; even when it seems that God is hidden.
Ingmar Bergman’s classic film The Seventh Seal contains a chilling scene where Death appears to a knight in the form of a man. In the conversation that follows, the knight explores some of his questions about God, and Death, of course, tries to inflate those questions into doubts. “Why does God hide himself?” asks the knight. “Why doesn’t he reveal himself? Why doesn’t God stretch out his hand and touch us? Why doesn’t he at least say something to us?”
“But God doesn’t do this, does he?” replies Death. “He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t speak. He remains silent.”
“That’s right!” the knight agrees. “He doesn’t do a thing. Sometimes I wonder if he’s really out there.”
“Well,” Death coaxes, “maybe he’s not there. Maybe no one’s out there. Maybe we’re here all alone.”
Which of us hasn’t wondered about that question, and especially in the face of death. “Maybe we’re here all alone.”
At dawn, the women went to the tomb. They found the tomb empty. Jesus was not there. What a moment of loneliness and despair that might have been! But with stunning eyes and ears of faith, they grasped the message: “He is not here…but go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” He is not here—but that does not mean we are all alone! It only means he is going ahead of us, into Galilee, into the reality of every day life—there he will meet us!
To see that requires, as I said, the eyes and ears of faith. It requires trust—trust that his word is true, that his promise is good; trust that, though we do not see him now, he is going ahead of us; trust that we will see him there, in Galilee, in every day life. See him in the ordinariness of bread and wine; see him in song and prayer; see him in the word preached, in sins forgiven; see him in the face of our neighbor. We will see him there in Galilee, until one day we see him face to face in the glory of his kingdom.
We keep coming back to this empty tomb because we haven’t yet learned enough of faith. But remarkably, incredibly, with utmost patience, he keeps teaching us. And one day we will learn. So “let us feast this Easter Day on Christ, the bread of heaven…Christ alone our souls will feed; he is our meat and drink indeed; Faith lives upon no other. Hallelujah!”