Easter 2018; Pastor Rebecca Ellenson; ICCM
The Easter gospel as told by Mark has the startling ending, “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.” At first glance it seems like a strange way to end a gospel. There is no shout of victory, only astonished silence. No leap for joy, only running in fear.
Both Matthew and Luke end their gospels with resurrection appearances, reunions with the eleven, and a commandment to preach. Some scholars explain Mark’s abrupt ending by suggesting that the scroll of Mark had become worn and frayed and the last lines were lost. In the second century, longer and “more expected” endings were added to the original text. Modern editors of the English versions of the New Testament don’t always agree on what to do with those later endings.
In any case Mark certainly believed in the resurrection even if he did not include any dramatic resurrection appearances. His account zeroes in on the difficulty the women had with what they encountered, their questions and fears. The gospel of Mark was written for believers. It is described by Mark as “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ.” It IS open ended perhaps because it is only the beginning. The rest of the story takes place out there– where he meets us, in Galilee– in the place of life. The women obviously found their tongues– we wouldn’t have Mark’s gospel or the church at all if they hadn’t been able to tell witness. but early on that first Easter morning their response to the empty tomb was fear and silence.
As Mary and the other Mary and Salome went to the tomb, they were going to confront death, to face it. Jesus died on a Friday afternoon, just before the beginning of the Sabbath, which means that the burial preparations had to be postponed until after sundown on Saturday. Joseph of Arimathea buried Jesus quickly on his own property before the arrival of the Sabbath. So, these three women in our text today–the ones who stayed with him to the bitter end, who saw his dying and death, and his temporary burial– they went to the tomb as soon as it was allowed, to perform the last remaining burial chores.
It’s no wonder that Mark’s gospel portrays the elements of fear and mistrust. Jesus had, after all, been brutally killed. The women were afraid. They were confronted not just by death, which, though horrible, is a reality that we know something about. No, they faced the empty tomb and overwhelming fear. To Mark’s great credit, I believe, he does nothing to help us ignore or deny that fear.
Mark pushes us to acknowledge the grief and loss and confusion they experienced. They went with all their hopes dashed, overcome, spent. We do acknowledge death in our telling of the Easter story, but we move so quickly to the joy, too quickly for authenticity sometimes, quicker certainly than the gospel writer did. Think about it. What have you or your friends and family felt when you’ve lost someone close to you to death? What happens in an untimely death or a tragic loss? Everything stops, doesn’t it? Nothing else really seems to matter. Yet things go on. The traffic races by on the street. The bills keep arriving in the mail. The dog still needs to be fed. Grief captures us with shock and dullness. Of course, they were afraid and silent!! It takes time to move from the place of fear and loss.
I am so glad that Mark told the Easter story this way, leaving us with the overwhelming loss and the open-ended question about whether they would go to Galilee and tell the news of his rising. It fits with our experiences, I believe. Our world is full of darkness and confusion. We’ve each had our own personal losses and times of fear.
I can identify with the women who went to the tomb, found it empty and didn’t know how to share their experience with others. Sometimes, it’s hard to put our faith into words. We can believe with all our hearts and experience God’s presence in our lives and yet not know how to proclaim it. I’ve felt that way on Easter Sunday sometimes, overwhelmed by the whole mystery of faith and not sure how to share what I know in my heart.
Don’t take me wrong–I love my role. My job is to share what I know about the wild and wonderful world, about our awesome God, and about the gift of community. My task is to proclaim how fiercely and forever and unconditionally loved you are. I get to teach about grace; how grace means that you can relax because there is nothing you can do to make God love you more and nothing they can do to make God love them less. I get to proclaim the deepest truth: that all you really have to do, your whole lives long, is bask in the light of God’s love and reflect it onto others. I love what I do. I remember when I was a little girl, looking up at Pastor Bob Anderson in the pulpit on Sunday morning I thought—What a great job—he gets to think about God all day long. I can’t think of any better work for me to do.
I read a story written by another woman who works in church, and who loves her job. She told a story about the real questions of faith. I think I can tell it to you without crying, we’ll see. It captures the heart of our faith, shows us in really human terms what it means to believe in Easter. She describes her work with children in a big beautiful Sanctuary, writing this:
So, this morning I waited there, right in front of the altar while the little ones waddled in like geese—single file, squawking, looking so tiny inside the massive sanctuary. There is no way to describe how precious they were with all the heads swiveling around at the soaring ceilings and all the pinching each other and all the trying not to giggle.
I’ll just say that my heart did that thing that happened to the Grinch—remember when his heart swelled so many sizes that it almost burst? That’s why I go to church—for the heart swelling. The heart swelling is the only buzz I have left. Luckily it’s the best one I’ve found: the kind of buzz that leaves me better and bigger instead of worse and smaller. Anyway—looking at those Joy Beings walk towards me, I wondered if this time my heart would swell OUT of me and I’d start floating above the pews like a Macy’s Day balloon.
At the end of the little geese line was a new student wearing a name tag that said: Ryan. Ryan was a head taller than the other children and his eyes were dark and deep, like wells you can look into but never find the bottom of. I was immediately drawn to this little man with the big, deep, sad eyes. I winked at Ryan. He grinned, but just a little.
My friends Nancy and Susan started the lesson for the children and we sang and we danced and then we quieted ourselves and went into our still, small place in our hearts where we can listen for God. Then half way through our quiet minute: my big-eyed friend motioned to me in a way that said: can you come here? But can you not make a big deal about? So, I went over to Ryan, but I didn’t make a big deal about it. I just casually sat down next to him and kept facing forward so he could take his time telling me whatever he needed to tell me.
Finally, he tapped me on the shoulder and I leaned down close. He looked around the big sanctuary and he said:
“Excuse me. Is God coming?”
Then Ryan looked around again, like he was expecting God to show up here like Ronald shows up occasionally at McDonalds. And I just stared at this little man who had just asked me the question that every single human being who has ever looked around a fancy sanctuary or a busted-up family or a hurting friendship or a shocking diagnosis or a messy world is thinking:
“Excuse Me. Is God Coming?”
I swallowed hard and I said: “Ryan. That is the best question I have ever heard. Just the best one. Listen, I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I gotta tell you—I think your class needs to hear your brilliant question. May I share it?”
My big-eyed friend’s eyes got even bigger and he tried to contain a proud little smile and he nodded to me.
I stood up and said, “Miss Nancy, I am so sorry to interrupt you, but this person has just asked the most honest, beautiful, important question I have ever heard anyone ask in my whole entire life. He looked around this room and he said, “Is God Coming?”
And it got really quiet and I looked at my friend and tried to respond. I babbled, really. I said, “I don’t have an answer, no one does, really. But here’s my hunch. I think God’s already here. I don’t think we wait for God to come as much as we bring God to each other. I think God is inside me and you, Ryan. It’s like… you know how cookies have sugar in them and that’s what makes them delicious? We have God in us. That’s what makes us delicious. And I think God sent US to be here for each other because God’s inside of us–so God knows that if we show up–God’s here too. God sends us to each other. Because we are all God’s family and sometimes family members send each other. You know how sometimes your daddy sends your mommy to pick you up and sometimes your mommy sends your daddy?”
And all the little ones raised their hands and nodded except for Ryan. I stopped and looked right at him. He said, “My daddy doesn’t pick me up. My daddy’s in heaven.”
And Nancy and Susan and I froze because suddenly those deep eyes made perfect sense and all the kids got really quiet in holy reverence for Ryan and his daddy and his questions—and there is no chance that in the history of the entire world there has ever been a more beautiful, silent moment.
And I let there be silence for a long minute and then when I finally pulled myself together, I walked over to Ryan and silently prayed PLEASE GOD HELP ME BE PRESENT FOR THIS AMAZING BOY YOU SENT and then I started speaking really quietly to him. I said, “Ryan, your daddy is in heaven?” And he nodded. And I said, “I see. Well my guess would be that God and your daddy are together there, and that God sent me and your teachers and these friends to be here with you today. So that we could love you for God. I think that God loves you more than you can even imagine. And I love you too, Ryan. I can’t believe how lucky I am to know you. I think that God sent you here for me, Ryan. Because you are just one of the most special people I’ve ever met. You have beautiful questions about God and you are honest and kind and I just think that you are my gift from God today, Ryan. Thank you for showing up here. I’m glad I showed up, too. Magic happens when we go where God sends us, doesn’t it? It’s like God sends us places to meet God in others. And to be God for others.”
And then I just went out on a big limb that appeared in front of me.
“Ryan, I don’t know how you can know if God is here or not. But here’s what happens to me when I notice that God is with me. My heart starts to feel bigger. It feels like it’s swelling up. It feels like it’s getting so big it might crawl up through my throat. Like right now, next to you—my heart feels huge. Like somebody pumped it full of air. I think this heart swelling is sometimes how God reminds me that God is with me.”
And you guys. Ryan’s face—the face that had been so serious and so sad—broke into a smile that made it abundantly clear that God used the heart swelling trick on him, too. But he just didn’t know it was God doing it. And then he said quietly, “I know what you mean.”
Is God coming?
I know what you mean.
Have there ever been two more perfect, two more beautiful sentences uttered?
Then I asked Ryan if I could hug him and he said “yes” and he squeezed me tight and then Nancy had to take over completely because I could not speak for the rest of our time together. Just not one more word.
Listen to me. You HAVE to decide what you believe to be the most important work in the world and then you have to DO THAT WORK. Because THIS is what happens. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS. God shows up. Happy Easter.
Let us pray. Gracious God, you show up! In life, in death, and after death! You give us your grace to hold and to share and to live in. Fill our hearts so we can share the news—Christ is Risen. Amen.