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John 20: 1–18
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In the Name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
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Just as we did this morning, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb that first
Easter morning while it was still dark. And it wasn’t just
the sky. Her whole world had gone dark that Good Friday afternoon
as she’d watched Roman soldiers put Jesus to death – in the
cruelest way they knew – by nailing him to a cross. In that
moment, for her, all hope was lost.
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For Jesus had been the best friend Mary had ever known. But more
than a friend. As she watched him open blind eyes, heal sick
bodies and make ruined lives whole, he’d become her Savior, her
Lord. And it wasn’t just Mary who saw that and loved
him. The crowds adored him too and had begun to follow after him
wherever he went. But now . . . well,
what did it matter? Now it was over, and there was nothing anyone
could do to change it.
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Yet on this dark morning, as she approaches the tomb where they’d
laid his body, she feels something like hope – just a shred, just
a whisper – rise up in her heart. Maybe now there was
something she could do for him – wash the dried blood from his
head, where mocking soldiers had forced a crown of thorns into his
flesh. Bathe his hands and feet where the cruel spikes had been
driven in. Maybe now she can bring something like order,
something like dignity into the darkness of that tomb. You and I
would have done the same – just a little human kindness for
someone we had dearly loved.
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But when Mary reaches the tomb, even that hope is dashed, for
nothing is as they’d left it. The heavy stone at the
entrance has been rolled away, and when she peers inside,
Jesus’ body is nowhere to be seen. Panicking, distraught,
she runs to tell the other disciples, “They have taken the Lord
out of the tomb, and I do not know where they have laid him.”
Peter and the disciple Jesus loved race to the tomb with her to see for
themselves. But they too are bewildered. They can’t
wrap their heads around what they have just seen. Finally, they go
back to the house where they have been staying, still wondering.
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Mary, weeping, remains at the tomb to look inside one last
time. And this time she sees two angels, sitting on the stone
ledge where she had last seen Jesus’ body, one at either
end. Does she realize that they are angels? John
doesn’t tell us. What he does show us is Mary’s
confusion and distress. When the two young men ask
her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” all Mary can think
to say is what she has already said to the disciples, “They have
taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve laid
him.” Even when Jesus himself appears at the opening of the
tomb, asking her the same question, Mary can manage no other response
but the one she has already given to the disciples and the
angels. Her mind, you see, is still dark. It continues to
spin hopelessly. In fact, it is only when Jesus quietly
says, “Mary” — that some ray of light finally
illuminates her understanding . . . and
helps her to see who is standing right in front of her.
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In the Episcopal Church, as we baptize a baby, we say, “Name this
child.” And, oh! — the love, the hope, the pride
of those parents as they tenderly say the name they have chosen for
their child! For that name embodies all their hopes, all their
dreams for this child’s future. Maybe it’s a name that
honors his mother . . . or her
grandfather . . . or some dear
friend. Or maybe it’s the meaning of the name that seems
just right. However they’ve come to choose it, by
God’s grace, as the child grows, he or she grows into that
name and into those hopes. And that, I suspect, is what Mary does
when Jesus quietly speaks her name. She hears the love in his voice,
the appreciation for all that she is and all she will still
become. And as the light of the Lord’s love dawns on her,
her darkness finally dissipates, and she sees the risen Christ standing
in front of her.
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How does it happen – this light emerging from darkness, this hope
coming out from despair? It happens as it has from the
beginning, as God calls new life out of darkness, often against great
odds. At creation, God called the heavens and the earth out of
chaos and darkness, naming the light Day and the darkness
Night. Then again, from the darkness of the Flood, God ordained a
whole new beginning for the world, crowning it all with a bright
rainbow. Under cover of darkness God brought a rag–tag
collection of slaves out of Egypt and transformed them into community
in the Promised Land. Truth to tell, God does his best work under
cover of darkness – without any help from us. And here in
Jerusalem, in a dark borrowed tomb — with a rock rolled in front
of its entrance — he has done it again. The darkness could
not hold the Light of the World.
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Now the Light of the World stands before Mary Magdalene, calling her
into a bright new future. She’d prefer to hold on to him as she
used to love him, when she loved him for herself. In fact, she
would prefer to have everything go back to the way things used to
be. But Jesus has a better idea. He’s asking her to go
and tell, to become an apostle, going out into the world and sharing her
love for him with others.
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And — you know — that’s what she did; and today
the Church honors Mary Magdalene as the first Apostle. Once again,
darkness had done its mysterious work. Even in Mary’s
darkness, when everything seemed lost, God was working, bringing about
something new.
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Why does this story speak to us so strongly? I think
it’s because we’ve all learned something about darkness
this year. We all lost people we love this year — not to the
cruelty of Roman soldiers but to the cruelty of this pandemic. We
all learned more than we wanted to know about the darkness of social
isolation that kept us from getting together with family and
friends. And we have shared the darkness of many as they lost jobs
and income.
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Yet in this darkness, God was at work, opening our hearts to the needs
of people all around us. We didn’t just learn we have
neighbors in need and turn away. We got out there and organized
food drives and disposable diaper drives and backpack ministries.
We sent checks to help others with rent money and utility money. We
cheered on the health care workers. And, of course, that
wasn’t just here in Eatonton; it was all over the world.
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Somehow God has rolled stones off our hearts. He has helped us
realize the fragility of life itself. He has helped us to see that
we need each other, that we’re connected in ways we’d never
imagined. That kind of giving, that kind of caring generates its
own light, its own glow . . . and the
darkness is not so dark anymore.
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Alleluia! The Lord has risen! The Lord is risen
indeed!
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Amen.
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