John 20:1-18
“The surge is coming. Be prepared–it’s going to get worse before it gets better. This is the week to not leave your home.”
The warnings have been dire. For the last few weeks, we have been told to expect a surge in diagnoses of COVID-19, a surge in people needing machines to breathe for them, a surge in death. We have watched as field hospitals have been constructed–row after row of stark cubicles–, and we have imagined them filled with people fighting for their lives.
It’s funny how emotions wax and wane in times of crisis. We go along, reminding ourselves to stay positive, and then something hits us and all those positive-thinking techniques fall apart.
For me, that moment came when epidemiologists started predicting that the surge would come somewhere around April 12. Easter. The confluence felt devastating. I had long before given up on celebrating Easter in a sanctuary filled with people. Even worse was the prospect of celebrating Easter amidst a surge of death. How do we proclaim the triumph of new life when we are overwhelmed by death?
Then I re-read the gospel lesson. It is as though the story was written especially for us, especially for this time.
The Easter story begins with isolation. The disciples are hiding out–not all together, but apparently each in their own homes.
The Easter story begins with danger. Mary Magdalene sneaks silently through the dark streets of an occupied city, to the tomb of a man executed because he was a threat to the occupying power. The danger is very real. Mary must be terrified.
The Easter story begins with grief. Mary gets up early and goes to visit the burial place of her beloved friend Jesus. In the other gospels, she and her friends bring spices to anoint his body. In John’s gospel, that has already happened. There is nothing constructive for Mary to do when she goes to the tomb. Still she goes. She needs to. She needs to acknowledge how much she loved–loves–her friend Jesus. She needs to honor the depth of her sorrow.
As the story progresses, the mix of emotions becomes even more complicated. When she sees the stone rolled away, Mary runs to tell Simon Peter and the beloved disciple, who then race to the tomb. Their speed isn’t an expression of joy that their friend is alive; it is a reaction of panic, that frantic urge to act when you have no idea what to do.
Once Peter and the beloved disciple get to the tomb, they see that Mary is right: the body is gone. They don’t go in search of Jesus; they don’t wonder aloud what has happened. They simply go back to their homes. Their shared panic brings them together only for a few moments. They leave Mary at the tomb, alone again. Her grief clouds her vision, so she doesn’t recognize the angels for who they are, so she sees a gardener instead of her beloved teacher.
This is a story for our times. It is a story that lifts up grief, danger, isolation, the instinct to panic, the ways sorrow and fear can distort our perception. We may recognize our own emotions in this story. We may recognize our own lives. Can we recognize, as well, a source of hope?
For me, there are three messages in this story that point to hope. The first message is revealed in the interchange between Mary and the man she assumes is the gardener. Mary asks this man where he has laid the body of her friend. Jesus turns to her and calls her by name. “Mary.” Jesus sees her, right there, as she is. Jesus knows her; he understands her–her grief and hope, her fear and her deep love. In that moment, Mary’s eyes are opened. In that moment, her heart opens, and she awakens to the resurrection.
This story calls us by name. It assures us that God sees us, right now, as we are. God knows us. God understand us–our grief and hope, our fear and our deep love. We do not have to pretend to be other than who we are. God understands. God is with us. That changes everything.
My second source of hope from this story is a powerful, paradoxical truth: out of death, out of sorrow and suffering, new life emerges.
This is a central truth of our faith. It is a truth we recognize every spring, when trees that look like dead sticks suddenly produce buds and leaves, fruit and flowers. It is a truth we yearn to believe.
It is also a truth that is easily over-simplified. In our culture today–and probably in every culture in every time–we risk cheapening this profound spiritual truth, turning it into a Pollyanna look-on-the-bright-side attitude that denies the depth of pain. In this particular time, we may be tempted to imagine we can bounce back from this pandemic and pretend it never happened–filling up our baseball stadiums, hugging and shaking hands and traveling unencumbered as though no one has suffered.
Our gospel story challenges that instinct. Jesus’ next words, after Mary recognizes him, jump out at us, especially these days. “Do not hold on to me,” he says. Mary is in the depths of grief and has just discovered her friend is alive–and she doesn’t even get to embrace him. I ache for her. I ache with her, with every bone in my body that yearns to embrace a friend I see through a window or across a computer screen.
With these words, Jesus tells Mary that resurrection is not restoration. He is alive–but that does not erase the truth that he died. He is alive–but it is a different kind of life than three days before. He is with her always–but now in a new way.
Resurrection is about new life–and what is new is always unknown. Mary doesn’t know what form this new life will take; she dares to trust that it will be joyous. We don’t know what form new life will take as we emerge from this pandemic. Will we dare to trust that it will be joyous?
Through Zoom interactions and phone calls, we have wondered aloud about what this new life might look like. We have pondered signs we have noticed that may point toward something new. We have seen how shared vulnerability reminds us of our common humanity. We have witnessed the societal inequities laid bare by this crisis, and we have wondered how to strengthen our commitment to address them. We have awakened to the value of the hidden, hard work of custodians and garbage collectors and home health aides. We have asked ourselves what things we used to do that might not be important. We have learned to be more intentional about our relationships.
In this painful and confusing time, God has planted many seeds of new life. Which ones will take root and blossom? Which ones will we nurture? We know that our watering and tending of these emerging shoots matters, even as we acknowledge that new life is always a mystery.
The third message of hope requires that we put this story in the context of Jesus’ life and teachings. Through healings and shared meals, parables and even arguments, Jesus lived out his central message: God is love. God’s love is greater than illness and brokenness, greater than fear and greed and the walls we build. God’s love is stronger than violence and political scheming, stronger than betrayal, hate and indifference.
The resurrection is God’s ultimate YES to the message Jesus proclaimed. Love is more powerful than Rome. Love is more powerful than death. Love is more powerful even than a mysterious virus that bring the world to a grief-stricken stand-still. This is the promise of Easter.
This promise comes to fulfillment as we choose to trust it, as we choose to act upon it. God’s love is not an abstract principle; it is made real through our small, imperfect, persistent acts of love. When you make masks for healthcare workers, when you play a game with a stir-crazy child, when you honor another person’s compassion by asking them for help, you bring the Easter promise to fruition.
Friends, joy breaks through–amidst the grief and isolation and danger and panic of that first Easter morning. Joy breaks through–amidst the grief and isolation and danger and panic of our lives today. Christ is risen! We are seen, understood and loved by God, just as we are. We have hope for new life, for God is planting seeds for us to nurture. We can be part of the fulfillment of the Easter promise–the ultimate victory of love.
Thanks be to God. Alleluia. Amen.