Read Matthew 28:1-10 here.
I’m going to make an assumption talking to you today. I’m going to assume that, because you’re choosing to be here on Easter Sunday morning – on the Sunday morning of a long weekend – that you’re either a Christian, or what we call a Seeker. I’m not going to say anything that I wouldn’t say to a general audience, but I would word and phrase things differently. If you don’t consider yourself a Christian or a Seeker, I hope you’ll listen anyway, even though it might feel at times that the message isn’t intended for you.
Over the last number of months I have sometimes preached about ways to live the spiritual life. First, the spiritual life has to do with mysteries. These "mysteries" are not quandaries to be solved, as though we were Poirot on the Orient Express. Nor are they questions to be answered, like the mystery of cold fusion. Finally, they aren’t secrets held by some and withheld from others.
Mysteries, the way we’ll talk about them, are things that go deeper than our understanding can follow. By contemplating them, we are drawn deeper into a sense of our own lives, and into a deeper relationship with the ground of all being. No matter how deep we go into one of these mysteries, it is never exhausted.
Second, the spiritual life has to do with rhythms. You could say that each mystery has its own rhythm – its own way of drawing us deeper into itself. I call it rhythm because a true rhythm engages our entire selves – our mental processes, as well as our emotional, and physical, and social lives.
Today is the mystery of the resurrection. If we consider ourselves Christian, and we proclaim Christ risen (Risen indeed!) then we also are risen people – resurrection people.
The rhythm of resurrection has three movements. In the terms of Easter, the three movements can be called Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
We’re all familiar with feelings of loss. Or failure. Or despair over the future. Some of us, I’m sure, are familiar with all three at the same time.
This is what Jesus’ disciples experienced on Good Friday. On Friday, there is no good news.
Friday is exemplified by W. H. Auden’s Poem:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
In our Good Friday service, we examined the possible reactions of four of Jesus' disciples. The apostle Peter wondered whether it was any good going on without him. Judas, who handed him over to the authorities, was overcome with guilt and grief, and could see no hope for the future. Mary the mother of James was convinced that as a group they had utterly failed in their task. Mary Magdalene found her perspective changed, as her devotion was now to a dead man.
This is the epitome of loss. As a community, they are fractured – splintered to pieces. When Jesus was arrested they fled, and it was every man and woman for themselves.
I’m sure some of you have experienced this level of loss. I have, in my own life. I hope that those of us who are not familiar with it will never have to go through it. The combined sense of loss, failure, and despair can often be too much for anyone to handle. Add the loneliness and isolation caused by the fracturing of community, and it can become fatal.
Thankfully for us, this is only the first movement in the rhythm of resurrection. One thing to remember about the rhythms of spirituality is that once we learn to see them, we begin to see them everywhere. One need not suffer a life-altering loss or a brush with death to understand the rhythm of this mystery. It pervades all of life.
The gospel of Matthew tells us that two days after Jesus’ death, the two Marys were sitting outside his tomb.
But he wasn’t there. As they watched, the stone was rolled away from the door. There were guards watching, also, from the moment the tomb was closed. No one went in. No one came out. But Jesus wasn’t there. There is more significance to the emptiness of the tomb than just the question of how this can be.
When we have been through a Good Friday experience, we can choose to gaze into the emptiness. We can stay, waiting, beside the thing that we have lost until our own hearts become the empty tomb. That was my own experience. I hope that none of you will ever have to feel this.
But the two Marys heard the call of God, in the form of a brilliant angel made of shining whiteness and flashing lightning. It told them that there was nothing for them in that place. It told them to go back to the beginning. Leaving the empty tomb behind is the first step towards Saturday.
Matthew doesn’t tell us how long Saturday actually lasted for the disciples. You see, the two Marys heard the call of God to return to Galilee, and they are the ones who convinced the whole group to go with them. How long did it take the group to make it back to Galilee, to the Mountain where Jesus had preached his great Sermon? A week? A year? Ten years? Matthew doesn’t say.
But they have something to sustain them. The Marys get a taste of Sunday as they’re leaving the tomb. Jesus appears to them, and reinforces the message of the angel. “Do not be afraid. I am not in the tomb. I will wait for you in Galilee.”
This is not only a story of a man dying and returning. It is a story of a community dying and returning. A story of the hearts of a small group of people dying, and returning. Their loss is reversed – it is not negated; it happened. It was real. But it is reversed. Their failure is redeemed. They CAN carry on after all. The challenges they face are mighty, but so are they. Their despair is turned to hope. It is not the same hope they had before. It can’t be. But they have hope once again.
And when they get to Galilee - a week, or a year, or a decade later - Jesus is there waiting for them. He is changed. They can see that he’s not quite the man they knew. But there he is, waiting. As he said he would be.
We might wish it could be Sunday every day. But there is brokenness in the world. Love dies. Beauty is destroyed. Christ is crucified. The gospel tells us that Friday is always followed by Sunday. But the only way to get there is to stop looking into the emptiness of our loss and despair, gather into community, and get on our way.
When we learn to see the rhythms of the spiritual life, we begin to see them everywhere. A person loses a job, and with the support of family and friends finds a new future. A family loses a child and it brings the community closer than it ever could have been. A man loses a toe or an arm and gains a new perspective on the world. A woman survives cancer and goes on to rededicate her life.
Ultimately, we are all waiting for the big Sunday to arrive. Oh, we get glimpses along the way. We hear the call of God telling us to make our way to the Mountain. We see Jesus along the way and he tells us not to be afraid – he is not in the tomb, and he will wait for us.
Christ is risen indeed.
Thanks be to God.