April 8, 2012 Round Top Park, Endicott, NY |
Whom
are you looking for?
This
is the question at the heart of this morning’s gospel passage, a passage that
recounts the central mystery at the heart of Christian faith. We have already
proclaimed it in song: “Christ the Lord is Risen Today, Alleluia!” We have
already proclaimed it by the action of making a rugged wooden cross bloom with
flowers. We proclaim it by what we’re wearing, even what we’ll eat later on.
Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia! For us, the outcome is
known, it’s a given. But for the people whose stories we will follow for what
may amount to no more than an hour in a day almost two thousand years ago, it
is an event veiled in mystery. A man,
whom Mary Magdalene supposes to be the gardener, asks the weeping woman, “Whom
are you looking for?”
But
really, the more appropriate question for Mary might have been, “What are you looking for?” because, in
truth, she is looking, not for a person, or even for her Lord. She is looking
for a body. She is looking for a tomb.
It
is the third day since Jesus was crucified, executed in an act so horrible that
a fairly mild description of it caused a young girl to cry in this sanctuary
last Sunday. Jesus died a painful death, hated and feared by both the religious
and political authorities of his day. We can look through the gospels and
wonder why he was so feared and so hated. The gospel of John tells us that
Jesus performed signs that revealed that God was at work in him: he changed
water into wine. He healed a man born blind. He fed more than five thousand
hungry people with just five barley loaves and two fish. He raised his beloved
friend Lazarus from the dead. The gospel also tells us that Jesus broke through
barriers that were considered unbreakable: he spoke to women and foreigners as
though they were equals. He healed on the Sabbath, when such actions were
considered work, and therefore forbidden. Because he described his relationship
with God with such intimacy, he broke the ultimate religious taboos. And
because he broke down cultural and social barriers, he broke the ultimate
political taboos. And so he was killed.
Then
his body was prepared in the customary way for burial, and was placed in a
borrowed tomb. A stone roughly the weight of a mid-sized car was placed in
front of it. At sundown Sabbath began, and so the tomb lay quietly undisturbed
because the Sabbath prohibited unnecessary travel and work. And that, as they
say, was that. Or, was supposed to be.
But
we know that “that” was not “that.” We read the whole story through the lens of
resurrection, and so we’re ready for what happens next. Early on the first day
of the week, Sunday morning, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb. There are
lots of Marys in the stories of Jesus’ life, so it’s good to do a little
clarification as to who this particular Mary is. She is not Jesus’ mother, and
she is not a prostitute. She is not the woman “taken in adultery.” She is not
one of the women who anointed Jesus with perfume. She is, however, one of the women who stood near the cross,
along with Jesus’ mother and yet another Mary. And she is here, at the tomb,
early Sunday morning, the first day of the week. Now, we are not given any
particular reason for Mary to be at the tomb. Jesus’ body has already been
properly prepared for burial, so that’s not it. We can only wonder, we can only
guess. Here is my guess: Mary wants to be near him. She is mourning.
Whom
are you looking for? What are you looking for? Mary Magdalene comes, looking
for a tomb, behind whose impossibly large entrance-blocking stone lies the dead
body of Jesus.
But
Mary, to her shock, finds that the stone has been removed, and the tomb is open.
And her reaction is to run away. She runs to find two of Jesus’ disciples,
which is another word for “learners.” Mary seeks the other disciples because
all she can do in the face of not finding what she expected to find is to run.
These
other disciples are Peter and the unnamed “one whom Jesus loved.” The gospels
describe Peter to us as someone who was sort of a slow starter when it came to
learning but who eventually made up for that by becoming one of the most
important leaders of the early church. He gets it, and he doesn’t get it. The
beloved disciple, the beloved learner, is much more of a mystery. His identity
has been the subject of intense speculation, pretty much since the evangelist
put down his reed-pen and rolled up his papyrus. The classic theory is that he
is John, for whom the gospel is named. Others have more recently proposed that
Mary Magdalene is, herself, the beloved disciple, which doesn’t make a lot of
sense, since this chapter portrays her as running to get that person. Still
others believe it may have been Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the
dead—Lazarus, about whom a disciple says to Jesus, “The one whom you love is
ill.”
Who
is the beloved disciple? Whom are you looking for?
Once
they hear Mary’s summary of the situation—“They have taken the Lord out of the
tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him”—they run to the tomb. And it is quite a footrace. Those of you who
come to our Monday 5 PM bible study: I got this one wrong, didn’t I? It is not
Peter, the man of action who wins the race, but the beloved disciple. Of
course. It makes perfect sense, in the highly symbolic world of John’s gospel: his
speed is a measure of his devotion.
What
follows is an indictment of the old saw, “Seeing is believing.” Mary sees that
the stone is rolled away from the tomb; she believes that Jesus’ body has been stolen.
The beloved disciple and Peter both see the grave clothes lying inside the
tomb; Peter believes it’s time to go back home, while the beloved one simply
“believes.” We don’t know exactly what, but we are told that they don’t yet
understand what is really going on.
And
then Mary is left alone, and she is weeping. I know that this is not the first
time in history, nor will it be the last, in which a woman who has endured the
death of someone she loves at the hands of a brutal regime has been left
without even a body. Mary is weeping over this final heartbreaking indignity,
that not only is he dead, but she has lost her best hope to be near him,
leaning on the far side of that enormous car-sized stone.
And
maybe that is why, at last, she bends over to look inside the tomb. If she
can’t have the body, or the closeness, at the very least, she would like her
questions to be answered. And so she looks into the tomb, where she finds a pair
of angels, sitting.
And
we’re ready for this—we’re wearing our resurrection lenses, after all! They say
to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” And mustering up all the dignity she can
at dawn, looking into a burial vault at a couple of angels, she says, “They
have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” She sees
angels, and still she believes that Jesus’ corpse has been stolen.
For
some reason, she turns around.
Whom
are you looking for?
Mary
is still looking for a body. She sees, but she still does not believe or even
recognize.
Whom
are you looking for?
I
have a hunch that, on Easter Sunday morning, when we come to church to
experience the beauty and the pageantry, the flowers and the lilies and the
bells ringing and the voices soaring, we are looking for someone, and
something, very specific. I believe that we are looking for ourselves.
I
believe we come to hear the resurrection proclamation in the hopes that,
somewhere in the story, we will see someone who reminds us of ourselves.
Because, if I can find myself in that story somewhere, if someone like me found
their faith on an Easter day so long ago, maybe I can find a way of stepping
into the stream of faith as well.
So,
let’s take off our resurrection lenses for a moment, and look again at our
story.
Whom
are you looking for? Are you looking for Mary? The disciple whose tears lead
her to an encounter with Jesus, the one whom he calls by name?
There
is something powerful about hearing your name called. We are given names at
birth, and from the very first hours of our lives we hear those names, over and
over, in the voices of those, we hope, love us best. A preaching colleague told
the story this week about how his mother started singing a song to his newborn
daughter, “Katy! Beautiful Katy! You’re the only girl that I adore!” And soon, any time she heard her song, Katy
would turn toward the singer. It was her song. It was her name.
Jesus
says just one word to the weeping woman. “Mary.” He calls her by name. And she
turns, and in that turning, she finally recognizes Jesus. Have your tears led
you to Jesus? Have you heard Jesus call your name? Are you looking for Mary?
Or
are you looking for Peter, the one who tries, and tries hard, but doesn’t
always get it. My mother confessed to me when she was at the end of her life
that she longed for faith, but found it incredibly hard to believe. How I wish
she had been able to read the memoirs of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, whom the
entire world looked up to for her brilliant witness to the gospel, for her
devotion to God’s most vulnerable, poorest, most despised people. Mother
Teresa, who inspired the world, described her own spiritual life as dry, dark,
and lonely. She tried so hard, just like Peter. Do you find faith more an effort
than a joy? Are you looking for Peter?
Or
are you looking for the beloved disciple? The one whose devotion to Jesus
carries him swiftly to the tomb? Is believing, for you, almost beside the
point, because your heart carries you past believing into intimacy,
relationship? The idea of “belief” has changed throughout the centuries. Ever
since the enlightenment, the dawning of the scientific method, “belief” has
come to mean adherence to propositions, almost a check-off list. For
Christians, this list would include things like: Jesus is the Son of God,
check. Jesus was born of a virgin, check. Jesus rose bodily from the dead,
check, check and double-check! But in Jesus’ day, belief was more about
relationship, and trust, and love. What mattered wasn’t belief about; what matter was belief in. The beloved disciple believed in
Jesus because he loved and was loved by Jesus, and that love lifted him past
the need for the check-offs. Is
relationship the foundation of your faith? Is love? Are you looking for the beloved
disciple?
I
believe we are all looking for ourselves in the Easter story, and once we
locate ourselves there, we can at last begin to look for Jesus—not some shell
of the man, but the real, living, breathing Jesus, the one who calls us each by
name, the one who we may not entirely get or understand, the one who would far
prefer our love to our intellectual assent.
Whom
are you looking for? Let’s stop for a minute, before putting back on those
resurrection lenses, and simply inhale the crisp air of the unexpected, the
startled moment before the recognition. Resurrection comes when we are most and
least filled with love, when we get it and we don’t get it, when we are stooped
with sorrow and laughing our heads off. Resurrection comes, not at our bidding,
but at God’s pleasure, not because we have earned it but because God wants it,
not because we are perfect but because God loves us perfectly. Resurrection
comes because Jesus’ project of healing and welcoming and loving us isn’t
finished and will not be stopped. Christ is risen indeed. Thanks be to God.
Amen. Alleluia!
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