The Good Shepherd John 10: 11 - 18

            I first learned about loveys from the Peanuts cartoon character, Linus. His lovey—his blanket—goes everywhere with him.  I wonder how many of you, like Linus, had a lovey—or your children or grandchildren had/have a lovey.

http://www.simonsaysstamp.com/catalog/peanutslinus1065.jpg

            Both my daughters had loveys.  Like Linus, Mary had a blanket—she called it Temply Blankey.  It went everywhere with her until it failed to return home after a birthday slumber party.  Sarah also had a lovey—Ted E. Bear. A baby gift from one of my math-teaching colleagues,

        

Teddy was bigger than Sarah when she was born, and almost as big as her when she first began lugging him around.  Dressed in one of her toddler t-shirts, Teddy went everywhere with Sarah.  So when Sarah entered the 2 ½ year old class at Anderson Mill Baptist Church Child Care, so did Teddy.  Soon Teddy was a full-fledged member of the class—but not just any member.  For Teddy was the one who tried things first, showing the other students it was safe and fun.  When the class read Green Eggs and Ham and their teacher encouraged them to taste some green eggs, Teddy tasted first.  When he did not make a face, the other students tried and liked them.  On cooking day, Teddy was the first to try pouring the batter.  When Teddy did not get burned—staying the appropriate distance from the griddle—the other students were ready to try their hands at making pancakes, too.  Over the years, Teddy accompanied Sarah to summer camps and college and even to seminary this year. 

            Loveys, like Linus’ blanket can be very important to us. In “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” when his sister Lucy threatened to confiscate it during practice,

Linus fashioned his lovey into his Christmas pageant costume—shepherd’s headgear.

http://pics.livejournal.com/greatest_ever/pic/0000gcdz

            In today’s text, Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd.”  Unlike the men and women of his day, we are not a pastoral people.  Although some of our congregation are farmers, and several of you grew up on farms, and many of you tend backyard gardens, we are not a pastoral people.  The lives of most of us 21^st century Americans do not revolve around herding livestock; our lives do not revolve around the changing availability of water and pasture.  So we need some help in understanding what the term shepherd might have meant to Jesus’ audience, what it might have meant to the community in which the gospel according to John was written, and what it might mean for us. 

            John sets this speech from today’s scripture in Jerusalem.  Listening to Jesus are his long-time followers from Galilee, pilgrims who have traveled to Jerusalem for the Passover, and religious authorities—Pharisees, scribes, and priests.  All of them Jews, they share common knowledge of the shepherd motif in both Jewish history and Jewish beliefs. Like the great emancipator—Moses, and the mighty king—David, the kings of Israel were supposed to shepherd the people—to lead them in right worship of God and to care for them—providing them with sustenance and protection. 

            The prophet Ezekiel claimed it was because the kings had failed to shepherd the people—rather than protecting and providing for them, they had endangered and exploited their flock—the prophet Ezekiel claimed it was because the kings had failed to shepherd their people that God stripped them of their power and allowed Israel to be overrun and the people to be exiled.  The prophet Ezekiel claimed it was because the kings had failed to shepherd the people that God promised to be their True Shepherd.   Even though they were exiled in Babylon, God would seek the people out, care for them, and ultimately return them to their homeland.  They would be God’s flock.[1] 

            So when Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd,” two pictures probably come to his listeners’ minds.  First, they see the failure of their appointed leaders—the temple leadership there in Jerusalem—to shepherd the people.  The religious leaders are the hired hands that run away and leave the sheep unprotected like the kings of Israel had done.  Second, his listeners connect Jesus the Good Shepherd with God, the True Shepherd.

            And what about the community for whom this gospel was written?  At the end of the 1^st century AD, when it was penned, “the life of a shepherd was . . . dangerous, risky, and menial.  Shepherds were rough around the edges, spending time in the fields rather than in polite society.”[2] Shepherds were marginalized, considered outsiders—perhaps like today’s migrant workers.  This gospel was written within and for a community of Jewish Christians whose belief that Jesus is the risen Christ brought persecution upon them.  Labeled as heretics, they were forced to choose between following the Christ or remaining in their religious, economic, social, and kinship community.  Kicked out of their synagogues because of their faith in Jesus, they relate to the shepherd who is also an outsider. Considered strangers to their families, they connect with the shepherd who knows his own and whose flock knows him.  

            And what about us?  How does the good shepherd metaphor speak to us?  If Jesus is the Good Shepherd, does that make us—his followers—sheep?  And do we want to be sheep?  We—Kansas is known for beef & Texas is cattle country—we may have some bias against sheep. Here’s what I learned about sheep in my sermon preparation.  Unlike cattle, which you can prod and push from behind, sheep prefer to be led. 

    http://www.jesusmafa.com/anglais/imag31.htm

They “will not go anywhere that someone else—their trusted shepherd—does not go first, to show them that everything is all right.”[3] That reminds me of Ted E. Bear, Sarah’s lovey that showed her little pre-school classmates that it was safe to cook with the teacher.  And it was fun to try out the new and different foods.  I do not intend to reduce the Good Shepherd to a lovey.  But like a lovey, the Good Shepherd provides reassurance that we are safe.  We are held in the strong, loving arms of the Good Shepherd.             

            I also learned that sheep form an attachment, a relationship with their shepherds.   They “seem to consider their shepherds part of the family, and the relationship that grows up between the two is quite exclusive.”[4]  

     

Robyn Eversole.  Red Berry Wool. Paintings by Tim Coffey.  Morton Grove, IL:  Albert

Whitman & Company, 1999.

Robyn Eversole.  Red Berry Wool. Paintings by Tim Coffey.  Morton Grove, IL:  Albert

Whitman & Company, 1999.

Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father.”  “We all long and hunger to know and to be known.”[5] We all long and hunger for relationship.  Jesus offers a relationship between him and each one of us with the same intensity as that between Jesus and the one whom he refers to as Abba—Daddy.  As the Good Shepherd, Jesus offers to share with each one of us the same level of mutuality, the same level of knowing as he shares with the one he calls Father.

            Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd.  I lay down my life for the sheep.”  He does not say, I lay down my life for my sheep but for the sheep. “It is an inclusive, rather than an exclusive, gift, just like God’s love for the world.”[6] He continues, “There will be one flock, one shepherd.”  Not only does Jesus offer a loving, trusting relationship between him and each one of us, but also he offers this relationship to the community—the community of faith, the community of believers.  He offers this relationship to our community, which we claim is open to all of those seeking to know Jesus the Christ.

            The Good Shepherd lays down his life, of his own accord. No martyr against his will, but instead one in control of his own death, Jesus the Good Shepherd is Jesus the Crucified One. The Good Shepherd lays down his life in order to take it back up again.  No helpless victim, but instead one with power over all that would destroy—even death itself—Jesus the Good Shepherd is Jesus the risen Christ.

            Enfolding us in his loving arms, the Good Shepherd leads us through life—through the comfortable and the difficult, through the restful and the busy, through the joyful and the despairing.  He accompanies us in the darkest of times.  Giving generously, he provides for more than our necessities.  He pursues us with his steadfast love all the days of our lives. 

            Wrapping us in the folds of a lovey—the community of faith stitched together with the threads of his love—the Good Shepherd, draws us together.  Together, we, the flock—as one—accompany each other through life—through fast-paced days, weeks, months, years of activity and through long, endless times of loneliness; through successes and failures.  Together, we, the flock—as one—walk with one other through the darkest of times, holding each other’s hands until we, together, finally set foot in the light again.  The Good Shepherd calls us into community, fashioning us to do as he does—to accompany, to provide for, and to love. 

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[1] Ezekiel 34.

[2] Nancy R. Blakely.  “John10: 11 – 18—Pastoral Perspective,” in Feasting on the Word, Year B.  vol. 2.  Edited by David L.  Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  John Knox Press, 2008.  p. 450.

[3] Nancy R. Blakely.  “John10: 11 – 18—Pastoral Perspective,” in Feasting on the Word, Year B.  vol. 2.  Edited by David L.  Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  John Knox Press, 2008.  p. 450.

[4] Nancy R. Blakely.  “John10: 11 – 18—Pastoral Perspective,” in Feasting on the Word, Year B.  vol. 2.  Edited by David L.  Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  John Knox Press, 2008.  p. 450.

[5] Barbara J. Essex.  “John10: 11 – 18—Homiletical Perspective,” in Feasting on the Word, Year B.  vol. 2.  Edited by David L.  Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  John Knox Press, 2008.  p. 451

[6] Gail R. O’Day, “The Gospel of John,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, a Commentary in Twelve Volumes. Vol. IX.  Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995.  p. 673.

Openings Luke 24: 36 - 48

            If I were asked to create a visual representation of the good news of Jesus the Christ, I would paint a picture of Jesus— laughing, holding out his arms in a gesture of welcome. Around him, in a sort of circle would be other people—people of various ages and ethnicities—males and females; people dressed in different kinds of clothes—clean and dirty, plain and fancy, new and old; people who reflect a range of emotions—happy, sad, lonely, angry, fearful, exhuberant.  The circle around Jesus would not be closed—there is room for more.   And Jesus would be looking at the viewer—his eyes, his facial expression, his body all saying “Come, join us.” Open—that word would describe my picture.

            Knowing that’s my visual representation of the good news, it probably won’t surprise you that as I read Luke’s account of the 1^st Easter Sunday, I key in on openings.  Luke’s final chapter begins with an open tomb.  The women, coming to finish the burial preparations, are met by heavenly messengers who ask them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”[1] Reminding the women that in Galilee Jesus had said “The Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day, rise again,”[2] these heavenly messengers proclaim “He is not here but is risen.”[3] Returning to the place where some of the disciples have gathered, the women report what they have seen and heard.  But the disciples don’t believe them. 

            Later in the day, two of Jesus’ followers are traveling to Emmaus, a village about a day’s walk from Jerusalem.  Along the way, they are joined by another traveler, a stranger.  They discuss the events of the past week—Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem; his arrest, conviction, and execution; and the women’s report of the empty tomb.  Questioning what it all means, they listen in wonder as their newfound acquaintance connects the promises of Jewish scripture with the life and ministry of Jesus.  Arriving at Emmaus as the sun is setting, the two friends invite the stranger to stay for supper.  In table fellowship, as the stranger blesses and breaks the bread, their eyes are opened and they recognize their traveling companion is none other than the risen Christ!  He disappears from their sight.  Hurrying back to Jerusalem in the dark, they marvel at how their hearts had burned within them while “the stranger”—the one they now know is Jesus—had interpreted the scripture for them.

            This is the background to the text Eric read to us a few minutes ago.  The day begins with an opened tomb and a reminder that the Christ must suffer and die and rise on the 3^rd day—this day.  The day continues with interpretation of scripture and another opening: opened eyes. Late at night, the 2 traveling friends, return to Jerusalem and find the disciples hiding behind locked doors.  Reunited with his other followers, they share their experience with the risen Lord.  This is where the scripture Eric read begins.

            Then Jesus comes to them.  Sturdy walls do not keep him out.  Deadbolts do not stop him.  At first they think he is a ghost, there to do them harm. But hearing his voice, “Peace be with you,” seeing his scarred hands and feet, accepting his invitation to touch him, and watching him eat a piece of fish; their apprehension turns to joyful amazement.  Released from their fear, they hear his words as he re-interprets the scriptures.  And their minds are opened.  They realize their beloved teacher is indeed Jesus the Christ—the one who must and did suffer, the one who will be, who has been raised from the dead.  Their minds are opened to receive the good news of his resurrection. Then Jesus promises one more opening.  He will empower them to be witnesses to the transformative power of his love and forgiveness, witnesses to all the nations, witnesses beginning right there, in Jerusalem.  Their mouths will be opened.

            As Christians, we claim that what Jesus has done for others, he will do for us.  So we read Luke’s account of this day with hope. The opened tomb assures us that Jesus is let loose in the world.  Because the doors of the locked room where the disciples hide, while not literally—but effectively—are opened, we claim Jesus will open the doors and break down the walls of our fears and doubts, releasing us to walk forward in faith.  On that journey of faith, we hope that our eyes will be opened to holy encounters not only with family and friends but also with acquaintances and strangers.  Through conversations—shared in work, at play and over meals; our minds can be opened as we listen to and receive others’ memories, others’ stories, others’ experiences, and others’ ideas.  In relationships that are built—one conversation at a time, one meal at a time, one shared project at a time—our lives will be opened, and we will proclaim through both our actions and our words, Who it is that nourishes and empowers us—Jesus the Christ, our risen Lord. 

            As Christians, we claim that what Jesus has done for others he will do for us.  But that does not mean we are passive—waiting for Jesus to do all the opening.  For years I had the habit of looking down when I walked.  Afraid of tripping over stones and roots on dirt paths in parks, I looked down when I walked.  Afraid of meeting unwelcome glances or closed off faces on busy university sidewalks, I looked down when I walked.  But when we moved to downtown Austin for seminary, I re-trained myself.  I lifted my head, looking up and out as I walked.  Strolling through the park adjacent to seminary housing, I encountered the beauty of God’s creation, and I found myself praying on my daily walks, “Thank you, God, for the cool breeze.  Thank you, God, for the warm sunshine. 

Thank you, God, for blooming redbuds.  Thank you, God, for the tall green grass.  Thank you, God, for the blue jay and woodpecker songs.”  Lifting my head, looking up and out as I walked, my eyes and ears were opened. As I walked the busy city sidewalks—teeming with university students, homeless men, and a few tourists, I lifted my head, looking up and out.  I met the eyes of people I did not know, and I found myself speaking to strangers, “Good morning.  Hi.  How are you today?  ”  And they responded, often surprised, but usually appreciative of a personal connection—even if only for that one brief moment.   Lifting my head, looking up and out as I walked, my eyes were opened to my fellow travelers on the journey of life.  My eyes were opened to other beloved children of God.  Because I walked the same routes every day at the same time, I sometimes encountered the same people.  Some of those initial “Good mornings” evolved into longer conversations—tentative acquaintance-ships, opportunities to listen to their stories and . . . sometimes . . . to share my own.  Open eyes . . . open ears . . . open mouth . . . open life . . .

            As Christians, we claim that what Jesus has done for others he will do for us.  But that does not mean we are passive—waiting for Jesus to do all the opening. I remember a few Sundays ago when our ushers came into this sanctuary saying, “It is such a beautiful day!  Let’s open the doors.”  Many of you, one after another, as you walked up the steps and into the sanctuary commented that the open doors made our church building look inviting.  You said you felt a special welcome that day.  Physically opening our doors before worship helps us appear to be the welcoming congregation that we are. Open doors . . .

            Openings . . . My visual representation of the good news—Jesus the Christ with open arms, standing in an open circle, among an obviously open group of people . . .  Openings . . . . opened tomb, opened scriptures, opened eyes, opened doors, opened arms, opened minds, opened mouths, opened lives . . . What else will Jesus open in and through us?  What miracles will we experience because of his openings? 

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[1] Luke 24: 5

[2] Luke 24: 7

[3] Luke 24: 5

Bring Your Doubts and Fears: John 20: 19 - 31

            I was sitting on a folding chair about 5 rows back from the pulpit, listening to the general hubbub that served as pre-worship white noise.  The musicians began to warm up and I was just enjoying being a part of this new church development, when I heard the rustle of movement in the row behind me.  Turning around I saw 3 guests—a mother and 2 teenage daughters.  “Hi,” I said.  “I’m Mari Lyn.  Welcome to Grace Presbyterian.”  Breathless—from corralling her 2 teenagers on a Sunday evening? from hurrying in because she did not want to be late? out of anxiety about worshiping in a place that looked like anything but a church? (We worshiped in a converted garage.)—breathless, the mother responded,  “Hi, I’m Anna Mae.”  Clutching a piece of newspaper, she continued, “and I’m here because this says—here—it’s okay to have questions and doubts.”  In her hand was our newspaper ad.  In a large font, it read “Bring Your Doubts and Fears.”  She asked, “Can I really do that here?  Can I come here even if I’m not sure I believe?  Can I come here even if I’m afraid of some of what I read in the Bible?”  I nodded.  “Yes, you can.  You’re in good company here.  We are all questioning and searching—together.”

              Bring your doubts and fears.  Anna Mae was in good company—not just with those of us who called Grace Presbyterian Fellowship our church family, but also with Christians throughout the ages—and with the disciples in today’s scripture. 

            According to John’s gospel, as today’s text begins, it is evening of the 1^st Easter.  Many of Jesus’ followers—including most of the disciples—are together, in a closed room, behind locked doors.  They are hiding.  Perhaps fearful that they too might be arrested and tortured, they are hiding from the Jewish authorities who were behind Jesus’ arrest, conviction, and death.  Then again, maybe they are hiding in shame.  For earlier in the day, 2 disciples had gone to the tomb and found it empty.  Later Mary Magdalene had brought them news she had seen the risen Lord. “Jesus is alive!” . . . All the more reason for the disciples to hide.  How could they face him after running away when he was arrested?  How could they face him after denying him when he was tried?   How could they face him after hiding while he was crucified on the cross? 

            Locked in a room, they hide in fear from the ones they hate—the religious and political authorities.  Locked in a room, they hide in shame from the One they loved and served—Jesus the Christ. Locked in a room, they cower in a mental, emotional, and spiritual darkness.  Then, Jesus enters the room and stands among them.  A glimmer of light cuts through the darkness. He speaks, “Peace be with you,” and rays of light shine in the room as their hearts begin to stir.  Jesus comes to them.  He offers his body for them to see.  “Here are my hands; here is my side.  These are my wounds from the cross.”

            Sturdy walls cannot keep him out.  Deadbolts do not stop him.  Jesus comes to them in their fear and shame and offers himself to them.  “Peace be with you,” he says again.  And into these dead men—men dead to their hopes, men dead to a loving relationship with their teacher—into these dead men Jesus breathes new life.  He breathes his Spirit into them and charges them to carry his message of forgiveness into the world.  “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.”  No longer disciples—ones who follow, they are now empowered to be apostles—ones who are sent out.  Jesus comes to them—he meets them in their fear; forgives them for abandoning him; and offers himself—his own breath—to revitalize, to re-create them.  Jesus comes to them.  Their paralyzing fear does not stop him.  Jesus comes to them.

            But Thomas, one of the disciples, misses this encounter with Jesus. He declares he will not, he cannot believe unless he sees the risen Christ and touches his crucifixion wounds.  And our text continues.  A week later, we find them all behind locked doors . . . again—letting fear get the best of them . . . again . . . and Jesus comes to them . . . again. Sturdy walls cannot keep him out.  Deadbolts do not stop him.  He enters the room and offers his peace . . . yet again.  He turns to Thomas and offers himself—“Come, touch your finger to the holes that the nails pierced in my hands.  Come, place your hand where the spear pierced my side.  Look and see; come and touch; no more unbelieving.  For here I am.  Believe.”  Jesus comes to Thomas.  Sturdy walls cannot keep him out.  Deadbolts do not stop him.  Doubt does not chase him away. 

            Anna Mae came to the people who are Grace Presbyterian—clutching our newspaper ad that invited her to bring her doubts and fears.  She asked, “Can I really do that here?  Can I come here even if I’m not sure I believe?  Can I come here even if I’m afraid of some of what I read in the Bible?”  And we responded, “Yes, you can.  You’re in good company here.  We are all questioning and searching—together.” 

            I wonder about us, the people who are 1^st Presbyterian Church of Paola, Kansas.  Are we a congregation who invites people to bring their doubts and fears with them?

Are we ready to listen to others’ doubts and fears, not rushing to fill the questioning spaces with our answers, but willing to wait and ponder together? Are we ready to admit to our own fears, to voice our own doubts, to ask the questions that sometimes haunt us? 

            “Most believers experience different kinds of doubt over time.”[1]  Its form varies with the stage of life we’re in.  Doubt follows our faith, stalking it with questions and uncertainties.[2] Just as Jesus refused to be stopped by sturdy walls or dead bolts when reaching out to his fearful and doubting disciples, he will stop at nothing to reach us.  Doubt may poke at the soft spots of our beliefs.  Doubt may stir up the still waters we want our faith to float on.[3]   But determined to reach even the stalwart skeptic[4], “Jesus refuses to let [anything] block the movement of [his] love toward the one who lacks faith.”[5]

            And that is the real point of this gospel story—that God comes to us, again and again, wherever we might be, however we might be.  Like Thomas and the other disciples, in the darkness of doubt, in the shadows of shame, or in the fog of fear, we may not recognize Jesus at first.  When he comes to find us in our doubt-filled or fear-full wanderings, his appearance probably will not be in logical arguments answering our questions of faith.  Instead we experience a surprising proclamation of peace, an unanticipated assurance of forgiveness, or an astonishing touch of love.  And then we realize we are not alone but have been, in fact, already, always found.[6] We realize we are in God’s presence. “When doubt [or fear] crowds our hope, we can be confident that Jesus will come to meet us where we are, even if it is out on the far edge of a faith that has forgotten how to believe.”[7] Jesus comes to us.  We do not have to go in search of him, for he will find us.

            We ask God, “Can I bring my doubts and fears?” and God responds, “Bring ‘em on!”  And I will offer you my peace.”

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[1] Serene Jones, “John 20: 19 – 31—Theological Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word, Year B. vol. 2. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008. p. 400.

[2] Serene Jones, 402.

[3] Serene Jones, 402.

[4] Serene Jones, 402.

[5] Serene Jones, 402.

[6] Serene Jones, 404.

[7] Serene Jones, 402.

Color My World Mark 16: 1 - 8 Resurrection Sunday 2012

 “Color My World”

            We are an Easter people.  We live on the after side of the resurrection. It colors our understanding of God, of our faith, and of the world.  The resurrection colors our perception of life.   

            Colors our perception. . . Reading and praying through the last 3 chapters of Mark this week, I was reminded of a movie I first saw about 15 years ago—titled “Pleasantville.”  Most of the movie is set in a small town in the 1950s. Existing in a kind of TV Land, the town and its inhabitants are more like the characters and settings from “Father Knows Best” and “Leave it to Beaver” rather than real people and places.  This part of the movie is filmed in black and white.  But as the townspeople experience passion— passion for learning, passion for justice, passion for art, passion in relationships—as the townspeople experience passion, color begins to break in to the movie in bits and pieces—first in the petals of a rose, next in blossoms on a bush, and finally in certain people.  They have flesh-colored skin as opposed to shades of gray that you see in black and white movies.  Watching the movie, I am caught up in the beauty of the colors beginning to fill the scenes.  But my reaction is not shared by the townspeople of Pleasantville.  Seeing color for the 1^st time, watching it pop out here and there—and not knowing what it is, why it is appearing, or where it is coming from, they react with fear.  Some overcome their fear of this unexpected, new phenomena and tentatively embrace the passion that has unleashed this color.  But others do not.  Lashing out at the unknown, they try to silence it, to destroy it.

            Remembering that movie, I began to frame my own mental movie of the events from Good Friday to that 1^st Easter/ Resurrection Sunday.  Like the cinematographers of “Pleasantville,” I would begin my film in black and white—not due to a lack of passion.  For, Jesus is passionate when he speaks from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.”[1]  The small group of faithful women disciples are passionate, too.  Standing at a distance, standing in solidarity with their beloved rabbi, these women’s hearts are breaking.   I would begin my film in black and white because watching an ashen-faced Jesus dying on the cross and seeing these women shivering in a cold, gray rain reflects the overwhelming despair on that 1^st Good Friday.  At the end of the day, shades of gray paint the pictures of his dead body removed from the cross, quickly wrapped in a linen cloth, and placed in a sealed tomb.   A final black screen proclaims death’s victory over life, the victory of evil over good, the victory of nothingness over purpose. 

            Very early on the first day of the week opens the next scene.  In the gray dawn we see 3 of the women from Good Friday, dressed in gray, walking along a dusty gray road. They come to complete a funeral.[2]   Looking ahead, they can barely see the rocky gray crevice where the tomb is.  Our camera moves from beside them to in front of them and we, the audience, see what they do not see behind them.  The early morning sky is not completely gray, for there are splashes of muted blues and purples in the sky above where the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon.  After all, we, the audience, are an Easter people.  We live on the after side of the resurrection.  We already know something they do not yet know. 

            The women arrive at the tomb. Continuing to function in the old world, “a world of predictable cause and effect [where] stones placed over tombs on Friday will [still] be there on Sunday,”[3] these women are momentarily taken aback.  As they enter the dark tomb, they are surprised again, this time by the contrast between the bright white clothes of the strange young man sitting there and the dark walls of the tomb.  But, wait a minute—the tomb walls are not black or even charcoal-colored; they are indigo. Do not be afraid, says the young man.  You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified one.  He has been raised.  He is not here. Color is breaking out here and there in the scene.  Rays of light from the rising sun at their backs filter into the tomb and light it with muted purples and blues, muted fuschias and pinks—colors of the dawn that we had seen breaking out behind them as the women had approached the tomb.

            You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified one.  Jesus, the one who by healing, overpowered illness; the one who by feeding, overpowered hunger; the one who by restoring, overpowered separation; Jesus the powerful one is now Jesus, the crucified one. He has taken on suffering with us and for us.   He has been raised.  He is not here.  Jesus, the crucified one is now Jesus the ultimate victor.  The women are afraid because everything has been turned upside down.

            Go, tell his disciples that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.  And now the tomb is bursting with light and color.  The women had come to the tomb to complete a funeral, not to celebrate a resurrection.[4] They are overcome by the unexpected.   Fleeing from the tomb, they run out into the bright yellow light of the sun shining down on the tan-colored sandy paths winding through leafy green foliage of the garden.  It is not only a new day, but a new world into which they flee. 

            Of course they are afraid.  If something as inevitable as death is no longer certain, then “the world has changed dramatically ... If stones are rolled away without human effort, if Jesus really is raised from the dead, what other human assumptions about”[5] power and weakness, about wisdom and folly, will also prove to be false?  “If the very power of death has been overcome, what other kinds of power and domination will [also] be overthrown?  What other kinds of disturbances will God work in the world and in our lives?”[6]  “The women are frightened because they grasp the full implications of Jesus’ resurrection.[7]

            And they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. The women may have said nothing to anyone—at first.  They were, after all, overcome by the unexpected.  But, they ultimately did share the good news—Christ is alive!  He goes before us to Galilee.  There we will see him . . . just as he said.  The women did share the good news.  How else would we have Mark’s account here, or Matthew’s, Luke’s or John’s?  What else would explain that this story has been told for over 2000 years?  What else would explain how we have heard this story before?  The women did share the good news.   

            Jesus is going ahead of you “Jesus is loose in the world . . . he goes ahead of us into the future to meet us there and claim us, not on our own terms, but on his.”[8] Jesus is loose in the world, breaking into our lives here and there, like the color breaking into the movie in bits and pieces. “There is no escaping him, no containing him, no forgetting him.  Business as usual is no longer safe because Jesus goes ahead of us to call us to discipleship again and again.”[9]

            We are an Easter people.  We live on the after side of the resurrection. We have heard the story before; we have told it before; and we will proclaim it again.  “Christ’s resurrection is not a onetime event in the past . . . primarily about”[10] an empty tomb.  Instead, it is about the living Christ who continues to encounter us in the world.  It is about the living Christ who continues to call us to discipleship.  It is about the living Christ whose good news we continue to proclaim.[11]   Christ is risen!  He is risen indeed.  Alleluia!  Amen.

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[1] Mark 15: 34 NRSV

[2] M. Eugene Boring & Fred B. Craddock. The People’s New Testament Commentary. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004. p. 171.

[3] Roger E. Van Harn.  The Lectionary Commentary:  Theological Exegesis for Sunday’s Texts—The Third Readings, the Gospels.  William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1965?. p. 283

[4] M. Eugene Boring & Fred B. Craddock. The People’s New Testament Commentary. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004. p. 171

[5] Van Harn, 284.

[6] Van Harn, 284.

[7] Van Harn, 284.

[8] Van Harn, 284.

[9] Van Harn, 284

[10] Van Harn, 284.

[11] Van Harn, 284.