At the end of my study leave a couple
of weeks ago, I visited my mom.
While I was there, I took her and Aunt E—her sister—to the Angleton
cemetery. It is spring and time to
refresh the flowers at the family graves. As we replaced the faded red
poinsettias with bright yellow and purple flowers at my uncle’s grave, Aunt E
did what she does every time she comes there. She talked to Uncle V.
She said, “Hi, honey. I’m here.
I brought D and Mari Lyn with me today. I miss you.” She went on to tell him what’s been happening
in her life recently.
In
today’s text, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb where Jesus’ body had been
laid. I wonder if she, like my
Aunt E, came to the tomb because it offered her the opportunity to talk to her
beloved. Grieving her loss, Mary
comes to the tomb—the place where she can in some physical way connect with
Jesus. But when she arrives, the
stone has been removed and the tomb is empty. This is not what she had expected. I imagine her, kneeling at the tomb, holding her head in her
hands, sobbing. In time, she
stands up, turns away from the tomb, and faces the garden. She sees a man there. He asks her, “Why are you crying?”
Why
are you crying? In April of 2005, upon
completing her last college visit and scholarship interview, S (my older
daughter) decided she would attend Agnes Scott College in Atlanta, GA. With her announcement, I was hit with a
sudden realization. It seemed just
a couple of weeks ago she was laughing as she slid down the little orange and
blue slide in our playroom. It
seemed just a couple of weeks ago she would plop down in front of the TV,
eagerly awaiting another episode of “Sesame Street.” It seemed just a couple of weeks ago, we cuddled together every
evening reading bedtime stories.
It seemed just a couple of weeks ago she was a toddler and now she was
graduating high school and planning to move 1300 miles away.
“Why
are you crying?” I heard that
question multiple times from April to August of 2005. I was grieving loss—it felt like I had lost her childhood—where
did those years go? I was grieving
loss—of family as we knew it. No longer would we all sleep each night under the
same roof or share a meal together each evening. I was grieving loss—of my daughter. No longer would I be able to see her or
touch her each day.
Like
Mary Magdalene, I’ve been to the tomb, looked in and found it empty. I’ve grieved what was for me, at that
time, a loss with finality. How about you? Have you visited the tomb—the tomb of a relationship, a
career, an unrealized dream? Have
you visited the tomb and found it empty?
Empty—words were said that cannot be taken back, things were done that
cannot be undone, time was wasted.
Empty—no reconciliation, no 2nd chance, no opportunity for
fulfillment?
The
man in the garden asks Mary Magdalene, “Why are you crying? Who are you looking
for?” Mary Magdalene is grieving loss—loss of her beloved mentor, teacher,
lord, and friend—loss of Jesus. Her
hope is that she can be reunited with his body. “Just let me know where he is, so I can bury him where his
body will be safe and I’ll have a place to come to talk to him”—like Aunt E
with Uncle V.
What
Mary Magdalene doesn’t realize is standing before her is something much better
than her hope. For standing before
her is her beloved teacher, mentor, lord, and friend. Standing before her is the resurrected Jesus. Her hope is
for a place, a way she can remember Jesus. But standing before her is flesh and blood, the risen
Christ, with whom she can be fully reunited—physically, intellectually,
emotionally, spiritually—fully reunited.
Standing before her is better than the answer to her prayers. She just doesn’t recognize him at
first.
In
the summer of 2005, I heard “Why are you crying?” from friends and family many
times. As the summer wore on
though, I began to hear a different question. Quietly it crept into my mind and my heart. First it was a
whisper, but later it grew louder.
“What are you hoping for?”
(It’s similar to “Who are you looking for?”) As I searched my soul, I began to articulate my hope—my expectation. From the time she was born, I wanted S
to grow into a healthy and happy person; a compassionate and capable woman; a
strong and faithful Christian. I
wanted her to live a full life. When
finally I could articulate my hope for S, I realized it was right in front of
me. Deciding for herself, after
visiting each campus and interviewing students and staff, she was making a
healthy decision that showed her capabilities. Moving to another part of the country, living in a
distinctly urban setting in Atlanta, Georgia (as opposed to the suburban
setting she grew up in), she was opening herself to new opportunities—to living
fully. It’s now been 8 years since
that gut-wrenching realization that I was looking into an empty tomb. And my hopes, my expectations for my daughter
continue to be fulfilled in ways I never previously imagined.
I
wonder if our congregation finds itself at a tomb because I hear, “we don’t
have young families . . . we don’t have the numbers we need . . . we don’t have
. . . . we cannot. Today, Jesus asks us, “Why are you
crying? Who are you looking for?”
It seems we may be grieving the loss of church as we remember it from
years ago. We remember more people,
hence—“we don’t have the numbers.”
We remember multiple Sunday School classes, hence—“we don’t have young
families.” We remember prestige in the community, hence—“we don’t have” and “we
cannot.” We are grieving loss of
church as we remember it from the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. As we weep at the tomb, the risen Jesus
asks us 2 questions— “Why are you crying? What are you hoping for?” These
questions move us from identifying what we perceive as our loss to recognizing Christ’s
expectations for us. Like Mary
Magdalene in the garden, I think sometimes we do not recognize the resurrected
Jesus among us. He looks different. The answer to our hopes—what we expect—may
not look like what we experienced in the past. Across the nation, across the world, the 21st
century church does not look like the mid-20th century north
American church. Church is
changing—from a consumer model: I go to church to get my
needs met—to a missional model: We are the church. Let us be the body of Christ in the world meeting others’ needs.
Why
are you crying? We don’t have young families. I beg to differ. 20% of the
people who regularly worship with us are members of young families. We have young families. But are we
equipping our parents to teach the faith to their children? Are we supporting our parents in their
own faith development? Have we
asked them what they need from us in order to be faithful disciples of Christ?
Have we asked them what they need from us in order to rear faithful disciples
of Christ?
“Why
are you crying? What are you
grieving?” We don’t have the numbers . . . I think we do. Each Monday night we have 29 Boy Scouts
and 23 adult leaders meeting here. At least 52 people we can connect with and
minister to already here in this building every Monday night. What about the rest of the week? Tuesday
nights, we have 21 Cub Scouts and 8 adult leaders. Every other Thursday night, we have Girl Scouts and their
leaders. Weekday mornings and
Monday and Wednesday afternoons this building is filled with the sounds of
young children. Currently there are 44 3, 4, and 5 year olds laughing and learning here
in our preschool program. That’s
more young families to connect with, to minister to, to equip and to support as
they guide their children’s faith development. We have the numbers.
What we need is to recognize the opportunities we have to share God’s
love and to be the church in mission.
What we need is to recognize what God has already placed before us. These people, members of the body of
Christ, are not in a form we expect.
So, like Mary, we don’t recognize the body even when it is right in
front of us.
Jesus
is speaking to us, calling us to turn away from the empty tomb—the tomb of “we
don’t have, there is not enough, we cannot”—Jesus is calling us to turn away
from the empty tomb and to see the abundance here in our midst. Jesus is calling us to see the overflowing
opportunitiesto minister to and to work with children and adults already here
in our building. The resurrected
Jesus, the one who on Easter morning, defeated the powers of death and
destruction, calls us to life and reconstruction. The resurrected Jesus calls us into the hopeful future of
this church—the hopeful future that begins now as we turn, face, and open
ourselves to the risen Christ.
Why
are you crying? What are you
hoping for? Since the summer of
2005, when I gazed into the empty tomb of my daughter’s childhood, her
experiences and how she has grown from them have exceeded all my expectations.
The
experiences Jesus wants to lead this congregation into—the resurrected body— Jesus
plans for this congregation is just as surprising, just as life-giving, just as
fulfilling, and just as joyful.
May we turn and recognize Jesus standing before us. Amen.
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