A lectionary reflection for the people of Thankful Memorial, Chattanooga
for worship from home, April 12, 2020, Year A, Easter Sunday

Jeremiah 31:1-6;
Acts 10:34-43
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
Colossians 3:1-4
John 20:1-18

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

“Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’” Alleluia!  Christ is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

Yes…  Alleluia… kind of…

Because it certainly doesn’t feel like Easter to me.  I bet it doesn’t feel like Easter to you either.  After all, you’re reading these words on a page or a screen; you’re not hearing them.  And I’m not preaching them to you with my own voice as I look out into your faces in our pews at Thankful.  We won’t welcome visitors to our congregation or share in communion with old friends and there is no potluck celebration to look forward to after the service.  No, it does not feel like Easter at all. 

In fact, I really wanted to postpone Easter this year.  That’s what would feel most authentic.  Because it still feels like Good Friday to me or maybe Holy Saturday – that in-between time when Jesus was dead and the disciples were in their own isolation of sorts.  They would have been grieving Jesus’ absence, fearing for their own lives, separated from their community, and wondering how to find a way forward out of all the trauma, all the horrific events that had just unfolded before them.  That sounds a lot more like our experience right now, doesn’t it?  Our world today seems to be stuck in that in-between time, the hours before resurrection.  And while that may not be very good news, it is an accurate description of our reality. 

So, I really thought about trying to find a way to postpone Easter for our community at Thankful, holding off on our celebrations until we could gather again in person, maybe just hanging out, dwelling for weeks or months on end in the in-between time, an extra-lengthy Lent. 

But here’s a startling truth: it can’t be done.  No matter how hard we try, no matter how we feel about it, we cannot keep Jesus in that tomb.  Easter comes whether or not we’re ready for it.  And the truth is, we are never really ready for it. 

Of course, you could say that this year we’re especially not ready for it.  With the corona virus raging on, with death at the door, the threat of death almost literally in the air about us, how can we be ready for the good news of resurrection?  That seems like more hope than we can handle.

But the discomfort of those incongruous things – resurrection in the midst of grief; great hope in the midst of grave fear; shockingly good news in the midst of a world full of bad – all of that is something that we are more familiar with than we may imagine.  In fact, these incongruous experiences are played out in our Scriptures over and over again, most especially on this Easter day.

Read again the story of that first Easter morning as the gospel of John tells it.  Mary Magdalene goes to Jesus’ tomb “while it was still dark.”  Once she realizes that Jesus’ body isn’t there, there’s a lot of chaos and confusion as Mary, Peter, and the beloved disciple run back and forth.  (As one commentator notes, “This is still what we disciples of Jesus do when [we think] he is missing.  We run around a lot.”)  But then, when the other disciples have gone, Mary is left at the tomb in the quiet aftermath.  She is alone and lonely.  She is confused.  She is afraid.  And she is sad.  She is oh so very sad.  And all of these emotions overwhelm her and she weeps. 

John tells us that “Mary stood weeping outside the tomb,” but in my mind, I don’t picture her standing at all.  I imagine that she is doubled over in grief, on her knees, crying those great heaving sobs that are the only release-valve we have for such awful emotion.  And it is in that moment, smack-dab in the middle of her experience of isolation and grief that the risen Lord appears to her.  “Woman, why are you weeping?” he asks. 

And what an answer to that we have this year.  “Women and men, my sisters and brothers,” the risen Lord asks us, “Why are you weeping?”  And we have a long list in response:

We weep for those who are sick and dying; we weep for those who have died for whom we cannot properly mourn; we weep for those who risk their lives to help others; we weep for the least among us who don’t have the resources to be helped; we weep for those who are all alone; we weep for the ones who have lost their livelihoods; we weep for the children who struggle with so many drastic changes; we weep for their parents who can’t begin to answer their questions; we weep because the virus prevents us from addressing all the other things of the world that still urgently need to be addressed; we weep because we cannot be together; we weep because we are lonely and confused and scared and sad; we weep because it is the only thing left for us to do.

And I keep thinking about this: even while Mary was weeping, before Jesus appeared to her, he had already risen.  Before Mary even got to the tomb that early morning, he had already been raised.  All that time that his disciples were running about, all that time that Mary was wondering and weeping, all that time when her grief was overwhelming her, Jesus was already alive.  That doesn’t mean that Mary shouldn’t have been crying.  Mary had every reason to weep – as do we.  But it does mean that the truth of resurrection, the fact of God’s power over death and God’s continued love for us exists simultaneously to our grief. 

You see, the great good news of Easter is that it happens nevertheless.  This Easter and every Easter, this day and every day, Jesus meets us in our darkness, just as he did Mary.  The Lord reveals himself to us even through our tears, calls us by our names, affirms all the reasons we have to weep, and shows up, risen anyways.  Nothing – not social distancing, not homeschooling, not loneliness, not the corona virus, no, not even death – nothing can keep the risen Lord inside that tomb. 

Though the world around us has changed so very drastically over the past weeks, the good news of Easter is still the same, in all its abundance, in all its shocking joy, whether or not we’re ready for it: Jesus lives!  Christ is risen today.  The Lord is risen indeed.  Nevertheless.  Alleluia!