A day of surprises
Commentary
Object:
Every so often, I have been unable to watch a sports event that I am interested in when it has been broadcast live, and so I have recorded it for myself to watch at a later time. I should note that it is quite a challenge not to find out the final result of such an event before getting the chance to watch it. Sometimes I have successfully avoided finding out the result; sometimes I have not. And I want to say that there is a tremendous difference in the viewing experience between knowing and not knowing how the game is going to turn out.
I find that there is less emotional investment when I already know the end result. I experience less tension, less worry, and less exhilaration. It's more of a "ah, so that's how it happened" sort of experience.
And that is the risk we run with the familiar stories from scripture -- and perhaps especially the Easter story. We already know how the event turns out. We already know who won. And while knowing doesn't prevent it from being good news, it does handicap our ability to experience the story emotionally: specifically, to identify with the disciples and what they were going through during those hours and days.
Most of us have lost a loved one somewhere along the way -- a family member or a dear friend. Perhaps we can use that experience to climb into the disciples' emotions: their grief, their anger, their sadness, and their profound sense of loss. And then, on top of and eclipsing all of that, there was the surprise. Can you imagine how you would have felt if, a few days after that loved one was dead and buried, he or she appeared at your door? Eventually, you would have been unspeakably happy, of course. But before you had the chance to be happy, you would be stunned. Shocked. Astonished. Maybe frightened. Perhaps you would even have fainted.
We want to try to capture the disciples' feeling of surprise. And then we want to embrace a surprise of our own.
Acts 10:34-43
Peter's opening statement is a scandalous one. He stands in a Gentile's home, surrounded by Gentiles, and he says something nearly unthinkable to his own Jewish background and brethren. "I truly understand," he declares, "that God shows no partiality."
To give our congregations some appreciation of this overturned orthodoxy, perhaps we should offer a quick tour of the Temple in Jerusalem. The temple of Peter's day was the one rebuilt by the returning exiles of the sixth and fifth centuries BC and then enlarged by Herod the Great just a generation before Peter. It was an elaborate enterprise, with a grand series of porches, courtyards, and porticos surrounding the sanctuary building itself, which was the centerpiece of the complex. That sanctuary, of course, represented the presence of God to the people, and the courtyards organized around that sanctuary physically suggested a relative proximity to God. The nearest courtyard belonged to the priests. Next came the Court of the Jews, which was reserved more specifically for Jewish men. Beyond that, somewhat further from the sanctuary, came the Court of Women, where both Jewish men and women could enter and worship. Finally, the outermost court -- furthest from the sanctuary, and by implication furthest from God -- was the Court of the Gentiles. This area was a sort of Grand Central Station of worship and commerce and the walls around it featured warnings that Gentiles should not endeavor to enter the temple enclosure on pain of death.
The architecture embodied a theology. And against the backdrop of that theology, Peter declares that God -- the one whose dwelling place was in that very sanctuary -- "shows no partiality."
You and I look back at the Old Testament through the lens of the New, and so we are able to see that God had a global, inclusive plan and purpose all along. That truth was just now dawning on Peter, however, in the wake of his vision of unclean animals (Acts 10:9-16) and the news of how God had dealt with Cornelius (vv. 30-33).
The human instinct is to think of an exclusive thing as a superior thing. The car that only a few people can afford is, we assume, far superior to the old beater that almost anyone can afford. The highly competitive -- and, therefore, exclusive -- university is presumed to be better than the local community college with lower admission standards. Yet the gospel Peter is discovering and preaching is superior precisely because it is inclusive. When he declares in that particular home that Jesus is "Lord of all," Peter is saying something that is both inclusive and superior. The deity who is lord of only a few, after all, is inferior to the One who is Lord of all.
Then Peter recounts the story of Jesus. New Testament scholars note that these verses form a kind of thumbnail gospel, for if we jot down an outline of Matthew, Mark, or Luke, we'll find that it closely tracks the summary that Peter proclaims in 10:37-42. The baptism of John, the anointing of Jesus, his miracle-working ministry, his passion, his resurrection, the human witnesses, and the Great Commission -- this is Peter's "gospel in a nutshell."
Finally, Peter affirms that God's plan in Jesus is not a new thing: rather, it is a "called shot." "All the prophets testify about him," Peter declares, reminding both Cornelius and us that God had revealed his will and purpose throughout the pages and people of the Old Testament. And that plan and purpose of God is the "forgiveness of sins," which is available to all who will believe in Jesus.
Colossians 3:1-4
Here is the part of the Easter story that our people may be unaccustomed to hearing. As such, it may be precisely what we ought to preach. After all, most churches experience a certain upsurge in attendance on Easter Sunday, and the marginal folks who come out of the woodwork for the special days may walk through the doors assuming that they already know what will be said. But both the regulars and irregulars may be caught by surprise by this opening line: "So if you have been raised with Christ...."
Here are the two common assumptions. First, Christ has been raised. Second, we will be raised. The one is an event from the past. The second is a prospect in the future. But Paul's language seems to disrupt that standard paradigm. In Paul's conception of things, it seems, our being raised is also an event somewhere in the past. We will explore that more below.
Meanwhile, "you have been raised with Christ" is nearly an assumption for Paul, and so he goes on to elaborate based on that assumption. Specifically, he encourages the Colossians to "seek the things that are above." Why above? Because that is "where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God." Our focus, then, is to be always on him.
When rehearsing a bridal party for a wedding, I always instruct the bridesmaids and groomsmen to look toward the bride. Wherever the bride is -- in the back, in the front, in the aisle -- that is where their focus should be. And so it is, also, for the Christian. Our operating instruction is simple: keep your focus on Jesus.
We are familiar with the iconic trio of monkeys who embody "see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil." They have their large hands clasped firmly over their eyes, mouth, and ears, respectively. Aside from the merit of their aspiration, they demonstrate the impossibility of their expressed goal. That is to say, no single monkey is able to cover his eyes, mouth, and ears all at once. It takes three of them to do the job that is, presumably, the endeavor of each individual.
Beyond that, however, we note that the Christian has a higher, better calling than mere avoidance. Rather than simply shutting our eyes to evil, for example, we are given a genuine alternative. "Set your minds on things that are above," Paul exhorts the Colossians. We Christians are not to cover our eyes; we are to raise our sights.
Finally, Paul skillfully juxtaposes in this brief passage the images of things "hidden" and things "revealed." On the one hand, "your life is hidden with Christ in God." It is a picture of a life that is safe and secure, as though protected through a present assault. On the other hand, when he -- "who is your life" -- is revealed, then you, too, "will be revealed in glory." It seems that, at the final victory, all sorts of things that are hidden and protected now will be unveiled in their full beauty. And so the Christian is not only encouraged to look up, but also to look ahead.
John 20:1-18
Now we come to the story that brings us here together on this day. Indeed, this is the story -- the event -- that brings us together every single Sunday, for our entire tradition of Sunday worship finds its roots in this event, which begins "early on the first day of the week."
That Mary came "while it was still dark" is significant both for her and for the narrator who tells her story. For Mary, this detail probably reveals her sense of urgency. Perhaps she waited impatiently through the sabbath, eager to come at her very first opportunity to visit the tomb. She was so eager, in fact, that she didn't even wait until the sun came up that Sunday morning. Instead, she found her way in the dark to the place where her grief could express itself in love.
For the narrator, meanwhile, the detail of darkness is very likely symbolic, which we will give special consideration to below.
When Mary arrived at the tomb and discovered that it was empty, the truth was evidently too marvelous for her to imagine. Rather than running back to the disciples to report the good news, therefore, she alerted them to the vague and unsettling news that "they have taken the Lord out of the tomb." Mary does not specify who "they" are and the disciples do not question her about it. Perhaps the pronoun refers to the whole terrible collection of conspirators and accomplices who had been responsible for the events of the past 72 hours.
Now the baton has been handed from the woman to the men. Simon Peter is identified by name, while "the other disciple" is left as a mystery, though that has traditionally been understood as the narrator's signature. He is identified here as "the one whom Jesus loved," which is also a recurring appellation in John. Altogether, there are ten references to this disciple in the fourth gospel by one of those two identifications. Interestingly, in all but one occurrence (19:26), Peter is also involved.
In this particular case, both run to the tomb, with John showing greater speed, but Peter showing greater forwardness. The very image of people running to a tomb, of course, is an unusual one. A sense of urgency may precede a death; it doesn't typically follow it. Rather, people tend to walk slowly and deliberately to a tomb. But this tomb is different.
Both disciples see the evidence of the resurrection inside the tomb, and "the other disciple... saw and believed." This is not a small detail in the story, for the word "believe" appears in its various forms over ninety times in John's gospel. Indeed, believing is at the heart of the author's core purpose: "These are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name" (20:31).
The two male followers of Jesus now return home, while Mary lingers by the tomb. One wonders at both choices. What did any of them expect in the choices they made? Mary, Peter, and John were no doubt all bewildered. Peter and John seem willing to shrug their shoulders and go home, however, while Mary stays at the scene. And while she is there, weeping, Jesus appears to her. She does not recognize him at first, which reminds us of the experience of the Emmaus Road disciples (Luke 24:15-16). It may also be part of a larger pattern: for we recall that Samuel did not recognize the Lord at first (1 Samuel 3:4-9), and perhaps we do not, either. Perhaps there are times in our lives when he is the one walking with us, waking us, speaking to us, and we don't recognize him.
The lovely detail, however, is that while she did not recognize his voice or his appearance at first, she did recognize him when he spoke her name. No long treatise was necessary. No complex explanation of resurrection or exposition of the scriptures. He simply said, "Mary!" and she knew who it was. What a beautiful truth that we belong to, serve, and follow such a personal Lord -- the one who calls us by name.
The hymn writer sings, "I'd stay in the garden with him... but he bids me go" (C. Austin Miles, In the Garden, UMH #314). Both Jesus and Mary have places to go. He must ascend to his Father. And she must go and tell the others that he is risen. And you and I pick up where she left off.
Application
Each selected lection for this week features a surprise.
The first surprise was the Easter surprise. We began to consider this matter at the very beginning: The experience of a deceased loved one suddenly appearing to you again. It may be precisely what we long for, but it is not at all what we expect.
I imagine that it had been one surprise after another for Jesus' followers. Perhaps the size and scope of the Palm Sunday welcome was surprising to them. Certainly the cleansing of the temple was. We have good reason to suspect that many of Jesus' teachings (see, for example, Matthew 24:1-2) during that eventful week came as a surprise. Then there were Jesus' strange words at the Passover feast, followed by Judas' troubling departure and astonishing choice. And then the blur of events, swirling out of control: the mob in the dark, the arrest, the shameful trials, the torture, and the public execution. Less than 24 hours after they had gathered for a holiday meal together, he was dead.
And then, a few days later, more surprises -- the greatest surprises of all! An empty tomb. And a risen Lord!
The episode from Acts, meanwhile, has its own surprises. Perhaps Peter, who is part of the Easter episode from our gospel lection, thought that he had seen it all. Yet even on this side of the cross and the empty tomb, he still finds himself surprised by the activity of God -- in this case, the Lord's gracious and powerful work among the Gentiles.
And then, finally, we come to the epistle passage, which carries a surprise, not for Peter or Mary, but for us. This is the surprise we experience when we hear Paul refer to our death and resurrection. We come to church on this day expecting to hear about Jesus' death and resurrection, but not so much our own and certainly not in the past tense. Yet Paul writes, "You have died," and he assumes that "you have been raised with Christ."
The standard interpretation is that Paul has in mind the symbol and meaning of Christian baptism. That is to say, the initiate who has been lowered into the water and brought up again has been buried and raised with Christ. In those traditions, however, where infants are routinely baptized with a little water on the forehead, the symbolism is lost, and so too may be the larger underlying truth about dying and rising with Jesus. We are disinclined to talk about this precious newborn dying and being buried with Christ.
Yet this is a New Testament truth, and Paul gives us opportunity this Sunday to proclaim it. We must recover the gospel message from its distortions. It may come naturally for folks to think in terms of an ordinary biological death followed by some sort of after life, yet scripture challenges that paradigm. The death of self to which we are called must occur in this life. And then the new and eternal life of Christ can begin within us here and now.
And so our death and resurrection come sooner than we might think. Surprise!
Alternative Application
John 20:1-18. "Journey in the dark." John begins his account of Easter Sunday with this narrative detail: "Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark..." That was when Mary went to the tomb. She went "while it was still dark."
We have briefly considered above the heartfelt urgency that detail reveals in Mary. Now we want to give more extended consideration to the gospel writer's choice to include that detail in his narrative.
From the very start of his gospel, John highlights the importance of the light (1:4, 7-9) and the conflict between light and darkness (1:5). We read that people live with a choice between light and darkness, and their choice reveals their nature (3:19-21). And Jesus specifically identifies himself as the light (8:12; 9:5), and apart from him the world, or any individual within it, is lost in darkness (8:12; 11:10; 12:35, 46).
Then, beyond those philosophical uses of "light" and "darkness," John also employs the physical reality of darkness to illustrate the spiritual principle. He is deliberate, for example, about noting the fact that Nicodemus came to Jesus "by night" (3:2; 19:39). Likewise, the account of Jesus healing a man born blind (John 9) introduces a juxtaposition of physical blindness and spiritual blindness. We note, too, in the story of Jesus walking on water, this nice turn of phrase by the narrator: "It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them" (6:17).
It is against that broader backdrop within the fourth gospel, therefore, that we read the start of the Easter story: "Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark...." That was Mary's condition prior to her encounter with the risen Christ. She was filled with grief and fear. She didn't know that her Lord was alive. She was truly in the dark early on that Sunday morning.
Mary thus becomes a metaphor for all of us. Until we discover that our Lord is alive -- until we have an encounter with him -- we too are in the dark. We live with burdened hearts. We are troubled by grief and fear, by guilt and apprehension. We are confused like Nicodemus, blind like the Pharisees, frightened like the disciples. We grope in our darkness until his light shines.
So, we read that early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary went to the tomb. And as we gather on this first day of the week, so many centuries later, perhaps we should ask ourselves, "Is it still dark?" Not dark outside; but, rather, is it dark within? If so, then we, like Mary, have come to the right place this morning: the place where we may encounter the living Lord!
Preaching the Psalm
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
by Schuyler Rhodes
"The Lord is my strength and my might."
Young boys love to enter into tests of strength. Among them there is a dizzying array of contests to see who is the strongest. Arm wrestling, weight lifting, races of every kind are all designed to test strength and to see who is the strongest. With boys, this is not a bad thing. Indeed, smiles erupt when we see them tumbling in the yard like a bunch of puppies.
However, these tests continue into manhood. Gentle wrestling turns too often into violence. What were once fun filled contests devolve into maneuvering for power and gain, and soon violence follows violence and grassy knolls where young boys played become fields of carnage where older boys die.
We like being strong. Whether it is young boys running a race, or older boys with their tanks and planes, we like being strong. It seems, however, that the need for strength always ends up leading to a need for coffins. One has to ask if there's another way.
What, the Psalmist asks us, would happen if we found our strength not in our own capabilities, but in God? What if God was our strength? If that was the case then we would not need to prove our strength to anyone. No more puffing and strutting. No more provocation and peril. With God as our strength, we've got nothing to prove.
Indeed, if we assumed that God was our strength it would, quite literally, lead to salvation. How incredible it would be if we could lay down our arms and trust in the strength of God! How many lives would be saved from the business end of someone's rifle? How many mouths could be fed with the money we spend on trying to make ourselves strong?
It is an idea whose time may not yet have arrived. But still the Psalm suggests it. "The Lord is my strength and my might. The Lord has become my salvation." What if we took this suggestion seriously for just one day? What would happen if all the men on the planet allowed God to be their strength for just one day? How many lives would be saved? How much slaughter could be avoided?
It might be worth trying. After all, it's just one day. Why not today?
I find that there is less emotional investment when I already know the end result. I experience less tension, less worry, and less exhilaration. It's more of a "ah, so that's how it happened" sort of experience.
And that is the risk we run with the familiar stories from scripture -- and perhaps especially the Easter story. We already know how the event turns out. We already know who won. And while knowing doesn't prevent it from being good news, it does handicap our ability to experience the story emotionally: specifically, to identify with the disciples and what they were going through during those hours and days.
Most of us have lost a loved one somewhere along the way -- a family member or a dear friend. Perhaps we can use that experience to climb into the disciples' emotions: their grief, their anger, their sadness, and their profound sense of loss. And then, on top of and eclipsing all of that, there was the surprise. Can you imagine how you would have felt if, a few days after that loved one was dead and buried, he or she appeared at your door? Eventually, you would have been unspeakably happy, of course. But before you had the chance to be happy, you would be stunned. Shocked. Astonished. Maybe frightened. Perhaps you would even have fainted.
We want to try to capture the disciples' feeling of surprise. And then we want to embrace a surprise of our own.
Acts 10:34-43
Peter's opening statement is a scandalous one. He stands in a Gentile's home, surrounded by Gentiles, and he says something nearly unthinkable to his own Jewish background and brethren. "I truly understand," he declares, "that God shows no partiality."
To give our congregations some appreciation of this overturned orthodoxy, perhaps we should offer a quick tour of the Temple in Jerusalem. The temple of Peter's day was the one rebuilt by the returning exiles of the sixth and fifth centuries BC and then enlarged by Herod the Great just a generation before Peter. It was an elaborate enterprise, with a grand series of porches, courtyards, and porticos surrounding the sanctuary building itself, which was the centerpiece of the complex. That sanctuary, of course, represented the presence of God to the people, and the courtyards organized around that sanctuary physically suggested a relative proximity to God. The nearest courtyard belonged to the priests. Next came the Court of the Jews, which was reserved more specifically for Jewish men. Beyond that, somewhat further from the sanctuary, came the Court of Women, where both Jewish men and women could enter and worship. Finally, the outermost court -- furthest from the sanctuary, and by implication furthest from God -- was the Court of the Gentiles. This area was a sort of Grand Central Station of worship and commerce and the walls around it featured warnings that Gentiles should not endeavor to enter the temple enclosure on pain of death.
The architecture embodied a theology. And against the backdrop of that theology, Peter declares that God -- the one whose dwelling place was in that very sanctuary -- "shows no partiality."
You and I look back at the Old Testament through the lens of the New, and so we are able to see that God had a global, inclusive plan and purpose all along. That truth was just now dawning on Peter, however, in the wake of his vision of unclean animals (Acts 10:9-16) and the news of how God had dealt with Cornelius (vv. 30-33).
The human instinct is to think of an exclusive thing as a superior thing. The car that only a few people can afford is, we assume, far superior to the old beater that almost anyone can afford. The highly competitive -- and, therefore, exclusive -- university is presumed to be better than the local community college with lower admission standards. Yet the gospel Peter is discovering and preaching is superior precisely because it is inclusive. When he declares in that particular home that Jesus is "Lord of all," Peter is saying something that is both inclusive and superior. The deity who is lord of only a few, after all, is inferior to the One who is Lord of all.
Then Peter recounts the story of Jesus. New Testament scholars note that these verses form a kind of thumbnail gospel, for if we jot down an outline of Matthew, Mark, or Luke, we'll find that it closely tracks the summary that Peter proclaims in 10:37-42. The baptism of John, the anointing of Jesus, his miracle-working ministry, his passion, his resurrection, the human witnesses, and the Great Commission -- this is Peter's "gospel in a nutshell."
Finally, Peter affirms that God's plan in Jesus is not a new thing: rather, it is a "called shot." "All the prophets testify about him," Peter declares, reminding both Cornelius and us that God had revealed his will and purpose throughout the pages and people of the Old Testament. And that plan and purpose of God is the "forgiveness of sins," which is available to all who will believe in Jesus.
Colossians 3:1-4
Here is the part of the Easter story that our people may be unaccustomed to hearing. As such, it may be precisely what we ought to preach. After all, most churches experience a certain upsurge in attendance on Easter Sunday, and the marginal folks who come out of the woodwork for the special days may walk through the doors assuming that they already know what will be said. But both the regulars and irregulars may be caught by surprise by this opening line: "So if you have been raised with Christ...."
Here are the two common assumptions. First, Christ has been raised. Second, we will be raised. The one is an event from the past. The second is a prospect in the future. But Paul's language seems to disrupt that standard paradigm. In Paul's conception of things, it seems, our being raised is also an event somewhere in the past. We will explore that more below.
Meanwhile, "you have been raised with Christ" is nearly an assumption for Paul, and so he goes on to elaborate based on that assumption. Specifically, he encourages the Colossians to "seek the things that are above." Why above? Because that is "where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God." Our focus, then, is to be always on him.
When rehearsing a bridal party for a wedding, I always instruct the bridesmaids and groomsmen to look toward the bride. Wherever the bride is -- in the back, in the front, in the aisle -- that is where their focus should be. And so it is, also, for the Christian. Our operating instruction is simple: keep your focus on Jesus.
We are familiar with the iconic trio of monkeys who embody "see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil." They have their large hands clasped firmly over their eyes, mouth, and ears, respectively. Aside from the merit of their aspiration, they demonstrate the impossibility of their expressed goal. That is to say, no single monkey is able to cover his eyes, mouth, and ears all at once. It takes three of them to do the job that is, presumably, the endeavor of each individual.
Beyond that, however, we note that the Christian has a higher, better calling than mere avoidance. Rather than simply shutting our eyes to evil, for example, we are given a genuine alternative. "Set your minds on things that are above," Paul exhorts the Colossians. We Christians are not to cover our eyes; we are to raise our sights.
Finally, Paul skillfully juxtaposes in this brief passage the images of things "hidden" and things "revealed." On the one hand, "your life is hidden with Christ in God." It is a picture of a life that is safe and secure, as though protected through a present assault. On the other hand, when he -- "who is your life" -- is revealed, then you, too, "will be revealed in glory." It seems that, at the final victory, all sorts of things that are hidden and protected now will be unveiled in their full beauty. And so the Christian is not only encouraged to look up, but also to look ahead.
John 20:1-18
Now we come to the story that brings us here together on this day. Indeed, this is the story -- the event -- that brings us together every single Sunday, for our entire tradition of Sunday worship finds its roots in this event, which begins "early on the first day of the week."
That Mary came "while it was still dark" is significant both for her and for the narrator who tells her story. For Mary, this detail probably reveals her sense of urgency. Perhaps she waited impatiently through the sabbath, eager to come at her very first opportunity to visit the tomb. She was so eager, in fact, that she didn't even wait until the sun came up that Sunday morning. Instead, she found her way in the dark to the place where her grief could express itself in love.
For the narrator, meanwhile, the detail of darkness is very likely symbolic, which we will give special consideration to below.
When Mary arrived at the tomb and discovered that it was empty, the truth was evidently too marvelous for her to imagine. Rather than running back to the disciples to report the good news, therefore, she alerted them to the vague and unsettling news that "they have taken the Lord out of the tomb." Mary does not specify who "they" are and the disciples do not question her about it. Perhaps the pronoun refers to the whole terrible collection of conspirators and accomplices who had been responsible for the events of the past 72 hours.
Now the baton has been handed from the woman to the men. Simon Peter is identified by name, while "the other disciple" is left as a mystery, though that has traditionally been understood as the narrator's signature. He is identified here as "the one whom Jesus loved," which is also a recurring appellation in John. Altogether, there are ten references to this disciple in the fourth gospel by one of those two identifications. Interestingly, in all but one occurrence (19:26), Peter is also involved.
In this particular case, both run to the tomb, with John showing greater speed, but Peter showing greater forwardness. The very image of people running to a tomb, of course, is an unusual one. A sense of urgency may precede a death; it doesn't typically follow it. Rather, people tend to walk slowly and deliberately to a tomb. But this tomb is different.
Both disciples see the evidence of the resurrection inside the tomb, and "the other disciple... saw and believed." This is not a small detail in the story, for the word "believe" appears in its various forms over ninety times in John's gospel. Indeed, believing is at the heart of the author's core purpose: "These are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name" (20:31).
The two male followers of Jesus now return home, while Mary lingers by the tomb. One wonders at both choices. What did any of them expect in the choices they made? Mary, Peter, and John were no doubt all bewildered. Peter and John seem willing to shrug their shoulders and go home, however, while Mary stays at the scene. And while she is there, weeping, Jesus appears to her. She does not recognize him at first, which reminds us of the experience of the Emmaus Road disciples (Luke 24:15-16). It may also be part of a larger pattern: for we recall that Samuel did not recognize the Lord at first (1 Samuel 3:4-9), and perhaps we do not, either. Perhaps there are times in our lives when he is the one walking with us, waking us, speaking to us, and we don't recognize him.
The lovely detail, however, is that while she did not recognize his voice or his appearance at first, she did recognize him when he spoke her name. No long treatise was necessary. No complex explanation of resurrection or exposition of the scriptures. He simply said, "Mary!" and she knew who it was. What a beautiful truth that we belong to, serve, and follow such a personal Lord -- the one who calls us by name.
The hymn writer sings, "I'd stay in the garden with him... but he bids me go" (C. Austin Miles, In the Garden, UMH #314). Both Jesus and Mary have places to go. He must ascend to his Father. And she must go and tell the others that he is risen. And you and I pick up where she left off.
Application
Each selected lection for this week features a surprise.
The first surprise was the Easter surprise. We began to consider this matter at the very beginning: The experience of a deceased loved one suddenly appearing to you again. It may be precisely what we long for, but it is not at all what we expect.
I imagine that it had been one surprise after another for Jesus' followers. Perhaps the size and scope of the Palm Sunday welcome was surprising to them. Certainly the cleansing of the temple was. We have good reason to suspect that many of Jesus' teachings (see, for example, Matthew 24:1-2) during that eventful week came as a surprise. Then there were Jesus' strange words at the Passover feast, followed by Judas' troubling departure and astonishing choice. And then the blur of events, swirling out of control: the mob in the dark, the arrest, the shameful trials, the torture, and the public execution. Less than 24 hours after they had gathered for a holiday meal together, he was dead.
And then, a few days later, more surprises -- the greatest surprises of all! An empty tomb. And a risen Lord!
The episode from Acts, meanwhile, has its own surprises. Perhaps Peter, who is part of the Easter episode from our gospel lection, thought that he had seen it all. Yet even on this side of the cross and the empty tomb, he still finds himself surprised by the activity of God -- in this case, the Lord's gracious and powerful work among the Gentiles.
And then, finally, we come to the epistle passage, which carries a surprise, not for Peter or Mary, but for us. This is the surprise we experience when we hear Paul refer to our death and resurrection. We come to church on this day expecting to hear about Jesus' death and resurrection, but not so much our own and certainly not in the past tense. Yet Paul writes, "You have died," and he assumes that "you have been raised with Christ."
The standard interpretation is that Paul has in mind the symbol and meaning of Christian baptism. That is to say, the initiate who has been lowered into the water and brought up again has been buried and raised with Christ. In those traditions, however, where infants are routinely baptized with a little water on the forehead, the symbolism is lost, and so too may be the larger underlying truth about dying and rising with Jesus. We are disinclined to talk about this precious newborn dying and being buried with Christ.
Yet this is a New Testament truth, and Paul gives us opportunity this Sunday to proclaim it. We must recover the gospel message from its distortions. It may come naturally for folks to think in terms of an ordinary biological death followed by some sort of after life, yet scripture challenges that paradigm. The death of self to which we are called must occur in this life. And then the new and eternal life of Christ can begin within us here and now.
And so our death and resurrection come sooner than we might think. Surprise!
Alternative Application
John 20:1-18. "Journey in the dark." John begins his account of Easter Sunday with this narrative detail: "Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark..." That was when Mary went to the tomb. She went "while it was still dark."
We have briefly considered above the heartfelt urgency that detail reveals in Mary. Now we want to give more extended consideration to the gospel writer's choice to include that detail in his narrative.
From the very start of his gospel, John highlights the importance of the light (1:4, 7-9) and the conflict between light and darkness (1:5). We read that people live with a choice between light and darkness, and their choice reveals their nature (3:19-21). And Jesus specifically identifies himself as the light (8:12; 9:5), and apart from him the world, or any individual within it, is lost in darkness (8:12; 11:10; 12:35, 46).
Then, beyond those philosophical uses of "light" and "darkness," John also employs the physical reality of darkness to illustrate the spiritual principle. He is deliberate, for example, about noting the fact that Nicodemus came to Jesus "by night" (3:2; 19:39). Likewise, the account of Jesus healing a man born blind (John 9) introduces a juxtaposition of physical blindness and spiritual blindness. We note, too, in the story of Jesus walking on water, this nice turn of phrase by the narrator: "It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them" (6:17).
It is against that broader backdrop within the fourth gospel, therefore, that we read the start of the Easter story: "Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark...." That was Mary's condition prior to her encounter with the risen Christ. She was filled with grief and fear. She didn't know that her Lord was alive. She was truly in the dark early on that Sunday morning.
Mary thus becomes a metaphor for all of us. Until we discover that our Lord is alive -- until we have an encounter with him -- we too are in the dark. We live with burdened hearts. We are troubled by grief and fear, by guilt and apprehension. We are confused like Nicodemus, blind like the Pharisees, frightened like the disciples. We grope in our darkness until his light shines.
So, we read that early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary went to the tomb. And as we gather on this first day of the week, so many centuries later, perhaps we should ask ourselves, "Is it still dark?" Not dark outside; but, rather, is it dark within? If so, then we, like Mary, have come to the right place this morning: the place where we may encounter the living Lord!
Preaching the Psalm
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
by Schuyler Rhodes
"The Lord is my strength and my might."
Young boys love to enter into tests of strength. Among them there is a dizzying array of contests to see who is the strongest. Arm wrestling, weight lifting, races of every kind are all designed to test strength and to see who is the strongest. With boys, this is not a bad thing. Indeed, smiles erupt when we see them tumbling in the yard like a bunch of puppies.
However, these tests continue into manhood. Gentle wrestling turns too often into violence. What were once fun filled contests devolve into maneuvering for power and gain, and soon violence follows violence and grassy knolls where young boys played become fields of carnage where older boys die.
We like being strong. Whether it is young boys running a race, or older boys with their tanks and planes, we like being strong. It seems, however, that the need for strength always ends up leading to a need for coffins. One has to ask if there's another way.
What, the Psalmist asks us, would happen if we found our strength not in our own capabilities, but in God? What if God was our strength? If that was the case then we would not need to prove our strength to anyone. No more puffing and strutting. No more provocation and peril. With God as our strength, we've got nothing to prove.
Indeed, if we assumed that God was our strength it would, quite literally, lead to salvation. How incredible it would be if we could lay down our arms and trust in the strength of God! How many lives would be saved from the business end of someone's rifle? How many mouths could be fed with the money we spend on trying to make ourselves strong?
It is an idea whose time may not yet have arrived. But still the Psalm suggests it. "The Lord is my strength and my might. The Lord has become my salvation." What if we took this suggestion seriously for just one day? What would happen if all the men on the planet allowed God to be their strength for just one day? How many lives would be saved? How much slaughter could be avoided?
It might be worth trying. After all, it's just one day. Why not today?
