Easter Day

 

‘So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.’ Mark 16.8

God is the author of Life, and death is an affront, a direct challenge to, the goodness and good rule of God.

The Christian faith stands or falls on the physical, bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ. And in their Gospels, Matthew, Luke, and John record multiple accounts of people encountering the risen Jesus. But Mark tells a different side to the story. Mark does not present us with Jesus, come forth from the tomb. Mark presents us with a group of women, disciples of Jesus, come forth from the tomb. And these women have a problem.

If we are to understand the problem they have, we need to understand how God has ordered the world.

First, the world is divided into things that are holy and things that are common. This is not a moral distinction. Most things are common, but some things, and some people, are set apart by and to and for the Lord God. Six days are common, but the Sabbath is holy. Mount Horeb, where God instructed Moses, is holy; as is Mount Zion, and the Temple in Jerusalem, and Jerusalem itself. We understand this. We have an island, off our coast in the northeast of England, known as Holy Island. We consider our churches holy.

Second, the world is divided into things that are ritually clean and things that are ritually unclean. Again, this is not a moral distinction. Most things are clean, most of the time. But things that convey something of death—that affront to God—are unclean. So, those who have a skin condition that makes them look like a corpse are unclean. Anything related to reproduction and childbirth makes someone unclean, not because these natural things are bad, but because of the high mortality rate for babies and mothers (not only in the ancient world). And contact with a corpse, or a tomb, makes one unclean. Again, this is not a moral failing: indeed, there was a moral obligation to bury the dead.

Ritually clean things in either holy or common places pose no problem. Ritually unclean things in common places pose no problem in themselves, as long as the person involved follows the God-given instruction for purifying themselves from death in all its forms, usually through a combination of time and washing. But ritually unclean things coming into even unwitting contact with holy places is a problem because death is an affront to God, and the mortal who carries death into the presence of God may die as a result. When death comes into the presence of God, God kicks it out; and when God kicks out death, any mortal who gets caught in the moment is in trouble. (Alternatively, when people persist in bringing unclean things into holy space, God may choose to withdraw, which is also bad for humans.)

[Matthew Thiessen’s Jesus and the Forces of Death is really good on the holy/common clean/unclean matrix—he uses the terms holy & profane, purity & impurity—but, somewhat strangely to my mind, does not deal with the immediate implications of Jesus’ death for his disciples.]

The women have a problem. They have gone to the tomb to anoint the corpse. This is, indeed, a moral obligation, but one that will make them ritually unclean for seven days, and anyone else they come into contact with ritually unclean for a day. They go to the tomb—which is outside the city boundary because the dead cannot be within the holy perimeter—but this isn’t a problem in itself. It just means that they cannot enter holy space. Second Temple Jews held a range of interpretations: all were of the view that someone made ritually unclean by contact with a corpse or tomb could not enter the temple; some were of the opinion that such a person could not enter the city around the temple. Jesus’ mother and her relatives were devout temple-based Jews. As such, they would want to ensure maximum distance between uncleanliness and the temple. They were already ritually unclean, having assisted Joseph and Nicodemus in taking Jesus’ corpse down from the cross and preparing it for its hasty burial; and—unlike the male disciples, who kept their distance at the cross, and who were staying in an upper room in the city—they were likely already keeping outside the city, perhaps with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus in nearby Bethany.

None of this poses a problem, until the angel instructs them to go and tell Peter and the other disciples with him that Jesus has been raised and has gone ahead of them to Galilee.

The women have a problem. Our English translation tells us that they are gripped by terror and amazement. The word translated ‘terror’ conveys the anxiety of having a religious duty and not knowing how one will be able to discharge it. The word translated ‘amazement’ has a universal meaning of being displaced from one’s usual place: it can refer to the displaced mind, but also conveys the sense of being displaced outside the city, as those who were ritually unclean on account of contact with a corpse were required to do.

How can they bring a message to Peter when they cannot return to Jerusalem for seven days? Remember, Jesus’ mother and her relatives are devout, temple-focused Jews; and, moreover, Jesus insisted that he had not come to abolish the law but to bring it to completion or fulfilment. So, they tell no one, in the immediate; though they will find a way to get the message to Peter. (And, having gone to the tomb himself, Peter will return to the upper room. On the matter of whether tomb contact excluded you from all Jerusalem or only the temple itself, it is likely that the Galilean disciples had a different view from Jesus’ relatives; though even Peter hesitates to enter the tomb and thus make himself ritually unclean.)

Indeed, Jesus does not abolish the law, but breaks the power of death that required the law to be put in place for our protection. And though we still experience death, this has real implications. The presence of death in our lives no longer separates us from God, even temporarily. So, whereas the Jews buried their dead outside the city wall, away from the holy, Christians came to bury their dead immediately surrounding their churches, as close as possible to—and even within—their holy places. More than this, the bereaved draw close to God. Jesus did not die instead of us, but ahead of us, so that we might follow, unafraid, held every step of the way by God.

Jesus is so infectiously holy that, through his death and resurrection, he makes even death—the thing that separates us from God, albeit temporarily—holy. So now, rather than separating us from God, death—our own, or any death that we must face—is an open door into God’s presence. Into the presence of Love, the author of Life. A door no one wants to go through, but that all can go through, if they trust that God, revealed to us in Jesus, is good.

And that, in my opinion, is good news.

 

The broken gate of hell

 

The Apostles’ Creed declares of Jesus that ‘he descended into hell,’ or as some traditions render it, ‘he descended to the dead.’ Several Christian traditions speak of that descent as the Harrowing of Hell. Traditional icons of the Harrowing of Hell depict Jesus standing over the broken gates of hell, which have fallen across themselves in the shape of a cross; and leading our first parents Adam and Eve out from captivity to spiritual death. Here I share Lyuba Yatskiv’s new interpretation of ‘the Descent into Hell.’ You can just make out the gates of hell beneath Jesus’ feet, and beneath them she has depicted Satan as the strong man who has been bound in order that his house may be plundered, a reference to Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 12 // Mark 3 // Luke 11.

Today, as I walked between presiding at the eucharist at St Nicholas’ and presiding at the eucharist at Sunderland Minster, I came across an abandoned gate, propped up at an angle against a burnt wall, waiting to be taken away. And it put me in mind of the Harrowing of Hell.

 

John 21:1-19 part four

 

John 21:1-19 part four

Eastertide is about learning how to be human, within the new creation, through simple, persistent acts of subversive love, choosing the way of Jesus, even when we cannot yet go there. Through such death-and-resurrection lives, we may glorify God. Amen.

 

(some) Stations of the Resurrection

 

The Stations of the Cross, a series of images depicting Christ’s Passion, form a well-established resource for the Church as we move towards Easter. The Stations of the Resurrection, a series of images depicting the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus to the disciples and, lastly, to Saul of Tarsus, are a more recent resource for the Church as we journey from the empty tomb through the Fifty Great Days of Eastertide.

There are nineteen Stations of the Resurrection in all, but here are two of them, and once again I am sharing stunning icons by sacred artists of the Lviv School.

The first is ‘The Assurance of Apostle Thomas,’ by Kateryna Shadrina, which relates to the Gospel set for the Second Sunday of Easter.

The second is ‘Conversion of Paul the Apostle,’ by Lyuba Yatskiv, which relates to the passage from the Acts of the Apostles set for the Third Sunday of Easter.

The Resurrection transforms everything. It turns our world upside-down.

 

John 21:1-19 part three

 

John 21:1-19 part three

Breakfast eaten, Jesus asks Simon Peter, ‘do you love me more than these?’ More than these what? I have often heard it taken as ‘do you love me more than you love these other disciples?’ or ‘do you love me more than these other disciples do?’ but that won’t do. Jesus insists that the generative command to ‘love God with your whole and undivided self’ begets the command to ‘love your neighbour as yourself’: these two commands are consubstantial and indivisible. What then? In the preceding verse, we are told that this is now the third time that Jesus appeared to his disciples after he was raised from the dead. Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these precious, fleeting moments? Here is the commission of Jesus, who will soon return to his Father, to the one who will pasture and shepherd his flock after and under him.

Twice, Jesus asks, do you love (agapas) me? And twice, Peter responds, Lord, you know that I love (philō) you. The third time, Jesus asks, as Peter has already twice answered, do you love (philō) me, and Peter again affirms that he does. What’s the difference? Agapas has to do with choice: with choosing that which is best for the other, whether it is our preference or not. Choosing to let them go when we would hold on to them. Choosing to lay down our life for them when we would prefer to carry on living, with them, as before. Philō has to do with emotion. We do not choose our emotional reactions, though we do choose how we will behave in response and can train our responses. Peter has an undeniable deep emotional affection for Jesus, though when overwhelmed by the emotion of fear he had repeatedly denied even knowing him.

‘Will you choose to let me go, over these times together?’ ‘You know the depth of my affection for you.’ ‘I do; but will you choose to let me go?’ ‘Lord, you know the depth of my affection.’ ‘Do you hold me in deep affection?’ ‘It hurts that you need to ask; you know that I do.’ Jesus doesn’t push the choice of love beyond where Peter is willing to go but meets him where he is. Nonetheless, whether Peter is willing or not, Jesus will return to the Father, and Simon the fisherman will need to become Peter the shepherd. And in old age he will again have no choice, will be led out to die—on a cross—and the sheep will be faced with the same dilemma, whether they are able to let go of the shepherd they hold with deep affection, or not. For now, it is enough to follow.

 

John 21:1-19 part two

 

John 21:1-19 part two

Why does Jesus tell the disciples to cast their net on the right-hand side of the boat? Well, the right-hand side is synonymous with God’s rule over all creation, and with both witnessing to and participating in that rule. So, Psalm 110—a psalm Jesus himself cites—proclaims, ‘The LORD says to my lord, “Sit at My right hand until I make your enemies your footstool.”’ And in his old age the disciple John will see a vision of Jesus holding seven stars in his right hand, the seven angels sent to carry his words to the seven churches. So, when Jesus tells these experienced fishermen to cast their net on the right-hand side of the boat, he is instructing them to act not in their own power but with the authority of heaven. When they do, not fully knowing why, perhaps trusting on a memory (Luke records that there was a miraculous catch of fish the day Jesus first called Simon Peter to follow him; Matthew, Mark, and John do not) something miraculous happens. But the miracle does not bypass the time-consuming work of turning fish into fish relish, or of mixing flour and yeast and water and oil to make bread. John’s Gospel ends with Jesus symbolically giving the Church authority over the nations; but it is a call to simple, even domestic, activities transformed by resurrection, of life where there was no evidence of life. It is small acts, done with great love, that will overthrow the empire.

Why does Simon Peter cast himself into the sea? After all, it really isn’t where he is supposed to be. He is neither a fish nor a net. On one occasion, Jesus was teaching his disciples that stumbling in faith was inevitable, but that causing your sisters and brothers to stumble was a source of woe, of pain so great that it would be better to have a millstone tied around you and be thrown into the sea. Such a one must be rebuked, and, if they repent, forgiven, restored. Why does Simon Peter cast himself into the sea, having first put on his outer garment, guaranteed to make swimming harder and sinking easier? Well, it is possible that he was overcome with remorse, at having denied knowing Jesus three times. But on another occasion, Jesus had claimed that mustard seed faith could tell Mount Zion, on which the temple stood, to throw itself into the sea, and it would. That if the religious leaders would voluntarily throw the mountain of meeting God into the midst of the surrounding nations it would stand there as solid ground; but if they refused, it would in any case be overwhelmed by the rising waves of Rome. And thus, it would turn out. But perhaps Simon Peter, Petros, the Rock on which Jesus claimed he would build his Church, chooses, voluntarily, to do what the leaders of the people would not. Again, John’s Gospel ends with Jesus symbolically giving the Church authority over the nations; not through might but by a stubborn subversive growth none could effectively root out.

 

John 21:1-19 part one

 

John 21:1-19 part one

Straight after Easter Sunday, Jo and I disappeared for several days’ break staying with some good friends down in Warwickshire. On our last night there, we went out for a curry. We don’t eat meat, so Jo had a vegetable dish, and I had a fish dish. It was delicious: an unlikely mix of cod and tuna and prawns, prepared with fenugreek and ginger and a blend of spices. In the centre of the table there was a plate of enormous naans, and we hungrily tore off piece after piece to scoop up mouthful after mouthful. We ate too much, and went to bed too soon after, and slept terribly as a result. But it was so good to be together. We had spent the previous days eating and drinking and sitting round reading books and exploring elegant towns and walking their dogs around pretty villages and catching up with one another’s news and giving one another space to not have to entertain or engage socially. The following morning, we would get up early for the first time in days, go out and run the nearest parkrun, and then spend the next several hours driving home in sweaty lycra. I can’t think of a better way to observe the Octave of Easter, the first eight of the Fifty Great Days of Eastertide.

Several of the disciples had gone out all night, fishing on the lake. And at dawn, Jesus stood on the shore and called to them, “Little children, do you have any fish relish (prosphagion)?” That is, do you have the kind of fish dish that is eaten with flatbread? And they reply, “No.” They have no fish relish with them. So Jesus calls out again, and tells them to cast their net on the right hand side of the boat, and that they will discover something, perhaps unexpected. They don’t discover any fish relish—that really would be unexpected. Instead, the net fills up with fish (ichthyōn) and what is unexpected is the sheer number of them. But then Simon Peter does something very unexpected: he pulls on his cloak and casts himself into the sea. And when they reach the shore, they find that Jesus has made a charcoal fire and prepared bread and was cooking it along with some fish he already had with him.

It is such a strange and beautiful story. Jesus, making breakfast for his friends—as my friend Andy had poached us eggs for breakfast as we sat in his kitchen. Constructing a fire—as my friend Andy had made in his firepit as we sat round, and he cooked for us on the barbeque. Simple things, with his hands. This is, surely, occupational therapy, learning how to use hands that now have holes punctured through them—how do you knead bread when the tendons of your fingers are torn in two? This is rehabilitation after the trauma of torture and death, not to mention the trauma of resurrection, just as much as the boys going fishing is rehabilitation after the trauma of seeing Jesus go to his death, and come back again. This takes time, and, it turns out, a little fish relish. That is why we take Fifty days over Easter, not just one ta-dah! day (glorious though it is).

 

Easter joy

 

 

The Body and Blood of Christ

Kateryna Kuziv

 

Easter Sunday

 

Easter Sunday

Supposing him to be the gardener …

John 20:15

Why does Mary Magdalene suppose Jesus to be the gardener?

Is it because, through her grief, she cannot see clearly? Or is it that because of her grief she can see more clearly than before? After all, Jesus said, ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.’ And what greater comfort than to see Jesus as he truly is?

This year, as we have prepared to celebrate Easter, I have taken opportunities to share with you the work of the Lviv School of Iconographers. And this Easter morning, I would like to introduce you to Kateryna Kuziv, an artist whose work explores the theme of the great theme of the garden.

This first image depicts the Tree of Life, one of two trees God planted in the middle of the garden of Eden. Kuziv depicts it not in literal green but symbolic blue: the tree of life. This tree, bursting with life, is cruciform.

The next image depicts the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. This tree is also cruciform, but it introduces darkness and light. Indeed, light is bursting out from darkness: evil makes its presence felt but cannot contain goodness; and, in bursting free, good breaks evil apart.

The third image is the Creation of Adam and Eve. The gardener placed in the garden to watch over it, and the companion created as a champion to contend for the gardener. Humanity lives in harmony with the garden.

But the next image is simply called Trespass. Presented to us by a Ukrainian artist in these days when Russia has trespassed onto Ukraine, the icon takes on new layers. Yet it depicts the seemingly insatiable appetite to consume what we gaze upon, and humanity finds itself bound, constrained by the very knowledge we desire.

And following on from Trespass, we have Exile. The human family, wrapped in the shrouds of death and cut off from the harmony of creation. There is still beauty in the world, but it is spoiled by pollution, a great stain. A great sorrow, and a deadness of spirit.

And here we move on, to the Genealogy of Jesus. Again, we have a tree, blue for life, bursting with leaves and flowers and fruit, and the names of Jesus’ ancestors. Abraham at the root, and Mary Mother of God and her Son at the apex. Lives marked by deadness turned to life and despair turned to rejoicing. All of life is here, and God is at work in and through it.

The next image is Epitaphios, an icon of the shroud of the dead Christ. If you look carefully, within the shroud—which is depicted as a blue cloth, pointing to resurrection life—you will see the imprint of Christ’s halo—symbol of holiness—and of his wounds: hands folded across his chest, pierced side, his feet. And the flowering of the empty cross: the cruciform tree. This moment, the death and resurrection as one piece, is the birthing of a new creation, the planting of a new Eden. The moment of defeat is the moment of victory.

And following on, the Appearance of Jesus Christ to Maria Magdalena. Here is the gardener, the new Adam, the new humanity, nowhere more tangible than in his wounds. And the new Eve, the new champion who will contend for the gardener, who will carry the news of his resurrection to his disciples. And here is the life of the garden, bursting out all around.

And one final image the Throne of God. Blue for the life of heaven, and bursting with leaves, for the healing of the nations. An invisible throne, Christ made visible in the revelation of the written Word.

‘Supposing him to be the gardener…’ And, of course, Mary’s supposition was quite right. Jesus is the gardener, the one who faithfully watches over the garden. The one who kept watch and prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane while his disciples slept for grief. The one who watched over Mary, when Simon Peter and the other disciple had gone home leaving her behind, and who witnessed her blossoming and sent her to bear witness to his own. The One through whom, and with whom, and in whom, all creation bursts free to worship the Father. Who has restored in men and women the image of God’s glory, placed us once more in paradise, and opened to us the gate of life eternal. And today, on this Resurrection morning, he calls you by name. How will you respond?

 

Easter in time of Covid-19

Easter Sunday in time of Covid-19 lockdown. We gathered for worship online, each household with its own candle to welcome the light of Christ, and water with which to renew our baptismal vows. Professing the faith of the Church with ‘latency’, that lag between our speaking and hearing the voices, between the reality of our action and its manifestation.

While it is disconcerting—takes some becoming accustomed to—latency is a powerful symbol for Easter; for the gap between Jesus rising from the dead and his followers catching up; for the gap between the world being changed for ever and the visible impact in our lives. Now and not yet.

One of our congregation died yesterday. His wife of 61 years was in our midst this morning. Through the limits of technology, we could hear each other, and she could see us, but we couldn’t see her. Yet we were together, in a profound and comforting way, in continuity and discontinuity, Jesus and the Church. And all together in a sense that is already secured but yet to be made manifest.

This photograph is taken through the glass of my front door. A garden, as blurred as one seen through Mary’s tears, yet as real, as solid, as the one in which Jesus, real and solid, spoke to her. Another way of thinking about Easter, which invites us to know that the world is not as we see it, but as it is—spoken by the Alpha and Omega Word—and as we will therefore experience it.

Easter Day

While it was still dark

God did not raise Jesus from the dead so that he could be my personal Lord and Saviour. I am simply not that important. God raised Jesus from the dead to vindicate Jesus’ faithfulness even unto death, and to demonstrate that God had appointed Jesus as judge over first the unfaithful people of God and then the rebellious (gods of the) surrounding nations.

This would take place in history. The judgement of God’s people is (most immediately, as a first horizon) seen in the fall of Jerusalem, in AD70. The defeat of the pagan gods is (as a first horizon) seen in the fall of Rome and its empire, and the (historical, and limited) triumph of Christendom.

Those who recognised that God had appointed Jesus as judge—first the Jew, and then the Greco-Roman or gentile or non-Jew—would be vindicated in their faith by being delivered through the coming outpouring of judgement, or wrath, as a covenant community that survived the end of the(ir) world. Christ is our Passover lamb (I may not be that important—see above—but I am included).

Related to this judgement are both hell and resurrection. Hell is primarily an image of the desecration of Jerusalem by the Greeks, and its later destruction by the Romans. Resurrection from the sleep of death ‘ahead of time’ or before ‘the end’ is almost entirely limited to the Jewish martyrs killed by the Greeks and Christian martyrs killed by the Romans, as a sign of the restoration of the fortunes of God’s people in general.

Where does that leave us today, long after the fall of both Jerusalem and Rome? It leaves us living and interpreting history in continuity with what God has done in Jesus. So, we might ask, where, currently experiencing or anticipating judgement on the Church and the nations, do we hope to be vindicated in our faith in Jesus?

Today, the Church faces God’s judgement for failing to care as we should have done for vulnerable children, among other sins. We hope for a community that will survive: that will be put to death, with Christ, by the authorities—and be raised to life with him.

Today, the nation of Iran persecutes the Iranian Church. We long for the day when our Iranian brothers’ and sisters’ faith in Jesus will be vindicated, by regime change (or change of heart) and their being able to live openly as Christians in their own nation.

This is something of what Easter means to me today, as a member of the Church of England, and a congregation which is one third Iranian.

Alleluia, Christ is risen!

He is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

Exsultet

Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels!

O Universe, dance around God’s throne!

Jesus Christ, our King, is risen!

Sound the victorious trumpet of salvation!

Rejoice, O earth, in glory, revealing the splendour of your creation,

radiant in the brightness of your triumphant King!

Christ has conquered! Now his life and glory fill you!

Darkness vanishes for ever!

Rejoice, O Mother Church! Exult in glory!

The risen Saviour, our Lord of life, shines upon you!

Let all God’s people sing and shout for joy.

Sunday

Christ is risen. Alleluia.

He is risen indeed. Alleluia, alleluia.

An early start for some of us, as we joined with friends from St Timothy’s Lutheran church for a sunrise service on Roker beach.

On The Road

This is a first draft of next Sunday’s sermon. I’m publishing it early because I’d like to initiate a conversation around it, to hear the insights of others, particularly in my local setting, perhaps (not necessarily) around the questions at the end.

Luke 24:13-35

We are still in the Season of Easter, the season of getting to grips with what this life-out-of-death means – or rather, the season of life-out-of-death getting a grip on us. Today we find ourselves walking away from Jerusalem towards Emmaus, walking in the company of two disciples, part of the wider circle beyond the eleven apostles, walking from the highs and lows of recent days back towards the security of the familiar, of home. And as we walk, a fellow-traveller comes alongside us.

That in itself is also familiar. After all, if you are alone it is always safer to travel in proximity to others. Sitting on the Metro, taking in the people sat across from you – but not looking too closely, so as not to make them feel uncomfortable, so as not to attract confrontation. Glance up, and look away again. Slowly, though: too fast and you’ll look shifty. But you can’t help listening in to their conversation; laughing at the puzzling lines…

The man asks, ‘What are you discussing?’ Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? It’s on everybody’s lips.

The man listens. This thing they are discussing, they don’t really seem to understand. It is clear that Jesus is somehow important to them, but how following him relates to their life is harder to work out. They are familiar with certain stories, but the relevance eludes them.

The man listens. Hears them out, until their words run dry. Only then does he speak. And when he does, he shapes their history, their culture, around the person of Jesus. Not pulling out proof texts to argue a point-of-view, but showing how it all comes together in him. And more than that, showing them where they found a place within that story – “opening the scriptures to us,” they would later say; making room for us within his story.

And now it is time to part company. But it is getting late. If we are hungry, and tired, he must be too. As we reach the door to a house, we are invited in. However fragile their beliefs, there is openness here. The man accepts the invitation; and so shall we. Companionship – literally, the sharing of bread around the table. And as the man reaches out to take the bread, his wrists extend from within his sleeves. The pink rawness of newly-healed skin, not yet darkened by the sun.

And in this familiar action, our eyes are opened. The dramatic testimony of others – even women known well to them – was not enough. Neither was the most helpful Bible exposition ever given, even if it was deeply engaging. But in a simple act of hospitality shown towards a stranger, received with gratitude towards God and reciprocal service, a moment of revelation breaks in. Just a moment, mind you; and then he vanished from their sight. But a moment of revelation is all that is needed; is enough to respond to.

They thought that they had arrived at their destination for the night; but in response they get up and set out back to the very place they had walked away from, with new hope. Will we go too?

Some thoughts to ponder:

Are we learning to be a listener? If yes, what has proven helpful in this? Who might we ask, ‘What are you discussing?’

Are we open to change our plans for others? Are we learning to accept invitations? Who is open to us?

What is Jesus showing you? Where have your eyes been opened, perhaps through testimony, or teaching, or studying the Bible, or fellowship with others, or through simple everyday activities given a new light?

What are you going to do in response?

Easter Sunday

This morning I want to tell you a story. An old, old story, written in an ancient book. As we open the book, the story begins – with [draw out] a handkerchief.

“Why are you weeping?” the man asks Mary.

Why is Mary weeping? Not because Jesus is dead. She has wept for that for forty hours straight, and, for now at least, her tears have run dry. No, Mary is not weeping because Jesus has died. These fresh tears are because someone has carried his body off, she knows not where.

It reminds me of the time when the Israelites were defeated in battle and the ark of the covenant was carried off by the Philistines…

[draw out a wooden box]

It reminds me of the time when the treasures from the temple and the royal palace in Jerusalem were carried off by the king of Babylon…

[draw out the gold rings]

It reminds me of the time when Jerusalem failed in rebelling against the Babylonians, fell, and the royal court was carried off into exile…

[draw out paper chain of people and then fold them together again]

When something or someone is carried off, it is as if defeat were not enough. As if there is something even worse. As if it were God’s way of saying, “I meant for that to happen. It didn’t just happen: it happened as my passing judgement on my people.” Adding insult to injury.

Most of all, it reminds me of the time when Joseph was thrown into a pit by his brothers. Reuben goes off, and when he returns, expecting to find Joseph in the pit, he discovers that the boy is no longer there. The other brothers have sold him to passing traders, [draw out play money] who carried him off to Egypt. Reuben is distraught.

Many, many years later, Joseph – now ruling Egypt on behalf of the Pharaoh – is reunited with his brothers, and tells them, “You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good.” God took hold of a heartless action…and from it wrought the saving of the Egyptian Empire, and the descendants of Abraham, from famine.

“Why are you weeping?” the man asks Mary. And then, once the reason is out in the open, he speaks her name. And in that moment, Mary knows that yes, God claims Jesus’ death, that it stands as an act of judgement. But that while men meant it for evil (so passing judgement on themselves), God meant it for good (passing a judgement in favour of life, out of death).

Even if the outworking of that plan might still lie years in the future.

A promise, if you will.

Perhaps that is why Easter is not a day, but a season lasting fifty days. Because Day One is full-to-bursting, with panic and adrenalin and trepidation and boldness and belief and failure to understand and despair and joy and trying-to-hold-on-too-tightly-in-case-it-all-falls-apart-again and fear and doubts and failing to recognise Jesus. Since the stone was removed the future is leaking into the present and the breach cannot be plugged. But it will take us fifty days a year, year after year, to learn how to live into this new reality.

[Close the book]

So, why are you weeping?

What hasn’t worked out the way you hoped as you have followed Jesus?

Where has your hope ended in defeat…only for something even worse to follow?

Sooner or later, we all find ourselves weeping with Mary.

But then he speaks our name.

And if the word spoken on Good Friday is, “It is finished!” the word spoken at sunrise on Easter morning is, “I’ve not finished yet…in fact, I’ve only just begun…”