April 3, 2021

Easter Vigil

The Rev. Canon Joann Saylors

Mark 16:1-8

“Alarmed.”[i] “Frightened.”[ii] “Taken aback, astonished.”[iii] “Startled.”[iv]

That’s how various translations describe the women’s reaction to the young man they found waiting for them inside Jesus’ tomb.

It had been a task that was ordinary, domestic. I imagine the women as they awoke that third day before sunrise. Maybe they awoke without immediately remembering what was ahead of them. It’s possible that their first waking seconds were full of blissful ignorance, only to be followed by the heart-rending realization of what had happened and what they had to do. They gathered up their bundles, carefully prepared with the spices they had purchased, and set off together for the tomb. We don’t know how far they had to walk, or what they were thinking as they made their way, but surely they approached the tomb with growing dread and sorrow. They knew they would see the lifeless body of their beloved teacher, and they knew how painful it would be to touch his cold flesh, dress his wounds, and make him ready for proper burial. They’d done it for others in the past.

The women were ready for their heartbreaking and ordinary act of love, at least as ready as one can be. They were looking into the face of death, expecting it, preparing for it, ritually acknowledging it.  If anyone still couldn’t quite believe Jesus was gone, this painful but familiar act, customarily performed by members of the family, would settle it. Physical contact makes the reality of death inescapable. Their task was difficult, but it was, at its heart, ordinary. People die all the time, and we are constantly confronted with it. Death itself is not unbelievable, even when we are surprised by its timing. Death is all too real and all too present in our lives and the lives of our communities. We have come to know this, in the past year more than ever.

But the first sign that a new reality had subverted the women’s ordinary expectations came when they found that the stone blocking the entrance to the tomb had been rolled away. That was the moment when grief merged with fear, as it implied that the tomb had been targeted by grave robbers, or vandals, who might still be inside. As in so many places now and then, a small group of women out alone would worry about their safety.  We can only imagine what thoughts raced through their minds at the unexpected jolt of finding the tomb open. Then, fearfully and hesitantly entering it, the added shocks of encountering a young man in a white robe sitting there and finding Jesus’ body gone. Astonished, indeed.

The young man tried to reassure them. “Don’t be alarmed. Jesus isn’t here. He has risen! If you convince the disciples and Peter to go to Galilee, you will see him there. Just like he told you.”

That was clearly not as reassuring as the young man had hoped, because their emotions were amped up even further. The translations say it in different ways: they were seized by “terror and amazement.”[v] “Trembling and bewildered.”[vi] “Stunned.”[vii] “Overcome with terror and dread.”[viii]

That, my sisters and brothers, is absolutely the right response. Jesus had told them. As one New Testament scholar notes, “The resurrection was everything these women had ever hoped it would be, everything Jesus had said it would be.” But, he adds, “Sometimes the scariest thing in the world is to believe that your deepest, most secret hopes might actually be possible.”[ix]

Sometimes hope opens a door that you thought was long since closed. You’ve been disappointed or heartbroken; we all have. And maybe you worked through it, came to terms with it, forgave or let go, and put it behind you. There’s relief, even peace, in that. It’s a gift not to have to think about it anymore. So after someone or something breaks your heart, the possibility of opening yourself up to it happening again is scary. Vulnerability can be terrifying. Maybe Shakespeare was wrong – better not to love than to love and lose again.

When the one they all thought was the Messiah was tortured, crucified, and killed, the dream died, too. Perhaps that added to the familiarity of the task the women had come to do. For a people who had become used to being defeated and ruled by others, maybe disappointment itself had started to feel ordinary, something manageable. They had taken a chance. They had let themselves believe that the coming of their messiah was different, only to have their dreams dashed. Could it really be safe to hope again? Or was the possibility that Jesus was right, that everything had changed too bewildering and terrifying even to face, much less talk about?

They fled. And said nothing to anyone. Here ends the reading. And almost certainly Mark’s Gospel. We are left to consider their fear and vulnerability – and our own.

Like the women we live with the question of what comes next. Do we truly understand that Jesus’ resurrection was life-changing? World-changing? What do we do with that? Are we appropriately stunned by the depth of God’s love for us and for creation? Are we prepared to live with the fear of being vulnerable, naked before God, so that God can transform us? Will we recognize that our own grasping at the safety of hopes we can control blinds us to the chaotic and beautiful power of this mystery?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer coined the term “cheap grace” to define the grace we bestow upon ourselves, a way of taming the danger of what God offers us and what God asks of us. God’s grace is not cheap and it is not easily absorbed. We should be astonished and taken aback. Because it is when we believe that our deepest and secret hopes are truly made possible, when we are most bewildered, that we are most like those first followers of Jesus. It is when we are ready to become more like Jesus. And it is when we are equipped to see and be the light of Christ in a world that so often seems unremittingly dark.

It is fitting that our Easter Vigil liturgy began in darkness. When we come to Easter services on Sunday morning, the world is already light again. We can see spring all around us. We know the story ends joyfully. But we started here tonight, before all of that, in darkness drawn closer to the women in their terror and bewilderment at this holy Paschal mystery. But like the women, we didn’t stay there. We have also drawn closer to their courageous hope.

While Mark’s Gospel says that the women told no one, we know they did – or how else would we know the story? That update was included by the subsequent Gospel writers and even added to Mark’s later. The women overcame their fear. Just as the Pascal candle begins to light the path through the darkness, just as the sunrise begins to chase away the night, hope began to dawn upon the women. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”[x] As their incredible story was told and retold, eventually the light of Christ shone brightly enough to let people believe it could drive away darkness and even death. On this night we hear anew the same story of God’s saving love, and light and alleluias burst forth to shine upon us – and the whole world. All of creation sings along.

Fear of the Lord may be the beginning of wisdom[xi], but perfect love casts out fear.[xii] And we have experienced perfect love in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the Son of God. So now our choice is what we do with this Good News. Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again. How, then, shall we live?

May we be blessed by God interrupting our ordinary and difficult tasks to shatter our expectations. May we keep meeting Jesus in Galilee. And may we share our incredible story with the world. Happy Easter. Alleluia and amen.

[i] NRSV, NIV.

[ii] 21st Century KJV.

[iii] The Message.

[iv] CEB.

[v] NRSV.

[vi] NIV.

[vii] The Message.

[viii] CEB.

[ix] Paul Wheatley, “Fear at the Resurrection,” https://livingchurch.org/covenant/2018/04/03/fear-at-the-resurrection/ (accessed March 31, 2021).

[x] John 1:5 (NRSV).

[xi] Proverbs 9:10 (NRSV).

[xii] 1 John 4:18 (NRSV).