Hands Up

Mark 16:1-8

Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Doesn’t that get your adrenaline pumping? Are you scared yet?
No?

Didn’t you notice what happens today? Mary and Mary and Salome go to the tomb to care for the body of Jesus, and he’s gone.
Right there, you can feel them start to panic, just a little.
And there’s a strange man there telling them he’s gone off to Galilee.
(But he’s dead – isn’t he?) You can’t blame the women if they felt like they’d dropped into a zombie story, long before that kind of horror story became popular weekend entertainment.
They were afraid, for good reason.

But there was that other thing the man said: He is risen.
He’s expecting you to meet him, as he promised. Tell the others!
And in the midst of the fear there are bubbles of possibility and hope and wonder. Maybe he’s not just risen, not just up and about for the day, but alive. Maybe those wonderful dreams that seemed impossible these last months and years are about to be true.
And the joy seizes them, ready or not.

It’s too much. Mary and Mary and Salome can’t stand still: They fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

That’s where Mark leaves us. This isn’t a triumphant Easter story – it’s wildly unfinished. The credits never roll.

This Easter is nothing like the way we celebrate with fanfare and lilies, candy and ham. It’s more like that first big downhill on a roller coaster, where everything you believe about the security of the shoulder harness vanishes, the adrenaline spikes, and you know, just for an instant, that this was a big mistake.

I love to ride roller coasters.
I’m not a fan of elevators (I worry about getting stuck) or airplanes. Heights and enclosure bother me just enough to notice – and so does the fact that I’m not driving.
But on roller coasters I know perfectly well I’m doing something that’s irrational. Ridiculous. And because it’s so ridiculous, it’s almost easy to commit myself to the impossible.
So I take a deep breath as the car chugs slowly up the track, and I get more aware of gravity with every foot of open air between me and the ground….
and as the coaster tips over the highest point, it all happens at once: adrenaline spikes and I recognize in the same instant that I am going to die, and that I’m flying.

That’s when my hands go up in the air.
They have to.
To ride that coaster I have to surrender to the terror and amazement, and absolutely let go. Open my hands and release any illusion of control.

Throw my hands up into the air and surrender to Easter.

Resurrection: the impossible, genuine, living after death, requires surrender to the fear and the ecstasy. Easter means opening our hands and hearts and letting go of any illusion of control OR rationality.

But then there’s a delightful freedom to Easter. When we know we are living the impossible, the normal constraints can’t hold us back. You can let go of practicality, of concern about what others will think – and more importantly, what you’ll think of yourself.

Surrendering to Easter makes all the other miracles possible:
The world-wide, transformative reach of the story of one man crucified by the Romans. The triumph of dignity and personhood for each of God’s people in the end of apartheid and legal discrimination.
Reconciliation between nations and between family members. Life abundant in the face of incurable cancer. Life abundant even in deep and lasting grief.

Roller coasters are an easier commitment than Easter.
Once you get through the line and lock down the safety bar, you can’t get off in the middle – and even the longest coaster ride only lasts about 4 minutes.

Easter starts with that moment of flying and falling in fear and ecstasy – and goes on and on and on. Easter is when God interrupts our lives with that moment of suspense. And it isn’t finished yet.
And it’s much easier to step off of Easter in the middle, pulled back into the limits of practicality and money and not-enough-time and gravity underfoot.

That’s why we come back here every year, and tell this story with trumpet fanfares, flowers, festive decorations – and chocolate rabbits and sugary treats. Because we need to surrender to Easter to make all those other miracles possible.
And surrendering to Easter takes practice.

I didn’t always like roller coasters. First I avoided them. Then I watched. And when I was persuaded to try, I started small and I hung on tight. Eventually I loosened my grip on the safety harness.
And then one day, at the top of the biggest possible hill, my hands flew up into the air and I let go of any pretense of controlling the ride.
I fell and I flew. Terror and ecstasy and sheer uninhibited joy.
For two and a half minutes, anyway.

We practice Easter, too. We come and hear the story, amid the lilies and the celebration, and we watch the transformation of others. Then we take a chance – a little risk of new life: venture a friendship that isn’t easy, invest in an unlikely hope after a tough disappointment – ride the fear and the joy, letting go just a bit.
We come back to the story again when we need it to face the fear and potential of greater and greater things, so that one day we can let everything go – come face to face with death – and open our hands and hearts and spirits to the shock and ecstasy of resurrection, to fly even as we fall.

It’s hard, but it does get easier.
Every journey through loss and death to life abundant makes the next one possible. Every time you take your hands off the grab bar it gets a little easier to receive the freedom to fly, the invitation to life beyond limits.

That’s why we’re here today. To practice surrendering to the terror and ecstasy of the empty tomb and the impossible, wonderful message of hope. To practice letting go; surrendering to Easter with our hands open and lifted high.

So today, this week, this year,
when you’re at the table with family, or biting into the chocolate bunny, or basking in the light and joy
- or the next time fear and anxiety start to rise because it’s just not going the way you expected –
open your hands.

Lift them off the grab bar – let go of whatever makes you feel secure in the presence of God – and raise them over your head, so that just for a moment, you surrender to resurrection and fly.

Try it now…
        [hands up]
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!