Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!
Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!
That proclamation and response should just spill off your lips today, automatically, joyfully, proudly. Peter and Paul both remind us today of just how important it is to proclaim Easter: to publicly, confidently announce the news that Jesus, dead and buried, is alive again; that we have seen that life, full of God’s power, and that this news saves both us and the world from all that we could ever fear.
It’s our job today to revel in the celebration and to share the joyful news as far and wide and positively as possible, so we surround ourselves with flowers and feasting and fanfares and chocolate.
Alleluia indeed!
But Mark tells a different story.
Mark’s story is about Easter when we are not confident, not proud, not joyful. Because Easter happens that way sometimes, even if you wouldn’t guess it from this cheerful, festive morning.
It’s sunrise on that other morning, early and sleepless, as Mary and Mary and Salome go to the tomb where their dear friend — their leader and their link to God on earth — has been buried, sealed away after the most painful and shameful death the occupying Romans can impose.
Their task is neither peaceful or pleasant, but full of anxiety and obstacles:
How will we get past the great stone sealing Jesus in the tomb?
Will anyone help us?
Will we hurt ourselves on that immovable rock?
They wonder as they go.
They worry - until they see, suddenly, that the stone is already moved, and the dark tomb gapes open. Then the worry doubles. Nothing good can happen at an open grave.
The women creep cautiously to the entrance and peer in — or perhaps they rush inside on a surge of anger and adrenaline — to find Jesus vanished. The one time they could count on his being where they left him - since death generally has that effect on bodies - and he’s absolutely gone.
There’s a man sitting there, though. Unmistakably a messenger of God, unusual and dazzling enough to throw you into awe and fear — if the women weren’t already reeling from enough shock and worry.
He tries to soothe their alarm, offering the news that Jesus is not just gone, but risen, alive and ahead of them, not dead and lost - and gives them a message inviting Peter and the rest of the disciples to meet Jesus - to see him living and at work - in Galilee.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!
Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!
Mary and Mary and Salome are sent out to proclaim their experience of Easter, and to invite others to share it, just as you and I and all the church are reminded to do this morning.
But they don’t.
Mark’s last words in the story leave them - and us - hanging on the cliff: “They fled from the tomb in terror and amazement, and said nothing to anyone because they were afraid.”
Fear. Shock and awe. Speechless trauma. The emotions of Mark’s story are out of place in our bright celebration this morning, but they are right for Easter, too.
When resurrection happens to us, we don't always know it.
When it's happening to us, resurrection often feels more like grief and fear that a bright and cheerful Easter morning. When God works life-giving transformation on the world and on us, the shock and anxiety may come first and strongest — even feel endless — but those sharp-edged moments are often the holiest Easter times, just as it was that long ago sunrise at an empty tomb.
Has that happened - is it happening - to you?
Are there dead ends in your life? Immovable stones blocking your way? Help you need, but can’t think where to find?
That’s where God is already at work.
The promise of Mark’s Easter story is that where we are stuck and helpless, like the women on their way to the tomb, God is most stunningly and powerfully at work.
When we are stunned by absence like the women at the empty grave — where there is loss, grief, emptiness and loneliness and betrayal in our lives — there too is the promise of Easter, like the message given to the women:
Where we cannot see God, where we have lost our connection, God is reaching out to invite us to reunion, to meet again where Christ has gone ahead.
When we are voiceless, when change or shock or paralyzing fear or even unrealistic hope robs you of your ability to choose your way, well, perhaps then your story is in God’s hands, not your own, just like the story of the women fleeing speechless from the tomb.
Mark’s story of anxious women, of resurrection washed in loss and fear, is the promise we need when God is actually bringing Easter into our lives in the same messy, anxious, disruptive way.
That’s why we practice joy this morning, and surround the story of shock and awe with festivity and flowers. We practice joy - we celebrate and feast and proclaim it now - because when resurrection is actually happening to us, joy can feel so far away.
We practice joy now for the sake of the times we need it most.
So plunge in to this morning’s exultant jubilation. Rejoice in chocolate and bunnies and simple pleasures, in praise and thanksgiving and favorite foods. Laugh, weep with joy, have fun.
This is our faithful obligation, our holy training, each Easter morning: to practice joy in all its forms as we remember Christ’s resurrection.
Exercise those muscles of celebration, because the world needs them — and you may need them — in those times when God is at work but the story isn’t finished, and we’re hanging on the cliff in terror and amazement.
Today we step off the cliff into light and joy, into the glory of Christ’s triumph.
Today we remember the promise and the truth that God can work resurrection even in our deepest pain.
So let’s throw ourselves into the joyful proclamation today: that Christ is risen, risen indeed. Throw our hearts into it so we can proclaim it with confidence and joy even in the face of dead ends, loss and fear.
Say it once more with me now:
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!
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