John 20:1-18
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.
One of my boys came home from school on the last day before we started cancelling everything for the sake of “social distancing,” thanks to the Corona Virus pandemic (we weren’t even calling it a pandemic then, yet) and said one of his teachers told his class this would be something their generation would always remember – that every generation has something like it – which sparked a conversation about other historical events that are critical to the collective memory … the collective identity of every generation.
For me, there are a few that stand out… One was the Space Shuttle Challenger exploding in the sky in January, 1986, while, it seemed, everyone in the country was watching, because there was a civilian school teacher on board.
I was just coming back from lunch in 6th grade, in Novi Middle School, and one of my teachers, Mrs. Wainwright, had tears in her eyes as she corralled a handful of us into her classroom and let us watch the aftermath of that on the news.
Another life-changer was the massacre at Columbine High School, in April of 1999.
It’s hard to imagine now that there was a first time for something that is far so sadly and frighteningly common-place these days.
Of course 9/11 was huge, just about two-and-a-half years later.
Christa and I had lived in Indiana, for just over a month. Cross of Grace didn’t exist yet, technically. Our headquarters was in my guest room, so I was working in my boxer shorts (kind of like I did every day last week), and I called Debbie Searfoss to ask her something trivial, I’m sure, about the bulletin for the coming Sunday. And she told me I better stop working on the bulletin and go turn on the news. Most of you know the rest of that story.
Before all of that, for my parents’ generation, it was the assassination of John F. Kennedy, in Dallas, November 22, 1963.
I grew up hearing that “everyone” remembers where they were when they heard that news. I believe the same is true – or should be – about the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., outside the Lorraine Motel, in Memphis, in April, 1968.
My grandmother talked about the attack on Pearl Harbor, in December of 1941, in the same way – with a wistful sense of nostalgia, full of emotions and memories deep and overflowing with patriotism and pride and sadness and regret.
So it’s strange to be living in the midst of something that has been likened to all of that, something a generation will remember for all kinds of reasons: for missing a spring season of sports; for missing a final quarter of school; for missing proms, perhaps, and graduation ceremonies, maybe; for missing Easter worship and dinner with the family; for all that this isolation and social distancing entails; and for missing the chance to be at the bedside of a loved one who’s sick, if not dying, from this disease.
And all of it – from the bombing of Pearl Harbor to the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., to this year’s COVID-19 pandemic to the Spanish Flu of 1918 – all of it marks us and motivates us with the fear of dying and the need to keep death at bay.
And we should do that, don’t get me wrong. God doesn’t wish for us to live our lives as though we’re on a Kamikaze mission for Jesus – like we should just throw caution to the wind and let the chips – and our own lives – fall where they may. So we should keep our distance. And we should wash our hands. We should wear our masks. We should do what the scientists suggest because they know more than most of us about why we should keep our germs to ourselves.
But Easter’s good news is a reminder that we don’t need to do any of this just because we’re afraid. Jesus showed up – was crucified, died, was buried and then raised, again – to show us that, no matter how strange and uncertain and scary things get, death never gets the last word.
Even when it comes by way of an assassin or a terrorist or military foe, death never gets the last word.
Even when it comes by way of cancer or heart disease or COVID-19, death never gets the last word.
Even when it comes to a police officer, killed in the line of duty, like did for Breann Leath in Indianapolis this week, death never gets the last word.
Even when it comes by way of a car accident, or an overdose, or by suicide, death never gets the last word.
It may change everything for some of us on this side of the grave. It may rearrange our lives. It may reorganize our priorities. It may hurt like hell and break our hearts into a million little pieces and we may never be the same again, because of it. But death never, ever gets the last word.
And I think the problem is, we haven’t really had a chance to say that to one another yet, where this virus is concerned, because we haven’t been able to be together as we would like – and as we’re used to and as we expect to be – in times of struggle, suffering, and sadness. That’s what makes this viral pandemic and all of this “social distancing” so strange and new and hard so much of the time.
See, I think the thing about all those other, historical, generational time-stamps that make them so memorable, so connective, so transforming was the unified response of the generation that experienced them. Like I said, I remember being very carefully herded into a classroom with some friends when the Space Shuttle exploded. I remember gathering in the grass on the lawn of the seminary to talk about what was happening at Columbine High School with some friends. Christa and I went to a community prayer service at the Methodist Church on the night of 9/11. Everyone who lived through it remembers JFK’s funeral processional. We know about our nation’s response and shared sacrifice in the war after Pearl Harbor.
But here we are, trapped in our homes – unto ourselves – separated from each other, thanks to a virus … this small, microscopic, invisible, threat – which is technically and potentially deadlier than any of the events that stick into our collective, historical memories.
We can’t gather en masse for prayer vigils. We can’t light candles at the spot of this tragedy. We can’t build a memorial to a germ. And that’s hard. It may even be unfair.
But I think we are right where we need to be this morning, because we are very much right where the disciples and the first followers and friends of Jesus found themselves when death came calling, way back when. They were hunkered down. Locked behind closed doors. Not sure about what was coming… for whom… next… and under the impression that death was winning.
Winning, that is, until the mighty Mary Magdalene heard that one word … her own name … in the fullness of her despair and sadness … “Mary.” And she knew everything that we’re called to remember.
In that moment, Mary realized that what gets the last word because of the God we know in Jesus is love. Love gets the last word because God’s love is as fierce as death and the grave.
And grace gets the last word, because we have seen God’s glory, the glory of a Father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
And mercy … mercy gets the last word, because our God is so rich in mercy, even though we were dead through our sins, God’s mercy makes us alive in Jesus Christ, our Lord.
And peace gets the last word … blessed are the peacemakers.
And forgiveness … forgiveness of sins, proclaimed to all the nations.
And hope … hope does not disappoint us because God’s love has been poured into our hearts by the power of the Holy Spirit.
And really … finally … what gets the last word – “who” gets the last word – in the face of whatever death threatens us – is Jesus. Jesus Christ, who knows my name and your name, too. Jesus, the son of God, crucified and risen from the dead, for the sake of the world.
Amen. Alleluia. Happy Easter.
