What Are You Afraid Of?

Mark 16:1-8

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James, and Salome, went and bought spices so they might anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, after the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will help us to roll back the stone from the entrance to the tomb?” But when they looked up, they saw the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. When they entered the tomb, they saw a young man there, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right-hand side, and they were alarmed.

But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed. You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised. He is not here. Look at the place where they laid him. But go and tell his disciples, and Peter, that he is going ahead of you, to Galilee. There you will see him, just as he said.” So the women got up and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

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So what are you afraid of?

When was the last time you asked… were asked… or answered that question?

It reminds me of something I think my parents asked me – and that I have asked my own boys – when they couldn’t sleep, thanks to a bad dream. “What are you afraid of?”

In fact, it seems like something I ask my own boys whenever they don’t want to do something or try something new. “What are you so afraid of?”

And when I read and hear about Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James, and Salome, “fleeing from the tomb, for terror and amazement seized them” and that “they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid,” it’s tempting to think they were scared of something like ghosts, or zombies, or of seeing dead people – like I used to be afraid of the basement when I was a kid; or of scary movies; or of things that go bump in the night. (As a boy, I could take the stairs four at time, with my blood pumping and the hairs on my neck standing on end, if I was alone in the neighbors’ basement after someone had turned out the lights.)

But these women weren’t children. It was daylight. The sun was up. And they were together, not alone.

So, I’m inclined to imagine that the Maries and Salome – the first women to hear the Good News of the resurrection – where amazed and terrified for more than we give the story credit for. I’m inclined to think they were afraid because the fullness and truth of God’s promised love was actually being revealed; because it really was coming true; because what Jesus had been telling them all along was fulfilled, “JUST AS HE SAID” it would be, in spite of what happened the Friday before.

See, I think maybe they were scared, not of ghosts or goblins; or of darkness or the walking dead, even. I think maybe they were scared, instead, of God’s grace and good news; about this new life and light that was about to shine itself into the world in a way that would change everything. And I wonder if they were scared because all of that was more than they bargained for; more than they had prepared for; more than they were ready to live into, no matter how true they wanted it to be.

And I wonder if we aren’t scared enough by all of this, enough of the time.

Because this Good News is more than we bargained for, it seems. This news goes against our better judgment, most days. This forgiveness of sins, this resurrection of the body, this life ever-lasting stuff changes everything – or it should – if we receive it and believe it, full-stop. And I wonder if it shouldn’t scare the hell out of us – in a good way – more often than it does.

Because it is a terrifying proposition to live in the light of God’s love.

It is a frightening thing to welcome the stranger, and mean it; to forgive a sinner, and mean it; to turn the other cheek, and wait for what’s next.

It is terrifying to love your enemy, rather than to take up arms against them – so we build bombs, stockpile weapons, and pack heat, instead.

It is scary to speak the truth in love and to deal with the consequences – so we keep quiet.

It is risky and unsettling to give our things and our stuff and our money away – so we keep more of it for ourselves.

It is scary to admit fault, to ask for forgiveness and to change your ways – so we don’t.

It is frightening to see God in the face of those who live and behave and believe so differently from what is comfortable or familiar or safe to us – so we keep to ourselves.

It is terrifying to get old, to get sick, to creep closer to the grave and all that comes with it – so we do all sorts of things to pretend or deny what cannot be avoided.

So, I think it’s okay – and faithful, even – to be unsettled, if not scared, terrified, and frightened of this good news – like those first women were – because that would mean we were believing it… embracing it… receiving it… and letting it have its way with us, in some new way.

So what are you afraid of? And what would it mean to engage it, embrace it, face it head-on on the other side of Easter’s empty tomb? And what if you did that – running scared, if need be – but trusting Easter’s good news that God’s ways win every time, much to our surprise and in spite of our fears. Weeping may last through the night, but joy will come in the morning. Light shines in the darkness. Dying leads to new life.

So what are you afraid of? Jesus has been there and done that… Jesus – and the love and grace of God – will be there, on the other side of the whatever scares you most… just like he said, just like he did, just like that love and grace was and is and always will be… 

Amen. Happy Easter.

Good Friday Message & Prayers of Lament

We are gathered here this evening to acknowledge that God has died. 

It is a strange practice liturgical Christians have – to carve out a time each year to live in the midst of this truth. It is so strange that most Christians do not observe Good Friday at all. “Why pretend that God is dead?” they say. “God had defeated death. Even when we die it will be a blessing because we’ll spend forever with God” they say. They paraphrase scripture, saying, “Death has lost its sting.” 

Would you really say “death has lost its sting” to the man who is no longer a spouse but a widow. Tell that to a mother who still occasionally refers to her deceased child in the present tense. Tell that to the person who just received a stage four terminal diagnosis of cancer. 

People don’t like Good Friday because it’s about death. They are content to gloss it over, deny its pain, and refuse to dip their toes into its dark abyss. This approach to death is incredibly destructive. More destructive than death itself. 

Leo Tolstoy, the great Russian novelist, wrote one of the most provocative and eloquent stories about death in his work, The Death of Ivan Ilych. In this story, a well-to-do man in middle age is suddenly and reluctantly forced to acknowledge the reality of his impending death. The prospect sends him reeling and initiates two struggles: 1) an inner struggle about what his life meant and regret for how he wasted it pursuing worldly accolades; and 2) an external struggle with the people in his life who refuse to acknowledge that he is, in fact, dying. As Ivan Ilych moves from denial of death towards acknowledging its inevitability, he begins to resent those around him who carry on in complete denial of both death’s presence as well as Ivan’s emotional peril. These people are incapable of comforting or caring for Ivan. It is, however, in his death that Ivan’s life is brought into focus; and these important lessons are available to us in Tolstoy’s writing.  

The Death of Ivan Ilych is a cautionary tale warning us not to end up like the obtuse friends and relatives the dying Ivan Ilych resented. Gathering to worship on Good Friday is an opportunity for us to stop running around pretending like death isn’t real. On Good Friday we refuse to gloss over God’s death, we refuse to jump ahead to the resurrection. Good Friday is a day to pause and look upon the cross not as a symbol of victory, but an instrument of torture and destruction upon which God was put to death. We remember loved ones who have died and even contemplate our own death. All of this leads us to two immutable truths, 1) we will die; and 2) God has experienced this also.

This day is called Good Friday because in admitting both that we will die and that God has died, we are brought to the truth that God has gone before us and will be with us in our death. God teaches us how to die and be present with those who are dying. When the time comes for our own death there will be some who refuse to acknowledge its truth. But God will be present with us in our pain, terror, and sadness because God has experienced this firsthand.

I remember the first time I contemplated death. I was around ten years old and was on vacation visiting family in Arizona. One morning I scooted to the backseat of my grandpa’s minivan in preparation for a day trip and out of the blue I had the thought, “One day I’ll be dead.” I imagined total darkness. No thoughts, no emotions, no other people, just nothingness. I was devastated not only on account of the sheer terror of contemplating mortality for the first time, but I was also devastated because I thought that as a Christian I was forbidden to have such thoughts and fears since I was going to be in heaven with Jesus forever. So, there I was on a family vacation through the desert and I was oscillating between horror and shame. 

It is a travesty that my religious upbringing overtly and covertly taught me that death is a shameful topic to wrestle with. At its best, religion uncovers the reality that exists under the layers of crap culture piles up around us. But at its worst, religion embraces the crap and makes people feel ashamed when they dare to question whether there is something even more true and beautiful underneath it all. Questioning and fearing death is one of the common threads that binds humanity together. We don’t need answers, rather, we need safe spaces where we can come together and ask the questions we’re too afraid to ask on our own.

Our culture does an incredible job of using every tool at its disposal to cover up the reality of death. Products are sold promising to make us live longer. Doctors are under significant pressure to offer treatment for terminal diseases even when such treatments compromise quality of life. Morticians literally use tools to cover up the reality of death by painting layers of makeup on dead bodies. And religious people of all stripes use the false certainty of religion to view death as a jumping-off point for eternal glorious life. This frees religious people to blow themselves up and kill others in order to enter heaven, or, just as damaging, go around either telling others (or just secretly thinking) that everyone who doesn’t believe like they do is bound for eternal damnation. Also just as damaging are those well-meaning platitudes of, “She’s in a better place” or “God just needed another angel” or other similar sentiments we employ which circumvent the grieving process and ignore the pain and grief that surrounds death.

Christianity, at its best, observes Good Friday and invites people to contemplate the reality of our own death as well as God’s death.

Brian Zahnd, in his excellent book Sinners in the Hands of a Loving God, writes, 

“Who is this tortured man, nailed to a tree, suffering a violent death? Incredibly, Christians say this is God! The crucified God. If we don’t find this scandalously shocking, we have grown far too familiar with the crucifixion of Jesus. The crucifixion of Good Friday isn’t an economic transaction; it is the torture and murder of God. This isn’t a business deal to balance the celestial books; it is a crime of cosmic proportions. Before the cross is anything else, it is a catastrophe. It is the murder of pure life and blameless love!” (Zahnd, 83).

When we look at the cross we see who God is. And who is God? God is dead. How shocking. How embarrassing. In Jesus’ death, the temple curtain is torn, revealing that the inner sanctum of the temple – the holy of holies – is completely empty. 

If Jesus had just kept his head down and played the role assigned to him by the powers and principalities, this fate could have been avoided. All Jesus had to do was give his blessing on the world’s power schemes, propensity towards violence, and distrust of the other. All Jesus had to do was avoid helping people who didn’t deserve to be helped. He could have let people starve and hung out with the powerful players rather than the undesirables and outcasts. Had he done that he could have lived a long life, and with the blessing of the religious and political powers of his day, perhaps he even cold have made some money and enjoyed himself. But Jesus chose the path that led to death. And he had the audacity to invite us on the same journey.

Our usual practice at Cross of Grace is to have you come up later in the service and place something on or near the cross. Often it is a sign of our sinfulness; something that we feel is separating us from God’s love and presence - something we trust is forgiven in some way by Jesus’ death on this cross. This evening, however, you have nothing to confess. Instead, you are invited to come to the cross and lament that God is dead. Bring your anger, fear, and disappointment. All sorts of promises were attributed to God; promises about justice, power over our enemies, health, and long life in a land of milk and honey; but God has not lived up to God’s end of the bargain. God could have snapped divine fingers and removed all pain, suffering, injustice and death from this world. But we look around and know that there is pain, suffering, injustice and death in this world that God does nothing about. And for such things we are bold to pray…

God who died,
The disparity among nations around the globe makes your promise of justice and equity ring hollow. The 12% of the world’s population that lives in North America and Western Europe accounts for 60 percent of private consumption spending. Meanwhile, other nations are being ravaged by civil war, famine, and genocide. Your privileged disciples are unsure how to affect change and secretly content with the imbalance. Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

God who died,
As much as we’d like to believe your Spirit guides the church and makes it holy, it is always in the hands of imperfect leaders whose insecurities and anxieties infect the systems. Most bishops and pastors are more concerned about pension plans than standing up against the destructive powers and principalities. Every year more and more people see the church as an obstacle to discipleship rather than an asset. Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

God who died,
You promise your presence and forgiveness in the sacraments of baptism and communion. But it doesn’t seem like baptism makes much of a difference in people’s lives. Sometimes we eat the bread and drink the wine of communion and you still feel as dead as you were on the cross. Are you really there? Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

God who died,
Everywhere we look we see division. The church is certainly no exception. Every week we pray for unity within the church and unity with other religions, but the gap only seems to increase. Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

God who died,
You are the creator of a universe whose immensity and sheer unknowability is frightening to think about. It makes us feel unimportant. Are we unimportant? Are you even aware that we exist? Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

God who died,
You are the divine physician and great healer. So why do some suffer horrendous deaths even while your name is on their lips? Do you choose to save some people and not others?  Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

God who died,
You are the champion of the poor and oppressed. That’s what got you killed. Your death exposed the empty threats of the powers and principalities; and yet they continue to reign today. Help us see them as mere illusions of power so that we are better able to serve those in need. Lord, in your mercy,
Hear our prayer.

Into your hands, O Lord, we commend all for whom we pray, even though we are not always sure you are listening. Amen.