Easter Sunday
April 16, 2006
Mark 16:1-8
If I've had the conversation once, I've had it 100 times, “I think this Jesus guy was a good guy, but this post Easter Jesus, this rising from the dead, that takes things just too far.” We're suspicious of today's story, the empty tomb. But, that's all the story is. A guy died. He was put into a tomb. The body/the bones were never recovered. Maybe Roman soldiers took it. Maybe his followers hid it somewhere else. But, the body is gone. And, that's the beautiful part. It doesn't matter where the body has gone really. It doesn't matter the practicality of the body being gone. It's just as simple as, the body is gone. Because in our tradition we boldly proclaim that death is not the end of the story, because the body was gone. It's the ultimate cliffhanger. We have the tomb. All those women saw this was the place, they'd been there, they'd watched. And now, the tomb was empty. And, the body is gone.
A weird guy is there. He's wearing white, I'm pretty sure this is where the rule wear white after Easter until Labor Day came into play. It doesn't say, a guy was there, they emphasize a guy wearing white. Wearing white after Easter is important! And, this guy, he knows a little too much. The women, they don't know him. So immediately they are afraid. They are afraid because their whole world has just been decimated. They had this charismatic, prophetic leader who had just been executed by the religious and political leaders of the time. The men had all fled and were in hiding, fearing for their own torture and death. Who was this spy? What had he done with the body of Jesus? Why was he saying Jesus was in Galilee ? He was dead; they had seen it with their own eyes.
You must remember, that these stories were written down years and years after the death of Jesus. This story from the Gospel of Mark was written 60 years after the death of Jesus. I think this part of the story comes from the hindsight of believers, remembering the words of Jesus and experiencing their new life after his death. It's a bit like going to school, immersing ourselves in new ideas and concepts that we don't really quite grasp. Then, after graduation, and after time of living and working a bit, you realize these concepts are repeatedly washing over you giving them new life and meaning with each real life experience. It creates those ‘aha' moments of connection. Instead of being challenged and pushed and learning, finally you have time to remember, analyze, experience what these new things mean. I think this was the same for the followers of Jesus. They began to own the teachings for themselves. They began to search their souls for what they would do with this movement now. And once they put on the mantle of leadership for this movement, it was almost as if he were with them. It was almost as if they could still hear his voice and feel his presence. For me this is the story of the empty tomb and Christ. It is simply the story that God didn't stop things with brutality, violence, and death. But, instead, through the living word, through becoming the body of Christ we bring his presence, his teaching, his vision into our midst and we send his love, his peace, his challenge to the empire. We celebrate the empty tomb today that each time we find ourselves there, we can know our God has taught us over and over again that death is not the end of the story.
You know, I never met Jesus the man. He died so long ago I only know a few of the stories. And, my family didn't really do church so I've come into these stories through my own exploration. All I know in my head are the stories of him. But, in living my life there is something else that makes this story for me not just a fond tale. It is this experience of living presence that has changed my life. And, I think that's what these post Easter stories are all about. You see, this is when the story shifts from him to us. This is the part of the story that only we can tell. And, Easter is the time of year we are asked to share, why it is we believe that life doesn't end with death. This is why we have those special services during the year where we take turns telling our own stories. This is our challenge to know our story and to be able to tell it. For, we are the storytellers. We are the movement. I try really hard not to ask you to do things that I am not willing to do myself. So today, this Holy Sacred Easter day I'll share one of my testimonies in order to share why it is so important to me that the tomb was empty. This is the story of why I believe so passionately in this Jesus movement, in the empty tomb.
I've already been entombed 8 times in my life. I've been in that cold, dark, wet place surrounded by the darkness, nearly taken under. I have been in that place standing in between life and death able to feel myself living or dying at the same time. It is the ultimate threshold. You can see your body, you can feel release but mostly you realize when things become their ugliest in real time, that both choices are viable, acceptable options you can let go and leave this earthly living or you can return to your body and fight. The tomb is an entryway. No matter the evil that brings you into that place. No matter how you got there, it is only an entryway through which another living can begin.
My first tomb came early. I was only about 3 or 4. My parents were fighting. Our house was full of the punishment of words, arms, horsewhips, fists and feet. My parents were tumbling down the hallway toward their bedroom. My sister and I were screaming in tow, begging our father not to hurt our mom. My sister is only one year younger than I and she was hysterical with fear. My father had Mom in one hand and scooped us up with the other throwing us into our bedroom which was across the hall from theirs. We pulled at the doorknob he held it in his hand until we had given up. Once we gave up he let go of the door and continued abusing Mom. We crouched behind the door. Gretchen was on my lap, we were peeking through the crack between the door frame and the door sensing more was to come. But, something happened to me. All of a sudden I wasn't afraid. I was calm. My heart wasn't racing. I knew I was OK, from this feeling I was having. Then a voice came. One I immediately trusted. I knew it was OK to trust. “Get under the bed, put Gretchen under you.” I told her it was a game. And, we got under the bed, and she got under me. And sure enough, the door slammed open and Dad's arm came under the bed for us, but he just couldn't reach us. He just couldn't get to us. We were safe…I didn't know a story of God. I didn't know a story of Jesus. And yet, I am convinced that the love that flooded me and made me feel safe, the peace that took over me and gave me direction this was more than me knowing what to do at 4 in a crisis. I believe, this was the presence of the Christ who said, you will never be alone. It's not that we weren't harmed more in that moment…It's that no matter what could have happened, I knew, we were not alone and for that it would be OK.
I found another tomb at 19. My parents have been disappointed with me from birth. I wasn't a boy. I wasn't interested in cars, school or sports. I wasn't the brightest kid in the class. And, I had this zealous nature to side with the underdog which drove them nuts. I liked to share my feelings, I exuded emotion, I broke the family rules just by being. For these reasons we had a difficult relationship from the start. We did lots of amazing things as a family, but we also lived in a war zone behind closed doors. For these reasons, by 19 I had been thrown out of the family 6 times. Forbidden to come back, forbidden to speak to my sisters and the 6th time forbidden on any property they owned. But, each time I came back begging forgiveness, trying to teach them who I was and build a bridge. Each time it ended more violently until Spring Break my junior year of college. We had returned from a family vacation, my father had refused to go because I was going. He picked us up at the airport and drove all to where my car was parked, I had come from university, the rest had come from home. I got out of the car and he became enraged that I was ungrateful. Together they beat me, Mom and Dad. Mom had my hands and Dad was slamming my head against the side of the car, my sisters were watching. I was afraid. As I began seeing stars I realized I was beyond fear and actually terrified and began thinking that this was it, I was going to die. I could feel myself slipping into another place, leaving my body. And then, in a moment a voice said just open your eyes. I thought no, he'll see how afraid I am and kill me for sure. No the voice said, just open your eyes and it will be done. I opened my eyes and he immediately stopped, got in his car and drove off leaving my mother and I behind. In that moment something changed for me. I realized that this human family could not be fixed unless they chose to fix themselves. I realized that my life was worth living not surviving. And, I realized that at last, I was strong enough to let go of them as they had been asking and begin again on my own. And yet, something was dawning within me, this Presence, it wasn't just there in the tomb times, it was there. If this Presence could be with me, perhaps it meant I wasn't truly alone. Of course, I wasn't truly alone anyway, I had the church.
The next tomb came in coming out. But, it's not for the reasons you might think. I was incredibly relieved to be lesbian. All that high school dating, finally made sense to me, my discomfort, dis-ease. I at last felt like the puzzle of me made so much more sense! I was whole. I was meeting me for the first time. I loved being this whole person. And, I'd already lost my family, so that was no big deal. However, I had to go home and tell my church. I'd worked for them for two summers doing Pastoral Internships. I worked in the nursery all the way through teaching an adult Bible Study and every grade in between during my high school years. I preached for them regularly and in my second internship began an early service I was responsible for. I lived at the pastor's house the second summer after what I refer to as “the last beating” and acceptance of my estrangement from my birth family. This community of faith was more like family to me than my birth family ever felt. They wanted to know and accept me. They corrected me while still challenging me to grow. They saw my gifts and encouraged me to grow them. They were incredible to me. There were so many giants who invested time praying for me, challenging me, teaching me, loving me. They called me bubbles, sunshine and beamed with pride when I was up front. I had never been bathed in the light before, and they immersed me in light. They were growing a minister! It was a United Methodist Church . And, even though I knew I would have to leave the denomination, I really thought this community would still love me, because they knew me. I drove home to tell my pastor. He had suspected. It was a small town and he encouraged me to gather the elders together and tell them myself. He made it happen that afternoon. We sat around the kitchen table in the parsonage. And, right there they cast me out. They were terribly sorry that I had lost my way and would pray for my soul. They were done with me and deeply wounded that they had wasted their time. The pastor's wife, my chosen mom, hasn't forgiven me to this day. They even sent the District Superintendent which would be our version of an Association Minister to come to see me at school. I adored him. He was also grooming me for the ministry. We had met at youth events, camp, conference events, he preached a couple of times at the church I attended in university and always shared kind things about me to the congregation. I was living in the campus ministry house at the time and he came to tell me, right there in the middle of the living room, that I needed to keep this choice a secret and that I needed to lie about it if anyone asked. I thought I had surrounded myself with giants. I thought I had chosen a better second family than first. And, my giants were falling all around me. I lost them all by telling my truth.
Easter came after this. I was house-sitting for a couple from my church where I was attending and working that year. It was going to be my first holiday alone. I went to Good Friday service. We were called to the front for communion. In that church each pew was called forward and we'd kneel together as a row, be served the bread and cup. We'd pray a bit and then stand up and go back to our pew. But this time, when I knelt down, I began to sob. And, I don't mean cry, I mean out and out, full on, snotty nose, uncontrollable sobbing. I was so embarrassed, but I couldn't stop myself. All of that pain came pouring out of me. People were coming and going all around me and I couldn't get up. It was against the “rules”, but I couldn't get up. Finally, the pastor came and laid hands on me. He prayed over me which eased the sobbing into just plain crying. I was able to catch my breath long enough to stand and walk back to my pew. I felt in that moment that I was in the ejector ad. You should have seen how people were looking at me for losing it during church! For disrespecting communion by falling apart, and I thought I was going to be a minister. A couple of the grandmas came to hug me after church as I stayed rooted to my pew still crying. But, I went back to that house, alone. No one called. No one stopped by. No one checked on me. Not Friday, not Saturday, not Easter Sunday. I was alone. I had lost my family, lost my church, and yet, in spite of the humans really thinning out in my life, there was this presence. This presence that kept saying, even at the rail, this is only the beginning Briget. You are not alone, I am with you. And, this too shall pass and you will be stronger, more grounded, and I will not, not ever, leave you. And, I could feel that. I could feel that presence just filling me up to the brim, clinging to me. It didn't make the hurt or loneliness go away. It only made it more bearable and it gave me the sense that eventually, I would find a new way to live again.
This Christ story. This story that says, Jesus can not be wiped away for his presence can not be taken away by anyone. Not even by death. It's what drives me. This Christ is what pulled these stories out of my brain and implanted them in my every day experience. This is why I must participate in this movement. I no longer want giants. I want people who are just who God's created them to be. Glad to see one another. Glad to raise their children and tell them no matter who you are or where you go, we will love you, because God loves you. To build a community based on forgiveness, acceptance and hope. I do this work, I live this life that we might create a sanctuary for uncontrollable sobbing. For children, youth and young adults that have no place to go. For the opportunity to tell people we love them, learn their truth and continue to love them. I love you so much. I love being called here as your pastor because for me you are the resurrection and the hope. For me, what we are attempting to do here is the resurrection of the embodiment of family, of community, of hope. Hallelujah! The tomb is empty, the body is gone and this means the story does not end with death, but life. The life of each of us working in this Jesus movement keeping the message embodied and alive! God is still speaking! I can't wait to see where Christ will show up next.