Joel D. Kline
April 11, 2004
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
Easter Sunday
In Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town, Emily, recently deceased while giving birth to her second child, wishes to go back to a happy time in her life, and chooses the day of her twelfth birthday. Others among the dead warn her that such a return will be painful, but Emily remains adamant. Yet once she is back among the living, Emily quickly notices how we become so caught up in daily tasks that we little see one another. To her mother, busily preparing the morning breakfast, Emily urgently cries out,
Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. I married George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too. Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it—don’t you remember? But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. Let’s look at one another.
But Emily’s mother continues on, speaking of Emily’s birthday gifts and the events of the day. Finally Emily laments, “I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another.” And then she confesses, “I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back—up the hill—to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look.” And trying to take it all in, Emily says,
Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corner … Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking … and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths … and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
Through her tears Emily abruptly questions the stage manager, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?” “No,” the stage manager responds, and then adds, “The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.”
I found myself thinking of that scene from Our Town when pondering the account of the resurrection story from John’s Gospel, particularly the poignant scene in which the grieving Mary Magdalene encounters one whom she assumes to be the gardener. This gardener questions her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Seeing—but not really seeing the man—Mary responds, “Sir, if you have carried [the body of Jesus] away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”
Perhaps Mary is preoccupied; perhaps it is her grief that keeps her from truly looking at the one with whom she is speaking. But when Jesus calls Mary by name, things begin to change markedly. Apparently all it takes for Mary to open her eyes—and her heart—to the One to whom she is speaking, and to the wonder of life on this earth, is to hear Jesus tenderly speak her name, “Mary!” With the hearing of her name comes the realization that something astounding has occurred. One has the sense that life for Mary will never again be the same, that Mary is becoming one who, with the saints and the poets, really experiences life as gift.
But before Mary can begin to come to terms with this incredible resurrection event, Jesus utters some seemingly odd words of caution. “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.” These words are particularly strange, considering that we have no evidence that Mary was even attempting to hold Jesus in any physical or tangible way. In a sermon based on this text from John 20, Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor considers that what Mary is holding on to are past understandings of Jesus.
“Don’t cling to me,” The Message paraphrases this caution of Jesus. Could it be that Mary is wanting to cling to past experiences, to incomplete understandings of who Jesus is and what the ministry of Jesus is all about? When Mary responds to Jesus, “Rabbouni!” my Teacher!” is she not hoping beyond hope that things will now return to “normal”—to the way they were, before all the confusion and uncertainty and pain and grief surrounding the events of Jesus’ betrayal and crucifixion? Is not Mary hoping that now they might return to the old life where things were familiar, not frightening—that somehow the impossible has happened, that history has been reversed, that it had been only a nightmare and the crucifixion had not really occurred at all?
But it has, and Mary and the others will have to come to terms with the unexpected, with something incredibly new. They will have to choose to see as they’ve never seen before. The choice confronting them is one of living in the light of God’s promise—a promise of transformation, of lives reconciled to God, of lives made right with God and the world around them. Peter Gomes, pastor of Memorial Church at Harvard University, reminds us that “the resurrection is God’s way of getting our attention. It is God’s way of getting us to look, to listen, and to live…. There is nothing subtle about Easter, nothing vague or ambiguous or vain or clever or cute about it at all.” With the resurrection, God is beginning an epochal new relationship. “Easter is not a morning for artful arguments, subtle distinctions, the stuff of seminars. Not a bit; it does not creep up on us like little cat feet, or like the fog. Easter is confrontational; you are hit in the face by it. Confrontation of the highest order.”
Surely that was true for Mary and the others who encountered the risen Christ that first Easter Sunday, for they found themselves confronted with that which did not easily fit into their scheme of things. They discovered that Jesus is not on his way back to Mary and to the others; to the contrary, Jesus is on his way to God. And as the first believers, Mary and the others are invited to join with him in discovering the nature of this life into which Jesus is eager to usher all humanity, all creation—life with God.
Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, reminds us that
This means we cannot have Jesus just on our own terms. After the resurrection, with its demonstration that Jesus’ life is as indestructible as God’s life, we can’t simply go back to the Jesus who is humanly familiar; and—obviously—we can’t have Jesus simply as a warm memory, a dear departed whose grave we can visit. Jesus is alive and ahead of us. Christian faith does not just look back to a great teacher and example but forward to where Jesus leads, to that ultimate being-at-home with God that Jesus has brought to life in the history of our world.
So: “Do not cling to me,” Jesus says to Mary and to us; instead, go and bring others along on the journey. Easter always forces us to ask where and how we might want to cling, where and how we might turn away from the task and the journey.
During the weeks of Lent leading up to Easter we have been exploring the theme, “Journey to Jerusalem”—reflecting not only upon Jesus setting his face to go to the city, but on our own call to deny self, take up a cross, and follow in the footsteps of Jesus. One might assume that we are now finished with the journey theme. But, truth is, Easter opens a whole new aspect to the journey of faith—this wondrous promise that the God who has taken the initiative to reconcile the world with God, now calls us to become, in the words of the apostle Paul, “ambassadors for Christ,” partners in this ministry of reconciliation, healing, and hope (2 Corinthians 5:20). Our calling is to live in such a way that others are invited—and drawn—to consider life in God’s realm, a life of compassion and justice, of peace and right living, of servanthood and self-giving love.
There are some who seem convinced that the faithful response to the resurrection of Jesus is an attempt to “prove” to others its truth. But resurrection is not something that can be rationally proven. Indeed, its power is that it is not limited by the rational, by the expected, by that which is easily understood. Mary Magdalene was not convinced of the resurrection of Jesus by rational argument, but by the hearing of the compassionate voice of Jesus. Her response to the incredible events was to become the first witness of the resurrection, announcing to her fellow disciples, “I have seen the Lord” (John 20:18). And countless others through the centuries have made a similar affirmation, living their lives in a way that points beyond themselves to the goodness of God.
The story is told of Albert Schweitzer being asked why he would give up a prestigious academic career in Europe to spend his life as a missionary doctor in the jungles of Africa. His response? “I decided I would make my life my argument.” And because of Schweitzer’s example and witness and life, scores of others were led to adopt a similar ministry of compassion and peace.
United Methodist pastor Donald Shelby, in a book entitled Bold Expectations of the Gospel, tells a story from the days when East Germany lived under an oppressive regime. A young man deeply involved in the life of a church community was seized by the Communist authorities, and never returned. Sometime later, another young man, well known as a hardened leader in the Communist-organized youth movement, began attending youth meetings and worship services at the same church. The congregation’s suspicions were aroused, and the pastor took the fellow aside and asked why he was coming. The young man replied by asking, “You know the fellow from your church who was seized and taken away?”
“Of course,” responded the pastor. “I knew him well, but we have not heard from him since.”
“Well,” said the visitor, “I saw him when he was being harassed and tortured. Not only did he refuse to betray his friends, but through it all he never showed any bitterness toward his tormentors. Even in the hour of death, there was no anger towards those who were about to kill him. Instead, he spoke of Jesus Christ, forgiveness, and God’s love.” The young man concluded, “And when I saw him die, I knew I must come, in spite of what it will cost me, to learn of his Christ and the love for our enemies that strengthened him in his last hours.”
Mary Magdalene, Albert Schweitzer, the young East German—these are examples of persons who have discovered that faith is not something we clutch, not something we hold firmly to ourselves. Rather, faith is something to be lived and to be shared. The resurrection story challenges us to see life differently, to open our eyes—and our hearts—afresh to God, to one another, to the gift of life, to all creation. Even now, our task is not to cling tightly to Jesus, but rather, to allow Jesus to hold us, to heal and forgive us, to renew and empower us, to make us fit for lives of service.
Sisters and brothers, are we willing to let the risen Christ hold us, leading and guiding us into new opportunities for service, new ways of experiencing the life that really is life?
Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia! Amen.
O God who sees far more than we can imagine, O God who is able to fashion life out of death, hope out of despair, faith out of fear, and resurrection out of darkness and grief, how grateful we are for who you are!
We thanks you, God, for those surprises of grace that catch us off guard—the flutter of hope in the stillness, the unexpected concern of a stranger, the encouragement that comes with a promise honored, the emergence of beauty out of chaos, the clarified direction following a time of uncertainty, light in the midst of dark nights. For these holy moments, and more, we give you thanks, gracious God. Particularly on this Easter morning we remember the passion story—the determination of Jesus as he set his face to go to Jerusalem, the fearless entry into the city and confrontation with those who would limit God’s grace and mercy, a betrayal with a kiss, the agony of the crucifixion with Jesus pouring out life and love for the sake of all humankind, and the unexpected resurrection message.
O God who brings healing and purpose and new life into our hearts, who strengthens us to take the risk of faith, touch us anew with resurrection power. Teach us to embrace those things that make for peace, to live and proclaim the good news that you are indeed a God able to set people free.
Hear us now, holy God, as we lift into your gracious arms those in special need of your healing mercies. We pray for… May your light and love surround and uphold each who is in need.
God of all creation, hear also our prayers for peace in our broken and war-torn world. Grant us courage to risk something big for something right, challenging all that separates humans from one another and all that keeps us from living out our calling as your beloved daughters and sons.
Grant us power and passion to press on in faith, embracing all that would enlarge life, as we share your good gifts, O God, with all our brothers and sisters. Multiply faith among us this day, Lord God, so that your realm of peace and justice and life might fully come, here and now, even as it is in heaven. We pray in the name and spirit of the risen Christ. Amen.