Below is the sermon I preached for the Easter Vigil service. Text was John 20:1-18.Earlier this year, one of the musicians took it upon himself to teach me to project my voice. I don’t remember why this conversation came about, what prompted it. What I remember is standing in the entryway of the church with the musician, and him directing me to shout something. I shouted the first thing which came to mind, which was, oddly enough, “Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!” Then he stepped back, and instructed me to shout again. And again I shouted, “Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!” He kept walking backwards across the entryway, and I kept yelling. It was a Sunday morning in like November, right after the 10:45 service. Some of you may well have been there that day, may have heard me yelling. I felt more than a little ridiculous.
Our Gospel reading for this Easter evening starts not with shouting, but with darkness. This has been a theme throughout our Lenten journey, this movement from darkness into light. From Nicodemus coming to Jesus in darkness to the woman at the well at noon, from granting sight to the blind man to calling Lazarus from the darkness of the tomb, we have been moving from the darkness of not-knowing to the light of the knowledge of Jesus Christ. Yet here it is, Easter vigil, and we are in the dark again.
Mary came to the tomb in the inky blackness of the pre-dawn morning, the darkest part of the night. She came alone, like Nicodemus had come, but with very different intentions. Nicodemus came to talk, to question, to debate. Mary came to grieve. Then to her surprise, the stone was rolled away! She rushed to get Peter and John, and from here the story reads almost like a Scooby Doo cartoon. John the Beloved and Peter the ringleader, take off running to the tomb. John is faster, he gets there first, but Peter is more curious I suppose, or braver, he is the first to actually enter the tomb. They look around for a minute, access the situation, yep, the tomb is open, the body is gone, and then they leave. Just like that, they go home.
But Mary stays. Why isn’t clear. She’s weeping, she cannot yet see the good news, cannot yet see that He who once was dead, has risen indeed. The sun has not yet risen, she is still in the dark. But she stays. Angels appear, clothed in white, one at where Jesus’ head should have been, and one where his feet should have been. But so deep is the darkness of Mary’s grief that even the appearance of angels cannot shed light on the situation. Even with angels, Mary still cannot see.
And then comes the best part of the story. Mary hears or feels something behind her and turns around to see Jesus standing beside her. Only she doesn’t know it is Jesus, she thinks it is the gardener. This is a fitting mix-up I suppose, for our unexpected savior. The one who came first as a baby in a manager, then a barefoot prophet in backwoods Galilee. Who rode into Jerusalem not on warhorse, but on a humble donkey. The Messiah of inglorious origin, the king who died on a cross, finally comes in power and glory, risen from the dead and accompanied by angels, and is mistaken for the gardener. In the pre-dawn darkness, Mary still could not see clearly enough to recognize her Lord and Savior.
Then Jesus says her name, “Mary.” Just her name. And suddenly, her eyes are opened, the dawn light rushes into the darkness of the tomb, and she can see Jesus.
Where he was least expected, Jesus showed up. In the darkness of the night, in the sadness of the tomb, mistaken for the gardener, Jesus showed up. When the journey felt like it was over, and Mary could see no other ending, Jesus showed up to say that the journey was only beginning. What had looked like the end was not the end, what had looked like death was in fact new life.
In Florida there is a little fern that grows along the side of trees. It’s an air plant, which means it attaches itself to other plants and gets its nutrients from the air and water along the bark of its host tree. Living in the air as it does, it has no resources outside of what is immediately available to it. It cannot store its needs in soil or within itself like a succulent. During droughts, when water is not collected on its host plant, it curls up upon itself and dies.
Or at least, it appears dead. Because as soon as the plant gets water again a surprising thing occurs. The tiny little plant, twig-thin and no longer than my finger, uncurls itself. Like magic, deep green leaves appear along the sides. This tiny little plant can go months without water; it has even traveled on the space shuttle to be “resurrected” in space. The smallest amount of water rushes shoots of green in the midst of a dry forest, new life where there once was death.
Tonight we celebrated the baptisms of four members of our congregation. We celebrate the miracle that is Christ’s presence in this simple element of water poured over their heads. It’s just water in this font, water that came from the faucet in the sacristy, through a garden hose, to reach this barrel here. It’s just Syracuse city water, the same water we drink, wash dishes with, wash clothes with. But the miracle of baptism is that it is in something as simple as this water that Jesus Christ shows up. The one who came as an infant in a manger, came and died like a criminal on a cross, came and was mistaken for the gardener, comes in the simplicity of this water.
As we celebrate their baptism, we also remember tonight our own baptisms. We remember that as we come under these waters we die with Christ. We are buried with Christ so that we may come out of these waters alive in Christ. Resurrected into God’s family and free to live again as sisters and brothers of Christ. We remember that we have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. In the simplicity of water and Word, the risen Christ meets us and calls us his own. Baptism is not the end of our journey into God’s family, baptism is only the beginning. The future brings incredible highs and unspeakable lows. We will witness Christ’s glorious ascension; we will suffer in a jail cell with Paul. There will be days filled with laughter and joy, and periods where it is a struggle to even get out of bed in the morning. But the promise we have is that our unexpected Savior shows up in all those places. In the highs and in the lows, Jesus shows up. In nurseries and hospice nurses, the resurrected Christ shows up. In the waters of baptism and the prayers of commendation at the graveside, the resurrected Christ shows up. In promotions and pink slips, in hotels and hospitals, in churches and schools and street corners, the resurrected Christ shows up. Shows up where we least expect him, where it seems the least likely he would be, calls our name, and promises the journey is not yet over, in fact the journey is only beginning.
We have been journeying together throughout these forty days of Lent. Journeying together to the cross. Last night we reached what seemed like the end of our journey, last night we reached the tomb. We extinguished all the candles; we left in darkness and silence. But in the pre-dawn darkness of this night we too discover the miracle, the journey has not ended, it has in fact only just begun. The unexpected Jesus shows up tonight in our lives. Shows up in the simple elements of water and word, in bread and wine. Shows up when things are at their darkest, maybe looking a bit like the gardener, but shows up and points the way forward into the future.
In the darkness of death, the morning light rushes in to reveal an empty tomb. He who once was dead has been raised again! Go now and spread the good news! Alleluia, Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed, alleluia! Amen.
The summer before I left for seminary I played guitar for vacation bible school at my friend’s church. I remember sitting barefoot in the sticky church basement with a felt hat shaped like a crab on my head, beating out a rhythm for “Jesus’ Love is Bubblin’ Over” on the body of the guitar, thinking if this is what ministry is like, sign me up.
