Mark 16:1-6
When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.
As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right 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, there is the place they laid him.”
Each of the four Gospels tells an Easter story. Some are longer, some are shorter. It’s all the same information, but each gospel writer puts it together a little differently. This one Is from Mark’s gospel, and it’s one of my favorite versions. It paints such a vivid word-picture for me.
It is “very early” when the sun is just beginning to rise and the darkness hasn’t entirely relinquished its hold on the world. Can you picture that? I am not an early morning person by nature, so I have to admit that I don’t willingly witness a whole lot of sunrises, but occasionally life gives me a reason to be up and about in that not-quite-dark, not-quite-light time, and I am always mesmerized by the feeling of being caught between two worlds – that liminal space which is neither night nor day.
And here, in this liminal light, the women come. They are here for their, surely, unpleasant task of cleansing and preparing Jesus’ broken body for proper burial. They are doing it for love of him, of course, and also because this seems to be what women do, but still, it couldn’t have been pleasant for them. But even with all that, they are caught up in the purely human worry as to how they’re going to get into the tomb, closed, as it is, by a massive stone.
It is such clear picture for me. I can almost feel as if I am there, witnessing it.
This is not the reading for Easter morning, by the way. It is the reading for the Easter Vigil, that traditional liturgy that begins at midnight on Holy Saturday and, in the oldest versions, at least, continues through the dark hours until dawn ushers in Easter morning. I can remember midnight masses from my childhood. They would begin in darkness (because Jesus was still in the tomb) at a little before midnight, with the formal procession of the cross into the darkened church, accompanied by chants and a capella hymns. I sang in the choir, so my memories are always viewed from above and behind, since the choir loft was at the back of the church and over everything — we always had the best view in the house.
There was this sense of waiting, and then, at the stroke of midnight, the organ would blast out, the choir would sing, the bells would ring, and every candle in the church would be lit. You could feel the difference between the dark and waiting of Lent and the glory of Easter – it was an entirely visceral feeling in your bones and blood. That “feel” has always mattered to me — has always mattered -- that something momentous has happened — something has changed in the very fabric of the world. Changed from the inside out.
In an interview published last winter, late-night host Stephen Colbert recalled a conversation he had with then-presidential candidate Joe Biden where at one point they were discussing death and loss. At this point, Colbert made a statement that struck me as one of the most cogent statements on Easter I had ever heard. He said, "The message of Christ isn't that you can't kill me. The message of Christ is you can kill me and that's not death." *
And, that, I believe, is exactly what Easter is about. That is what has happened. Jesus died. He was taken by the powers around him and killed but he is not dead. He lives! He lives and will always live in us! There was death – and now there is life. Death failed to have the final word.
The world has changed. And because the world has changed, we have been changed. Forever. Our dreams, our hopes, our very fears – all changed, because one man who walked among us, one soul we never really understood at the time -- that one died and rose again to live again, in and with us.
Christ is Risen, Alleluia! He is Risen, indeed, Alleluia! Alleluia!
It is “very early” when the sun is just beginning to rise and the darkness hasn’t entirely relinquished its hold on the world. Can you picture that? I am not an early morning person by nature, so I have to admit that I don’t willingly witness a whole lot of sunrises, but occasionally life gives me a reason to be up and about in that not-quite-dark, not-quite-light time, and I am always mesmerized by the feeling of being caught between two worlds – that liminal space which is neither night nor day.
And here, in this liminal light, the women come. They are here for their, surely, unpleasant task of cleansing and preparing Jesus’ broken body for proper burial. They are doing it for love of him, of course, and also because this seems to be what women do, but still, it couldn’t have been pleasant for them. But even with all that, they are caught up in the purely human worry as to how they’re going to get into the tomb, closed, as it is, by a massive stone.
It is such clear picture for me. I can almost feel as if I am there, witnessing it.
This is not the reading for Easter morning, by the way. It is the reading for the Easter Vigil, that traditional liturgy that begins at midnight on Holy Saturday and, in the oldest versions, at least, continues through the dark hours until dawn ushers in Easter morning. I can remember midnight masses from my childhood. They would begin in darkness (because Jesus was still in the tomb) at a little before midnight, with the formal procession of the cross into the darkened church, accompanied by chants and a capella hymns. I sang in the choir, so my memories are always viewed from above and behind, since the choir loft was at the back of the church and over everything — we always had the best view in the house.
There was this sense of waiting, and then, at the stroke of midnight, the organ would blast out, the choir would sing, the bells would ring, and every candle in the church would be lit. You could feel the difference between the dark and waiting of Lent and the glory of Easter – it was an entirely visceral feeling in your bones and blood. That “feel” has always mattered to me — has always mattered -- that something momentous has happened — something has changed in the very fabric of the world. Changed from the inside out.
In an interview published last winter, late-night host Stephen Colbert recalled a conversation he had with then-presidential candidate Joe Biden where at one point they were discussing death and loss. At this point, Colbert made a statement that struck me as one of the most cogent statements on Easter I had ever heard. He said, "The message of Christ isn't that you can't kill me. The message of Christ is you can kill me and that's not death." *
And, that, I believe, is exactly what Easter is about. That is what has happened. Jesus died. He was taken by the powers around him and killed but he is not dead. He lives! He lives and will always live in us! There was death – and now there is life. Death failed to have the final word.
The world has changed. And because the world has changed, we have been changed. Forever. Our dreams, our hopes, our very fears – all changed, because one man who walked among us, one soul we never really understood at the time -- that one died and rose again to live again, in and with us.
Christ is Risen, Alleluia! He is Risen, indeed, Alleluia! Alleluia!
*Joe Hogan, "In Colbert We Trust," Vanity Fair, holiday issue 2020/2021
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