Sermons
John 20: 1-18
Isaiah
Easter 2012
(C) barb m. janes
Picking Rocks
Early in the wee small hours, while it was still dark, she parked the half-ton in the yard, felt her way down the hall and into the bedroom she shared with her sisters, undressed more than a little tipsily, and fell into bed. Unlike many of her friends, her parents imposed no curfew. At least not at that end of the day. Soon enough, as the morning sun began to make its appearance, her father would be pounding on their bedroom door, rousting them up to pick rocks. Didn’t matter how big the party or how small the amount of sleep, everybody in the family had to turn up to pick rocks...walking the fields, hour after sweaty hour, picking rocks out of the field and tossing them in the stone boat while dad drove the tractor. It’s a staple of farm life, at least in this part of Manitoba, where the rocks work their way to the surface with annual regularity – which means, picking rocks is not a one-time job, but an annual one.
Early in the wee small hours, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb...Well, 10:30 Easter morning is hardly the wee small hours, hardly the literal dark...but most of us have come to church this morning like Mary Magdalene – we have come in the dark, and we have come expecting something. We’re not sure what, but we are expecting something. Some good news, some experience bursting with life, some flash of Ah-Ha! about this Jesus story we know and do not know, this Jesus story we understand and are mystified by.
On a recent sunny afternoon, i was sitting in my front porch reading when something kept catching my eye. It was something bright, shimmery, stop-and-start, and it seemed to be radiating from the bakery window kitty-corner to my house. i put down my book and paid closer attention, and there it came again...and i realized it was a reflection as the sun caught some strings of recording tape that are way up in the branches of a tree across the street from the bakery. i don’t know if it’s an old reel-to-reel or 8-track or even a super-8 home movie tape, but shreds of it have been hanging in the tree for some time, catching light and throwing it around. Who knows what is on that tape...maybe some amazing music, or a child’s first wobbly outing on a two-wheel bike. Whatever is on that tape, it seems to me, is like the Easter story that first was told one excited witness to another, then written down in Greek, then in Latin, then in Syriac, Slavic, Ethiopic, Armenian...then add on ages and ages, translations and the odd sloppy scribe, layers of tradition...In some ways, that’s the Easter story to us here and now in 21st century Winnipeg – it’s like that tape that contains some original story or song, something of life-changing beauty, but we just catch glimpses of, a lost story that shimmers beautifully in a reflection, a story we see through a glass darkly.
We come to Easter as Mary went to the tomb – in the dark, but hoping for something, expecting something, longing for something beautiful, something that will change our lives. Here’s the good news – that we rousted ourselves out of bed and into the shower and got dressed and got here is a good first step. Not that the church has the answers, and not that the preacher has the answer, but that, like Mary, early on the first day of the week, early on Sunday the first day, we came, even as we are in the dark. We came. Like Mary, we are on a pilgrimage. We are on the move.
The stories of the Bible are stories of people on the move. Adam and Eve move out of the garden, Noah and family embark on a sea voyage, Hagar and her son take an exile into the wilderness, Moses leads the Israelites on a 40-year extreme trek, Ruth leaves her own people to find a new identity in a new land, Jesus is born on a road trip and right after his birth, his family hot-foots it to another country as refugees. In his adult life, Jesus is always on the move, from town to town, into the desert, into Jerusalem, into a garden to pray, bumped around in a series of kangaroo courts, thrown in jail, and made to walk the Way of the Cross to his own execution.
The early Christians weren’t called “Christians” – they were given a name that reflects this pilgrimage, this movement – they were called People of the Way. And along that way, they picked rocks. While it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb. And when she got there, she saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. The stone had been moved. In another telling of the tale, in another gospel, the women who go to the tomb ask along the way, “Who will roll away the stone for us?” Part of our faith is expressed in the work of moving mountains, rolling stones, or at least picking rocks. We roll away the stones of crucifixion – the stones of racism and abuse and war, the stones of poverty and addiction, the stones of hunger and of waste. And, just like on the farm, these are rocks that resurface with depressing regularity, and must be picked – not once and for all – but over and over. No matter what we were doing last night, or how late we were out, we followers of Jesus still have to get up and pick rocks. Picking rocks is not a one-time event, but life work on our pilgrimage as people of the Way.
Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb, looking for Jesus – hang on to that – Mary comes looking for Jesus. He doesn’t come looking for her; she is looking for him. And us here this morning, we, too, came looking.
Mary comes looking. Mary comes looking not because she believes something, but because she be-loves some one. She comes not because she believes in the resurrection, nor because she believes Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary, fully human and fully divine, nor because she believes Jesus was the son of God. She comes because she loves. She comes not because she believes, but because she be-loves. We are here on just such a pilgrimage, here because we seek, here not necessarily because we believe centuries of creedal statements and dogmas, but because we be-love. We are here on a journey of love.
Such love. Last week, at Omand’s Creek, i was interrupted in a game of fetch with my dog by someone frantically searching for someone with a cell phone – a young woman at the other end of the park was having a massive seizure. By the time i got to her, a family had stopped to help. The mom had made a pillow of her jacket, and managed to roll the young woman onto her back in the mud. The woman who’d had the seizure was disoriented, not responsive, but the mom kept speaking to her, reassuring her. And then the young mom’s daughter, a little girl about two or three, squatted down beside the disoriented woman and with great seriousness and even greater love, offered the young muddy woman her most precious, precious thing to make her better. The little girl took her own bright hair barrette out of her hair and held it out to the woman lying in the mud. i don’t know if the woman who had the seizure was aware of that, or will remember it – but i hope so. It was such a gesture of tender love, the gift of the most beautiful thing the child could offer, to make someone better again.
Such is the love with which Mary came, looking for Jesus. Such is the love with which we come, looking for Jesus, looking for something Holy, looking for something purposeful and challenging to guide us on our own pilgrimages, to guide us on our Way. To believe is not to agree to a set of doctrines or dogmas, but to set our hearts on love, and to offer that love as generously as a small child offering her precious hair barrette – with purpose, with sacrifice, and most of all, with hope.
