A Very Different Easter Preached on Saturday April 11th, 2020 At Quincy Point Congregational Church United Church of Christ for Virtual Easter Worship Scripture: John 20:1-18 It began just a few weeks ago, as I met with Rev. Kim and other pastors to plan our various Holy Week and Easter services. We were hoping to hold our traditional ecumenical Good Friday service, expanding the circle of past years to include several more congregations. And, of course, I had hoped to join with the Quincy Point congregation for the Easter sunrise service on the beach, a tradition that began just last year. But as Lent progressed, it became clear that we would need to practice physical distancing in the face of the coronavirus pandemic. The clergy reflected together, it is going to be a very different Easter this year. Not a usual Easter at all. And so I began to wonder: what do we expect for a usual kind of Easter anyway? And where do these expectations come from? I know that my Easter expectations come from rose-colored memories of childhood. In my mind’s eye, our small Methodist chapel is resplendent with daffodils and tulips, and filled to bursting with people. The joyful Easter hymn “Jesus Christ is Risen Today, Alleluia!” resounds from the organ, and the congregation sings with gusto. In those memories, at least, we spill out at the end of worship into a perfect English spring morning. Not everyone has the same memories, of course. I have noticed, in the weeks leading up to Easter at Wollaston, we’ll receive very specific requests for memorial flowers. Brightly colored tulips, please. Or traditional Easter lilies, please. The ladies who prepare the sanctuary get busy, arranging things as they ought to be. Most weeks I pull out a portable lectern, which is right-sized for our intimate services. But on Easter I go up to the high pulpit and get settled for festival worship. Only, of course it is never the usual Easter. There are always losses and tragedies that tinge our joy. The week before my first Easter at Wollaston one of our beloved older members died. We laid her body to rest on Holy Saturday and I know many congregants were swallowing tears as we proclaimed “Christ is risen, risen indeed” that Easter day. It seems that there is always tragedy around Eastertime both in the United States and overseas. Just last year there was the horrific mass shooting on a mosque in Christ Church New Zealand during Lent, and terror attacks in churches and hotels in Sri Lanka on Easter. In 2018 the tragic shooting on the Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida on Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday cast sadness over the entire Lenten season and beyond. There have been many Easters when things have just not been right, throughout the culture and around the world. During World War II in Britain, church bells were silenced other than to warn people of an invasion or air raid. Congregations were surely grieving or fearing for loved ones fighting in Europe as they proclaimed “Christ is risen, risen indeed, Alleluia!” with trembling voices. It must have been, as the song says, a cold and broken Alleluia. Now, on Easter 2020, the world is in the grip of a terrifying pandemic. We are advised or instructed to remain at home. We are not to venture out even for Easter services. And this is not a usual kind of Easter at all … and it is the same all over the world. Today we read from John’s gospel and heard how Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early in the morning, that first day after the Sabbath. You might say that the first Easter, the day of resurrection, looks nothing like a usual Easter. The terrified disciples had departed the scene of the crucifixion on Friday. Jesus’ body has been cared for by wealthy secret disciples: Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. The tomb had been sealed with a heavy stone. Since then, the disciples have been on self-imposed lockdown, fearing the temple authorities who handed Jesus over to be crucified. That morning, Mary summons the courage to go to the garden alone, while it is still dark. We can only assume that she goes there to be close to Jesus’ body and to grieve. But in the dim light of pre-dawn she realizes that the stone has been rolled away from the tomb. Jesus’ body is gone! She moves from grieving to despair: there is no body for her to tend and hold. When she meets Peter and the other disciple she cries out “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb and we do not know where they have laid him!” The two men run off to tell the others, and Mary is left alone again in the garden. She stands weeping. Then she steels herself to look into the tomb, to see two angels in there. They ask “Woman, why are you weeping?” And she repeats “they have taken away my Lord and I do not know where they have laid him.” Then she turns and discovers that there is another man behind her, perhaps a gardener. This man repeats the angels’ question: “Woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?” She begs him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, please tell me where you have laid him.” “Mary!” … the moment he says her name she knows who he is. He has come to her in a different guise, but this is her Lord and teacher. It is Jesus. “Rabbouni” she responds, moving toward him to hold him. And yet, he cautions her “do not hold onto me.” Instead he sends her away to tell the disciples the good news, she has seen the Lord. This first Easter, there are not flowers, or trumpets, or hymns proclaiming “Jesus Christ is Risen Today!” There are frightened disciples. Mary tells the disciples the news with a trembling voice … “I have seen the Lord!” And even as they hear Mary’s news, they return to the room. They remain locked in. They shelter in place, still afraid. That was what the “good news” of the resurrection looks like for Mary Magdalene and the others. It is a glimmer of hope in a scary world. Something to hold onto, to ease their despair. Until days later, and then days later after that, when Jesus appears to them briefly and mysteriously again and again. He reminds them of his words and his teachings. He breathes the Holy Spirit on them and leaves them with his peace. He sends them out, as the Father sent him. This is the way he will be with them, even when he is gone from them. My friends, this Easter, Easter 2020, there are grieving spouses, sweet hearts, children and grandchildren, siblings, nieces, nephews and parents. They do not have their loved ones’ bodies to tend and hold. The old and the young, the high risk and the seemingly healthy, are dying in locked-down hospitals and nursing homes. All healthcare providers are called to action. Many of them are close to despair as they try to tend to so many failing bodies. And we, we who would love to hug and comfort one another in these times, cannot even do that. Like Mary, we cannot hold on to our teachers, our family members, our neighbors or our friends. This is grief, and it is despair. Over these past weeks, I have been reading daily dispatches from Spain written by Mary Luti. Mary was a professor at the Andover Newton Theological School when I attended. And now that she and her spouse, Anne, are retired they take regular trips to Spain. They stay in an apartment and live like the locals for several weeks at a time. Mary and Anne were in Seville when travel restrictions were imposed and they decided to stay there until it is safe to return home. The Spanish government has imposed a strict lockdown, which is monitored by the police. Mary has been writing daily posts for her Facebook followers and friends. She describes the view from their balcony and how strange it is to see the streets of Seville empty. Usually they would be filled with the elaborate and beloved Holy Week processions and throngs of onlookers. Mary and Anne see their neighbors when they all step out onto their balconies each night at 8 pm to cheer and applaud the healthcare providers. This past Monday, Mary posted Spanish Lockdown Report #24. She reported that the stringent measures were beginning to show signs of results. There were fewer people in the Spanish ICUs and there had been a large reduction in the number of deaths. The weather was poor on Monday, she says, and the lockdown was beginning to wear thin. The fact that Holy Week would not be as usual was sinking in. A news anchor had noted that his neighbors were grumpy that day. And so he gave the citizens a pep talk on the nightly news: “A crappy Monday... Yes, it was. And it’s okay not to be happy about it. These days, when nothing is normal, it feels good to act normal and complain about the things we always complain about, like the weather and the noisy neighbor downstairs and the politicians running the government … "Yes, it was a bad Monday, but it was better than the Monday before, so much better, in fact it was a wonderful Monday. And if you are one of the lucky ones who will see many more Mondays in your life, keep staying home, keep being patient and brave, and keep blessing the day, every day, whether it’s cloudy or clear, whether it’s rain or shine.” Yes, we might add. This is a crappy Easter. And it’s OK not to be happy about it. And yet, we, like Mary Magdalene, have a hint of hope. We have seen the resurrection, even if we cannot hold onto it in this moment. This year it looks like hope in Spain, as the numbers seem to turn the corner, and maybe even trend downward. Hope looks like ICU beds opening up, and the death rate decreasing. Many of us here today are fortunate enough to have a hope of seeing the other side of this crisis. And so we keep staying home, keep being patient and brave. We keep blessing the day. Every day, whether it’s cloudy or clear, whether it’s rain or shine. Even Easter day, even when it just isn’t a usual kind of Easter at all. And so with trembling voices we proclaim “Christ is risen, risen indeed, Alleluia!” It may be a broken Alleluia, but it is still Alleluia. May all God’s people say, Amen
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