The Stone Has Been Rolled Away
Mark 16:1-8; 1 Corinthians 15:1-11
Easter Sunday, 2012
We got stones at our house this week. Let’s make sure you all heard that correctly: stoneS with an “s” not a “d”! We’re working on the garden, and building a rock wall.
We had a truck load of lovely rocks dumped in a large heap at the top of the driveway. Getting stones from here to there is a long and time-honored occupation, and, I gotta say, I was more than a little jealous of the dump truck. In fact, I had a grand conversation with the incredibly jolly truck driver who delivered our rocks from the garden center. He was the one who rolled away the stones for us.
And, of course, now that the stones have been rolled away from the garden center onto our driveway the work begins. Friends, that’s just the way it is with Easter.
The stone has been rolled away from in front of the tomb. This was not my doing. This was not your doing, but the stone has been rolled away.
That first Easter morning the stone was rolled away to reveal an empty tomb, to point toward a risen savior, to invite us into the reality of resurrection.
But, as the gospel reading from Mark so clearly suggests, the initial reaction to this great revelation is one that we still have not gotten over: complete and utter fear!
As Mark tells us, in the earliest account of the Easter story: “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to any one, for they were afraid.”
Of the four gospel accounts of that first Easter, I love most Mark’s abbreviated one that simply ends with the women who have witnessed the empty tomb returning to the fearful community, themselves too fearful to speak.
This open-ended story of the open tomb raises so many challenges and questions for us, and it provides no easy, simple answers.
Will we be like those women were at first?
In their fear it was as if they’d traded the bright light of living for the darkness of the tomb, itself. Will we make the same choice and, in our own fear, trade the bright light of living as followers of the risen Christ for the dark and fearful silence of the tomb?
So often we live as if we’re the ones in the tomb, as if we are bound in the dark behind a huge stone that we are powerless to move. When a neighbor needs our hands they remain bound to our sides. When the community needs the light that we could shed we stay back in the darkness. When the world needs our voice we remain silent as the grave.
But friends, the stone has been rolled away! This was not my doing. This was not your doing, but the stone has been rolled away! We can walk right out into the sunshine. We can … if we choose.
Mark’s gospel ends in this suspension. Jesus had come out of the tomb, and the rest was completely up in the air. Would the women come out and tell their story? Would the disciples come out, too, despite the risks? Yes, Easter is, perhaps first and foremost, a story of coming out.
As a community that has long been a place of both sanctuary and empowerment for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender persons of faith, this congregation has known a thing or two about coming out. We have known a thing or two about the courage it takes to claim one’s authentic identity, to speak one’s truth, to tell one’s story. We have known a thing or two about the fundamental importance of a community to listen with compassion, to bear one another’s burdens, and to stand up for one another even when such standing up is risky.
Through that shared experience we know a thing or two about feeling out of place and out of time. Maybe we understand a bit of what Paul was talking about in that letter to the Corinthians, because we know a thing or two about feeling unfit. Not to overstate it, but we know a thing or two about feeling persecuted. We also know a thing or two about fear and about silence, and about how fear and silence breed injustice and violence.
In the face of all that, we could – perhaps even reasonably so – choose to hole up in a safe, dark place and hide behind a stone wall of aggrieved and self-righteous anger.
You know, it’s kind of funny how that sometimes looks in real life. Sometimes we hide not so much behind stone walls as behind stained glass, and we decorate our safe places beautifully, and we share the safe places with like-minded friends, and we just stay put as if we cannot get out and, well, to be frank, we’d prefer not to come out. A heavy stone makes security a fine excuse for inaction.
But, whether we like it or not, the stone has been rolled away, and it’s not going back now.
You and I will live forever in the freedom of this miracle. That is God’s doing. What we choose to do with it is up to us.
Mark’s account of that first Easter ends, in what scholars believe is the original ending, with the women fleeing from the tomb in fear and, as the text says, saying nothing to anyone. But quite clearly at some point early on the first witnesses, the women at the tomb, overcame their fear, found their voices and told their story.
Jesus had come out of the tomb, and they came out, too, as his followers. They told their story first to Jesus’ disciples. Quite clearly that story-telling empowered them to share the good news with others, as well.
The story was a seed. They planted it, tended to it with care, and it grew and produced new seeds. They planted those and grew gardens of compassion that fed wider circles, that produced even more seeds, and that spread through the wind of the Holy Spirit across all kinds of borders and barriers.
Thousands of years on, here we are. We live in a land of incredible material wealth, but we still have hungry neighbors. Some, because we live also in a land of incredible inequality and economic injustice, suffer physical hunger. We are called to feed them. Many others, for all kinds of reasons, live with deep spiritual hunger. We are called to feed them, as well.
We cannot feed our neighbors if we stay safely behind stone walls.
Sisters and brothers, the stone has been rolled away. This is not my doing. This is not your doing. This is God’s doing. The question is: what are we doing in response? Amen.
Easter Sunday, 2012
We got stones at our house this week. Let’s make sure you all heard that correctly: stoneS with an “s” not a “d”! We’re working on the garden, and building a rock wall.
We had a truck load of lovely rocks dumped in a large heap at the top of the driveway. Getting stones from here to there is a long and time-honored occupation, and, I gotta say, I was more than a little jealous of the dump truck. In fact, I had a grand conversation with the incredibly jolly truck driver who delivered our rocks from the garden center. He was the one who rolled away the stones for us.
And, of course, now that the stones have been rolled away from the garden center onto our driveway the work begins. Friends, that’s just the way it is with Easter.
The stone has been rolled away from in front of the tomb. This was not my doing. This was not your doing, but the stone has been rolled away.
That first Easter morning the stone was rolled away to reveal an empty tomb, to point toward a risen savior, to invite us into the reality of resurrection.
But, as the gospel reading from Mark so clearly suggests, the initial reaction to this great revelation is one that we still have not gotten over: complete and utter fear!
As Mark tells us, in the earliest account of the Easter story: “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to any one, for they were afraid.”
Of the four gospel accounts of that first Easter, I love most Mark’s abbreviated one that simply ends with the women who have witnessed the empty tomb returning to the fearful community, themselves too fearful to speak.
This open-ended story of the open tomb raises so many challenges and questions for us, and it provides no easy, simple answers.
Will we be like those women were at first?
In their fear it was as if they’d traded the bright light of living for the darkness of the tomb, itself. Will we make the same choice and, in our own fear, trade the bright light of living as followers of the risen Christ for the dark and fearful silence of the tomb?
So often we live as if we’re the ones in the tomb, as if we are bound in the dark behind a huge stone that we are powerless to move. When a neighbor needs our hands they remain bound to our sides. When the community needs the light that we could shed we stay back in the darkness. When the world needs our voice we remain silent as the grave.
But friends, the stone has been rolled away! This was not my doing. This was not your doing, but the stone has been rolled away! We can walk right out into the sunshine. We can … if we choose.
Mark’s gospel ends in this suspension. Jesus had come out of the tomb, and the rest was completely up in the air. Would the women come out and tell their story? Would the disciples come out, too, despite the risks? Yes, Easter is, perhaps first and foremost, a story of coming out.
As a community that has long been a place of both sanctuary and empowerment for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender persons of faith, this congregation has known a thing or two about coming out. We have known a thing or two about the courage it takes to claim one’s authentic identity, to speak one’s truth, to tell one’s story. We have known a thing or two about the fundamental importance of a community to listen with compassion, to bear one another’s burdens, and to stand up for one another even when such standing up is risky.
Through that shared experience we know a thing or two about feeling out of place and out of time. Maybe we understand a bit of what Paul was talking about in that letter to the Corinthians, because we know a thing or two about feeling unfit. Not to overstate it, but we know a thing or two about feeling persecuted. We also know a thing or two about fear and about silence, and about how fear and silence breed injustice and violence.
In the face of all that, we could – perhaps even reasonably so – choose to hole up in a safe, dark place and hide behind a stone wall of aggrieved and self-righteous anger.
You know, it’s kind of funny how that sometimes looks in real life. Sometimes we hide not so much behind stone walls as behind stained glass, and we decorate our safe places beautifully, and we share the safe places with like-minded friends, and we just stay put as if we cannot get out and, well, to be frank, we’d prefer not to come out. A heavy stone makes security a fine excuse for inaction.
But, whether we like it or not, the stone has been rolled away, and it’s not going back now.
You and I will live forever in the freedom of this miracle. That is God’s doing. What we choose to do with it is up to us.
Mark’s account of that first Easter ends, in what scholars believe is the original ending, with the women fleeing from the tomb in fear and, as the text says, saying nothing to anyone. But quite clearly at some point early on the first witnesses, the women at the tomb, overcame their fear, found their voices and told their story.
Jesus had come out of the tomb, and they came out, too, as his followers. They told their story first to Jesus’ disciples. Quite clearly that story-telling empowered them to share the good news with others, as well.
The story was a seed. They planted it, tended to it with care, and it grew and produced new seeds. They planted those and grew gardens of compassion that fed wider circles, that produced even more seeds, and that spread through the wind of the Holy Spirit across all kinds of borders and barriers.
Thousands of years on, here we are. We live in a land of incredible material wealth, but we still have hungry neighbors. Some, because we live also in a land of incredible inequality and economic injustice, suffer physical hunger. We are called to feed them. Many others, for all kinds of reasons, live with deep spiritual hunger. We are called to feed them, as well.
We cannot feed our neighbors if we stay safely behind stone walls.
Sisters and brothers, the stone has been rolled away. This is not my doing. This is not your doing. This is God’s doing. The question is: what are we doing in response? Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
7:28 AM
<< Home