Starting in Unlikely Places
John 20:1-18
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’s head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed, for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb, and she saw two angels in white sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not touch me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ ” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord,” and she told them that he had said these things to her.
Sermon
When was the last time you stargazed?
When was the last time you stood outside, or went camping, and turned your attention to that brilliant, beautiful, expansive universe beyond our planet?
It’s stunning: massive stars powered by the smallest of atoms; nebulas of cosmic dust; innumerable planets, choreographed in complex orbits. We peer beyond our finite existence, and into infinity.
Well as best we know, there’s a speed limit that operates throughout the universe: the speed of light. It’s observable and measurable, and it governs everything from GPS systems to fiber optic cables, somehow intertwining time and space with each other.
When we stargaze, thanks to that constant of nature, we stargaze into history. It takes light from our own sun eight minutes to arrive at earth, giving us a glimpse eight minutes into the sun’s past. The light that shines on us at this very moment did not instantaneously arrive here either; it’s a gift from eight minutes ago, when it emanated from the sun. When we look at the stars in each constellation, we are encountering light that left its source years, centuries, even millennia ago — light which has finally reached our planet after a long voyage through space, traveling as fast as the universe permits it.
This means that when we stargaze, we are never united with light and a universe from the present; we can be struck by the beauty and glory of a universe of the past.
Every time the church of Jesus Christ gathers, it encounters his resurrection and his risen life. We profess that it happened nearly two millennia ago, but the resurrection is not an artifact of the past. Like the celestial beauty of the stars we see at night, we directly encounter it in the present moment, despite it eminanting from millennia ago.
John Calvin, the father of our Presbyterian tradition, taught that salvation rests not in the contents of our heads, but in being united with Jesus Christ. Just as we are united in baptism with Jesus Christ, and just as we are united in death with Jesus Christ, we are surely united in resurrection with Jesus Christ.
And so, each and every Sunday, and especially today, we find ourselves being united with Jesus Christ. We are not merely remembering Jesus Christ, or remembering his resurrection; this morning, through liturgy, and scripture, and preaching, and the Sacrament, and our fellowship, we are encountering the resurrection in real and special ways. We don’t walk out of this sanctuary inspired by an old story; we walk out of this sanctuary changed and transformed and touched by the very resurrection of two millennia ago. The light it emanates is directly reaching us today.
No matter how much I try—or any preacher tries—there isn’t a way to rationalize, tidily summarize, or perfectly exposit the resurrection. Like the stars, we study and we seek to deepen our knowledge, but we must also encounter and be changed by it.
With that, let’s deepen our connection to this mystery of our faith. It starts in two unlikely places.
“Like the celestial beauty of the stars we see at night, we directly encounter the resurrection in the present moment, despite it emanating from millennia ago.”
We hear in John’s account that it begins with Mary Magdalene, who goes to Jesus’ tomb as soon as Shabbat ends. But when she arrives, she is distressed to find its entrance open, with Jesus’ body nowhere to be found. Urgently, she tells Simon Peter and Jesus’ beloved disciple, who race to the tomb.
The beloved disciple reaches the tomb, sees the empty linens, but doesn’t go in at first. It’s not clear why. Peter goes in, and finds himself even more uncertain: the cloth around Jesus’ head was rolled up by itself. These three disciples of Jesus respond dramatically different: Mary remains, beset by grief; Jesus’ beloved disciple hesitates, but believes in Jesus’ resurrection; and Simon Peter, despite entering the tomb, does not appear to believe at first.
The resurrection starts with uncertainty.
It begins with more questions than answers; and it begins with so much uncertainty, that each of its witnesses responds in dramatically different ways.
In encountering the resurrection, each of us encounters that same uncertainty which touched the disciples. We find this mystery lodged in not knowing, and in a picture which is anything but clear cut. Humanity responds in divergent ways to witnessing the resurrection; there is no singular, normative way to be its witness.
Simply put, we meet the risen Christ not in simple answers, flattened worldviews, sensationalist news cycles, or “us versus them” attitudes; to meet the risen Christ is to meet uncertainty. It is to meet apprehension. We meet the risen Christ in places and relationships that are uncomfortable, where not everyone acts the same ways or agrees on the same things.
There was a documentary produced in 2018 called Behind the Curve. The documentary examined the “Flat Earth” movement, particularly its growth online.
In the documentary, leaders of the “Flat Earth” movement privately funded two separate experiments. Their team planned two experiments without outside interference. It was their leaders, working on their dime, outlining the parameters and methodology of their own experiment.
Bob Knodel, a notable Flat Earther, performs one of these experiments involving a laser gyroscope. He says that if mainstream science were correct, there would be a fifteen-degree per hour drift. But that would be impossible, given that the earth is flat.
When he ran the test, he picked up precisely a 15-degree per hour drift.
He remained a staunch flat earther. Here’s what he said, looking back later after the experiment: "We said, ‘Wow, that's kind of a problem…’ We obviously were not willing to accept [the result], and so we started looking for ways to disprove it was actually registering the motion of the Earth."
Ironically, for Bob to accept such a clear-cut answer, he would have to accept uncertainty. What if his beliefs were wrong? What if the things he teaches others were false? What if his life’s work was fraudulent, and caused others to believe the same misinformation he accepted?
Those questions—great big, thorny questions—and the uncertainty that birthed precluded Bob from changing. He wasn’t willing to be changed for the better, because he was unwilling to face the uncertainty it would elicit.
The resurrection beckons us to uncertainty. To encounter the risen Christ and his resurrection, we must encounter uncertainty and questions and a faith that doesn’t always have the answers. Mary, Peter, Jesus’ beloved disciple — when they first encountered the resurrection, they didn’t have any answers. It started in that unlikely place: uncertainty. And by opening themselves up to that uncertainty—and trusting God with their uncertainty—they met the risen Christ.
“Simply put, we meet the risen Christ not in simple answers, flattened worldviews, sensationalist news cycles, or “us versus them” attitudes; to meet the risen Christ is to meet uncertainty. It is to meet apprehension.”
The resurrection began in another, second unlikely place: in the grief and tears of Mary.
In the resurrection of Jesus, Mary has a unique experience of the risen Christ. Peter and the beloved disciple miss it in their haste. We have to ask why Mary alone sees these angels, and why Mary alone is the one who greets the risen Christ.
We won’t ever fully know, but we can’t escape the significance of her weeping. She is the only one who lingers at the tomb. She offers nothing more than her tears; she does nothing more than grieve. It is precisely then, precisely from the depths of her grief, that she encounters the resurrected Christ.
We learn in this, that the depths of our grief witness not only to our love, but to the resurrection of Jesus Christ. “Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus says, “for they shall be comforted.” By coming face-to-face with our pain—and not denying or minimizing it—we come face-to-face with God.
In Western societies, we are becoming increasingly aware of the radicalization of young men. Men and boys who are in Gen Z and Gen Alpha are especially susceptible to the darker corners of our humanity, and increasingly vulnerable to radicalization online.
These men and boys occupy spaces online that are hateful, misogynistic, and bigoted against minorities and LGBTQ+ individuals.
An organization called Life After Hate is committed to the work of supporting individuals as they exit hate-based movements and extremism. They point out that individuals radicalize not because of hate, but because of their basic human needs.
Boys and men need to feel a sense of belonging. They need to feel a sense of identity and purpose. And the accessibility of radical online spaces, oriented around those needs in dark ways, provide easy, quick ways to find belonging and purpose.
Those dynamics are exacerbated when men’s emotions are invalidated, when we eliminate emotional learning, and when peer support for men is minimized or inaccessible. The disconnection from the inner life—and all its emotions—becomes a road to death.
If we encounter the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and we find ourselves changed today by the risen Christ, then we must find ourselves in close proximity to our emotions. We perceive the fullness of the resurrection in the fullness of our feelings: all of the joy and pain of our humanity. That is what brings us and others into new life. That is what brings these boys and young men into communities of life and hope, rather than shutting down emotions and the complexity of our humanity.
But Mary’s tears also offer a command. They command us to empathy, and to let go of the machismo which strangles our society. The risen Christ appears not to strongment, and the risen Christ doesn’t use ugly language. The risen Christ appears to those who are weak, vulnerable, grief-stricken, and who have searched their inner pain. There is hope only for the hopeless; not for those who bluster on with bravado and superficial facades of strength.
So this is the unlikely place where the resurrection starts, too: with the tears and grief of a sorrowful woman.
These two unlikely places—the tender inner life and the swell of uncertainty—are just the beginning. These are the womb of discipleship in which the risen Christ becomes present, appearing with angels and calling us by name. From that uncertainty and from that intimate, attuned inner life, the risen Christ offers a command: “Go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending!’”
This morning, as we are touched by the resurrection, and as we are united mystically with the risen Christ, we are commanded not to tarry at the empty tomb; we are called and beseeched to give it hands and feet and voices.
In meeting the risen Christ, we are left changed, and sent forward to proclaim the good news. Proclaiming the good news isn’t simply about evangelism; proclaiming the good news involves all of who we are.
“We perceive the fullness of the resurrection in the fullness of our feelings: all of the joy and pain of our humanity. That is what brings boys and young men into communities of life and hope, rather than [radical online spaces].”
We have four parts to our mission statement, and I think they illustrate the joy of that Easter proclamation.
We seek connections. When we don’t know where to begin, we follow Mary’s lead and find others who can help. We find partners like Peter and the beloved disciple, who have different perspectives and different ideas. When uncertainty feels overwhelming, we seek out connections who can help make sense of what God is doing in our midst.
We build community. Like Mary, we share our joy, grief, and everything in between with a community of faith. We join disciples of every kind in proclaiming the risen Christ. Through Manna House, Bread of Life, food drives, children’s ministry, youth trips, music ensembles, crafting, and on and on, we proclaim the risen Christ with one another each and every week.
We discover purpose. To proclaim the good news of the resurrection, we will find ourselves in uncertain waters. We discover purpose by following the example of Mary, who searched her feelings and made friends with her inner life. It was precisely then that she found God calling her to do something. We must pray, learn, contemplate, and worship. The risen Christ invites us to study the scripture together, to meet for evening vespers, and worship with people of all ages.
We proclaim the risen Christ through service. There is nowhere Christ will not go to bring hope and healing into all of creation, and we have the opportunity to lend a hand. Each of us can play a part in proclaiming the resurrection by feeding our neighbors, advocating for affordable housing, participating in civic life, and caring for the material needs of this world. Each of those has the chance to bring a little resurrection into the world, while proclaiming the hope of Christ’s resurrection.
Finally, no matter how we proclaim the risen Christ, we can’t forget to stargaze.
We worship together on Sundays, not because any single congregation has it figured out, or the best music, or the best preaching, or the largest programming. We worship to encounter that light of Christ, that though it emanated two millennia ago, continues to reach our perceptions.
We come to this sanctuary and this font and this table because we find ourselves changed by the One who was resurrected from the dead, who continues to live and reign and dwell with us. We come close to the Spirit, who mysteriously draws us into the company of heaven and presence of Christ every time we partake of the sacraments.
There is a constellation of hope, and love, and joy in this place. It won’t make us unshakably certain, or unmovable strong. But it will make us alive — united in Christ, starstruck by the God of resurrections.
Amen.
