Resurrection

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(from an interesting sermon website - http://www.revlowell.com)

Mary's Miracle

Easter Sunday 

Texts: 

Acts 10:34-43 or Isaiah 25:6-9 

Psalm 118:14-24 

1 Corinthians 15:1-11 or Acts 10:34-43 

John 20:1-18 or Mark 16:1-8


Theme: The resurrected Jesus greets Mary Magdalene and makes a claim
upon her life--as he does upon ours. 

Subject: grace, unexpected miracles


Our Great and Gracious God: we wait with eager ears to hear your truth
through the drama of the Easter story. Let us hear, let us be moved,
let us respond. Amen.

Something happened that day. Something so breathtaking, so
unbelievable, that the sighs of those who witnessed it echo and shudder
through twenty long centuries. Even we can hear it. On this holiest of
holy days, we listen in wonder to a story. A story that does not make
complete sense to us, but a story of such beauty and power that even
the most cynical and rational among us, still our breathing to hear.
And even the most believing among us, find our breath taken away.


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.


Why did she come? Why was she here? She came to attend to the
unfinished business of grief. Mary, remember, was one of Jesus' closest
friends, probably a wealthy patron of his ministry. Only she could have
afforded to buy the perfumed oils and ointments that were used in
biblical times to anoint the bodies of the dead. Mary came, her hands
heavy with spices and oils, her heart heavy with sorrow. 

She came to the tomb while it was still dark. It was still dark. Was
she restless? 

Couldn't sleep? Was she afraid to be seen performing loving rituals
for one who had been executed for blasphemy and high treason? 

She found the doorway gaping open. Something was wrong -- terribly
wrong. The expensive flasks of oil slipped from her limp hands and
shattered on the rocks. Without a word, she turned and ran to get Simon
Peter and the unnamed disciple whom Jesus loved. She wrenched them out
of sleep, crying, "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do
not know where they have laid him!" 

They reached the tomb, breathless, and Simon Peter crawled inside.
John tells us that "he saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the
cloth that had been on Jesus' head, not lying with the linen wrappings,
but rolled up in a place by itself." Why has John recorded such
careful detail about these burial wrappings? Did the shocking contract
of rumpled white cloth against empty gray stone sear forever in Peter's
memory this image -- to be told, and told, and told again, like a ghost
story? 

Or was John trying to tell us something about how Jesus left? That his
departure was not sudden or dramatic but rather, unhurried? Leisurely?
Plenty of time to roll up the linen wrappings and tidy up the place? 

Peter scrutinized the scene, but didn't get the point. The other
disciple took one look and understood everything. John tells us that he
believed. No wonder this disciple was so beloved by Jesus. No wonder
Peter so often disappointed Jesus. 

Peter and the disciple made their way back home. To bed? To tell the
others? We're not told. But Mary stayed behind. The disciples'
footsteps grew more distant and the stillness gathered around her.
Quietly, slowly, she fell to pieces. What has happened? 

What has happened? 

She walked over the tomb and bent over to look inside. At first, she
saw nothing -- darkness against darkness. But as her eyes began to
adjust, she could just make out two white shapes. Blinking her eyes,
she finally saw them -- two angels sitting where the body of Jesus had
been lying. 

The angels spoke. "Woman, why are you weeping?" 

All the exhaustion, the rage, and the ache, closed down over Mary, and
the words flowed out like a lonely, mournful wail -- "They have taken
my Lord away, and I don't know where they have laid him!" 

And for one breathless, excruciating heartbeat of a moment, they stood
there together in silence. 

"It's no use, no use," she thought. "He's gone." 

"It's no use," he thought. "She'll never know it's me." 

"Mary," he said. 

He called her by name. Just as he had done a thousand times before, he
called her by name. And something happened inside her. In the time it
takes to say one word, she suddenly saw things in a new and startling
way. All that she had ever heard about life and death and the ways of
God's love just fell into place with the shuddering sound of her own
name. "Mary," he said. And the word hung in the air between them,
shimmering in the twilight of dawn. And she knew in her heart. 

There are times in our lives when we stand, like Mary, suspended
somewhere between tears and laughter, somewhere between death and life.
Times when a person comes into our life like a gift, and speaks our
name, and calls us into hearing, into understanding, into living.
Times when we hear, in the calling of that name, a claim on our life.
And we know beyond all knowing that we have been in the presence of
Christ resurrected. 

Mary walked home that morning, just as the sun was breaking over the
Judean hills. 

Most of Jerusalem was still asleep. Only the sounds of animals
stirring, the crackle of breakfast fires, the echo of her quickening
footsteps. 

When she saw the house, she started running. She threw herself against
the door, and pounded with both fists, and called out, "Wake up! Wake
up!" 

They came to the door at once, and flung it open, and squinted out
with sleepy eyes. 

There was Mary, laughing like a madwoman, tears streaming down her
cheeks. 

"It's a miracle," she gasped. "My name is Mary! Mary! He called me 
Mary!" 

Something happened that day. Something so breathtaking, so
unbelievable, that the sighs of those who witnessed it echo and shudder
through twenty long centuries. Even we can hear it. 

Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia. 


- Elizabeth Chandler Felts
>


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Rex Deckard
http://www.venus.net/~rdeckard
rdeckard@venus.net
 
      "Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things that
matter 	least."  - Goethe