Alive, Again

Sermon

A few weeks ago I read an article* entitled, “How to Feel Alive Again.” It caught my eye because it was the end of February when we are thick in our gray, drippy winter, and because I had been thinking about COVID still casting its shadow over us, and I was considering that maybe the world needs to feel alive because I was hoping to feel alive again, after winter, after pandemic, after everything.

You know how that is, when you feel a little dead inside, when all the colors look faded, and all the food tastes bland, and all the sitcoms seem silly and predictable. So many things can lead us down to the path of deadness—grief is at the top of the list for me, and maybe for you, too; disappointment, injustice, betrayal. We feel a little dead inside because life can be so hard and so unfair, and we find ourselves in a metaphorical wilderness, a place of too many unknowns, a place where danger might lurk behind the rocks and in the whispers of the breeze.

Feeling a little dead, feeling crushed by the world, and feeling lost in the wilderness may well have been what Mary Magdalene was feeling on that first day of the week so long ago. She had watched her beloved teacher die a cruel death. She may have been there when two men acquainted with Jesus, Joseph and Nicodemus, took his body off the cross, anointed it with spices, wrapped it in a linen shroud, and took it to a nearby garden where there was a tomb. Mary Magdalene may have seen them put the body of Jesus in the tomb and watched as they struggled to roll a stone in front of the opening to keep out the wild beasts and riff-raff.

And so, on that first day of the week long ago, Mary Magdalene, feeling a little dead inside, went to that garden. John the gospel writer doesn’t tell us why, but we can imagine. We know what it’s like to visit the grave of our beloved. We know what it’s like to want some peace and quiet and solitude when we’re grieving. We know what it’s like to go somewhere without really knowing why.

And then the story changes. And then death is no longer the end. And then someone feels alive again.

Now you may think I mean Jesus, who is alive again, and yes, that is the point of Easter! But his feelings about his resurrection will remain a mystery to us. To be dead, to be without thought or sense or heartbeat, and then to not be dead, to gasp in air like a newborn, to wake up and not feel pain, to have love pervade every thought, every cell, every sight—what that was like for Jesus will remain a mystery for us.

No, when I said “someone feels alive again,” I meant Mary Magdalene. Not at first, not when she sees the tomb is empty, not when she tells Peter and the other disciple. But maybe seeing those angels, her deadened heart feels a spark. And maybe speaking to the one she mistook for the gardener, her grief begins to give way to hope, until finally, when the risen Jesus says her name—well, it’s like the slap on the back of a newborn to help them take in their first breath—she is stunned and she feels alive again because Jesus is alive again, because hope is alive. Again.

A new life is born in that garden so long ago. There is a new creation in that garden, and the gospel writer John knows exactly what he is doing in telling his story this way. You might know that John starts his gospel with the words, “in the beginning.” Those same words are the first words of our Bible. Genesis 1:1 starts, “in the beginning.” John the gospel writer is up to something. God has done a new thing, a new creation, and this garden that shelters the empty tomb is the garden of Eden born again. And it is good.

Mary Magdalene has left the wilderness of her grief and fear and has entered into the garden of life and joy. Just as Jesus is alive again, so is Mary.

And us—on this Easter day, or on any day, do we feel fully alive? After grief, and pandemic, and too many injustices to count, do we feel alive again? Is Easter joy meant for the likes of us? And do we, who have been deadened a bit by the world, want to feel alive again?

That is a question that only you can answer, but if you have felt dead, and if you want to feel alive again, consider these things. Go outside. Lace up your shoes, leave your phone at home, and go for a walk. Pay attention to what you see, what you hear, what you smell. Delight in those things.

Whether you’re walking, or waiting in line, or finding some sort of pause in your day, be open to an experience of awe, of the sacred, or of mystery. Don’t construct it, but be open to it. Do something not because it is productive, or will earn you money or praise, but do something simply because doing it brings you joy.

In some ways, that path traces the one Mary Magdalene took on that first day of the week so long ago. She walked to the garden that sheltered a tomb. She paid attention and noticed that the stone had been rolled away. In the action of the disciples, in the words of the angel, and in her recognition that it was Jesus and not the gardener, she opened herself to an extraordinary experience of awe, of mystery, of the divine. None of it was of her own making, but she received the good news, and took it in, and then in her joy, shared that good news. Not because she wanted street cred with the disciples. Not because she wanted to be the first to say, “I have seen the Lord,” but simply because it brought her joy to do that very thing. To share good news.

I was this far into writing the sermon when I asked my husband Gregg—my confidant, my critic, my cheerleader—to read what I’d written and give me feedback. He said some nice things—he is also a smart husband and knows what his preacher wife needs a few days before Easter—but he also commented that the sermon wasn’t about Jesus but about Mary Magdalene and wasn’t I clever to write it in this way.

I had no idea I had done this.

But as I thought about his helpful feedback, I realized that Jesus is really quite passive in the story. To be sure, God is at work, raising Jesus from the dead, sending the angels to the empty tomb, filling Mary’s heart with joy and hope and faith. And Mary has her hands full, running back and forth from the garden to the disciples, weeping, rejoicing. But Jesus—he is raised. Note the passive voice. Other than perhaps folding his shroud neatly, the only thing he does is call Mary by name. And that may be the most important part of the story.

He calls her name, and he calls her to life, to faith, to witness. But she can only witness to the living Christ because she herself is fully alive. She made it through the grief. She made it through the doubt. She made it through the fear.

They will come again, those enemies of life. Grief shows up all the time. Even we preacher types know doubt and wonder sometimes if all this is true. And God knows the world gives us plenty to fear. But when Mary encounters those things, it will be from the perspective of an empty tomb and a risen Christ. When she grieves or doubts or fears, it will be with the knowledge that God keeps promises and God has promised more goodness than we can ever imagine.

On this Easter morning, you may feel cracklin’ alive, ready to meet the world, ready to have brunch and walk in the rain/sunshine, ready to live out some joy and hope. And that is awesome.

And you may still feel some deadness inside—a fathomless weariness because COVID is not gone, a grief because someone’s death is still so fresh to you, a fear about violence or poverty or homelessness or suffering.

However you find yourself this day, I want you to know that God has promised us—all of us, every single living and breathing person on the planet—more goodness that we can ever imagine.

However you find yourself this day, let me suggest one thing.

Go outside. Take your shoes off, and walk in the grass. Stand still, close your eyes, and imagine you are in the most beautiful garden you could ever be in. Breathe in. Listen. And then imagine Someone says your name with a tone of love you didn’t know existed.

God knows your name, of course. And however you experience it, God is calling you by name all the time—to comfort you, to rejoice with you, to grieve with you, to challenge you. Because God loves you. And when you love someone, you want abundant life and goodness for them.

In the beginning, God created a garden and made it a paradise and called it good. In the new beginning, in a garden with an empty tomb, God raised Jesus from the dead. And it is good. Hallelujah!

Amen.

*https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/27/well/mind/katherine-may-enchantment.html