The Best Joke of All (Easter; John 20:1-18; April 1, 2018)

The Best Joke of All

Easter
John 20:1-18
April 1, 2018

Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, Iowa

Our daughter Beth was visiting us over what seems an Easter in the distant past. We lived far away from each other and didn't get many chances to visit, so time was precious. And I was frittering it away writing a sermon on the Saturday before Easter. I was--as I always am--concerned that it be my best work. To Beth this seemed unnecessary.

"Dad," she said. "I've heard a lot of your Easter sermons. They are all basically the same. 'Jesus was dead. Now he's alive. Hooray! Now go eat ham.' You should just say that. That's always what you say anyway. People won't mind. They'll be grateful."

I don't know. Some of you might mind. Others might be grateful. But she's certainly right about one thing. She has heard the heart of what we proclaim this morning: "Jesus was dead. Now he's alive. Hooray! Now go eat ham."

“Jesus was dead. Now he's alive." The good news is not actually in the words themselves. The good news is what happens in the space between "Jesus was dead." and the next sentence, "Now he's alive." What we call the resurrection happens in that gap, in the silence between two sentences. We use the fancy word, resurrection, as if we know what it means, as if the word expresses what it means. But the resurrection happens in the wordless space between two sentences. Resurrection is a word that means "we don't know what happened, but something sure did."

Jesus was dead. Now he's alive. From then to now, from dead to alive, we know the beginning and the end, but of the event that connects them, we know nothing. That used to bother me, the knowing nothing. It bothers me less these days. There are a lot of things we know nothing about.

We know nothing about falling in love, except that it happens (if we are lucky). In one moment there are two people who know each other in one kind of way. In the next they are connected in a new way that changes their lives and (again, if they are lucky) sends reverberations down through generations.

We know nothing about dying. Of course we know about getting very sick or about being badly injured. What we don't know is how it happens that the one we love is there one moment and in another moment they are not.

So I'm a lot more okay with not knowing what happened in the moment between "Jesus was dead" and "Now he’s alive" than I used to be.

It's not just that we don't know. It's that there is a positive mystery here. There is a ground as holy as the ground Moses stood on when he saw a bush burning without being burned up, a ground as holy as the ground that we stand on when we see or speak with or touch another human being.

Sometimes people have tried to describe what happened. They've tried to fill in the silence with words. Mel Gibson, for example, after an hour pornographic violence in "The Passion of the Christ," attempts to portray Jesus' rising from the dead. In my view that goes beyond silly and risks sacrilege. None of the gospel writers dared to do what Mel did. There are times for words and there are times for silence, and Mel severely misunderstood which was which.

"Jesus was dead. Now he’s alive." Here are two sentences, either of which makes perfect sense without the other and which, together, are completely at odds with the rest of our experience. Death is the end of life, not its beginning. And so, "Jesus was dead. Now he is alive." is a very odd thing to say.

But that oddness is what makes those six words a story. Only "Jesus was dead" can render "Now he’s alive" into the proclamation of a wonder. It is very much like Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol that begins by telling us, "Marley was dead: to begin with" and goes on to tell us that, without understanding this, "nothing wonderful can come of the story." Dickens is right. Without "Jesus was dead," there is nothing wonderful about "Now he’s alive."

But wonderful or not, getting from one to the other doesn't seem to be possible without confusion and oddness. Mary Magdalene, to whom our tradition has been--without cause--very unkind, went to visit the tomb of Jesus early on the first day of the week. Remember that the first day of the week is Sunday, not Monday. That's why Christians disagree about all sorts of things, but the one thing that we agree on is that Sunday is the day of resurrection and the primary day on which the Church gathers. Mary found the stone removed from the entrance and the body of Jesus removed from the tomb. When she told Peter and the "other" disciple (John, presumably), what ensues next is an adolescent competition about which one is the winner. John wins the footrace to the tomb. (Yay! John is the winner!) But it is Peter who enters the tomb first (Yay! Peter is the winner!) Peter looks around inside, but it is John who "believes" first (Yay! John is the winner!). And then, like rival rugby teams, they go off together to have a pint.

Meanwhile Mary suffers a series of confusions. She thinks the body of Jesus has been stolen. She sees Jesus, but thinks that he is the gardener. Jesus speaks to her by name and she recognizes him (Remember Jesus said that the shepherd would call the sheep by name and the sheep would recognize his voice?). Mary tries to hug him (wouldn't we all?), but is told that she may not do this. Then, on Jesus' instructions, Mary announced "Now he’s alive" to the other disciples. What, I wonder, did John "believe" if it was Mary who announced aliveness?

The disciples knew that "Jesus was dead." They learn that "Now he’s alive." But they are no better off than we are when it comes to knowing how the truth of one sentence became the truth of the next. They are just as ignorant as we are when it comes to the darkness and silence between the two announcements.

How does past death become transformed into present life? How does despair turn into hope? How does apathy become faith? How does indifference become love? How do people convinced that they are unable to accomplish anything to improve their own lives, discover strength in the midst of weakness? How do people who are fearful for their own future and the future of their children become people who care about others? How does someone whose heart has been broken dare to love again? How does one generation of young people, discounted by their cynical elders, shake the halls of power and speak so clearly, so loudly, so resolutely that people who worship their guns are afraid? How does someone diagnosed with terminal cancer move from fear to confidence in the face of death?

I don't know. If you've come get an answer to that question, I am sorry to disappoint you. Truly. I do not know how this movement happens. I only know that it does happen. And I will tell you that I suspect that all of those reversals, every movement from captivity to freedom and from exile to homecoming is grounded in the movement from death to life contained in the Easter proclamation: "He was dead. Now he’s alive."

"Hooray!" I might have preferred "Hallelujah!" but that's a small criticism. Arguably, Hooray is just English for Hallelujah. This strange movement from death to life leads, in ancient Israel's experience, to praise. Trapped between the waters of the Sea of Reeds and the on-coming chariots of Pharaoh's army, Israel is as good as dead. They retreat into the water and something happens and they find themselves alive and the finest heavy cavalry in their world defeated, fled or dead. Just as in our story this morning, it is a woman, Miriam, who has the words: "Sing to Yahweh who has won this great victory, throwing horse and rider into the sea!"

The Easter is not simply a message that Jesus is risen from the dead. Easter is a movement to which we are all invited, a movement from death to life to praise, from despair to hope to praise, from oppression to liberty to praise, from exile to homecoming to praise, from self-protection to solidarity to praise, from brokenness to wholeness to praise, from failure to holiness to praise, from sin to forgiveness to praise.

Charles Wesley understood how things stand. He had moved from lost to found to praise. He knew that he would need a thousand tongues to praise God adequately.

From death to life to praise. From "Jesus was dead" to "Now he’s alive" to "Hooray!" and, finally, to "Now go eat ham." Well, okay, this movement does not require us to be meat-eaters. You may, if you prefer, "Now go eat yams," or just “Now go eat.” Death yields to life. Life yields to praise. Praise yields to acts as ordinary as a meal eaten with our families or friends. Praise yields to ordinary life now become extraordinary because we now live as those who have been snatched from death and ushered, we know not how, into life and praise. Ordinary life transformed is life lived by those who have passed through the empty and silent space between "Jesus was dead" and "Now he is alive." It is lived in the faith that is not superstition. It is lived in the hope that is not optimism. It is lived in praise and gratitude.

We have not yet fully lived into the Easter proclamation, but that's okay. It really is. That's why we have Easter every year. That's why we have Easter for seven weeks of the year. That's why we have Easter every week. That's why we have this baptismal font that is both the place where we are drowned and buried and the place from which we are born. That's why we have this table that reminds us of all the meals that Jesus has eaten with us and summons us to the meal that is God's dream for us, the meal to which everyone brings what they have and everyone receives what they need, the meal at which the wealth of the rich buys no more than they need, the meal at which the poverty of the poor does not mean that they will get less. That's why we have each other as companions on the journey to encourage and, if needed, to help us back to our feet when we stumble.

"Jesus was dead. Now he is alive. Hooray! Now go eat." Which is what we are about to do. But first, we sing!

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