But Not for God [Easter Sunday A - Matthew 28:1-10]

 The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Matthew 28:1-10

 

But Not for God

 

She was helpless.  Utterly helpless.  It was the Friday of a week that had spun out of control, in the very worst possible way.  And there was nothing she could do to stop the spinning.  Mary Magdalene stood at a distance now, but the distance provided no perspective, no safety – just more pain.  From that distance, she was still close enough to see the ending of a story that was, apparently, a tragedy.  For a while, it had felt like a fairy tale.  But the cross at the end proved otherwise; it was a twist ending she did not see coming. 

 

Because he was best of us, impossibly good, completely selfless, just made of love. It was like kindness flowed through his veins.  If anyone should get the happy ending, it was Jesus.  But he got the death penalty instead.  And now here she was, looking on from a distance as his blood drained from his wounded body.

 

Even the distance could not dull the pain pulling her insides apart.  She was pierced by every one of his agonized cries.  But she was helpless – just as she had been all week.  She couldn’t defend him when the mob arrested him.  She couldn’t take the stand in his defense at the sham trial.  She couldn’t silence the raging crowds with their cries of “crucify.”  She couldn’t stop the flying fists or the jagged crown or the mocking jeers or the hideous nails.  She just watched – all of it.  And cried.  And drowned in a turbulent sea of terror. 

 

Maybe she was naïve, but it seemed impossible that it could get so bad, this bad.  How could it be that his loving words were met with such spite?  His healing hands split in two?  His smile erased, removed, by human brutality?  How could it be that his peace incited such terrible violence?

 

He loved so much, so persistently, so defiantly and they killed him; he loved so perfectly that they killed him.  She would not have believed it, but she saw it, from her place in the distance.

 

After he sputtered out one final breath, she watched as they took him down – like a sheet from the clothesline, like the star from the top of an old Christmas tree.  One lifeless object removed from another.  And so it goes.

 

She also watched as they readied the tomb.  And she was there when they placed his still form on its final resting place, like watching a parent ever so gently move a conked out little one from the car to the bed.  Jesus was peaceful like that.  He deserved some peace after the tortures of the day.

 

And then, Matthew’s Gospel tells us, Mary was there when they rolled a great stone to the door.  And when the laborers went away, Mary was still there.  And still helpless.  And still devastated.

 

She could not protect him.  She could not save him.  And she could not fix him, or fix herself, or fix the violent world that punished such goodness so mercilessly.

 

Mary had followed Jesus in life, and then also in death.  But now the door was closed.  And the Sabbath moon was taking its shift in the heavens.  So it was time for Mary to go home.  Like Jesus, she was made to rest.

 

Friday hit with the force of blunt trauma, a devastating blow to the heart.  And while it is cold comfort, there is something about the shock that at least temporarily numbs, or maybe just delays, the full impact of the pain.  On Holy Saturday, while Jesus waited in the hidden darkness of a tomb, Mary awoke to a nightmare.  Friday had really happened.  Jesus was really dead.  And she was still helpless – locked in her home with all the horrible moments of the week playing on an endless loop.  It was Saturday and nothing had come undone; the bad was still true.  There are some things one just cannot unsee; some memories that cannot be escaped.

 

The Sabbath was meant for rest, but for Mary that Sabbath was anything but restful.  It held her like a sealed tomb.  The pain of it all was so suffocating that she had to escape into the first light of Sunday.  That morning was not yet called Easter; it was just the third day of her grief.  She wasn’t going out to see Jesus; she just wanted to sit and stare at the stone, to see the tomb.  It was as close as she could get to him.  And while it wouldn’t fix anything, it was as much as a helpless person could manage.

 

That morning, as the first rays of sunlight crept into the graveyard, there was nothing that Mary could do or say to relieve the suffering she carried in her soul.  She was shattered and she was helpless in the face of such tremendous pain.  She could not fix it.  No matter how long she stared at the stone, no matter how hard she wished for Jesus to come back, she could not make the bad come untrue.

 

Only God could do that.

           Only God could do that. 

 

The stone was too big, but not too big for God.  And the guards were too strong, but not too strong for God.  And death was far too final, but not for God. 

 

Things were helpless and hopeless; the tragic story was over.  But not for God.

 

When the world did its worst, God did good.  And in the darkest moment of Mary’s life, as the darkest night in history faded into the light of Easter morning, Jesus was there.

 

That is the miracle of Easter: that Jesus was alive in that place of death; it was impossible but not for God.  But that is not the only miracle of Easter.  The miracle of Easter is also that Jesus is still alive and still there, still here, still right where we need him the most.  He meets us in every painful place, in every drop of despair, in every helpless moment.  This life is hard and too often it seems like hope is a careless decision, an impossible dream.  But not for God. 

 

Easter reminds us that this story, this story that God is authoring, is not a tragedy; it is an endless love story.  Easter reminds us that the dreams of heaven do come true.  Easter reminds us that Alleluia is the song that is forever shaking the cemetery.  Easter reminds us, with the force of salvation, that with God nothing is impossible.