Dear friends in Christ: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Prepare our hearts, Lord, to receive your Word. Silence in us any voice but your own that in hearing, we may believe and in believing, we may obey your will revealed to us in Jesus Christ. Amen.
I think of Mary…
I think of Mary as she walked to the tomb in the early morning darkness...
her heart heavy with grief.
Our experience of a loved one’s death often makes us feel as if we’re strapped into a sudden-moving, body-jerking, high-flying roller-coaster ride.
We feel pushed and pulled, to and fro, high and low—
sometimes crawling and other times falling;
we gasp and cry, we scream and sigh,
and we wonder when…or if the experience will ever end.
Now there are some pretty reliable rules about life as we know it:
• roller-coaster rides almost always come to a peaceful end…
• and…the death of a loved one means the end of that relationship.
Granted, there are a few temporary exceptions to both rules, but that’s all they are. The wheel of time continues to turn—and we know this to be absolutely true: death will happen to everyone.
In that same vein, we say that nothing is sure in life except two things: death and taxes…and although we may admit that they are absolutes, still we work very hard to limit what we owe to the IRS and to live as long as we can. In fact, we’ve embraced a whole heap of societal laws—as well as good, common sense rules—to help us live as long as possible:
Look both ways before…crossing the street.
It’s against the law to drink and…drive.
Always wear your…seatbelt.
Never leave your luggage…unattended.
Take your vitamins. Exercise regularly. Don’t play with matches.
Eat healthy foods. Don’t do drugs. The list goes on and on and on…
And the reason we have all these rules is that life is really very fragile. Mother Nature operates by a terribly strict principle called survival of the fittest. Now the good news is that we humans have the amazing ability to adapt to our environment. The bad news is that we don’t come naturally equipped with a lot of defenses against nature’s threats.
One of those hazards is at the forefront of every Alaskan’s experience for 6-7 months out of every year—the menace of winter. We’ve not been created to hibernate. We can’t grow a thick coat of fur (heck, some of us can’t even grow a full head of hair!). We’re not able to eat bark or branches; bed down in the snow, or even feast like ravens on road-kill.
Instead, we have to rely on our ability to create a false environment to preserve our lives in this climate. We need to find sources of fuel to heat our homes and to generate the electricity we need to power our lights. Life is fragile—life is precious—and so we take very seriously these two realities: (1) while the blessing of love brings life to our relationships, (2) the curse of death brings an end to life.
That’s why Easter is such a powerful experience for us—
Jesus’ resurrection,
the Messiah’s amazing emergence from the tomb,
the Lord’s ability to break those burdensome bonds of death—
it helps us hope that maybe, just maybe, another absolute law is absolutely more powerful than death. And that helps us hope that maybe, just maybe, God will continue to bless our relationships with loved ones: from years gone by and in years yet to come.
Now, while thinking about this sermon all week, I had an epiphany—a flash of insight, a light-bulb click-on in the dimness of my brain. I have long loved a verse of scripture from the very opening of the Gospel of John. We say it every time we worship using the Holden Evening Prayer Service, so many of you are familiar with it too. It’s John 1, verse 5. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
It’s beautiful, don’t you think? I’ve loved it for so many years because it’s comforting, it’s hopeful. But, it wasn’t until this last week—Good Friday, to be exact—that I realized how daring, how radical, how outrageous is the claim that John is making in these few, simple words.
I want to go back to our rules about life for just a minute, and ask you a question: What is stronger: DARKNESS or LIGHT?
• Light can dispel darkness, but light needs energy to shine.
• Darkness…just needs to be patient.
When the power for the light is gone, darkness reigns supreme. That’s the foundation of every scary story that’s taken place on a dark, stormy night… Power fails, candles go out, flashlight batteries die—and we humans, who are good at adapting to our environment, cannot see worth a hoot in the dark.
We can’t see clearly in a dark, stormy night…
We can’t see spiritually in a dark night of the soul…
– when hope is lost,
– when faith has failed,
– when love is left to languish in the wake of a relationship that has died.
That’s where we find Mary Magdalene on that first Easter morning while it was still dark (20:1) says John. Life does not get any brighter when she first finds the tomb of Jesus empty, and then can’t get anyone to help her recover the abandoned body of her rabbi.
The light does not come on…until she hears the Lord speak her name—Mary says Jesus. And then—then the dawn breaks, the sun (Son) shines, the Light of the World blazes with a radiance that will never die. The Risen Christ is the Light of Hope, and God is the never-failing source of that flame.
He is the One who also speaks your name and mine—urging, encouraging, commanding us to confess to the world that the laws of life have changed. The days of death are numbered, and the dark night of our soul’s grief is fading in the dawning light of Christ.
That’s what the gospel writer means when he says, The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. This is now our law of life, our absolute edict, our perfect and perpetual principle: The light shines in the darkness…and the darkness has not overcome it! Alleluia! Amen!
Pastor Scott Fuller