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.
In this last week’s telling and reading of the whole passion story, I was struck by the voices that are all so vital to this vivid event. Think back to
The disciples…indignantly declaring that they would never
deny, betray, or abandon Jesus.
The priests and Pharisees…arguing with and accusing him.
Pontius Pilate pompously pontificating about his power to punish or pardon.
Jesus’ helpless, hurting howl, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
The wailing of the women, the gambling of the soldiers, the final assertion by the Roman Centurion, Truly this man was God’s Son!
They are voices of passion…voices of pain.
And then I found myself wondering about what came next—about how Jesus’ followers must have spent that sad, sad Sabbath…the awful silence that must have settled over them all with Jesus dead and buried. Fear for their own safety, anxiety over what happens next—frightened and forlorn, they were indeed like lost sheep, yearning for the comforting call of their shepherd.
The famous poet, Alfred Lord Tennyson, captures this wholly human heartache that is so much a part of our experience of death. In his poem entitled, Break, Break, Break, he speaks of how death robs us of the simple things we treasure the most. Says the poet,
O for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still!
(Alfred Lord Tennyson, “Break, Break, Break”)
Usually, even the saddest funerals have moments of humor, when voices coarse from crying are able to chuckle over some funny story, some silly thing their beloved did or said; when tears of sadness give way—if only for a moment—to tears of joy.
But I’m guessing that did not happen with Jesus’ followers…nor had their pain yet come to an end. You’ve heard that old saying, It’s always darkest before the dawn. Well, that’s exactly where we pick up the story today.
Mary is standing in that darkest part of the morning,
in that darkest part of her mourning, her grief.
She’s seen the empty tomb,
She’s certain that the body of her Lord has been stolen.
And like all of us who’ve lost something
and continue to look for it in the very same places as if it would somehow magically appear now…Mary stoops to look once more in the tomb …
There she sees two men whose voices seem filled with care and concern. “Woman,” they ask, “why are you weeping?” And out gushes her anguish over this final, futile insult: “Someone has stolen my Lord’s body!” she cries.
Then, perhaps hearing a sound behind her, she turns toward the man whom she assumes is the gardener. Again she is asked, Woman, why are you weeping? And once more she asks for help—to find Jesus’ body…
And here is the moment when
– the dark night of the soul turns into the bright light of love;
– the Good Friday tears of sorrow turn to Easter Sunday’s tears of joy;
– the gut-wrenching grief that has held Mary in its grasp is changed…
in a moment,
in the twinkling of an eye…
actually, with one simple spoken word.
Mary, says the Lord of the Dance, and just-like-that her world is changed,
just-like-that the entire creation is changed.
It’s that oh-so-familiar-voice,
that inspiring-illustrious-identifiable voice,
that profound-personal-private voice,
that cozy-comfortable-commanding voice,
that know-it-anywhere-even-in-a-crowd voice…
and it pierces her pain, dries her tears, and heals her heart.
Mary, says the Voice of Love…
and her heart fills with it…she hears, sees, and believes in it…in him.
Think, now, for a moment of the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still in your life…
I remember a woman in another congregation whose husband had died. Months after the funeral, she found the courage to go to a reception, and it was almost her undoing. She heard a voice from across the room…and it sounded so much like him, she told me, that she had to check it out. She discovered, of course, that the voice belonged to a stranger…and it threw her right back to square one in her struggle with grief.
My wife’s dad died when Carolyn was a sophomore in college. He ran a rural electric co-op in northern Minnesota. As such, it was his voice on the answering machine that greeted people and explained how to get the after-hours help they might need. Carolyn said that after his funeral, and before the company changed the message, she would often call that number, just to hear the sound of his voice.
Over and over again, some of you and others with whom I’ve walked through the valley of the shadow of death, speak of similar things. Pictures are precious, memories are cherished, mementos are prized, videos are valued—but there is nothing like the sound of that voice of love…
And that, of course, is the point at which our hearts are connected with Mary’s on this delightful Easter Day. For not only did she hear the Voice of Love speak her name; so, too, do we—you and me and everyone who has ears to hear and hearts to believe. The Voice of Love speaks our name and says, You belong to me.
We are blessed, indeed, to worship a God who speaks…who says
– Let there be…and light shines in the darkness;
– I am the Lord your God…and people of faith are formed;
– Be silent…and storms are stilled;
– Be healed…and the lame can leap;
– Come to me all who are burdened…and the lonely are loved;
– Take and eat…and the hungry are fed;
– Take and drink…and our thirst is quenched;
– Do this for the forgiveness of sins…and our guilt is pardoned;
– I love you…and we who are dead are given new life.
That is the Voice of Love who spoke Mary’s name, who speaks your name, who speaks my name, every day of our lives. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Pastor Scott Fuller