This sermon was preached at Glenwood and Canoe Ridge Lutheran Churches, Decorah, Iowa on Easter Sunday, April 21, 2019. It’s based on Luke 24:1-12. Thanks to the rostered women of the Upper Iowa River Conference who shared their experiences of resurrection. Their stories are woven into this sermon and into my life. I’m so grateful for their witness. If you’d prefer to listen to the sermon, find it at https://soundcloud.com/stacey-nalean-carlson.
Luke 24:1-12
1On the first day of the week, at early dawn, the women came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. 2They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3but when they went in, they did not find the body. 4While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. 5The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. 6Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, 7that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” 8Then they remembered his words, 9and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. 10Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. 11But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. 12But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.
At early dawn, you wake because there’s work to do. Dogs to walk. Cows to milk. Children to feed. Eggs to scramble. Sermons to preach.
Bodies, in tombs, to tend with spices.
The work of the women—at early dawn—leads them to hope buried, love entombed. There, they intend to care for the one who has carried them, comforted them, created them. They bring the needed spices. They bring their tears. They bring one another.
They don’t go alone.
What brutal, beautiful responsibilities death lays at our feet: the spices, needed for the dead, enliven the living’s senses, bring them to the tomb, bring them to one another, at early dawn.
At early dawn, there’s hope on the horizon, a blurred orange glow spreading across the sky—but it’s still night in so many ways. The dark lingers. The shadows linger. The trees, the fields, the distant homes are black silhouettes, void of defining features, amorphous against the backdrop of sun’s slow rise. It’s difficult to see. It’s even harder to look away…at early dawn.
The tomb beckons, but nothing, in the growing light of dawn, is as the women had expected, as they had anticipated. The stone—the tremendous obstacle they had no idea how they’d maneuver—is rolled away. And the body—his body—body of love betrayed and life ended and light of the world extinguished—isn’t there. It isn’t there in that place of death, that place of awful and awe-full responsibility. The tomb is empty.
At early dawn, the women did not find the body. Vision clouded by long night of grief, they did not find the body. Weighed down with responsibility, they did not find the body. With work to do, they did not find the body.
So what now?
Resurrection changes everything.
Why do you look for the living among the dead?
Why do you worry? Why do you fear? Why do you hold on to those spices when you could trade them now for spices to prepare a feast?
He is not here, but has risen.
Hope is not buried. Love is not entombed. Death is not the end anymore.
Resurrection changes everything.
So what is your work now at early dawn? What is your responsibility, when death no longer dictates? What do you wake up to do when it’s still dark, when it’s still hard to see?
Return from the tomb and tell. Tell the ones who need to know. Tell the ones weighed down by fear and grief. Tell the ones carrying spices that are no longer needed for burial. Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell a world that hasn’t stopped looking for life and love and light in all the wrong places. Jesus has risen.
The one who carried you, carries you still. The one who comforted you, comforts you still. The one who created you, creates you still—each day creating you, shaping you, forming you to tell, to live this resurrection story.
Jesus has risen.
Hope is not buried. Love is not entombed. Death is not the end anymore.
Have you gone to the tomb expecting death and found life instead? Tell.
Have you failed to love as God calls you to love? But then have you been forgiven and given the encouragement and strength to try again? Tell.
Have you witnessed the kind of bravery that only resurrection can summon—voices speaking up for justice, calling for solidarity with all who face oppression? Tell.
Has God entered into the wilderness of grief with you? From the seeds planted by your weeping, has God brought a harvest of joy? Tell.
Has your faith emerged, time and again, from seasons of doubt and dormancy, resembling the crocus, the daffodils, the tulips—coming up year after year, even though it looks like they have died? Tell.
When you found yourself squarely in the tomb, were there people who were willing to hold light and hope in your stead, a sign that resurrection might yet come for you? Tell.
After grief you thought might destroy you, are you still here, and still standing? Do you have joy and know love? Tell.1
Return from the tomb and tell. At early dawn, tell. When the shadows linger, tell. When it’s difficult to see, tell. Together, tell.
And when they don’t believe you, keep on telling. And when you don’t believe you, keep on telling.
When the light of dawn is buried under thick clouds, and all of this feels like an idle tale even to you, tell. Together, tell. And where your resurrection story trails off, momentarily silenced by doubt or despair, another will take up the story for you, carry it for you, believe for you, until the story is again yours to tell.
Jesus has risen. And we too shall rise.
Amen.
1 Thanks to all those women whose stories of resurrection shaped this section of the sermon!