Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed!
May this good news for you, and for our world, fill you with hope in the midst of our unresolved story. You are so loved.
Today’s worship service, in its entirety, may be viewed here:
If you’d prefer to listen to the gospel reading and sermon, you may do so here:
https://soundcloud.com/stacey-nalean-carlson/is-bad-news-the-only-kind-a-sermon-for-easter-2021
Today’s sermon, written in collaboration with Pastor Amy Zalk Larson, is based on Mark 16:1-8.
1When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint [Jesus’ body]. 2And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. 3They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” 4When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. 5As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. 6But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. 7But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” 8So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.
Beloved of God, grace and peace to you in the name of Jesus.
Is bad news the only kind? This was the headline of a New York Times article delivered to my inbox on March 24, but the question struck me as timeless and perhaps even universal. Is bad news the only kind? There are days it feels as though the answer to this question is yes. But this morning, we say no. There is good news for our world—for you—even if bad news is, in some strange sense, easier to hold on to.
The women at the tomb on that first Easter morning were well acquainted with bad news. They had looked on from a distance as Jesus breathed his last. They had seen where his body was laid. They had waited through the Sabbath hours until they could go and buy spices and do the work that was theirs to do. But when they reached the tomb they were stunned by good news.
The body they’ve come to bury with dignity is no longer there. They find, instead, a young man dressed in a white robe who tells them that Jesus has been raised.
Their job is no longer to anoint a body in the wake of bad news, but to announce good news! Go,the young man commands them, and tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.
What do you do when the bad news you’ve grown accustomed to carrying is taken from your hands and replaced with good news?
What do you do when you’re prepared for death and find life instead?
What do you do when the stone has already been rolled away and the tomb no longer holds your loved one? No longer holds you?
You flee from the tomb, seized with terror and amazement, and you say nothing to anyone, for you are afraid.
That’s where Mark’s gospel ends. Silence. Fear. Terror. Trembling. Amazement. Bewilderment.
Richard Lischer describes our position in the events of Holy Week as stunned observers. On Palm Sunday we watch the spectacle unfold as Jesus enters the capital to die. On Good Friday, we stand at the place of the skull and watch the execution take place. And this morning we stand at the empty tomb alongside the first witnesses of the resurrection and we are stunned observers.
We are stunned observers, as we have been throughout so much of this pandemic time, this Holy Year.
We’ve been stunned by the death, the sorrow, the relentless bad news…but I wonder if we haven’t also been stunned by good news. I wonder if we haven’t also been startled by life rising up in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times, new life emerging in the midst of deep grief.
Normally, I’m not a big fan of Mark’s account of the resurrection. I much prefer John, where Mary mistakes the risen Jesus for the gardener until he calls her by name. And then Mary leaves that place of death and confusion and announces to the disciples, I have seen the Lord!
I appreciate Matthew’s account, where the women are greeted by an angel who shares with them the good news and then they go with fear and great joy. And on the way, Jesus himself meets them.
I even like Luke’s account, even though in his telling the women run from the tomb and tell everything to the disciples but they are not believed. Peter has to go to the tomb and see for himself.
But Mark leaves so much to be desired. Where is the witness of the women? Where is the risen Jesus? Where is the resolution, the ending for which we’ve been wishing?
It’s not here. And maybe that’s why Mark is resonating so much with me this year. We are so far into this pandemic time, long overdue for resolution, for a happy ending, and while there are surely signs of hope and progress, it’s not over. It’s not done. And it may never be—at least not in the way we had envisioned. I remember, when we first closed our buildings, imagining a glorious return just in time for Easter Sunday 2020. We would be so happy to be back, so eager to return, to fill the church and shout: Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed!
And now it’s Easter 2021. And we’re here, but not all together. Some of us are worshiping online. Others are here in the building, where we’re masked and we’re sitting apart from one another. And there is still so much silence. Fear. Trembling. Bewilderment.
We’re right there with the women.
We thought we knew what was our job to do. We thought we knew how to be the church. And then so much of what we relied on to make us who we are—food, fellowship, our building—we had to surrender to exercise love and care for one another in this Covid time. So who are we now? What is our calling now?
The stone has been rolled away and the tomb is empty. Bad news is not the only news there is. There is good news here. There is life in our midst—new life, surprising life, life emerging from deepest grief, life irrepressible, irresistible, life abundant, life astounding.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it’s beyond our control. It’s beyond our understanding. It’s beyond our ability to explain or to prove. It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s not resolved. And it’s not over.
It’s new every day.
And while it makes a claim on us…it does not depend on us.
The women—for who knows how long—lived in fear. They said nothing to anyone. They experienced what had to be an absolutely overwhelming encounter with God’s persistent, relentless, death-defeating grace, and they could not speak of this good news. Who would believe them in a world that asks is bad news the only kind? Could they even believe their own eyes? Could they trust that their experience had been real?
They had watched him die. They knew how to grieve. They knew how to cope with bad news. They did not know how to respond to unexpected life.
And still, the good news has reached us here on this Easter morning.
God’s Word accomplishes what it intends; the Good News does not return empty. It transformed the first witnesses of the resurrection from stunned observers to bearers of hope. It transforms us. It empowers us to imagine new possibilities and new beginnings even now.
In the midst of our own unresolved story, good news is here! Good news for today and every day to come! Jesus has been raised! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Amen.
*Read the conversation between Richard Lischer and Will Willimon here: https://www.christiancentury.org/article/interview/preaching-holy-week-middle-pandemic-again