During our Easter Vigil, we waited beyond the evening and into morning hours; until the breaking in of dawn. We wait
for fires to be kindled; candles to be lit; for bells to ring and for the
A-word to be sung. The glory of God rings out because the tomb is empty.
We remember on this
night the story of liberation; a story known by the psalmists – recited by them
time and time again. Psalm 114 describes power of the LORD leading Israel out
of from Egypt and the ‘house of Jacob from a people of strange language’.
‘Tremble, O earth, at
the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob, who turns the
rock into a pool of water, the flint into a spring of water’. The God who
delivered a people long ago, still delivers us.
And on Easter Day, we
repeat again the words of Psalm 118: ‘I thank you that you have answered me and
have become my salvation. The stone which the builders has become the chief
cornerstone’.
We say and sing these
words in the assurance that this is the Lord’s doing; that it is marvelous;
that this is the day that the Lord has made.
But rejoicing is far
from the lips of the women when they arrive at the tomb – bringing with them
the aroma of spices to the coldness of death. They are afraid. He is not here.
He is risen.
Rejoicing is far from
the lips of Peter and John when they hear the news; when they hear the Mary
Magdalene tells them the stone has been moved, they run, trying to outdo one
another in haste. They look in and see. They go in and look. One sees and
believes.
‘I shall not die, but
live’ says the psalmist as he writes of glad victory songs.
‘They did not yet
understand the scripture’, wrote John, ‘that he must rise from the dead’.
‘He did not give me
over to death’, says the psalmist, rejoicing with his people after battle is
done; threats have subsided.
‘But Mary stood
weeping outside the tomb’.
She stands alone in
what my supervisor Dan Hardy called ‘cross light’: the mystery, agony, glory and
redemptive power of the cross. She stands where the sting of death becomes the
life abundant. She cannot see it yet.
She knows what she
sees – an empty tomb. Her instinct tells her that she must find out where her
Lord has been taken. She does not recognize him; she assumes he’s the gardener.
She hears here name; she knows her Lord. Her instincts tell her to reach and hold
him. ‘O give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his steadfast love endures for
ever!’
But she can’t cling
on; it’s a very human moment. Embracing new life means letting go. It’s lesson
perhaps we all need to learn.
One of the reasons I think this story so affects
me is that I recall hugging my father the night before major surgery and he
said ‘don’t hold on to me too tightly, Ju’.
And I thought how absurd because I
wasn’t. Not physically. But perhaps he had a better grasp of letting go than I
did. Perhaps he had a level of trust I the face of death that meant for him it
was the beginning of life.
Weeping and naming;
letting go and being sent.
‘The LORD is my
strength and my might; he has become my salvation’.
Where does it come
together? Where does it make sense?
For me returning to the beginning – hearing
the words of Palm Sunday ‘blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord’ as
we remember the Last Supper; as in the power of the Spirit we encounter Christ
in bread and wine.
There psalmists and saints, with Dan, my dad we tell of
God’s marvelous works. As we hear in
psalm 66: ‘make a joyful noise to God, all the earth; sing the glory of his
name; give to him glorious praise; say to God “how awesome are your deeds!...
All the earth worships you’.
On Easter Day, the
psalms resound with that vision: ‘Come and see what God has done: he is awesome
in his deeds among mortals’. Yes, in psalm 66 this refers to passing through
the red sea on dry land.
But now we rejoice in
liberation for all people.
We are called and
sent to be a people of praise and prayer; to be a people living in reconciling
love; to be a people witnessing to that in word and dead; to be a generous
pilgrim people.
© Julie Gittoes 2016
