Sermon for April 4, 2021 - Easter Sunday -Year B - The Rev. Elise A. Feyerherm

Isaiah 25:6-9                                                                           

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24                                                          

Mark 16:1-8                                                                            

 Let your alleluias rise

 Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed – Alleluia!

 The sabbath is over – it is early in the morning, and the sun has just peeked over the horizon. Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome carry bundles of fragrant spices to the tomb to anoint the body of their friend and teacher, Jesus. His death was horrific, unspeakable, final. And now these women have to figure out how to go on without him, without the hope and love that he brought into their lives.

 As they approach the tomb, their wonderings are held captive by this terrible loss. The future, the possibilities held therein, everything has been chopped off. The closest they can come to wondering about the future is to ask, “Who will roll away the stone for us at the entrance of the tomb?” That’s as far as they can go.

 It is telling, then, that as they approach the tomb, Mark recounts that to see that the stone had already been rolled back, they had to look up. They had to look up. Which means that up until this point, they had been looking down. I imagine these three women, walking together in the dim, early light, keeping their eyes on the ground in order to keep from tripping and spilling all these precious spices. I imagine them, eyes downcast, afraid perhaps even to look at one another, for fear of catching a glimpse once again of the despair they were all feeling. They had been looking down, perhaps for that entire journey… until finally, they looked up.

 There is evidence that over the past year, the eyesight of many of us has been changing. During the pandemic we have been focusing on screens, on things close to us. We are not going outside as much, and have not been gazing off into the distance. This is happening, apparently, to people of all ages. The science is showing that, because of this, many of us are becoming more myopic – nearsighted.

 I have been nearsighted ever since I was a child, and have worn glasses or contacts since I was about seven or eight, so I’m not sure I can tell the difference. I do suspect, however, that I will need to get a stronger set of magnifier reading glasses soon. But I’m pretty sure that has to do with my age more than anything else.

 Whether or not I need new glasses, I have been feeling the effects of keeping my gaze so close to home. Perhaps you have as well. We humans need, from time to time, to lift our eyes to the hills, to the horizon, to look off into the distance. To try to see what we cannot quite yet see, but suspect is there. To be healthy, our eyes need to stretch, along with all of our other muscles, otherwise they will contract for good.

 Looking up, pulling our gaze up and out toward the horizon, does something amazing to our perspective – and not only our physical perspective. We begin to see things as they are related to one another – the budding branches of the tree in the middle distance, splayed out gloriously against a bright blue sky. The hazy hills rising miles away, giving shape and texture to the horizon, beckoning to us, reminding us that there are places to go, and see, and explore.

 Driving home from a particular direction, I crest the top of one of those many hills in Roslindale south of the city, and the towers of Back Bay appear, glinting in the sun. The first time I saw them, it took my breath away – and each time I drive down that street, I have to remind myself to look up, to receive the gift once again. It never disappoints.

 Look up, friends. That’s what I hear the messenger at the tomb saying, although by the time the three women meet the mysterious young man, they have already lifted their gaze on their own. Look up – look beyond – he has gone ahead of you, he says.

 There is a time for watching the ground, being careful not to stumble. And there is a time to stretch our gaze, pull our eyes to the edges of what we can comprehend, and look. Look for what? For Jesus of Nazareth, who is not in the tomb but has gone before us to new life. Look at the tomb, yes – look, the messenger says, but notice that he is not in this place of burial.

 But where is he? With death still looming all around, with economic struggles and deeply imbedded racism and violence close at hand, we would be foolish to ignore what is right before our eyes. We do not want to stumble and spill the spices we bear so lovingly to attend to the death in our midst.

 But what happens if the ground is all we see? If we forget to look up from time to time and see the horizon to which the risen Jesus beckons us? Will our hearts become as myopic as our poor pandemic eyes?

 One of my favorite Easter hymns is a missive to Mary Magdalene, greeting her as she comes to the tomb. The first two verses go this way:

Lift your voice rejoicing, Mary, Christ has risen from the tomb;

on the cross a suffering victim, now as victor he is come.

Whom your tears in death were mourning,

welcome with your smiles returning.

Let your alleluias rise!

Raise your weary eyelids, Mary, see him living evermore;

see his countenance, how gracious, see the wounds for you he bore.

All the glory of the morning

pales before those wounds redeeming.

Let your alleluias rise![1]

 Let your alleluias rise. Of course, this hymn draws on the resurrection account from John’s gospel, and today, we are in Mark. Mary and Mary and Salome don’t see Jesus yet – none of the disciples do – yet. The story ends – the original ending of Mark’s gospel – with anticipation tinged with fear, for resurrection is strange and possibly dangerous territory. Jesus as victor is still on the horizon. Can they bring themselves to look up high and far enough? Can they move beyond the fear, the fear that perhaps this good news is not true after all?

 Mark’s gospel is a gospel for myopic disciples – like us. Mark offers no easy answers, no pat solutions. There is terror and amazement, and, still, a voice coaxing us to look up and out, for Jesus is indeed risen. The bare, dark, hard tomb could not, cannot, hold him, for God’s love has defeated death. There is more to see, out there, just beyond the horizon. Jesus is there, waiting. Alive. Making justice possible, for all those whom hatred and disease and indifference and despair have mown down.

 Today is Easter – it is also the day, fifty-three years ago, that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. Gunned down, but not defeated, alive with Christ, as he rises from the tomb and goes before us. Death and hatred have not won, and never will.

Jesus is there, just beyond the horizon, alive, having destroyed the shroud that is cast over all peoples, and swallowed up death forever.

 Can you see him? Look up. Raise your weary eyelids, as Mary did, and lift your voice. Watch the alleluias rise, and feel our hearts rise with them.

 Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed – Alleluia!

[1] The Hymnal 1982. New York: The Church Hymnal Corporation, 1982, #190.