The Rev. Keri T. Aubert       April 12, 2009

Isaiah 25:6-9

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

Acts 10:34-43

John 20:1-18

Easter Sunday, Year B, RCL   

This time of year on Vermont Public Radio, the “Eye on the Sky” meteorologists excitedly broadcast the “signs of spring” reported to them by listeners. It’s one of those uniquely Vermont traditions that, to a transplant like myself, comes across as hokey and sweet at the same time. On the “Eye on the Sky” website there is a special blog where listeners can report their sightings. Here are just a few of the many that were posted last week. Amanda from Norwich: “The ice is all gone from our pond and froggies have begun their courting.” Louisa from Bristol: “The porcupine is eating our garage again.” Anonymous from Burlington: “UVM students are wearing flip-flops.” Gabrielle from Montpelier: “Found the earring I lost shoveling snow in December—right there on the ground! Definite sign of spring.”[i]

You, too, have probably witnessed a few signs of spring by now. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of spring, but Friday I was treated to the sight of a large flock of Bohemian waxwings voraciously stripping the remainder of last year’s fruit from the ornamental cherry tree in my front yard. If I was to post a sign of spring on the Eye on the Sky website this afternoon, it might say, “Lots of dressed-up children streaming into church.”

For us, Easter is a sign of spring, but it’s also a lot more than that. When the grieving Mary Magdalene goes to Jesus’ tomb at daybreak on that first Easter Sunday, we don’t know what she plans to do when she gets there. Perhaps she expects simply to sit and stare at that blank stone door. Maybe that’s all she can do, because she knows that, inside the tomb, Jesus lies wrapped in linen cloths, cold and lifeless, his youthful promise unfulfilled. Mary believed that Jesus was the way. Through him, hope sprouted in her, so she willingly took the risks necessary to follow him. As her discipleship grew, her hope flowered. Now, Mary has lost not only her teacher and friend; she has also lost hope. Without hope, one cannot truly live. Now, Mary’s hope is entombed with Jesus.

I suspect that each of us had had periods in our life when hope was buried so deep that we feared we could never uncover it. Despite spring happening all around us, some of us may even be experiencing one of those times right now. And so I think we can sympathize with Mary. The pain of her loss must be nearly unbearable. If she’d had any hope left, she would have stayed away from the tomb. She would have stayed home and done some mundane thing to try to get on with her life. Instead, grief has brought her trudging back.

Mary arrives at the tomb, and it is empty. Jesus is gone. Mary doesn’t understand at first. She suspects that Jesus’ body has been stolen. This would be a tragic prospect for an observant Jew. But Mary soon learns that this is no case of grave-robbing. Jesus is risen from the dead.

Though Mary still doesn’t yet completely understand, with the resurrection of Jesus comes the resurrection of Mary’s hope. With the resurrection of Jesus comes the everlasting fountain of our hope. Each of us faces tombs, tombs for everyone and everything we have ever grieved. They can appear sinister and dangerous. We fear what’s inside. But if we remove the doors and peer into the darkness of those tombs, we will learn that they are empty, and they will no longer hold our hope hostage. Christ is risen, and our hope rises with him. In the Easter promise of the resurrection, all things are being made new. God’s saving grace is renewing all things. This is the heart of our Christian witness.

Perhaps you saw last week’s Newsweek magazine. Just in time for Easter, the cover somewhat predictably featured an over-the-top image implying the imminent demise of Christianity. In case you didn’t see it, I’ll try to describe it for you. The Newsweek banner runs across the top as usual. Beneath the banner is a solid black background. On that black background is a series of words in blood red, all arranged in the shape of a cross. The words read, “The Decline and Fall of Christian America.”

The cover article quotes some statistics that could be worrisome to our churches, such as the increasing number of Americans who describe themselves as religiously unaffiliated. But the article focuses on the weakening of Christian political influence, which might not be such a bad thing. In the end, the article paints a picture of the future of Christianity that is not nearly as dire as the cover might indicate.

Not that it really matters. In the end, Christianity is not a commodity to be sold. What matters is not the simple tally of how many people are willing to call themselves Christians. What matters is the building of the Kingdom of God through the renewal of all creation. The promise of the risen Christ is that this will happen, no matter what. This means that it will happen with or without Christians, and with or without us. As Christians, however, our faith in this promise is the source of our hope. Our faith and hope compel us to participate in creating the renewal promised by Christ. We express our faith and hope not only through our words, but perhaps more importantly through our actions. Every act of loving kindness gives life to the resurrected Christ and nurtures the further growth of our hope.

Our need for renewal, rebirth, and—dare we say it—resurrection is not something we always expect or understand. We lightly say, “I sure am looking forward to spring.” But sometimes we use that lightness to cover up a need for renewal that runs so deep that we are afraid to even begin examining it. In our fear, we release our expectations and our very lives become dulled. And then we get a sign of what’s possible—maybe it’s a Bohemian waxwing, or maybe it’s a toddler stumbling through the fresh grass—and recognition floods through us. The remembrance of what we have been missing rushes up from deep within us. Grief might envelope us even more deeply than before. But Christ will call us back. It is only from the depths of darkness that we can rebound to the heights of light.

My favorite poem for spring is one by Vermonter David Budbill, called “The First Green of Spring.” It goes like this:

Out walking in the swamp picking cowslip, marsh and marigold,
this sweet first green of spring. Now sautéed in a pan melting
to a deeper green than ever they were alive, this green, this life,

harbinger of things to come. Now we sit at the table munching
on this message from the dawn which says we and the world
are alive again today, and this is the world's birthday. And

even though we know we are growing old, we are dying, we
will never be young again, we also know we're still right here
now, today, and, my oh my! don't these greens taste good.[ii]

During this season of Easter, I hope that each one of us will be able to welcome the spring of the risen Christ into our hearts. I hope that each one of us will be able to see the signs of the risen Christ contained in the renewed life surrounding us, and to let those signs beckon us to join in that renewal. I hope that the joy of the season will accompany each one of us.

Being a Christian doesn’t depend on whether you come here every week or only on Easter. No matter how often you come here, you can hear the message of the risen Christ and dare to hope. You can dare to look deeply into the tombs of your grief and loss. You can listen for Christ’s proclamation that death never has the last word. And you can risk proclaiming the resurrection through you words and your actions. That’s what Christianity is all about.