Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: John 20:1-18
March 31, 2002
Not that I am all that superstitious, but I can’t ever recall visiting a graveyard in the dark. Even I, who preach that death is always normal, never final, and seldom catching, would find that “spooky.” I would wait until dawn, or at least the half-light of dawn. Which made sense to Matthew, Mark and Luke, too, given that they placed no one at the tomb on that first Easter Sunday until there was at least a glimmer of light. In fact Mark, who wrote the story first, says that while two women went to the tomb “very early” on the first day of the week, it was clearly “when the sun had risen.”
But we’re not reading Mark this morning. We’re reading John. And John eliminates one of Mark’s women and any trace of Mark’s sun. “While it was still dark,” John says, “Mary Magdalene came to the tomb” (allegedly to anoint the body with spices, although John doesn’t say). But her purpose does not concern me, so much as her timing. In John’s gospel, Easter begins in the dark.
I figured that out a couple of weeks ago….daydreaming while driving. “Eureka,” I said. “That’ll preach.” Leading my wife to say: “I wonder if it already has.” So, having been made aware that the Internet is literally chock full of sermons (including six years’ worth of mine), she went surfing and surfaced eleven sermons entitled “While It Was Still Dark.” All of which I read. None of which I copied. To whatever degree I might be inclined to steal material, I am very picky.
Except there was one hint….in one sermon….that when John said that Easter began “in the dark,” he was talking about a spiritual state of mind, rather than a specific time of day.
Some Easters are set in more darkness than others. And, as degrees of illumination go, this would not appear to be one of the brighter ones. In the land where it first happened, far more people are going into tombs than coming out of them. It is not gallows humor to wonder whether there will be a suicide bomber in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre this Easter….or at the Garden Tomb. I mean, if you can’t tell which spot is the right spot, why not kill people at both spots? Simultaneously, a strange and deadly game of “cat and mouse” goes on in Ramallah. While local Jews who finish the Seder meal with that wonderfully-wistful chant of “Next year in Jerusalem,” probably offer a prayer of gratitude that they aren’t there this year. I dream of leading one more trip to the Holy Land before “my trophies at last I lay down.” But the way things are going over there, I’d better polish my trophies and bide my time.
Not that this is the “best of times” here, either. I think we are at war, although the technicalities of declaration escape me. What I do know is that it will likely spread before it ends, and it will not end any time soon. Nor are we living without fear locally, given that things previously considered unthinkable have now become altogether possible. Not that heroism hasn’t followed in the wake of terrorism. There is more grit in us than our enemy thought….maybe even more grit in us than we thought. I loved Thursday’s CNN report about the church immediately adjacent to Ground Zero that not only miraculously survived being leveled, but went from likely closure before September 11 to a brand new ministry since September 11, serving a congregation of volunteers and firefighters brought to the area by the events of September 11.
As a congregation, their biggest hurdle was….and still is….to clean the building of the dust and debris that keeps settling upon (and within) it. For them….and, I suspect, for many of us….this Easter is more gritty than giddy. Which can take its toll on the soul, don’t you know. And, in some quarters, already has.
All of which came home to me while listening to a CD the other day. This CD. Which was a gift CD, personally “burned” for me by my daughter for Christmas. In my day, to “burn” something was to destroy it. Today, to “burn” a CD is to create one….most likely on the outer edges of legality. But this is a wonderful gift….18 songs chosen by Julie, because each of them is (in some way) connective of Julie and Daddy. Don’t ask me to explain. It would take far too long, and I might start to cry.
One of the songs, however, dates from the very late sixties and was both written and recorded by Don McLean under the title “American Pie.” People have been trying to interpret his lyrics for years. Most everybody agrees that the song is about the history of rock and roll and what happened to rock and roll after Buddy Holly died in a plane crash on the third of February, 1959. But near the end of the song’s longer version can be heard these words:
I met a girl who sang the blues
and I asked her for some happy news,
but she just smiled and turned away.
So I went down to the sacred store
where I’d heard the music years before,
but the man there said the music wouldn’t play.
And in the streets the children screamed,
the lovers cried, and the poets dreamed,
but not a word was spoken.
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most,
the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost,
they caught the last train for the coast,
the day the music died.
And they were singin’
Bye, bye, Miss American Pie,
Drove my Chevy to the levee and the levee was dry….
Now I know that “American Pie” is not a song that was written for or about “church.” The “Chevy” was meant to be a symbol of Americana, while the “levee” was the name of a bar in New Rochelle, New York, that closed. And the three admired men were not the Father, Son and Holy Ghost of Trinitarian fame, but rather Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens (“La Bamba”) and the Big Bopper (“Chantilly Lace”)….all of whom perished in the same crash.
But sometimes words take on a life of their own, touching us in ways that the poet who wrote them never intended. In a world where “blues singers” abound, you have come on down to this “sacred store,” having heard the music years before, because you could use some happy news. Which we have. I mean, if not here, where? And if not today, when?
Not that Mary Magdalene first interpreted it as “happy news.” Yes, we’re back to her, now. She comes to the tomb in the dark….alone, in the dark….but does not go in, in the dark….even though she could, in the dark….because there is no stone blocking her entrance, in the dark.
Her first thought is what mine would have been. Grave robbers! Somebody snatched his body and left no forwarding address. Which is exactly what she told Peter and John when she ran to get them. They, of course, had to go see for themselves. For while Mary was a witness, she was also a woman. And, in that day (sad to say), being a woman discounted her testimony.
Even today, “who” tells you something can make a world of difference. Were that not true, why would we have coined the phrase “consider the source.” Good news isn’t worth much unless you trust the newscaster.
And who is broadcasting today’s good news? Not Mary. But clergy. And we clergy have to face the fact, this morning, that the believability of the message is directly proportional to the trustworthiness of the messenger. And, taken as a whole, we are not giving evidence that we are all that trustable. From priest to preacher, our professionalism has been compromised. And with it, our professing has been compromised, too.
To be sure, ours is not easy work. And the institutions in which some of us do it are not always kind. But while less-than-perfect circumstances may explain us, they should never excuse us. Meaning that one of the first resurrections we servants of God should pray for this Easter is the resurrection of our reputations…..so that those who employ us might, again, sense within us:
· honesty in our public dealings
· integrity in our private dealings, along with
· certainty in our vocation
· clarity in our expression
· responsibility in our sexuality
· fidelity in our marriage
· and (yes) originality in our sermons
“If the trumpet gives forth an uncertain sound,” says Paul, “who shall prepare for the battle?” (I Cor. 14:8) Which, I would suggest to my colleagues of the cloth, is a clarion call for us to tune up and play right.
That being said, what is the good news that the “sacred store” has handed us to preach? Namely this. That, once upon an Easter day, “death could not keep its prey.” And it will not keep us.
Not that death was escapable then….or now. The last time I looked, death was all over the place. I buried Mildred on Wednesday, Kristine on Friday, Jesus on Friday, Rod buried Virginia on Saturday, and I shall do the same for Denny on Tuesday. Death is everywhere. Why, death is grabbing little kids right off the streets in Detroit and senior citizens right out of bed in Birmingham. Would you believe that death walks right into hospitals….doesn’t even stop at the desk.…shows no credentials….gets on the elevator….gets off the elevator….and snatches people off the operating tables. And (worse yet) from life support systems. Death is a bully (sometimes a benign and friendly bully, but a bully, nonetheless). But even though death has a mean grab, death has a weak grip. Meaning that death can’t hold what death grabs….at least when God stares death down and says: “You….yes, you….let those people go….right now….you hear me….drop ‘em.” And death does….drop ‘em, I mean. For while death is a pitcher with a wicked curve, God is a catcher with everlastingly long arms.
What’s up, you ask? Well, Jesus, for starters. And you, too, someday. I believe that about him. And I believe that about you. I believe it unashamedly, categorically, even defiantly. In a 1999 essay in New Yorker Magazine, writing under the title “Confessions of a Churchgoer,” novelist John Updike calls our presence in a church like this, on a day like this, “an act of defiance.”
So when they ask you at brunch where you have been today, start by saying that you’ve been to church. And if they push you further, tell them you’ve been to the Methodist church. And if, like a lot of people, they insist that you put a name with a faith, tell them that you’ve been to Bill Ritter’s church (although it’s not, even in the slightest, “Bill Ritter’s church”). But when they bore in big time, I want you to say: “I went to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead (before adding, with equal measures of defiance and confidence) and the promise of something new for me.” Because, where the promise of the resurrection is concerned, there’s a connection between future benefits down the road and present benefits on the road.
But back to Mary Magdalene….she of the less-than-stellar reputation. Mary went to anoint Jesus in the dark. But I would argue that she is living proof that, on Easter, you do not have to die to experience new life. In fact, wouldn’t it be fair to say that Mary is the second person raised from the dead that morning?
Not right away, mind you. She had to go get the boys first. But then they went away and left her alone. Which was when she saw him….Jesus, I mean….although she first mistook him for the gardener (somebody on landscape detail). Every cemetery needs landscapers. Cut the grass. Rake the grass. Make sure the markers don’t become overgrown with grass.
But then he says her name….“Mary”….and the resurrection ceases to be a mystery, becoming instead an experience. But isn’t that what Charles Wesley said in that “thousand tongues” hymn we Methodists love to sing:
He speaks, and listening to his voice,
new life the dead receive.
The mournful, broken hearts rejoice,
the humble poor, believe.
I imagine that Mary lived for a long time on the fumes of that momentary brush with eternity. I imagine I could, too. And already have.
Friday night, Kris and I were enjoying a late, quiet dinner out. Just the two of us. A week’s worth of services behind us. Only this one ahead of us. “What are you going to say on Sunday?” she asked. I reminded her about Easter beginning in the dark for Mary….and for a lot of people. Then I spoke of my hope that the resurrection might shed, for some, a little light. “It sounds like you’re not sure,” she said. “Well,” I countered, “you’ve got to admit that this year’s darkness is thicker than the usual darkness. And while I believe that the resurrection will dispel much of it someday, I want to convince people that the resurrection can brighten some of it this day.”
“Well,” she said, “isn’t that what you and I have been quietly demonstrating since eight years ago May” (which is when our son decided that the long-term pain of living was greater than any short-term pain associated with dying….so he didn’t….go on living, I mean).
But we did. Hesitantly, at first. Never easily. Occasionally uncomfortably. But our mere presence, today, suggests to some that life goes on….and that morning, while sometimes slow in coming, is both inevitable and worth waiting for.
When people go through what we went through, they have a way of finding me. In part, because you send them to me. They come. We talk. They have more questions than I have answers. All I really have is my story and the fact that I am able to tell it eight years later. Surprisingly, it’s enough.
To one I said: “If we can make it, you can.”
To which she shot back: “That’s because the two of you are survivors.”
“No,” I said, “that’s because the two of us are believers.”
The sun rises.
God’s son rises.
Our son rises.
Not because life is good. But because God is.
Note: My debts for this sermon are few and easily paid. I frankly can’t recall (or trace) the oblique reference in the Internet sermon about “John’s darkness” having more to do with a condition of the spirit than a specific hour of the morning. So to whoever thought of it first, thanks.
Peter Gomes of Harvard introduced me to John Updike’s quotation about “an act of defiance.” In fact, Peter built a whole sermon around it in 2000 under the title, “An Act of Defiance.”
My reference to “the resurrection of clergy reputations” grows out of the onslaught of newspaper stories about Roman Catholic priests who pressed a spiritual/sexual advantage over vulnerable parishioners….the realization that any number of Protestant clergy have done the same….and the ongoing local controversy about plagiarism and its place in sermon preparation.
Finally, Don McLean’s “American Pie” can be thoroughly researched on the Internet. Somehow the lyrics seem strangely descriptive for the times in which we live.
