Easter Sunday 2010                                                                 Christ Church , York

I know that this may sound a little strange, especially on a lovely spring morning such as this…but I have to admit that I like a nice cemetery. Now I hasten to assure you that this is not a morbid fetish for such things on my part nor am I exhausted and out of my mind from the last few days of sermon writing and services! It’s just that I like places which are, in their own way, serene, peaceful and beautiful. And in addition it cannot be denied that there is always a fascination about such places – a sense of wonder about the lives of those buried there; a sense that they are both empty and full; a sense that they hold mysteries which each of us here have yet to experience. And there is always a contradiction about such places – for while there is pain associated with them for the loved ones we have lost, there is at the same time a sense of comfort about knowing where they lie.

Perhaps it was this sense of fascination and contradiction which drew Mary back to the cemetery. Lying there on her bed, likely without much sleep since the death of her beloved Master, she must have wondered about that cemetery, that place where they had laid Him, wondered about its fullness, its silence and its mysteries. It should not surprise us then that, while it was still dark, she got up and went to that place, hoping perhaps that there she might find some comfort in the midst of her pain, there she might begin to sort through the explosive events of the last few days and there that she might find something to hold onto in what had become a shifting world around her. For if nothing else a cemetery is a place where things do not change quickly, where there exists the solid and tangible strength of rock and earth and where there is an unchanging constancy which cannot be denied. For Mary there was comfort to be found in this place, a comfort in the regular rituals of a burial, a comfort even in the stone cold tomb.

But in the half light of dawn, Mary sees something which frightens and distresses her. For the stone is gone and instead of comfort there is only blackness and emptiness and fear. The security that comes from knowing that the tomb is full, that everything is as you left it, that there is an unchanging stability in death, all of this disappears in the shock of the moment. Confusion breaks out. There is a great deal of activity, of running backwards and forwards, of telling, of seeing, of hearing, of looking. If something momentous had not really happened, we might wonder if these people were being disrespectful in such a sacred place.

But something has happened for the stone is gone, the tomb is empty. Gone is the sense of futility from that place where our lives would otherwise be buried. Gone is the sense of bitterness which so often stems from the pain which fills our lives. Gone is the loss in our lives which comes from our buried hopes and dreams. Gone is the sense that we are unimportant as we live out our lives in seeming futility. Instead all of this gives way to the understanding that our lives are now greater and more important because of this empty tomb. It shouts out to us that our lives are infinitely more valued than ever we could have imagined and indeed that our lives are larger than life itself, for now our lives are set in the light of eternity and our living itself has become part of God’s eternal plan. Because of this empty tomb, the futility of life has lost its meaning and we find in this Risen Christ the One who binds all things unto Himself.

Mary doesn’t grasp all of this in the beginning. Looking at the tomb she failed to see what she had expected to see and so she simply does not believe her eyes. And when she runs back to tell the disciples they too cannot believe the unthinkable. So two of those disciples run back to see for themselves. But like two witnesses at the scene of an accident, these two disciples interpret what they see in different ways. Peter sees only empty linen wrappings but does not seem to comprehend the enormity of the event. The other disciple sees the same linens and correctly interprets what has happened and so believes, not because he was more perceptive but because he was open to trusting in His Lord who had promised that He would not abandon them or leave them orphaned. This disciple sees beyond the empty tomb, sees with the heart and not the eyes, sees with the soul and not the senses. Peter could not see because he still lived in his fear, his memory of running away and even his repentance all of which kept him from seeing beyond the tangible reality. This other disciple sees with faith and love, trust and understanding.

But it is Mary who now comes back. Having been in at the start of the story, she almost misses the ending. Still living in the present she continue to cry; still lacking in faith and understanding, she can only concentrate upon the missing body and not her risen Lord. Conscious of a presence, she sees Him but does not know Him, for she sees but does not really see with eyes of faith and therefore does not recognize Him. For He has changed, having gone from death to life, changes which can only be seen through the eyes of faith. But then it is that her eyes are opened by the spoken word and her heart which is opened by the gentle calling of her name so that she comes to both see and believe.

In this word and in this calling of her name there is no fanfare, no thunder and no dramatic effects. Instead there is the personal meeting of friends and there is the abiding presence of Christ who calls each of us by name, calls us to recognize Him and believe in Him. Soon the good news would be spread throughout the world, soon His resurrection would be proclaimed for all to hear. But for now this great and glorious event would remain on this very personal level, present to the eyes of those who have been called to see and believe. For while the reality of Christ’s resurrection is greater than any one of us, greater than any of the greatest events in the history of humankind, nevertheless there are times when the Risen Christ comes not in His great glory but rather in His still quiet presence beside us, calling us, beckoning us to open our eyes in faith that we might see Him standing there. And He does so in the simplest moments of our lives – in the word of a friend, in the title of hymn, in a passage from Holy Scripture. Such moments are the means by which the voice of Christ calls us and opens our eyes so that we can see and believe. We may think such times are ordinary, simple and straightforward as Mary thought when she saw what she thought was a simple gardener. But then with newly opened eyes we see as Mary saw, the Risen Christ, alive forever and waiting to revel to us His wondrous glory. So it is that when Mary returns to the disciples she doesn’t tell them what has happened, what events transpired - only that she has seen the Lord. Indeed she could do little else, for she has seen Jesus and believed Him to be the Christ and it is that news, that good news which she goes on to proclaim – that He is risen and alive.

My sisters and brothers, on this holy Easter day we are called to do the same – proclaim the good news that He is risen and still lives. For like Mary we too have been called by name. Like the beloved disciple we too have come to see and in faith believed. And so like both Mary and the disciple we too are called to proclaim this wondrous news and to broadcast it loudly to this unsuspecting world of ours. For we have seen that which our eyes alone cannot see and we have believed that which our hearts cry out to believe – that He is Risen; He is Risen Indeed. Amen Alleluia.