The Great Easter Vigil

John 20:1-18

Have you ever found yourself in complete total darkness? The kind where you cannot see your hand in front of your face? In a graveyard, it can be a terrifying place.

The Easter Vigil service begins in the garden near the burial plots in darkness. It represents the darkness of the closed-up tomb where Jesus' body lay on Holy Saturday. The stone has been rolled in front to seal the tomb. No light enters. It is utterly dark. Jesus' torn and beaten body is already beginning to decay. The women are planning to bring spices to help preserve his body in the morning. But now, it is before day Sunday morning, in the dark deathly still tomb. It is not a pleasant place to be. Mary Magdalene could not wait for the other women. Restless and unafraid, she goes to Jesus’ burial place in the dark all alone.

With that description, I want to know why are we here this morning? It is early! Well, I guess it is pretty clear why I am here. It is my job. I am a preacher. Preachers are supposed to stand up in the pulpit on Easter Sunday morning and say something profound about Jesus and the Resurrection. In ordinary times, that would be sufficient, and we would go and hunt Easter eggs and then go home and have a delicious Easter brunch with family and friends and maybe check out a movie on Netflix. But these are not ordinary times. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, we are not able to gather for in-person worship even on Easter Sunday. But we have still found a way to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus from the dead. So that something has everything to do with why we are here. I believe you are here with me for the same reason, to have our tombs opened so that we can meet the resurrected Jesus.

Yes, we experience the pain of Good Friday, and we look with hope to Easter Sunday. But the reality is that we live our lives in Holy Saturday, sandwiched between our pain and joy, between birth and death. It is that time in between Good Friday and Easter Sunday for us too. It is the valley of grief and unknowing. In our personal Holy Saturdays, we do not know what the future will bring. Whether the cancer will be cured, or we will love again, or find a job that fulfills our calling or whether in person worship will ever be the same again. It is a time of dark uncertainty. The best we can do is stand at the tomb in the dark. Then something wonderful happens. We realize that this is the night when God is with us.

The Great Easter Vigil takes us on a grand tour of the salvific history of God with God’s people. From the creation story in Genesis to the fall and the deliverance of the Hebrew people from Slavery in Exodus. The Exsultet, one of the oldest hymns in Christendom, which is sung during the Vigil, beautifully proclaims this rhythm of night and dawn, of death and resurrection: "This is the night...when you brought our ancestors, the children of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt.... "This is the night...when all who believe in Christ are delivered from the gloom of sin and are restored to grace and holiness of life.... "This is the night...when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell and rose victorious from the grave.... "How holy is this night, "How blessed is this night when we are reconciled to God.”

Even in the darkness of our lives, darkness that comes and goes like the night, we are reconciled to God. Our baptism is the sign of this reconciliation when we are marked as Christ's own forever.

Beloved, darkness is part of every day. But there will be light. What would our lives with God look like if we trusted the light of Christ to lead us out of darkness into the light.

I invite you to revisit that first Easter morning with Mary Magdalene who goes to the graveyard in the dark to bare all her hurt and pain to the one she had placed all her hope. Particularly in the conversation between Jesus and Mary in the garden just outside the tomb, now the stone is rolled-away, the linen cloths lying there, Mary is so blinded by her grief that she does not notice the appearance of angels, something that most of us would notice. Put yourself in Mary’s sandals and listen again to Jesus’ words.

First, “why are you weeping?” Before Mary even knows who it is that speaks to her, Jesus meets her in her darkest hour. “Why are you weeping?” says the One who heals to the one in pain. Says the One who comforts to the one who grieves. Says Immanuel, God with us, to the one who is lonely and afraid. “Why are you weeping?” It is a question for each of us. For some the pain may be raw and open. Loss of a loved one. Loss of a job, or a home. Physical illness. COVID quarantine, political and social justice divisions have pitted family member and communities against each other. There are other wounds are more hidden. Anxiety. Depression. Addiction. Strained relationships. We all have burdens to bear, for ourselves and for others. The question remains, do you know why you have come to the tomb in the dark of night and why you are weeping?

And then, who are you looking for?” Does Mary even know? It sounds more like she is looking for a ‘what,’ a corpse, so she can get on with the business of preparing a body for burial. She is not even really looking for a ‘who,’ her own dear friend Jesus, alive and well. Of course, her confusion and her doubts do not prevent Jesus from revealing himself to her. He does not require that she explain the theology of the cross and resurrection and its universal implications. She does not even have to know who or what it is she is looking for. The irony of this scene is that while Mary’s busily looking for Jesus, it is Jesus who finds her, and it takes a little while before she even knows she has been found. And how does she know she has been found? According to John’s gospel it happens in a single word: “Mary.” He calls her by name, this friend who knows her so well. She did not know who it was when they began talking, perhaps tears still blurred her vision, but all of a sudden that voice sounded so familiar. And she knew.

Have we, like Mary, heard it while standing in a garden early in the morning, the dew still on the grass and the sun just starting to peek over the horizon? Or on the beach at sunset. Perhaps we think we heard it once while we were listening to a favorite piece of music. Or maybe we think we heard something that sounded an awful lot like Jesus saying our name when we were sitting in deep conversation with a close friend. Or maybe, just maybe, we have heard that voice while standing beside the grave of someone we loved. And somehow, without quite understanding why, we are able to believe that death, no matter how real, no matter how painful, is not the final word.

Remember, Mary Magdalene is the first Easter witness. She is the first to see the risen Jesus, and she is the first to tell others what she has seen. The message of the gospel is entrusted to Mary and she responds faithfully, going immediately to tell the disciples: “I have seen the Lord!”

If you think about it, the whole gospel story is simplified into this quiet exchange between these two dear friends: God meeting us where we are, wounded creatures that we are. God calling us by name and giving us the gift of new life. God sending us out into ministry in the world.

And again, notice the setting. The resurrection of our Lord and Savior, an event entirely unparalleled in history, an event that would change history itself forever. But instead of thunder and lightning to announce his return, without any pomp and circumstance whatsoever, Jesus reenters the world of the living in this quiet, intimate scene with one individual person. I have to believe the choice of persons was intentional. Jesus could have appeared first to Pilate, for instance. To Herod. He could have appeared to the crowd that turned from “Hosannas” to “Crucify Him” to the chief priests to prove to them that they were wrong about him. But no. He came first to Mary. Because the resurrection, for all of its universal significance, was also somehow about Mary herself. Standing all alone. Weeping. Wondering. Wishing things could be other than they were. Looking for something or someone able to change her world for the better, for good. And the answer comes in the form of the risen Lord himself.

It is said that we cannot know the joy of Easter without going through the pain of Good Friday. I will add to that, we have to stand in the darkness of Holy Saturday also. We may find ourselves in darkness now, but just wait. The light of Christ will pierce the darkness and reveal our resurrection hope. Jesus is there calling our names.

"How blessed is this night, when earth and heaven are joined, and we are reconciled to God."

Why are we here this morning? I suspect it is because we are an awful lot like Mary Magdalene. Like her in our weeping. Like her in our seeking. And wanting to be like her too in witnessing to the glorious, good news of this Easter day. Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia! Amen.