The Rev’d Stephen C. Holton
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
Easter Day
March 31, 2024
In the name of God: Father, Son, & Holy Spirit. Amen.
Yesterday dozens of folks were gathered all day long to prepare the church for our Easter celebrations. The Flower Guild, the Altar Guild, the Linen Guild, the Acolyte Guild, the Guild of Ushers, the Guild of Intercessors, the Guild of Saint Clare, the choir, the musicians, and yes, the clergy, have all been preparing for this joyful celebration!
The earth itself is preparing for new life, for resurrection. Bulbs are springing up in the garden. Seeds that were planted are sprouting. Trees are bursting with buds and fresh foliage. Even the squirrels have come out of their dens to play in the spring sunlight. Some of them even beat the children of the parish to the eggs that were hidden in the garden yesterday. Who knew that squirrels liked Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? Turns out they do, and they’re willing to chew through a plastic egg to get to that tasty treat, as well.
I saw a sign outside a shop downtown this week that asked, “Are you ready for Easter? We can help! Come inside for Easter savings.” Everything points towards today, it would seem! Everything is preparing!
And so have you, I’d venture to guess! Perhaps you’ve bought a new Easter outfit or prepared a feast to share with loved ones and family. Maybe you’ve made a reservation for Easter brunch, or sent a card to someone you care about. At least one of you has baked a bunny cake—I know because I’ve seen the pictures. Congratulations and well done; I am envious of your culinary talents.
And so many of you have set aside time for prayer—have taken time to come to the hours and hours of rounds of prayer of the Triduum—those days of preparation as we’ve walked together the way of the Cross with our Lord.
We sat with Jesus and his friends at supper as he washed their feet—and had ours washed too. We heard again his assurances, “This is my Body, for you.” “This is my blood.” We walked with him to the foot of the cross, heard his last breath, and his cry to God, “Why have you forsaken me?”
We went with Joseph of Arimathea to the tomb and saw his lifeless body laid there, and a stone rolled over the entrance. We heard in readings and prayers that even in death Jesus was saving—raising souls from Hades into new and eternal life in God.
And today, this morning, we have come with Mary Magdalene to the tomb. We’ve found the stone rolled away and the tomb empty. With Peter and John, we’ve peered into the tomb. We’ve seen the burial cloths lying there, and the cloth covering his face rolled up and put away to the side. We know his body is not there.
John & Peter go home. But Mary stays there by the tomb, in the garden.
Why does Mary stay? She already knows the tomb is empty. She already knows Jesus’s body is gone. Indeed, we hear her say it, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Why doesn’t she just go home, like John and Peter? Why does she stay? Is she paralyzed in her grief, so stricken that, in the midst of her tears she cannot think of what to do next? In the midst of her despair, she keeps looking, keeps expecting, keeps longing… And so she turns to the gardener and demands, more insistently this time, “If you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, aand I will take him away.”
And Jesus calls her name: “Mary!” and she recognizes him. And everything changes.
I love this image of Mary in the garden with Jesus. I prefer it sanitized and beautiful, more like the Pre Raphaelite picture in the south trancept window in Kempe’s glass—the image of Mary, turning towards Jesus, his hand stretched out to her.
I like the idea of Mary there amongst flowers, in the cool of the morning, in the freshness of the crisp air, maybe a little humidity hanging on from the night. I like thinking of bulbs and seeds springing up around her. She could be in the garden right here at Christ Church as it comes back to life.
There’s no dirt grinding into her garments as she kneels on the ground. There’s no pressure or pain in her knee as she leans towards Jesus. There’s a fragrance in the air, not unlike the fragrance of our Angelus incense we just used at the gospel a few moments ago. That’s what the garden smells like in my imagination.
Wouldn’t that be a lovely scene. Isn’t that beautiful. Mary meeting Jesus, knowing he’s alive, risen, there in the garden with her.
And that, friends, is exactly what it is—a scene, an imagination, a little bit of chemistry in my brain cooked up by some beautiful stained glass, some fragrant smoke, and some gorgeous springtime memories. That’s a nice view of the garden, of Mary’s time there, in retrospect, from a fine historical distance of two millennia. But that’s not at all what’s happening to Mary, or to us.
That’s the image I want to live in, that I’d like to tell you about this morning. But it’s not truth. Not the whole truth.
There’s another image I wanted to tell you about, one my friend posted on social media about a week ago—an image of springtime, an image of new life about to burst forth.
Do you know the osprey? That strange, awkward looking, powerful bird that inhabits our coastline? The one that builds the big nests of sticks and comes back year after year, wintering as far south as the Amazon, and flying all the way back to the Long Island shore to sit its nest and hatch its eggs? My friend has an ongoing relationship with this osprey couple in Milford. He spends lots of time out in the marsh in his kayak, in the river fishing, and in the harbor and in the sound in his sailboat. And he notices when the ospreys come back.
And there they were. In all their strange wonderfulness. In their constant faithfulness. Back at their nest, getting ready to lay eggs and hatch some newborns.
The ospreys, like the eagles, are wonderful images of new life, of hope. Remember when just fifty years ago their numbers had plummeted because of toxic pesticides? The insecticide DDT made their eggshells too soft and they cracked as the mothers were sitting their nests, destroying the embryos and leading to plummeting birth rates—and a real danger of extinction. Turns out DDT was fantastic for killing the mosquitos that were vectors for typhus and malaria—but terrible for these birds. Unintended consequences—the perils and dangers of our complex world.
But thanks to a ban in the 70’s, finally birth rates are up again for these marvelous apex predators, and I’ve seen eagles and ospreys and all kinds of birds thriving that I was afraid we might lose.
I wanted to preach about this osprey couple as a sign of new life. And they are.
But they aren’t a sign of resurrection.
The story of the osprey, like the story of spring breaking out, of seeds sprouting, of new life, is a wonderful story of hope. If you’ve had seasonal affective depression this past winter, go out and look at the new growth. See if you can spot some ospreys out at the Sound. This stuff is just full of hope and joy and new life!
But that’s the wonder and beauty of creation. It points towards the creator, but it is not the thing itself!
Resurrection is something entirely different. Entirely other. It’s not a process of re-emergence, of springing forth, of new life. It is not a product of or participant in the created order. In fact, it stands the created order on its head!
Why does Mary stay? Why does she stay there at the tomb?
Is it perhaps that, even in her grief, she hasn’t given up hope?
Is it perhaps that, even through her tears, she is looking for more? Looking for something that the world cannot promise or produce or provide? Hope beyond hope? Life beyond death? Love that cannot be stopped!
For in that moment, when Jesus calls her name, the world is indeed turned upside down—and she immediately recognizes that Jesus is alive! That he is there with her! That he is calling to her!
Resurrection, friends, is not springtime, though we’re lucky in the northern hemisphere to enjoy that springtime coincides with this resurrection story. It surely does help to remind us, to show us, what God is up to.
But resurrection is so much more.
Resurrection is what Mary is looking for, what she’s hoping and longing for, what she finds in that moment: Mary! Jesus calls out.
Resurrection is the sure and certain knowledge, the prima facie evidence, the proof positive that no matter how dark things are, that no matter how desparate the world seems, that no matter the death and destruction that surrounds us, that God will not be stopped. That life will not be ended. That death cannot prevail. That love is the ultimate truth.
What is truth? Pilate asks. As Fr Jett pointed out on Good Friday, Pilate has given up. Is he cynical? Is he too tired? Is he overwhelmed? What is truth, he asks?
And Jesus answers and shows it to Mary: for this is truth. That God loves us – you and me and all of creation – Judas and the thieves beside the cross and the soldiers and John and Peter and Mary and you and me –God loves us all so much that God will not be stopped in that love. That God will not let go. That death has no power over us. That love has the final word.
Friends, I don’t know what John and Peter were thinking as they left the tomb. Did they leave knowing that Jesus was alive? Or were they perplexed? Or just too tired to make sense of it all? The gospel doesn’t tell us. But it spends considerable ink on Mary’s journey.
She stays there at the tomb. She looks in, but she doesn’t give up. She keeps searching. And Jesus meets her there, in the rocky ground of that burial garden, and calls out to her: Mary!
And what does he tell her to do? To go and tell the others.
And she does.
And so now John and Peter and all the rest, and hundreds and thousands and billions more, over the course of a hundred thousand Sundays of resurrection, over these two millennia, all those folks know the truth: that Jesus lives, that death is conquered, that life in the love of God is real. And eternal. And for you and for me.
That’s the truth. And we know it because Mary told us so. Because she saw it first. And she shared.
There is so much hope to be had—hope in spades. The return of spring, the resurgence of the ospreys, the hope I feel spending time with you in this space, in this moment, in this mass—all of that hope points to the truth. The truth that Mary was waiting for. The truth that you and I are longing for.
Can you believe Jesus? Can you believe Mary? She’s seen it first hand and she’s telling you.
Jesus is alive. And he is calling to you!
Alleuia. Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.