The Last Laugh

John 20:1-18

April 1, 2018 • Mount Pleasant UMC

I seriously doubt anyone got much sleep. It had been a long weekend. Jesus had been crucified on Friday, and his body was taken down and put into a tomb just before sunset on Friday night. The weekend was a high holiday, and so there were celebrations and feasts, but I doubt that anyone in their group felt like celebrating. Everything they had been working for over the last three years had died when Jesus shouted, “It is finished” (19:30). His life was finished, and so were their hopes and dreams of a coming kingdom. So Friday night, they went home and tried to sleep. All day Saturday, the day of rest, they would have stayed home, grieving Jesus’ death. The Sabbath ended at sundown on Saturday, but no one would get out at night. It was too dangerous. So, again, on Saturday night, they tried to sleep. And somewhere between 3 and 6 a.m., the “final watch” of the night, Mary had had enough of waiting. She couldn’t take it anymore. While it was still dark on Sunday morning (20:1), Mary (and, as we know from the other Gospels, some other women as well) made her way to the tomb, the place where they had left Jesus’ body on Friday night. It’s important to note a detail we often miss when we read this story: no one goes out to Jesus’ grave to see if he has been resurrected. Every Gospel tells us these women go to the tomb to finish the burial customs and to grieve their dead friend. Resurrection is the furthest thing from their minds on this early Sunday morning (cf. Barclay, The Gospel of John, Volume 2, pg. 266; Card, John: The Gospel of Wisdom, pg. 204).

I’m wondering if some of us gathering here might be like those women, like Mary. We’ve come this morning for a wide variety of reasons. Some of us are here because we’re always here, while others might be here just because it’s Easter, or because we’re with family, and even others of us may not be sure what we think about this whole “resurrection” thing. We might be thinking, “If I can just get through the sermon, there’s a really good meal waiting for me at home.” And some of you may have so many things on your mind, difficult things happening in your life, that believing in resurrection this year is just, well, difficult if not impossible. Well, friends, I want to let you know you’re in good company this morning. Mary and the other women who went to the tomb two thousand years ago did not go to see if Jesus had been raised. Though he had told them over and over again that he would only spend a short time in the tomb, they either didn’t hear him or didn’t believe him. After all, everyone knows that resurrection doesn’t happen. More than that, they knew it couldn’t happen. Now, some Jews of the time had begun to believe in it, but they only believed it would happen to all of God’s people at the end of time, when God came to make everything right. No one believed it could or would happen to one man in the middle of time. It was odd, outlandish, unheard-of and unimagined (Wright, John for Everyone, Part Two, pg. 142).

And yet, John asserts, as do the other Gospel writers, that resurrection is, in fact, what happened. When Mary and the rest come to the tomb on that first Easter morning, what they find is a stone rolled away, grave clothes laying on the stone bed as if the body had dissolved right through them, and a gardener who looks vaguely familiar. The tomb is empty—and even then, no one (except John) immediately thinks, “He’s risen!” They think, “Someone stole the body!” But, John begins to wonder, why would they unwrap the body? Why would they leave the grave clothes behind? Why is the empty tomb so orderly? If it had been ransacked, wouldn’t it be a mess? John believes not based on what he read in Scripture, but because of what he saw with his own eyes (cf. Barclay 267). This is what he has been trying to tell us all throughout this Gospel, that this Jesus, who lived and taught and healed and loved, is not just another human teacher. He was and is the Son of God, and he is risen from the dead. He is the one, John will tell us, the one in whose name we can find life—because he is risen.

So we’ve heard the story, but if, as I’ve said all throughout the season of Lent, John wants us to get a fresh glimpse of Jesus, if John (writing at the end of the first century) is “filling in the gaps” of the Jesus story, what does he want us to know in the way he tells us about the resurrection? What does he want us to notice? What changed when Jesus was raised from the dead? Well, for one, the world moved from darkness to light. Notice how John begins this chapter: “While it was still dark…” Not only is that a notation about what time of day it is when Mary heads out to the tomb, it’s also a reminder of things John has said earlier. All throughout the Gospel he has been using imagery of light and dark to describe the spiritual struggle taking place because of Jesus’ presence in the world. In the very beginning of the Gospel, John assured us, even before he has told us anything about Jesus specifically, that darkness would not win. He put it this way: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (1:5). We read that every year at Christmas, and as true as it is then, it’s even more true at Easter. For that matter, if it wasn’t true at Easter, it couldn’t be true at Christmas. If there wasn’t an Easter, no one would celebrate Christmas. John goes on to describe Jesus as “the true light that gives light to everyone” (1:9). And, just a few chapters before what we read this morning, John describes the moment when Judas goes to betray Jesus as “night” (13:30). That’s not just a note on the time of day; we already knew it was evening. John is actually talking about the oncoming darkness, that the light of the world (cf. 8:12) is about to be snuffed out. So while it was still dark, while it still seemed that darkness was going to win, that’s when Mary headed out to the tomb. While she was still in grief. While she had no hope. While everything good seemed beyond reach. That’s when Mary went to check on her friend, to stand beside his tomb, to grieve the darkness that had come into the world. It’s there, surrounded by darkness, that she encounters the bright light of hope found in the resurrection.

I’ve told this story many times before, maybe some of you have heard it, but a family was once on a tour of Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, and if you’ve been on those tours, you know how when they get to the deepest part of the cave, they will turn the lights off to show you how dark it is in the bowels of the earth. Well, when this happened on this particular tour, the little girl in the family began to cry; she was afraid of the dark. Almost immediately, the voice of her brother was heard: “Don’t worry, sis,” he said, “someone here knows how to turn on the lights.” When it’s darkest, in a cave or in life, even the smallest amount of light will make a tremendous difference. John wants us to see the move from darkness to light when Mary arrives at the empty tomb.

But why does Mary go to the tomb? Very few did; according to the various Gospel accounts, it was only a few of the women, very few compared to the number of followers Jesus once had. None of the men or the “official” disciples could be bothered to get up and make the trip to the tomb. They stayed behind, perhaps sleeping or perhaps just staring at the walls in grief. But Mary comes out of her deep love for Jesus. She was, very likely, a single woman; she is never identified like others are as the “wife of” or “mother of.” She is Mary of Magdala, much like Jesus is “Jesus of Nazareth,” identified by place rather than family. Beyond that, she had a difficult past. History often pictures her as a prostitute, but the Bible doesn’t say that. What we are told, over in Luke’s Gospel (8:2), is that Mary had “seven demons” and Jesus had delivered her from those demons. Once that happened, she became a passionate follower and a financial supporter of Jesus’ ministry, so she must have had some financial means, even though she was single. But here’s the point: she joined up with Jesus’ cause because of what he had done for her. He had changed her life. He had loved her enough to see the struggle she was in and deliver her from it. We don’t know how long she was tormented by her demons, but we do know her life was pointed in an entirely new direction when she came into contact with Jesus (cf. Hamilton, John: The Gospel of Light and Life, pg. 148; Barclay 265-267). By showing us Mary coming to the tomb, in Mary being the first witness to the resurrection, John wants us to see that love always triumphs over evil. Love always wins.

These past few weeks have seen a movie come out that no one wanted to take a risk on. No movie studio thought the story of Bart Millard and the song “I Can Only Imagine” had a chance of making any money. No one would be interested in seeing this story, the production company was told, and yet they persisted in making the movie, convinced that, now more than ever, we needed a story told of love triumphing over evil. Without giving anything away, that really becomes the message of the film: where there is abuse and anger and hatred, love wins. Where there is a lack of forgiveness and a desire for revenge, love wins. Where there is death, love wins. It’s a powerful true story, but it’s also a modern parable for our times. So much of what we encounter, on social media as well as just in our daily lives, in the news and on the streets, is full of hatred. An evil that seems to have always been bubbling just under the surface has, within the last few years, burst forth into the mainstream culture. When we’re behind a keyboard online, it seems we will say things we would never say face to face. As a pastor, I’ve had incidents where someone has been the kindest, gentlest person to my face on Sunday, and then on Monday morning send me an email that cuts very deeply and says things I know they would never say out loud. How do we respond in the face of such anger, hatred—evil? The world did its worst evil to Jesus. They crucified the Son of God; we crucified the Son of God. We gave death to the one who came to bring life. The world did its worst, and Jesus just kept loving, because love wins. The resurrection is the affirmation of everything Jesus taught, and it is the ultimate proof that love triumphs over evil, hatred, and even death.

And that brings us to the third thing John wants us to see here, a phrase you’ve heard often enough from me, but I’m going to keep saying it until we believe it or until you’re sick of me saying it. It’s this: the worst thing is never the last thing. Mary comes to grieve. The disciples are back at the house, grieving. The absolute worst thing they could have imagined has happened, and they don’t know what to do. They are without their master; they are lost. The last three days have turned their world upside down, and not in a good way! The worst has happened; what’s next? You know, there has been a lot of conversation about it, but personally I love the way Lent fell this year, the way it lined up with our cultural holidays. Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, was on Valentine’s Day, and today, Easter, falls on April Fool’s Day. Those bookend holidays remind us, really, what this season is all about. It’s about the deep, deep love of God for his people. And it’s about God getting the last laugh on humanity, because just when the disciples though it was all over, just when Rome thought it was finally over, just when Mary thought she had lost all she could lose, Jesus came back. After the resurrection, nothing would ever be the same again. To quote a song by Keith and Kristyn Getty, “Death is crushed to death; Life is mine to live!” The worst thing is never the last thing, and from that first Easter on, “Every call to worship is a call to celebrate the great joke God played on sin and death by raising Jesus from the dead” (Sweet, The Greatest Story Never Told, pg. 28).

We can celebrate that truth. We must celebrate that truth; it’s the whole reason we gather here, not just on Easter but every Sunday. But before we can truly celebrate, we need to stand with Mary as she weeps for just a few moments more and ask what it is we come to the tomb with. It’s fascinating, isn’t it, that when Mary looks into the tomb there are two angels, dressed in white, one sitting at each end of where Jesus’ body once had been? Peter and John had just been in the tomb and they hadn’t seen any angels; where did they come from? It’s possible, of course, that they had just appeared after Peter and John left, but it’s also possible that they have been there all the time. Maybe, as Tom Wright suggests, you can only see angels through tears. Whatever has happened, they ask Mary why she is crying. The angels see life from a different reality. They know what has happened: that life has pushed back death. “Why are you crying, Mary?” They want her to name it, to give voice to her loss. Before she can truly see and celebrate the joy of the resurrection, before she can overcome her fear, she first has to say out loud what it is she has lost. For Mary, it’s the loss of Jesus, but those angels might ask you and me the same thing this morning. What loss do you come with this morning? Why are you crying? What brings you to the tomb? Mary says, “They have taken my Lord away” (20:13). You say, “They have taken away…” What? They have taken away my husband, my wife. My loss is one that happened through death this year, and it seems the powers of darkness have won. You don’t understand how dark my days are. They have away my home or my possessions, my livelihood or my job. Everything I thought was valuable has disappeared in a moment this year. My worth and self-esteem are the lowest they have ever been; it’s dark. They have taken away my children; a relationship has ended and the joy I once found in family has died. They have taken away my dignity, my rights; this year has seen a lot of confession and accusation by people who have found themselves, at some point in their lives, violated by someone in power over them. Some of these things happened long ago, but only now has the courage surfaced to “go public” with what happened. Maybe that’s true for some of you this morning, in similar or other situations. They have taken my hopes; they have taken my life. Maybe some of you this morning are dealing with hopes you had for a life that will never be. Others of you may be dealing with a life-threatening diagnosis and you haven’t told anyone yet. Maybe you haven’t even admitted it to yourself. Our grief, the world’s grief—it’s all concentrated in Mary, standing by the tomb, weeping (cf. Wright 146). What is it you have lost? Why are you crying?

Before the angels can respond to Mary, she hears a voice behind her. Because she is still not anticipating resurrection, she doesn’t think it’s Jesus. That never enters her mind. Instead, she assumes it’s the gardener. Who else would be out here in the garden, early on a Sunday morning? It isn’t until he calls her name that she recognizes him. Something in the way he says her name opens her eyes to the reality standing in front of her. Something in the tone of his voice, perhaps, reminded her of the love she once felt from this teacher, and she cries out, “Rabboni,” which literally means “my teacher” (Card 207). It’s a possessive word, and it tells us that Mary thinks now everything can go back to the way it was. Jesus is back, and they can all pick up where they left off. That’s why Jesus tells her, “Do not hold onto me” (20:17). I remember as a kid hearing a pastor explain that Jesus didn’t want her to grab onto him because his resurrection body was new, and that it had to basically have time to “set,” to “form.” That’s why he didn’t want Mary holding onto him, according to this pastor. And all I could think of was Jello, you know how you put it in the refrigerator to “set” and to “form.” So was Jesus’ body like Jello, and when Mary saw him, it wasn’t “done” yet? No, I don’t think that’s what Jesus is saying at all. Jesus is, in essence, telling Mary that things aren’t going to be like they were before. She can’t hold onto him; he wasn’t raised just for her, or even just for the disciples. He was raised to bring hope and life and light and joy to the whole world. He is the hope of the world, not just of Israel, not just for Mary. Don’t hold onto him; he belongs to all of creation, not just to her.

Now, there’s one other critical thing we need to notice here: that what happened to Jesus is a resurrection, not a resuscitation. Just a few chapters before, John has told us about what we sometimes call the “resurrection” of Lazarus, but in reality what Jesus did was resuscitate Lazarus. He brought him back to life in this world. Resurrection is about a new body, a new way of living. Consider these differences: “Lazarus needed someone to untie him from his cloths, and the napkin around his head. Jesus left his behind altogether. Lazarus came back into a world where death threats still mattered (12:10). Jesus had gone on, through death and out into a new world, a new creation, a new life beyond, where death itself had been defeated and life, sheer life, life in all its fullness, could begin at last” (Wright 143). More than that, Lazarus had to die again, but Jesus was raised to never die again. To miss that is to miss our own hope. Pastor Craig Groeschel tells of the first time he read through the Gospels, and he started with Matthew, read through it all in one sitting, and was intrigued by Jesus. He read how they killed and buried Jesus, and then how he came back to life. Then he started Mark, and read again how they killed Jesus, and he thought, “Wow, I didn’t know that happened twice.” Then he read Luke and, again, how they killed Jesus, to which he responded, “Man, you’d think he’d see this coming after two times.” Only later did he learn that the Gospels tell the same story in different ways (cf. Divine Direction, pg. 95), and what he really missed was that once Jesus was raised, he wasn’t going to face death again. Ever. It makes a difference to understand that this is a resurrection, not just a human body brought back to life. What Jesus brought on that first Easter was a whole new way of life.

And he brought the promise of life for us as well. The New Testament tells us that Jesus’ resurrection is the promise of our own (1 Corinthians 15). In fact, the Bible goes so far as to say that if Jesus is not raised, we have no hope at all (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:19). So what will that be like? What is eternal life like? I don’t know, to be honest, but I can guess that a lot of our ideas about it are wrong because the Bible says God is preparing an eternity we can’t begin to imagine and have never seen the likes of (cf. 1 Corinthians 2:9). I only really know three things for sure about eternity: one, Jesus will be there and he will satisfy our deepest longings. Two, we will have new bodies. These bodies we have now are not made for eternity, but we will be given a body that is, a body like Jesus’ that, while similar to what we have now, is also different enough that Mary didn’t quite recognize him. And the third thing I know is that you will be you and I will be me. Jesus was still Jesus, enough that Mary knew who he was when he spoke her name. The travelers on the road to Emmaus recognized him in familiar actions (Luke 24:13-35), and Thomas recognized him by the scars on his hands and side (John 20:24-29). Whatever else eternity looks like, I’m content to leave that in the hands of God and know that it will be good. It will be very good. It will be all we long for and more. We have this hope, this promise, because Jesus was raised, and we can know for certain that the worst thing this life can throw at us—that worst thing is never the last thing.

For the next few weeks, Jesus found himself in and out of the lives of the disciples. There are times he meets them on a mountaintop, or on a seashore, or at a table. Every time—every time—I imagine laughter, joy and celebration. How could they not? Jesus was back, death was defeated and hope was loose in the world. Pastor Jim Harnish puts it this way: “I like to imagine that gathered around the dinner table with the risen Christ in the upper room (Luke 24:36-43), they found themselves laughing with the deep, life-giving, hope-bringing laughter of God—who always gets the last laugh” (Harnish, Easter Earthquake, pg. 43). That’s the message: God always gets the last laugh. Whatever you’re going through, he is with you and will bring you through it.

That was the whole point of John writing this Gospel. If you’ve been with us all through Lent, you (hopefully) remember what we talked about way back on Valentine’s Day—excuse me, Ash Wednesday—that John wrote this Gospel with one purpose. It’s at the end of this chapter: “These are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name” (20:31). The resurrection is proof that true life comes through Jesus, the one who defeated death, because if you no longer have to fear death, you no longer have to fear anything. Light defeats darkness. Love triumphs over evil. The worst thing is never the last thing. Thanks be to God! Amen!