New Beginnings

New Beginnings

John 20:1-10

April 21, 2019 (Easter) • Mount Pleasant UMC

In the 1920’s, so the story goes (and it may or may not be true), author Ernest Hemingway was having lunch with several friends when he bet them he could write a complete story in six words. His friends were hesitant to take the bet, but Hemingway told them to each put in ten dollars, and if when he was done they decided he hadn’t done it, he’d match that ten dollars back to each of them. So they took the bet, and Hemingway quickly scratched out six words on a napkin, which he passed around to all those gathered at the table. After reading the story, the friends gave him the money, and this short story is considered among his best writing. The story was this: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Some here have lost a child (we did too), and you know what a painful story those six words tell. You know the longing for hope that rests behind those words. And whether the story of Hemingway’s story is true or not, he certainly recognized the pain behind those six words. He did once write that [SLIDE] “the world breaks everyone” (qtd. in Harnish, Strength for the Broken Places, pg. 9). Sooner or later, we all discover that the world, and often our own personal world, is just broken. We can try to ignore it, but the signs are all around us. Broken families, broken marriages, broken economy, broken friendships, broken government, broken lives, broken you and broken me. A week ago, we saw in Mississippi how natural disasters like tornadoes can destroy everything we’ve worked for in a matter of moments. We’ve experienced economic collapses that steal our well-being and taxes that seem to take everything we worked hard to save. Terrorism continues to threaten our security. And cancer or any other disease might rob us of years we thought we would have together. Sooner or later, the world breaks everyone, and it’s easy to become discouraged or depressed because the world is not what it ought to be and it’s not what we thought we were promised.

As the followers of Jesus as they waited for the dawn, they had to be thinking similar things. Jesus had been their friend, their teacher, and in their mind, the best hope for someone to rescue them from the power of Rome. But he had been captured—well, not really captured. It was more like he surrendered. He really turned himself over to the authorities when they came looking for him. And then he had been tried (not legally, but tried anyway) and found not guilty by the Roman governor. Yet the Jewish religious leaders had still managed to get Pilate, the governor, to have Jesus crucified. He had been killed in a most brutal, horrific, public way. That was Friday, the worst day, and their day of worship (the Sabbath) began at sundown on Friday. No work was allowed on the Sabbath, so Jesus was buried in a borrowed tomb, and they all went home to wait for the end of the Sabbath. However, when the sun went down on Saturday, it was too dark and thus too dangerous to be out and about, so they waited another night. Two nights they’ve waited—until they could wait no longer. John says it was “still dark” on Sunday morning when Mary Magdalene went out to the place where Jesus had been buried. It’s the “fourth watch” of the night, between 3 and 6 a.m. when she heads out (Barclay, The Gospel of John, Volume 2, pg. 266; Kalas, Easter from the Backside, pgs. 52-53), but the real issue isn’t the time of day. I think John is also saying something about the state of Mary’s heart. It was dark that morning, because Jesus was dead. He was gone. Her hope had died with the pounding of the nails.

The other Gospels tell us there were other women with her, but John only reports Mary’s journey. We’re also told in the other Gospels that they brought spices to anoint the body, and while that may have been part of the reason they went, it was also tradition to visit the grave of someone you loved regularly for the first three days. After that, it was thought, the spirit of the dead person departed because the body had decayed to the point it was unrecognizable (Barclay 265). So probably for a variety of reasons, Mary is going to visit the tomb.

One thing she is not doing at the grave is looking for a resurrection (cf. Morris, NICNT: The Gospel of John, pg. 831). None of the followers of Jesus went looking for his body to be raised. They knew that dead people don’t rise. The first death I really remember hitting me hard was my Grandma Irick. It’s been thirty-six years since she died, and I can still remember standing on the hillside at Geetingsville Cemetery, crying next to her grave. It’s still a very tangible memory to me, and I remember how hard it was for us to leave that day. I remember walking slowly down the hill back to Mom and Dad’s car to go home. Grandma had always been an important part of my life. She lived nearby and my brother and I were there all the time. In that graveyard, I couldn’t imagine life without her. And yes, we mourned. We missed her. And while I don’t remember visiting her grave myself, I’m sure my parents have, but we haven’t once been there looking to see if she might have been raised, because we know dead people don’t rise. It’s not the way the world works. And so, even though many of them had seen Jesus raise Lazarus from the dead not that long ago (cf. John 11),  these followers of Jesus don’t go looking to see if the same thing might have happened to Jesus. Why? Because Jesus is the one who raised Lazarus. If Jesus is dead, that possibility is gone. There’s no one to raise Jesus. He’s dead. His body is in the tomb. The story is over. Mary (and whomever else might have gone with her) is simply there to visit the grave, mourn a friend and to finish the burial. They’re not looking for a resurrection.

Sometimes we find not what we’re looking for but what we most need. That’s what Mary finds in the garden. According to John, when he arrives there, she notices the tomb is open. Not knowing what to think, she runs back to the men disciples (who must have been sleeping in that day) and tells them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!” (20:2). So Peter and John take off running and when they arrive at the tomb, they go in and they find it empty—mostly. The grave clothes are still there. The wrappings that had been around Jesus’ body are still there, still blood-stained, still laying in the same place where his body was put. But the body is gone (cf. Wright, John for Everyone, Part Two, pg. 141). Peter’s frustrated, but John’s mind begins turning. If it had been a grave robber, he would not have taken the time to unwrap the body. He wouldn’t have left the wrappings behind. And if Jesus had not really been dead, if he had only fallen asleep, he wouldn’t have left the wrappings behind, either. How did he get out of the tomb from the inside, anyway? The stone covering the entrance was locked into place, and weighed 1-2 tons (about the size of a midsize car today). It would have taken, according to historians, ten strong, healthy men to move it up out of the groove. Jesus had been beaten and murdered and had lost significant amounts of blood. He couldn’t have gotten out on his own, and the only ones who might have helped him get out were hiding with Peter and John for the whole Sabbath. As John thinks through this, the writers tells us he came to believe (20:8). Now exactly what he believed at that moment, the writer doesn’t tell us. I doubt he instantly understood everything; after all, we’re told, “They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead” (20:9). “He didn’t yet understand the Scripture, but he believed the miracle” (Kalas 55). In that moment, standing in a tomb that once contained a body and now didn’t, realizing that other explanations didn’t add up, John came to believe that something extraordinary had happened. Something different was taking place. Something new had arrived.

It’s not entirely clear what Jews in the first century believed about resurrection. As I mentioned last Sunday, folks in the Old Testament didn’t really believe in life after this one, but by Jesus’ time many believed at least that at the end of history, all righteous people would be raised to some kind of new life. What that was and how it was going to happen wasn’t clear. For instance, in John 11, when Jesus tells Martha that he’s going to bring her brother Lazarus back to life, she replies, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day” (11:24). But that’s not what Jesus meant, and he proceeded to prove it to her. So Martha’s statement tells us they had some kind of belief that, at the end of history, at least the righteous people (and maybe all people) would be raised. But a resurrection for one man in the middle of history—that was not something they had considered (Wright 142). In the garden, Jesus turns their world upside down. He does something unique, something that’s never been done before, something new. When Jesus is raised to new life, he gave us all a new beginning.

“New” is not something we do well, is it? We prefer the known, the comfortable, even if it leads somewhere other than resurrection and life. The easy thing for Mary and Peter and John to do at this moment would have been to turn around, walk away slowly, and forget they had ever seen the empty tomb. Go back to the old ways. Keep following the well-worn paths, even if they’re not good paths.

That’s what we do, isn’t it? We know that statistically an abuse victim will leave their abuser at least seven times before they stay away for good. They go back to the abuser because that way of life is at least familiar. The known is better, in their mind, than the unknown. I knew a man who was in a job he hated for many years, and every time he talked about changing jobs, pursuing something that would better match his gifts and passion, he talked himself out of it. The job, even though he hated it, provided security, familiarity. Change was too scary; the old was familiar. We tend to prefer (even choose) brokenness over resurrection, even in our relationships. And so we tread old patterns of living instead of finding healthy ways to relate. We spread gossip rather than trying to find out the truth, and even when we learn the truth we prefer the gossip. We look out for number one rather than living as a community. We hurt and wound and kill each other rather than finding new ways of living, ways that bring healing and hope. We stay on Good Friday. It’s not that we don’t believe Jesus was raised from the dead; it’s that we believe that’s only for “someday.” Someday, we’ll live forever with him if we believe, and while that’s true—wonderfully true—it’s not the whole story.

If we’re going to fully embrace the resurrection, we have to embrace this truth: if Jesus really was raised from the dead, then anything is possible. If death is defeated, we might have a good chance at life in all its abundance. That’s why the Apostle Paul can almost shout, “Death has been swallowed up in victory! Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?…But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:54-57). Easter reminds us that, no matter where we are in life, the worst thing is never the last thing. No matter what we are going through right now, there is hope for something better. The great Methodist missionary E. Stanley Jones put it this way: “Since life’s last word for me is to be Easter, I do not mind if life’s latest word for me is a cross” (qtd. in Harnish 129). No matter what we’re going through, Easter reminds us this is not the end. The worst thing is never the last thing. A broken world can be redeemed, relationships can be mended and resurrection is God’s last word for this weary old world.

Barbara Brown Taylor, who is a preacher and teacher in the Episcopal Church, tells about the times she would go to the local nursing home early in her ministry and conduct services for the residents. She would get so discouraged because most of them slept through the twenty-minute liturgy and very few wanted to partake in communion when she offered it to them. One day, in the midst of the liturgy, one woman started loudly singing, “Row, row, row your boat.” Taylor always came home discouraged, feeling like she was wasting her time. And then one day, when they were gathered, she was trying to get the residents’ attention so she clapped her hands and shouted, “What shall I read from the Bible today? What would you like to hear?” And over the noise, Taylor heard one voice call out, “Tell us a resurrection story!” Suddenly, everything got quiet in the room, and one by one, other voices called out, “Yes, tell us a resurrection story. Tell us a resurrection story!” (Harnish 154). Tell us a resurrection story! Life where there seems only to be death. Courage out of fear. Hope out of despair.

And if we believe that—if we really believe that, then we ought to be busy offering that kind of hope to every person who has experienced the brokenness of this world. Charlie Peace was a well-known criminal in London who was sentenced by death by hanging in 1854. As he was being led to the gallows, an Anglican priest followed along behind and recited the liturgy for executions: “Those who die without Christ experience hell, which is the pain of forever dying without the release which death itself can bring.” And at that point, Charlie Peace turned to the priest and said, “Do you believe that? Do you really believe that?” And the priest mumbled, “Well, I suppose I do.” And Peace shot back, “Well, I don’t. But if I did, I’d get down on my hands and knees and crawl all over Great Britain, even if it were paved with pieces of broken glass, if I could just rescue one person from what you just told me” (Campolo, Let Me Tell You A Story, pgs. 102-103).

We take this story for granted. We take this hope for granted. We hold the hope for a broken world—why do we so often keep it to ourselves? What if we took a chance, took a risk, and did something radically new beyond these walls to show and share the love of Jesus. A few weeks ago, we shared about just such a project, something new and big for God called “Friendship House.” This project came out of a grant we received to help us determine where the gaps are in the community when it comes to special needs. There are not many of these in the country and we will be the first one under the direction of a local church. So what is a friendship house? It’s a place designed to create a launchpad into independence for young adults with intellectual or developmental disabilities while enjoying community with their peers. It’s a place where college students and special needs residents live together in community, establishing a community that eats together, prays together, and celebrates together. It’s not a group home; the purpose is to model what resurrection life looks like. Since Jess shared about this a few weeks ago, a lot of things have happened. We have a location, our Leadership Council has given the “go-ahead,” and we’ve worked out the financing because the question is: how much will this cost us? The answer is: nothing in the church budget. The Friendship House will be self-sustaining from the matching grant, the rent and private donations. So today we’ve opened up applications for the residents, college students and friend residents, and the links for those are on your sermon outline this morning as well as on the screen. I’m excited about this. I’m excited about the ways Friendship House will become a place where Biblical community can happen and the ways it will have an impact on a neighborhood (and maybe beyond). It will be a place for new beginnings, a place to experience resurrection.

But Friendship House isn’t the only place where we can experience resurrection. The hope of new beginnings can erupt in our lives on any day. As I said, Mary and the disciples were not expecting something new when they went to the tomb that day. And yet, in the midst of their mourning, they found new life. They found hope. They found joy again. That same promise is available to us. Jesus’ resurrection is the promise of life eternal, but it’s also the validation of everything he taught about how life ought to be lived. Jesus’ resurrection tells us new life is possible. That broken relationship? New life can come into that. Hearts can be healed when even just one person is willing to work toward forgiveness and healing. That cancer? That illness? New life can come there, too, even if healing does not take place in the way we want it to or think it ought to. In my twenty-six years in full-time ministry, I have known so many people who have faced terminal illnesses with a faith that makes me humble. I have learned how to live with dignity by watching how some have died with absolute confidence in their Lord and Savior. That illness may end in physical death, but resurrection may come into someone else’s life by the way you face it. That job that seems dead-end, or endless? A new beginning doesn’t necessarily mean a new job. It might, but it could also be in the way you approach the job God has given you now. You can be a source of hope and new life to those around you by the way you work faithfully and live with integrity in front of those who are watching to see if your faith makes any difference in the world. What one step will you take this week, in the midst of the brokenness in your life, to bring fresh life, new beginnings, resurrection to the world around you? How will others see the hope of the resurrected Jesus living in you?

You don’t have to watch children very long to know they love repetition. I remember when our kids were little, one of their favorite words was, “Again! Again!” And we know how much babies love to drop stuff from the table so you’ll pick it up, so they can throw it down again. British theologian G. K. Chesterton described it this way: Children “always say, ‘Do it again,’ and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead.” Chesterton speculates that perhaps God is like that; after all, Jesus did say you had to become like a child to enter the kingdom (cf. Mark 10:15). “Perhaps,” Chesterton says, “God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them” (qtd. in Harnish 147-148). And the God who makes daisies also raised his son Jesus from the dead, and he loves nothing more than to bring life out of death, hope of out of hopelessness, light out of darkness. Maybe—just maybe—God is in the midst of every situation in which you feel hopeless, every place where you feel alone, every moment where you feel discouraged, and he’s just waiting on your prayer to bring resurrection into that situation. “Do it again, God! Do it again! Just as you raised Jesus from the dead, bring new life and new beginnings into my life, into my situation. Do it again, God! Do it again!” And the amazing thing? He will! He will, indeed. And that, my friends, is the promise of Easter! It’s our reason to celebrate!