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Sunday March 27, 2005 - Easter Day, Year A

One of my favorite children's books
is called "The Nativity." It's the story of Jesus's birth taken straight from the King James Version of the Bible,
but illustrated by a woman called Julie Vivas, who watercolors that the people who translated the King James Version could never have imagined.
On the very first page, we are introduced to the Angel Gabriel.
Instead of appearing in Renaissance glory, tall and handsome, with gold leafed wings, pristine white robes, and a serene expression on his face, this Gabriel's wings are yellow and pink and blue and green and purple, with tears in the ends where he's damaged them in crash landings, and his brown hair sticks up every which way. His greenish blue robe has holes in the knees, and on his feet are big clumpy hiking boots
with the laces untied.
He's the sort of angel who crashes into trees, and who sits at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee,
who goes sheep riding when he's supposed to be concentrating on bringing good news to the shepherds, and who dangles from a branch in order to talk with camels at their eye level.
And at the end of the story, there he is, holding the baby Jesus
while his poor mother Mary tries to get back up on the donkey.

Now fast forward 33 years. Because I have a sneaking suspicion
that it's the same angel
who appears at the tomb on Easter morning. We don't know for sure, but any angel who appears at the tomb, pushes back the stone, and then
sits down on top of it,
has to have more in common with the angel that I remember from that book of the Nativity
than with your typical Renaissance angel
who looks like he wouldn't move a muscle for fear of getting his clothes dirty or his wings bent.
The angel in Matthew's account of the resurrection
seems to have swapped his blue-green robe for a white one, but already it has some mud on the hem and a bit of a rip where he put his shoulder to the stone to push it aside,
and there's a damp patch at the back where he sat down on the dew covered grass for a rest halfway through rolling the stone back. And he's a bit sweaty, and as usual, his hair is sticking up everywhere and his wings a little the worse for wear. And he still hasn't learned
to tie his boot laces.
He pushes and he pushes, and it's no wonder when he's done,
he climbs up on that stone,
and sits down for a rest.

And if that's the angel who is at the tomb, early that first Easter morning, then I imagine the rest of the scene isn't quite the way most artists picture it.

The sun has just come up, and two women come, Mary Magdalene and another Mary, hunched over and wearing dingy old clothes, the sort that let you kind of blend into the shadows,
and their eyes are red and bloodshot from crying and even though they've washed their faces you can still see the trails the tears have made.
No beautiful garden, but a rough rock face with a hole, and mud where they had trampled getting his body in.
And beside it two guards, resentful at being given such stupid job, guarding a dead man, and playing cards to while away the time.
And suddenly the earth began to tremble and shake,
and the two women grab on to each other to stay upright
and with a flash of light, the angel crash-lands in front of the tomb and begins pushing the stone back.
The guards are so shocked that they faint,
so the angel has to work around them,
and by the time he's done he's so exhausted that he climbs up onto the stone to take a rest.
And then notices the women, still frozen in shock, and says,
"Sorry about that. Don't be afraid. If you're looking for Jesus, he's risen — take a look for yourselves. And then go, go quickly and tell the rest of his friends that it's all okay, that they should make for Galilee and they'll find him there."
So the two women turn and run, half in fear, half in excitement, almost tripping over in their excitement.
And then suddenly
right in front of them is a man.
His clothes are as multicolored as the angel's wings, all pink and yellow and green and blue and purple blending into one gorgeous rainbow of color, his skin fresh and new like a newborn baby's. But his voice, his voice they know. It's Jesus.
And they fall on their faces and grab hold of his feet,
and he tells them,
"Get up, look at me! I'm not no longer dead! I'm alive! I'll meet you all in Galilee. Tell everybody!"
And the colors of his life wash over them,
and suddenly they are no longer teary red eyed mourners in dingy clothing,
but transformed,
their clothing washed golden in the light of his life
their faces lit up with joy,
reflecting a world that has suddenly burst into color,
glowing with the message,
"Christ is risen!"

That's the way I imagine it would look
if Julie Vivas took it into her head
to illustrate this story. It would look real.
And that's what's so important about this picture book version.
Because most times, when we see pictures of how people imagine the resurrection
it's not really believable. Everyone looks perfectly composed,
their clothing well ironed, their faces clean,
the scenery
as if it had been designed
by an expert landscape gardener.
There is no tragedy of death
lurking in the background, no cross standing vigil against the sky.

But if the gospels are anything to go by, the resurrection, if it was nothing else, was real.
As real as the pain, as real as the suffering, as real as the despair
that all of us know goes along with the death of someone we love. They had watched Jesus die, had seen the thorns drip blood down his face, the nails tear at his hands and feet, the spear rip into his side. They'd been there
when he breathed his last, gasping breath, when the earth had shaken the first time and the rocks shuddered into pieces.
They'd been there when they took his body down, and wrapped it in a cloth, and put it in a stone-hewn tomb.
This was real. There was no doubting it. Jesus was dead.

That's why the two on their way to Emmaus
didn't recognize him at first.
That's why Thomas couldn't believe it
when the other disciples told him they'd seen Jesus.
That's why the disciples didn't believe the women
the first time they told them that Jesus was risen.
His death was real.

And so was his resurrection.
When Jesus came out of the tomb, it wasn't just a figment of their imaginations, a bit of wishful thinking from people who would have been better off staying home till they got over their grief.
This wasn't a beautiful scene from a Hallmark card.
This is real.
Life at its fullest, life with the same intensity
that you find in a new baby,
the same energy
as a young child. This is life, life so strong
that it's infectious, raw, powerful, life-giving.

People were in shock, unable at first to believe the evidence of their own eyes.
Stumbling around, uncertain, and then shock giving way to joy,
as the wonder of it all dawned upon them,
as they discovered their lives transformed
by the irresistible life of the risen Lord.

And it's still real. Jesus is still risen. And still
his life is powerful enough to transform our lives, his life is irresistible enough
that we can't help but be drawn in.
"Come," he says. "Follow me! Death has lost the battle, and life has won! Tell everybody! Alleluia!"

Christ is risen. Alleluia!!!!
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!!!!

 

Sermon ©Raewynne J. Whiteley 2005