Resurrection in Nine Words
A sermon by Revd Dr Sam Wells
Readings for this service: John 20: 11-20
Resurrection is a breathtaking mystery. It’s also the epicentre of the Christian faith. It’s something to be discovered, believed, and lived. It’s an idle tale if it simply remains a technical event: if it’s real, it’s a cosmic transformation. It’s not something to agree with in your head. It’s not even something to believe in your heart. It’s something to know in your gut. I want to walk you through what it means to know resurrection in your gut, know it so deeply that you’re beyond historical exploration or existential anxiety. I want to show you resurrection in nine words: nine words that take us from despair to hope, from death to life, from darkness to light.
The first three words are all terrifying words. This is the first: gone. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb on the first day of the week. And what does she find? The body of Jesus is gone. If ever insult was added to injury. That’s the first sensation of bereavement, loss, grief: he’s gone. Early one morning my father came into my bedroom after several days of keeping vigil at my mother’s bedside. And as soon as I heard his hand on the door, I knew what was coming, although I couldn’t yet comprehend it. ‘Samuel,’ he said, very slowly. ‘She’s gone.’ Gone. Gone where? Who knows. Gone away? Yes, although her body is there in the bed. Gone. It’s so final, ultimate, irrevocable. So unyielding, uncompromising, ruthless. My mother was called Ruth. I remember thinking, looking at her lifeless body, that we were now Ruthless. Because we had no Ruth. You resort to humour like that because you can’t take in the full reality. Gone. You don’t get any choice in it, it happens by some outside force. Gone. Mary Magdalene feels that outside force. Jesus is gone. What an unforgiving word.
And then comes the second word: over. Once you’ve begun to apprehend the first word, this second word dawns on you. Over. You start to look back on all the things that once were but are no more. Mary recalls the tenderness of Jesus’ voice. The way she felt when she was with him, like she didn’t want the day to ever end, like this was a conversation that went to the heart of her soul. It’s over. The way he walked, with that curious bend at the shoulder. The way his hair parted. The way he laughed. Over. No more laughter. Once it seemed the laughter would never stop, like a joke that kept on getting funnier every time you told it. She thought about the people whose lives he touched, the children he healed, the song he put in people’s hearts. She remembered the times with the twelve, when they all felt as close as a group of people can ever feel to one another, honest and faithful and courageous and true. Over. Over and gone. Lost and gone. Over and done. Do you stay in that place till the reality sinks in? Or do you ever really accept that reality? Mary stares into the darkness of the tomb. It’s over. Jesus, and that whole Jesus thing, that turning the world upside-down together. Over.
But there’s a third word that’s even worse. Gone is about the present – he’s not here. Over is about the past. It’s finished. But there’s an even more terrifying word that’s about the future: never. Jesus was many things: but he made possible a whole lot more. Jesus said many things: but the things he made you think were even more amazing. Jesus did many things: but already he’d started to get people to do similar things, and together they were set to do even greater things. But would those things take shape, be realised, come to pass? Never. If gone takes the life out of a body, and over snatches the memories away, never robs us of all hope. Never. It’s like a boxing match where gone knocks the stuffing out of you, over brings you down to the canvas, and never goes beyond all mercy and kicks you out of the ring. ‘It’s not going to happen,’ says never. ‘Whatever silver lining or small consolation you’re holding onto, it’s a fantasy.’ Never. Brutal, cruel, final.
Those three words tell us where Mary Magdalene is at the beginning of our story. The fact that she’s searching in vain for Jesus’ body only makes her pathos more acute, more pitiful, more agonising to watch. I wonder if you’ve ever wanted to stop a person doing something fruitless, like chase a ball into the water when you know it’s already gone too far out to retrieve, or pursue a relationship that is never going to be mutual, or shake a dead body when there’s not a shred of life to be retained – but in each case you realise the person has to go through this pointless effort for a painful length of time until they can face the truth. That’s where Mary is early on Easter morning.
But here’s the fourth word. Here. It doesn’t add up: Jesus is here. He’s in front of her. It’s like a scene from a pantomime. Her body’s facing the tomb but her head turns behind her to Jesus. Then her body turns to Jesus but her head turns to the tomb. And her words are spoken in both directions, as if her head and body are going in opposite directions. It’s supposed to be funny. Because how else to communicate the wonder of this moment? Here. Jesus is here. I though he was gone. But he’s here.
And quickly there’s another word: now. It’s the central word of the nine words of resurrection. Now. Remember at the tomb of Lazarus Martha said, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ But Jesus is saying, ‘No – now. Not on the last day. Now. Here. Now. Not something you can postpone till you’ve thought about it. Not something you can tuck away and re-examine when you’ve recalled all your scepticism and misgivings. Now. What in the world could possibly be more important or take your gaze away from this moment: now. This is it. Creation gave us life on earth. But that’s a long time ago. On the last day we’ll be given eternal life with God. But that’s a long time away. This is now. This is creation and the last day all rolled into one. This is time collapsed into one moment, one man, one woman, in a garden, God in Christ, Israel in Mary, here, now. This is the whole Bible, the whole of eternity in one face-to-face encounter: now.
And here’s the word that goes with here and now: new. Is anything really new? Even a tiny baby – surely it’s just the recycled DNA of its parents? I remember my cynical philosophy professor saying ‘There’s no such thing as originality: originality is just forgetting where you read it.’ Is there anything so naive as a middle-aged couple starting out on a new relationship, convincing themselves that they won’t make all the same mistakes as they did before? Is there really such a thing as new? Well, Mary discovers, yes there is. A person who died in agony two days previously, standing utterly alive and thrillingly real, in front of her, with hands she can grasp and a face she can kiss. That’s new. A world made new. A life made new. A dream made new. Oh yes. So true it makes you shake your head with incomprehension and wonder. Oh yes. This is new. For sure this is new.
That’s what takes place when Mary meets the risen Jesus. Gone – over – never turn into here – now – new. It’s the biggest transformation in world history. But there’s more. Look at the last words in the story. Mary turns her own experience into a message to tell to the disciples: she knows straightaway that this isn’t something strange that was about her, it’s something astonishing that’s about the whole world. And this is the first word of what happens as she tells her story: again. Feel the tremor that goes through your body when you recognise the force of that word: again. You thought it was gone, over, never. But it’s again. That’s the resurrection: it’s both new and again. It’s creation repeated, and the last day anticipated: new and again. Like a hug with your best friend, like your favourite holiday destination, like the most exquisite dessert you know how to cook: new and again. The best two words in the language: and even better together.
But there’s another word: always. It ends up being the last thing Jesus says to the disciples: always. ‘I’ll be with you always.’ It seemed each hope was blocked; now every single one is open: always. It seemed the truth was gone, over, never: but it’s turned into always. Always and again. A repetition, but a non-identical repetition: everlasting and ever-new. This is now how it will always be. Death will no longer be the perpetual curse in every hope. Regret need no longer be the lingering poison in every memory. Always. Forgiveness isn’t going to be withdrawn. Everlasting life isn’t going to be curtailed. Read my lips, says Jesus to Mary and Mary to the disciples. Read my lips: always.
And there’s only one word left, and maybe we’ve got so much resurrection we almost don’t need it. But it’s a crucial word because it takes the tiny episode of Mary meeting Jesus and puts it on an canvas that makes us realise this is the story of eternity, the story of God seeking humanity from before the beginning of time until the end of all things, the story of humanity finally seeking God in return. The word is forever. Mary’s agony, of gone, over, never is our insight into the grief of God at our indifference and inertia in the face of eternal love. Mary’s agony, deep and crucifying as it is, lasts two nights: God’s agony lasts as long as time. But there’s something longer, wider, and bigger than time: and that’s forever. Mary sees the risen Jesus: and she passes from time to forever. She discovers what is longer than everlasting, truer than always, beyond permanent. She’s looking straight into the heart of forever.
You can’t rationally explain grief. We’re told it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. But here’s what they don’t tell you: only just. You can’t rationally explain faith, except to say, it’s the astonishing change, the wondrous hope, the indescribable peace that begins in your gut, and spreads, perhaps slowly, to your head and your heart and your hands, when you realise the three terrible words, gone, over, never, have been engulfed by the six tremendous words, here, now, new, again, always, forever. We have a word for the moment that happens. We call it Easter. Happy Easter: here now, new, again, always, forever.
