Sunday Reflection, April 8: Easter Sunday 2007

Easter Sunday

Scripture Readings

Acts of the Apostles 10: 34, 37-43

Psalm 118

Colossians 3:1-4

Luke 24: 1-12

When someone whom we love dies, we begin to tell stories about them. The memories of the things they said, the images of the way they looked and acted, flood our minds in the midst of our grief. The stories begin to take shape very soon and they may live on with great vitality. In the beginning, when the grief is still fresh and raw, the stories remain inside of us. It hurts too much to express them aloud. But eventually they are spoken, and in their speaking we begin to find healing.

Such stories were very important to me in my own growing up, for they were the way in which I came to know my father, who had died when I was three years old. I had been too young to remember much about him; there were only a few fleeting images left in the deep recesses of my mind. But the stories related to me by my mother and my seven older brothers and sisters helped me to get to know my dad. Sometimes those stories were about baseball. My father had been a very good, semi-pro baseball pitcher. Sometimes when I was playing Little League baseball, people I did not know would come up to me and tell me about having seen my father pitch. They would regale me with stories about watching his no-hitters and about offers from professional scouts. No matter how many times I heard those stories, I always appreciated and cherished them.

In the Gospel for Easter, we meet the women from Galilee as they come to the tomb on their early morning pilgrimage of anointing. It is difficult to know exactly what they were thinking, but they must have been deeply shaken by Jesus’ violent death. The stories must have already begun to take shape in their minds and hearts. Perhaps they were still too frightened, and too overwhelmed, to utter these stories aloud, even to one another. After all, it had become dangerous to be associated with this Jesus of Nazareth. But, in the midst of their grief and fear, the memories of who he had been and of what he had done, of the ways in which he had engaged their deepest hopes, must have cascaded over them like a powerful waterfall.

Do you remember that leper in Galilee? The one who came to Jesus pleading on his knees, “If you want to, you can cure me.” A startling sight, this leper so close to Jesus and to us. He was not supposed to come this near to us; he should have known better. How was the Master going to handle this one? Do you remember the look in his eyes and the compassion in his voice? Then he did something completely crazy: he reached out and touched this leprous man with his hand. And we saw how the man found healing through his touch and went off and told everyone about it. This Jesus seemed to unleash the power of God – the power of a God who wanted people to be alive, to be whole. But he was crucified and now he is in the grave. Where was this God of life when they took his life away?

Hadn’t Jesus spoken so powerfully about the reign of God? His riveting stories and vivid images painted a portrait of this kingdom. It was like a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds, yet growing to a size you would never expect. When Jesus spoke, people listened; you couldn’t help but listen. He taught with such authority and his word reached inside of you. But that word has been silenced now, and we long to hear it again.

Do you remember that final meal with him? He was still the Master, still in charge, even though the darkness seemed to be closing in all around him. We all shared the bread and the cup that he passed. Mysteriously, he spoke of these as his own body and blood. He talked with such conviction about drinking new wine in the reign of God. He seemed to be moving ahead with such dogged commitment, as if what was to happen to him had a meaning and a purpose that we just could not understand. We wish he were here to dine with us once again and to explain all of this to us.

Perhaps there were memories like these, and many more I suspect, that darted through the minds of Mary Magdalene and the other women as they approached the tomb on that somber, loveless morning. Wonderful, life-giving images and sounds of the Jesus they had known and loved, but memories crisscrossed by the nightmarish recollection of Calvary, the horrific drama of angry crowds, the deafening shouts of condemnation. This Calvary nightmare had sealed their Lord inside of a tomb and had undermined their newfound understanding of God and of themselves. Who would roll back the stone that imprisoned Jesus and, with him, their own hope?

On this holiest of days, you and I once again listen as the good news of Easter is spoken to these frightened, grief-stricken disciples: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.”

Jesus Christ is risen today! With him the deepest hopes of the disciples, and our own hopes, are raised up and enlivened. Not even the most violent human rejection could frustrate God’s saving love poured out in Christ. The words of the Exsultet, the Proclamation sung at the Easter Vigil, announce the power of this day: “This is a day of God’s own joy. Rejoice, O earth, in shining splendor, radiant in the brightness of your king! Rejoice, O mother Church! Exult in Glory! The Risen Savior shines upon you! Let this place resound with Joy, echoing the mighty song of all God’s people!”

Robin Ryan, CP