Scripture Reflection, April 12, 2009: Easter Sunday

Scripture Readings:
Acts of the Apostles 10: 34, 37-43
Psalm 118
Colossians 3: 1-4
Mark 16: 1-7

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When someone whom we love dies, we begin to tell stories about them. The memories of the things they said, the images of how they looked and acted, the “feel” of their presence, flood our minds in the midst of our grief. The stories begin to take shape very soon and may live on with great vitality. In the beginning, when the grief is still fresh and raw, the stories remain inside of us; it is just too difficult to express them aloud. But eventually they are spoken, and in their speaking we find healing. Such stories were very important to me in my own growing up, for they were the way 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 glimpses left in the deep recesses of my memory. But the stories related to me by my mother and my older siblings helped me to become familiar with my dad. I can still remember stories told to me by people I hardly knew, especially stories about baseball. Sometimes when I was playing baseball as a youngster, after pitching a game, someone would come up to me and tell me about having seen my dad pitch in semi-professional leagues years before. They would regale me with stories of no-hitters, of pro scouts, and of offers from the major leagues. No matter how many times I heard those stories, I always appreciated them – they never grew old.

In this gospel we have met three women on their way to Jesus’ tomb. These faithful women had looked on from afar as Jesus was crucified at Calvary. They were among his most trusted friends. We do not know exactly what they were thinking as they made their early morning pilgrimage of anointing, but they must have been deeply shaken by his violent death. In the minds and hearts of these women, and in the minds and hearts of the other disciples scattered after Jesus’ arrest, the stories must already have begun to take shape. Perhaps they were still too frightened, too overwhelmed, to utter these stories aloud, even to one another. But for all of Jesus’ disciples, in the midst of their grief and fear, the memories of who he had been and what he had done, of how he had engaged their deepest hopes, must have cascaded over them like a powerful waterfall.

Do you remember that leper in Galilee? He came to Jesus pleading on his knees, “If you want to, you can cure me.” It was a riveting moment – this leper so close to Jesus and to us. He was not supposed to come this near to us. How was the Master going to handle this one? Do you remember the look in Jesus’ 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, we witnessed how this man found healing through Jesus’ touch. Jesus seemed to unleash the power of God – the power of a God who wanted people to be alive, to be whole. But they crucified him, and now he is in the grave. Where was this God when they took away his life?

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 shared the bread and the cup that he passed. Mysteriously, he spoke of these as his body and blood. He talked with such conviction about drinking new wine in the kingdom of God. He seemed to be moving ahead with such unflinching commitment, as if what was about to happen to him had a meaning and a purpose we just could not understand. How we wish he were here now, to dine with us again and to explain all of this to us.

Perhaps there were memories like these, and many more, that darted through the minds of these gospel women as they approached Jesus’ tomb on that somber, loveless morning. Wonderful, life-giving images and sounds of the Jesus they had loved and followed. But memories crisscrossed by the nightmarish sounds of Calvary: the horrific drama of angry crowds, the deafening shouts of condemnation, the thunder of hammers driving nails into a cross. This Calvary nightmare had sealed their Lord inside of a tomb and with him had assaulted their newfound understanding of God and of themselves. Who would roll away the stone that had sealed away Jesus and with him their hope?

On this great day, we listen again as the good news of Easter is spoken to these frightened, grief-stricken disciples. They discover that the stone has in fact been rolled away and that Jesus is no longer a prisoner of the grave. They are overcome, silenced, by words that could only be spoken from above: this Jesus, the one you loved, the one you followed and remember so well, this Jesus has been raised to new life; he is not here.

This Easter good news is meant to be proclaimed to us with the same brilliance and power. It is a summons to renew our hope in Christ and to allow the living presence of the Risen Lord to flood our minds and hearts. We celebrate a wonderful, unique event that was made known to these women on the first day of the week. We also celebrate the living reality of the risen Christ present among us now, bringing light to our darkness. And so, we recall his compassionate glance and his outstretched hand that touched the dreaded leper. In so doing we are invited to turn to Christ for the healing and strength we need, with confidence in his compassion for us. And we are sent forth from here to extend our own hands to those in need, especially to the forgotten of our society. With his disciples, we make memory of that supper when Jesus passed the bread and cup. And we are summoned to return again and again to encounter him in the Eucharist. With that invitation we are also commissioned to offer food to the hungry in our midst.

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 Exultet, sung at the Easter Vigil, are words we make our own as we celebrate this feast: 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!

Fr. Robin Ryan, cp