Oh, my goodness, what an Easter! Alleluia, Alleluia!
So, in the back of my front closet in my house in Chattanooga, are some green photo albums that my Grandma put together so long ago. They have heavy black pages, and in them are these black and white photographs held in place by little triangle tabs that you would lick to glue in place. And while one of the pictures would occasionally break free from the tabs, remarkably, most of them are still held in place. Memories that are stuck in a certain kind of order, a way of remembering things that always were that way, even though they may not really have been that way at all.
There is one set of pictures that features me, the relatively new grandson, of about 3, I think. I'm wearing this tiny seersucker suit: coat, short pants, white shirt, and white shoes, toddling around their front yard, with an Easter basket in hand, searching for eggs, hidden throughout the yard. All my elders seem to be there watching, but you can only see their legs. The focus is on the child.
Those are the pictures. Sweet, stuck on the fun of the Easter egg hunt. What they don't show is what I remember. I remember not being very good at finding eggs. And my little friend, Tim, was so much better (though I think his dad helped him). And I remember finally seeing an egg that my great grandfather finally pointed out to me. And I remember how my little legs weren't all that coordinated. And I remember coming up on the egg, squashing it before I could grab it, and bursting into tears. And I remember my great grandfather summing it all up with, “Wellp, that's all she wrote.”
I had broken Easter.
I wonder if that's how the apostles felt, though in a much grander, much more urgent way. A movement, growing by leaps and bounds, led by a wonderful man that they still couldn't quite understand, broken, just as that man's body was broken. And all that's left is an empty shell. And the apostles are afraid because it went so wrong there at the end.
And they have come to the end. Fear and sadness are the final pictures in their photo album.
Then a woman rushes in, announces something strange. The man, the Messiah, is missing. Jesus is missing. And she doesn't know where his body is. And John and Peter rush back with her. See the empty tomb. Put two and two together, think, “Wellp, that's all she wrote,” and go back to their rooms.
And it's after they leave that Easter begins. It's after they lock themselves in their homes that Easter takes off after them. Knocks on their door.
This year has been that kind of Easter for us. We've been surrounded by fear, dread. A pestilence stalking the streets, and our work places, and our hospitals. When we do skitter out for this and that, we look at each other as something other. As almost demonic. Faces hidden behind masks, these strange aliens, dashing down the aisle at the grocery store, blue hands snatching all the pasta, clutching at the toilet paper. It's surreal. And it's scary, and we wonder if death, if Satan, has finally won after all.
We Christians can't do what we normally do. We can't gather together and celebrate this most wonderful day. The day Our Lord defeated death itself. Those buildings are empty now. Cold. Getting a bit dusty. Longing for us to come back to warm them with our voices and smiles. Longing to feed us again. Longing to sustain us again. But for now they are empty, and perhaps a little bit broken hearted. Just like our memories of joyful Easters gone by. Held in a certain permanence in the photographs of our minds as we sit in our rooms, just like the Apostles.
But here's the thing. And I'm going to cut to the chase with a spoiler. It works out. It's ok for us to hide in our rooms, because Jesus has business to attend to. It's ok for us, this year, to observe from our windows, because Jesus is busy resurrecting the whole world. Life is still going on. Crocuses are blooming, the grass is turning green again. Farmers, wearing masks, are plowing the land. Doctors, wearing, I hope, better masks are curing the ill. Grocers, standing behind plexiglass, are still feeding the people. Cattle are having baby cattle. People are having baby people. Geese are coming back. Turkeys are venturing out into the fields. Deer are doing whatever they do – who really knows what they do?
Life is going on, and just because we are spending more time at home than we would like, cannot stop life. And just because our buildings – St. Andrew's, St. Matthew's, Emmanuel – stand empty cannot stop church!
Because we still have God's word! God's promise! Alleluia! Alleluia!
We still gather in new and amazing ways! Alleluia! Alleluia!
We still love God! We still love our neighbors! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Like Mary Magdelene, we still have good news to tell! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Like Perter, John, and all the apostles, we still have work to do! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Death is still defeated! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Satan is still defeater! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Because Christ is still risen! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Because Christ is still risen! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Because it's still Easter! Alleluia! Alleluia!
It's still Easter! And nothing can break that. Not fearful apostles, not a young child with uncoordinated feet. Not a disease. Not death. Not evil. Nothing.
It's still Easter!
And THAT is all she wrote.
Amen. Alleluia, alleluia