He Is Not Here [Easter Weekend]

Matthew 28:1-10

There are two kinds of emptiness. 

• The emptiness of despair and the emptiness of joy. 
• The emptiness that’s final and the emptiness that’s a sign of something more.
• The emptiness that’s just empty and the emptiness that’s full.
• The emptiness that’s mute and the emptiness that sings.

We are experiencing both kinds of emptiness this weekend.  And we probably have to hold both of them in our hearts.  I wish I could tell you that the joyful emptiness can erase the sad emptiness.  I wish I could tell you that emptiness as a sign of a larger fullness can cancel out the struggle with the emptiness of death and despair.  But I can’t.  On this particular weekend, we live with both.

I have never lived through a Holy Week like this one.  I have never in my life not been able to gather for worship with others on Resurrection Sunday to sing and confess “Alleluia, Christ is risen”.  And I know that’s true for many of you as well.

What a strange calling we have together this weekend – to worship, to sing, to celebrate, to rejoice – and yet to do so in the midst of so much worry and uncertainty.  In normal times, we live through the season of Lent as a defined period of preparation.  We fast for a season.  We welcome the journey towards the pain of the cross for a season.  We open ourselves to the vulnerability of suffering for a season.  And in a normal time, that season ends in Holy week, and gives way, gives birth to something else entirely: to light, to victory, to gladness, and to gathered rejoicing that is expressed in physical closeness.  In singing shoulder to shoulder.  In circles of conversation, in hugs and laughter.  In meals with family and friends gathered around a table. 

But this isn’t a normal time.  This isn’t a normal year.  Lent has ended but the struggle hasn’t.  Easter has arrived, but normal life hasn’t returned.  And so we place ourselves before this gospel reading looking for good news – news that is good enough to get us through however long this takes.  We welcome this announcement of new life and real hope, but we do so as people still waiting patiently for relief from this crisis.

So a few reflections today on emptiness.  An empty tomb.  An empty sanctuary.  And an empty feast table.

First, an empty tomb.

After Friday, after the crucifixion, Jesus’ disciples were afraid and in hiding.  Their world had been shattered.  They had been cut off from the One who carried their most precious hopes and dreams.  The women who loved Jesus were afraid too.  They too struggled to balance themselves in the quaking of all that they thought was solid and sure.  They too were overwhelmed by uncertainty about the future.  But grief carries its own obligations.  And so the women make their way to the tomb early on Sunday to tend the dead body of Jesus with spices.

When they get to the tomb, sadness gives way to shock as they are confronted by an angel electrified with lightning brightness.  “He is not here,” the angel said to the women.  “He is not here; he has risen.”  Then the angel invites the women to see for themselves.  “Come and see,” the angel says.  “Come and see the tomb that is now empty.  He is not here; he has risen.”

The empty tomb wasn’t the final word, of course.  That emptiness was a sign of a larger fullness.  The angel gives them work to do.  Their day will be full.  Go and tell the others what you’ve experienced.  And then on their way, they meet Jesus, now in his resurrected fullness.   The Jesus who died had been raised by God into a new kind of life, larger and more intense, more enduring, more flexible, more available, more . . . real than ever.  This risen Jesus tells them not to be afraid.  He tells them to move on into the fullness of this very peculiar day ahead of them.  “Go and tell the others.”

Here I am, sitting in a sanctuary, all by myself.  I have never in my life preached the good news of the empty tomb in an empty sanctuary.  There are no classes, no coffee and donuts.  There is no greeter at the door.  No usher to pass out liturgies.  There is no worship leader, no organist, no choir, and no congregation.  It’s just me.  Here in the silence of this beautiful space, with light streaming in through the windows; light that seems a little lonely, without all the bustle and greeting and conversation, without the shared prayers and singing, testimonies and announcements.  And yet, just like the empty tomb, this empty sanctuary is a sign of the risen Christ who is not, and never has been, easily kept within special places like this.  This risen Christ promises to meet us here when we can be here.  But he also promises to fill our lives at all times, to fill the whole world until everything and everyone is remade in love; until love is all there is. 

We have chosen this weekend to observe an empty feast table.  Of course our normal rhythms are to receive the Eucharist or communion on Easter Sunday.  The church is always full.  And we even take showers and comb our hair.  And sometimes the little ones wear a clip-on tie or pastel colored dress.  And we all process to the front to receive from the hands of others bread and cup, the body and blood that connects us to God, to one another, to the earth, and to ourselves. 

And to be fed like that; to feast on grace, with lots of other fierce and lovely and forgiven friends; and to do it on the day when we read the resurrection story – that story of God’s triumph that gathers up all our shame, all our failure, all our regret into a healing embrace; that story of God’s persistent love that begins to untangle the lies we’ve told and the lies we’ve lived; that begins to untie the knots that we’ve made of our own lives.  That is a precious and joyful experience that we treasure.  And yet, we have opened our hands in order to release that particular gift this year.  We’re fasting instead of feasting.

Some of you know that I teach for Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, one of our eleven Presbyterian seminaries.  I teach in the Doctor of Ministry program there.  And one of the joys of that role for me is that it keeps me connected to two of my dear friends from graduate school.  Kimberly is a Lutheran pastor and Edwin her husband teaches on the faculty.  Edwin wrote a blog post this week entitled, “Eucharistic Fasting: The Lord’s Supper in the Time of COVID-19.”

Pittsburgh Theological Seminary is a Presbyterian institution, but it has partnerships with the Lutheran Church and the Episcopal Church, and trains their leadership and clergy as well.  And different denominations and traditions of church life have offered different guidance for congregations wondering how to receive communion during this time of physical distancing.  Some have recommended that the pastor lead the Eucharistic prayers online and the people receive the elements in their homes.  Others have recommended that families be encouraged to share the eucharist together at home.  Several congregations in our own community are gathering for communion as people receive the elements in their cars.  And of course we cheer on all our friends in Christ, whatever decisions are made.

But there is another approach that Edwin recommends.  And our congregation has chosen to follow him here.  He recommends that in this strange time we practice “Eucharistic fasting.” 

Edwin writes: As a society, in the course of a few weeks or maybe even a few days we lost everything we thought that was firm and certain – economically, socially, personally. We suddenly discovered how little grip we have on life. We are trying to survive – in some ways, literally – not knowing what life will look like at the other side of this disaster.

And he continues: As churches, we are sharing in the challenges and anxieties. At the same time, we have a little bit more experience in living while not knowing what the future looks like. What society is experiencing in the course of just a few weeks, we have been living for a number of years. As mainline churches, we have been losing everything that was firm and certain. We have been discovering how little grip we have on things. We have been trying to survive without knowing what new forms life will take on the other side.

So what if we embraced the disruption of our physical distancing as a worshiping community?  What if we faced the heart break of not being physically together during worship?  What if we prayerfully welcomed a short season of fasting from the eucharist, until we can be together again?  Maybe we can see this fasting as a way of living in solidarity with our friends who cannot be with us at the Lord’s Table right now . . . The families who cannot not afford computers or Internet connections to check into our virtual services. The elderly who have never mastered these technologies. The sick who are in the isolation of the ICU. The coronavirus patients who are dying without the presence of family, of a pastor, or the consolation of the sacrament.

I’ve told this story before, but I want to tell it again today.  I once took communion to the nursing home, to share it with a woman who has worshiped in our congregation for her entire life.  Her whole life had been marked by rhythms of receiving the elements of bread and cup together with the whole congregation.  She has lost touch with those memories, and with most of her memories, as dementia has progressed.  I asked her if I could serve her communion.  She said yes.  I got out my kit.  I put a wafer on the silver plate.  I poured from a flask into a cup.  After remembering Jesus’ final meal with the disciples and a prayer, I served her.  Suddenly, a big smile came across her face and she said, “I’ve never done this before.  This is wonderful.” 

Friends, we will get through this.  We will feast again, and it will be wonderful.  But not yet.  For now we will hold onto our hope for the healing and recovery of the earth and of all its people.  For now we will wait and watch for signs of new life to emerge, not insisting on any return to normal; but keeping ourselves open to the emergence of something even more joyful and life-giving than what we once thought of as “normal”.

The empty tomb.  This empty sanctuary.  And the empty feast table.  These are signs that point us towards a coming fullness; a coming expression of song and dance; a gathering around tables where we are fed together.  A new kind of togetherness between rich and poor countries; between people whose work is safe and those who risk everything on the front lines.  A new kind of world where everyone has access to health care.  A new kind of world that exchanges greedy, anxious hoarding for trusting, open-handed sharing.

What will be resurrected when we get to the other side will not be our same old lives.  What will be resurrected can be something new and different.  Something kinder and wiser.  Lives more grateful for the simple pleasures of a walk, or a conversation, or a meal with others; new lives newly thankful for the joy of travel and social events and the rhythms of school and work. 

What will be resurrected is a world in which our energy is no longer wasted by worry as we watch the news and stress over our social media feeds; but a new world in which we have time and energy for one another, for being together, and for doing the things that create meaning and bring us joy.

May our lives be a sign of this resurrection joy – joy that begins in emptiness and moves towards its slowly emerging fullness.  Amen.