“On this most holy night...”

Sermon for The Great Vigil of Easter

Saint Peter's | Arlington, VA

Romans 6:3-11

Mark 16:1-8

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Alleluia! Christ is risen!

...That there by no risk of burying the lead at the Easter Vigil: the reason we gather tonight is resurrection.

Christ’s resurrection is the foundation of our faith. It is the source and summit of our incarnational spirituality. And it is the reality that animates our lives.

It matters that we proclaim this story with great boldness, and it is no small thing to do so. Conveying the grandeur that is Easter, Archbishop of San Salvador Oscar Romero said it like this:

“Easter is a shout of victory! No one can extinguish that life that Christ resurrected. Not even death and hatred against Him and against His Church will be able to overcome it. He is the victor!”

Declaring death has lost its sting is truly a seismic thing—and it is rife with an air of great mystery. So, for this reason, it’s appropriate to linger awhile. Because if we are to usher in a full fifty-days of Eastertide, we need to let this wonder and awe saturate the whole of ourselves.

From the very beginning of our service, there’s a sense that something special is about to happen. It stirs something within us with those words that continue to ring in my ears: “On this most holy night...” Something in them makes me wants to lean forward—just to be sure I don’t miss anything.

“On this most holy night...” a New Fire is lit and its flames flicker and dance before us, we gather around the glow and long shadows of candle light, the sweet aroma of flowers fills the air, we ring bells and lift joyful voices, the waters of baptism fall on our faces like raindrops—and later, on this most holy night, our celebrations continue with ice cream in the Narthex!

Mystery is in the air. And all of it captures our attention. And I truly hope it does. Because living as we do, it is all-too-easy to forget that the story we gather around matters greatly—for ourselves, and for our world.

The many readings appointed for tonight tell a sweeping salvation history—a story of God’s creative and continuous action. Eventually through, because there’s just so many events to cover, it may feel as though we’re just trudging along.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love all of it, but I’m also reminded of the feeling I get while watching my least favorite of the Harry Potter films—Harry Potter and the Death Hallows, Part I.

By now the saga is well along and the hunt for horcruxes is on. The conclusion is near and—for those familiar with the story—we know a spectacular moment is on the horizon. In spite of this building anticipation though, we are subjected to watching Harry and company essentially wander aimlessly through some woods—for nearly two whole hours. (spoiler alert: the moment eventually does arrive and it has to do with a key word for this evening)

At many points in scripture, it would seem the story has stalled out altogether—and perhaps even reached its final end. First, the Hebrew people are bound in slavery—but God makes a way. Then, of course, the people are led to a seemingly senseless death at the Red Sea—and, again, God makes a way. And when the people are captured, displaced, and led off into exile—yet again, God makes a way out of no way.

From the Exodus to the Cross—and countless times in between—each time it would seem the story ends in desolation, destruction, and death, sure enough, the same God-Who-Creates-From-Nothing again brings forth something new into being.

Now, our siblings in the United Church of Christ sum this up in their denomination’s logo, which is a ‘semicolon’ and the tagline, “God is still speaking.” And, as a common, pithy cliche goes, which I shamelessly share: “Don’t put a period where God puts a comma.”

God never ceases to create. In both our lives and throughout scripture, God’s activity remains relentless.

So often though, when the writers of scripture encounter this creative force, it is likened to thunder and earthquakes—evoking terror. Now, all of these descriptions are, of course, incomplete and fall short—but how else would you attempt to describe the things God does? I mean, really: liberation from slavery, deliverance from despair, freedom from hopelessness, life from death?

This is a powerful story of deep, steadfast love—and if sometimes it causes us to tremble, well, it would be quite appropriate if we got a bit weak in the knees.

So when the women in Mark’s gospel lesson go to the tomb and with great alarm take in the unimaginable thing that has occurred, it is no wonder they are seized with “fear and silence.” To them, it sure seemed like the story ended on Good Friday. Somehow, though, where there was no way, God made a way.

It matters whether or not they choose to speak of what they’ve witnessed—but it doesn’t come without some implications. In the book, Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals, practical theologians, Hebert Henderson and Edward Foley say the following about the important of storytelling:

“We conceive of ourselves as a web of stories—a historical novel or a miniseries in the making. We think in stories in order to weave together into a coherent whole the unending succession of people, dates, and facts that fill our lives. [...] Stories hold us together and keep us apart. We tell stories in order to live.”

Telling a story is an inherently constructive act. Not only does it imagine new worlds, it brings new realities into being. And for this reason: storytelling is unavoidably disruptive. As the authors add:

“Stories are mighty, however, not only because we shape our lives through them but also because they have the power to unsettle the lives we have comfortably shaped by them.”

So, at the empty tomb the women face a dilemma. They had prepared to embalm Jesus’ body but now the situation is even more complicated. Because proclaiming the resurrection of Jesus—executed by the state as a political dissident—is an act of defiance. There’s no way around it. It imagines the possibility of something larger than the tools of death. And, most critically, it subverts Caesar’s false claims of Lordship. Telling the story is both constructive and disruptive—and surely it comes with personal consequences.

A common phrase suggests that Christians are “Easter people living in a Good Friday world.” We might imagine these women as the very first to live into the tensions of this reality.

It is much the same dilemma Archbishop Oscar Romero faced himself. His exuberant proclamation—that “Easter is a shout of victory!”—comes from his final Sunday homily, delivered on the last Sunday in Lent, 1980— with full knowledge of the consequences. The very day, while presiding at the Eucharist, he was martyred.

Indeed, there is much evidence of Good Friday that remains all around us. We know this all too well. In the wake of wars and rumors of wars, ever-more-frequent mass shootings, medical diagnoses and any variety of desolations in our personal lives: we are indeed Easter people living in Good Friday worlds.

Even still... As Mark’s Gospel continues: the women tell the story. Mary Magdalene, Mary the Mother of Jesus, and Salome (and Joanne, as included in other accounts) are the first evangelists to share the good news. They enter into the story of God’s salvation history as co-conspirators in it. Surely, the traumatic memories of crucifixion and suffering remain ever present—but now those sorrows are held alongside the wonderfully disorienting and paradoxically inexplicable joy of resurrection. And it is love that has the final word.

So then, that we might become Christ’s body in the world, we too, remember, retell, and even rehearse this continually unfolding story—because in doing so it shapes us. Not merely for purposes of intellectual curiosities. And neither as a fiction performed for entertainment. But rather, as a living story that by living faith transforms our living reality.

As we reach the completion of the Paschal Triduum, we’ve experienced much on this journey. In his letter to the Corinthians, the Apostle Paul summarizes the purpose in the events of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection with these words: “that we too might walk in newness of life.” Our participation is what it’s all about.

The Anglican priest and poet, George Herbert, puts it this way:

Rise heart; they Lord is risen. Sing his praise Without delayes, Who takes thee by the hand, that though likewise With him mayst rise:

Friends, on this most holy night, especially when we may utter our alleluias with an ache, the story we proclaim is that God is making a new world! With every Easter-tide alleluia, we proclaim Christ has been resurrected—and risen with him is a new way illumined by love. So, with knowledge of “a love supreme,” as John Coltrane puts it, we can hold firmly to Easter hope!

Even when there is seemingly no way. Even now, today. Thanks be to God!

Let us rise then and walk in the joy and beauty and wonder and goodness of new life!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!