By R. William Carroll
This year, our junior warden made a wooden cross with some chicken wire for our children to decorate with flowers. That’s an Easter tradition that always moves me to tears, and I’m glad we were able to start it in our parish. Take a minute to think about what it means. The cross, an instrument of death, has become for us a thing of beauty—a sign of new life and forgiveness. So too, God renews the earth each spring, as everything comes into bloom. As we sing in one of our hymns, “Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain.” Christ is that grain. He is the seed that dies to give life and bread to us all. Another symbol, much beloved to our ancestors, was that of Christ shattering the gates of hell and leading Adam and Eve by the hand into paradise, with the whole human race in tow. We can use these images and others from our liturgy as we wrestle with the meaning of Easter.
Several primal symbols come together as we celebrate the death and resurrection of Christ. We must also contend with the story itself, which comes to us broken and fragmented, both in the chaos of mob-violence and the unthinkable joy of Jesus alive. Symbols and stories are important. They help us to find our bearings in a confusing world. They convey truth that cannot be given in any other way. They say and show more than we can ever comprehend. The best symbols and stories, “classics,” have what David Tracy calls a “permanent excess of meaning.” And they give rise to a never-ending process of interpretation.
I say this, not because I doubt the truth of the Easter story. Rather, I say it because of the kind of story it is. The Gospel redefines us, as well as our world and our God. I believe the tomb was empty. I believe that Jesus appeared to his friends. I also happen to believe that this story creates as many problems as it solves.
Like any story worth reading, the Easter Gospel defies definitive interpretation. As Christians we stake our lives on this tale of earth-shattering terror and joy. Its subject is Jesus himself, one of the faceless thousands the Romans tortured and crucified, who irrupts onto the historical stage proclaimed as Savior and Lord. (Both titles, incidentally, were claimed by Caesar.) Jesus is the victim who won’t stay dead, but returns to judge and forgive us all.
The four Gospels tell us many versions of this story. They conflict in detail, but it’s not worth the effort—and is, in any case, beside the point—to try to harmonize them. It’s as if we’ve stumbled upon a crime scene, or the aftermath of some tremendous battle or natural disaster. And now we have to reconstruct what happened—from the accounts of witnesses and traces the event itself has left behind.
It’s not just that Jesus was dead and now is alive. He is the Living One, who forever conquers death and sets creation free. Easter is the beginning of God’s new world—a world still struggling to be born. None of the Gospels records the resurrection itself. That lies shrouded in the depths of the earth, until the stone is rolled away. All we have is stories about an empty tomb and of Jesus appearing—ALIVE. Sometimes, when he shows up, his friends touch him. Or he eats and drinks with them. The point here is that he still has a body. Jesus is no ghost. Other times, his risen body is clearly free from the limitations of time and space. On the Sunday after Easter Day, we hear how he came to his disciples through locked doors. That’s a good thing too, because it means we can meet still meet Jesus today. There’s no wall anyone can build to keep him at a safe distance. Jesus is free to show himself to us whenever he chooses, wherever we may be.
In many of the stories, when Jesus first appears, no one can tell it’s him. Then he intervenes, revealing himself, and his disciples believe in him. Finally, he commissions them for service, and sends them to tell others—often the whole world. Thus, on the road to Emmaus, a stranger explains to the disciples what the Old Testament says about Christ. But only when the stranger breaks the bread are their eyes opened to recognize him. Before that, grief and shock blind them to his identity. After all, with their own eyes, they have seen him put on trial, tortured, and crucified.
Something similar is going on this morning with Mary Magdalene. Early on the first day of the week, she arrives at the tomb, while it’s still dark. She finds the stone rolled away and is perplexed. She calls Peter and John, but they can’t help. So, numb with grief, she stands outside and weeps. And, while she does this, Jesus comes to her. Now, she thinks he’s the gardener. She even suspects he may have stolen the body. And she begs him, if he knows where it is, to show her, so she can take care of Jesus and give him a proper burial. Only when Jesus calls her by name does she recognize him. Then she turns around to face him. Jesus reaches out to Mary, and she is converted. As he says in another place, “the hour is coming and now is, when the dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God and live.”
Many of us have been there. We have been among the living dead. Often, the Gospel makes sense to us only when we are at the end of our rope. When the last tear has been shed, and we find no strength to go on. Maybe we have experienced loss or betrayal. Maybe we are frustrated by our own weakness or moral failings. Or perhaps our hopes for the future have been crushed by forces beyond our control. Maybe it’s the economy…maybe it’s the failure of those whom we love to change. Perhaps we are feeling worthless, or the chains of memory and anger have us stuck and unable to move forward. At these moments, Christ comes to each one of us and calls us by name. For he is the stone that the builders rejected. And, if we but turn around, we discover new life in him.
Without denying the brokenness and violence we suffer (How could he, after what he’s been through?) Jesus comes to us, forgives us, and makes us whole. The things that silence and imprison us are real, yet in his presence they lose their power. He gives us life, because he’s tasted death and broken its dominion forever. He gives us hope by showing us how love conquers evil. He sets us free, by making us servants of one another.
And so today, we gather, celebrate, and sing songs of freedom. With all the music, flowers, and feasting—with all the light, joy, and laughter we can muster, we tell the story of Easter. Brothers and sisters, may we be filled with joy this happy morning. For, in the ancient words of John Chrysostom:
Christ is risen, and death is overthrown! Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Happy Easter! The Lord is risen indeed.
The Rev. R. William Carroll serves as rector of the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens, Ohio (Diocese of Southern Ohio). He received his Ph.D. in Christian theology from the University of Chicago Divinity School. He co-edits The Covenant Journal with Lane Denson and blogs at Anglican Resistance. He is a novice in the Third Order of the Society of Saint Francis.