Second Sunday of Easter
April 7, 2024

What I Couldn't Tell You Last Week

Tom Are Jr.
Interim Pastor

Psalm 136:1–16
Luke 24:1–13

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The women told the eleven and the others what had happened, as much as they had any idea what had happened. All the Gospels name the response as mixed: the followers were amazed, afraid, confused, they thought it was an idle tale. But they did not believe. Not right away.

This is the way the first Easter started. Not with singing “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today.” Not with Tower Brass and with choirs processing. The first Easter began with amazement, and uncertainty.

That’s not a judgment. Perhaps it was not time to believe, not yet. First, they must remember. The angel said, “Remember what he told you in Gallilee.”

This is a moment without antecedent. So, it is reasonable to ask, what are we to remember on Easter? It’s not like you can say, “Resurrection reminds me of this experience I had before.” So why does resurrection depend on memory work?

It has been my experience — see if this makes sense to you — that sometimes a word can be spoken and it appears to be meaningless. It lies dormant in our memory, powerless, as if speaking no truth, until a later time when something happens and that former word springs to life as the sense maker of a new day.

My grandmother was always offering advice, usually unsolicited, occasionally understood. She loved to talk about how far apples fell from trees and what two wrongs didn’t make. She insisted that honey was the appropriate bait for flies, which I suppose is helpful if you are running low on flies? One of her favorites was “Tom, there is very little educational value in the second kick of a mule.” I suppose that’s true, but we didn’t have mules, so the point wasn’t immediately obvious to me.

When she wasn’t giving the advice, she was listening. I know that this will surprise you, but I talked a good bit. She listened to me talk about mean teachers and selfish girlfriends. She listened to my impatience to grow up and then my fear of no longer being a kid. And with tenderness, she said, “I wish I could feel that pain instead of you. If I could, I would give you my heart for the hurting times.” If I could, I would give you my heart for the hurting times. It was a nice thing to say. But still I was the one hurting.

But this is true: sometimes a word can be spoken and seems meaningless. It lies dormant, powerless, as if speaking no truth, until a later time when something happens and that prior word springs to life as a sense maker of a new day.

Maybe that is why the angel says the first work on Easter is to remember.

OK, I know it’s not Easter. I know Easter was last Sunday. Last Sunday the Tower Brass inspired us, and the choir sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” like the angels themselves. It was last Sunday we sat ribcage to ribcage, and the white lilies were spread through the chancel.

This Sunday is called the Second Sunday of Easter, or in more pedestrian fashion, “Low Sunday.” It’s quite the contrast to Easter Sunday.

But that’s why I wanted us to hear the Easter story again, because the truth is, there is a part of this story that I couldn’t tell you last Sunday.

Easter is the most public day of the Christian year. Folks who almost never go to church will attend on Easter. You all know the jokes about the CEO Christians: Christmas and Easter only. I did an internship with a pastor who welcomed everyone on Easter and said, “It’s great to see all of you here, and for some I remind you that our Christmas Eve services will be at 7 and 11. We look forward to seeing you again.” A little passive-aggressive, it seems to me.

Easter is a day for everyone. I love that about Easter. It’s our most public day.

But that is a sharp contrast to the first Easter. The first Easter was not a public day. Jesus didn’t appear to Caiaphas. Jesus didn’t show up to teach in the temple. Jesus didn’t appear to Pilate. Imagine what that would have been like if his attendants told Pilate, “Sir, one of the men you crucified on Friday is here and would like to speak with you.” No, that didn’t happen.

No, the first Easter was about these women. Jesus only appeared to those who had followed him. He appeared to those who could “remember what he told them in Gallilee.” Why?

Gallilee is where life was defined by ministry.

In Gallilee he told them, “I will be handed over, crucified, and on the third day rise.” But not only that, in Galilee he told stories of seeds and weeds and surprisingly good Samaritans. In Galilee forgiveness was always his first choice. In Galilee he taught us to turn the other cheek and go the second mile. In Galilee he ate with anyone and he could feed everyone. He called us to live as peacemakers and to walk in a spirit of humility. He proclaimed a promised day that God would bring, and that future is to shape every present moment.

And now is the time to remember all of that. But why?

If I understand the text, the holy messenger is saying that memory is the sense maker for Easter.

Pilate couldn’t remember what Jesus said in Galilee, because Pilate wasn’t there. If Jesus had appeared to Pilate, Pilate would have known God has the power to raise the dead. Pilate would have been amazed at this display of God’s power. And he would have been right, but his understanding would have also been incomplete.

It’s only those who had been with him in Galilee who understood. Resurrection is not a day that reveals God’s power. The resurrection reveals that God’s love for us will not die. No matter what, the love of God continues to come back to us. If we remember what he told us, we understand this is not just a mighty deed; resurrection is God’s ultimate work of love. But to understand resurrection more as love than as power, you have to remember what he told you.

The doctor looked at us and said, “It’s a girl.” That little one slapped at the air, and I cried. Carol cried. And then the doctor said, “Cindy, how about come get this baby.” Cindy was the nurse, and it seemed a normal thing for her to do, so it took a minute for me to realize that they were working rather feverishly with Sarah. Our daughter wasn’t breathing. They say that babies do that all the time when they are first born. But I had never seen it. And this was my first sixty seconds as a dad. She turned blue as a Carolina sky. Within seconds it seemed a battalion of nurses and aids were in our hospital room. I could hear Cindy: “Come on, little girl. You can do it. Breathe now. Breathe for me now.”

From her head to her toes she was blue. I prayed, “God, make her breathe. I haven’t even said her name yet. Make her breathe. Give her my breath. Make her breathe.”

She did. And Sarah breathed. And she was fine. But I have never been the same. And the only way I can describe what happened to me in that moment is that I knew if I could I would give her my heart for the hurting times. No doubt.

Sometimes the only way to understand the present moment is to remember a prior word, perhaps one that has been meaningless, powerless until now, but in the moment it is the only way to know the truth of what is happening. That prior word resting in memory comes to life, as the sense maker of a new day.

The messengers knew that the one who was crucified was alive. Death was defeated. But not only that: they knew that the living one would come to us and live with us, because resurrection is at its essence the love of God that cannot stay away.

So, when the Risen One comes to us, we know we are not alone. He meets us in the hospital room when the doctor says there is nothing more that we can do, but we remember Jesus promised “in life and in death you belong to me.” We know he is there because we remember.

When we have been hurt and attacked and yet we find a way to push the anger and hatred aside, we know we are not alone, because we remember that he said, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

When we find ourselves surrounded by people who have given up on this crumbling world, we know he is with us, because we remember he said, “The light shines in the darkness.”

And when friends and neighbors embrace falsehoods and supposed news providers promote fiction, we endeavor to be truthful and know he is with us, because we remember he said, “The truth shall make you free.”

When the preacher says, “Hear the good news of the gospel, we are forgiven,” we know he is right here, because he promised to forgive seventy times seven.

When our feet are at the edge of the grave, and our hearts are spilling over with grief and we weep, we are not afraid, because we remember he promised, “I will prepare a place for you.” Death has no power to pull us from God.

There were probably some who came last Sunday and were amazed to think of the power of God to raise Jesus or anyone from the dead. They left wondering just how God might be able to do that.

But you, you remember what he has told us, so you know that resurrection is not some mighty deed that demonstrates God’s ultimate power. No, you know that resurrection is God’s ultimate work of love.

When you remember that, then you remember the word we have been told that makes sense of this new day.

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Sermon © Fourth Presbyterian Church