Here is what we do not know: almost everything

Text: Matthew 28:1-10

We are creatures of a moment. Our lives are small bits of encapsulated time. Seemingly bounded on both ends, mortals with beginnings and endings. Here is what we know for sure: we go from ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We say on Ash Wednesday: Remember that you are dust. And to dust you shall return. As if we needed reminding. We are assembled in the beginning from the ashes of long-dead stars. We are disassembled in the end to become the dusty raw ingredients of some other new life. Here is what we know for sure: birth, life, death. For all of us, it is the same. The same story.

Both ends oddly are times of both fear and joy. These two feelings filled the hearts of Mary Magdalene and the other Mary. Fear and great joy, it says in Matthew’s version of the Easter story. When a child is born, as when Mary the mother of Jesus looked on her son, as all parents look on their children, they wonder: will this child be all right? Will this child be happy? Be safe? Be loved and love in return? Will this child be fed in the spirit? What will this child’s life be? Parents filled with anticipation and apprehension in equal parts. With worrying-ahead and with great joy in equal parts.

And at the end of lives, though we who remain mourn our loss, those who go, go with fear and joy, though perhaps not in equal parts, some more one way than the other.

As parents and as mourners, here is what we do not know: what comes next? what will be?

Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to the tomb where the body of Jesus had been placed on the day of the previous Sabbath. Where he had been placed, dead, his death having been clear to everyone and attested to by the soldiers who went out to make sure. The two women went to watch the tomb, in Matthew’s story, not to anoint the body—that is in another Gospel. But to keep a vigil, to keep watch. Here is what they knew: Jesus was dead. The story of Jesus was over, except in memory. The once-promising story was ended, the closing scene had closed, fade to black, the credits had rolled off the screen. Were the two women sad? Of course they were, though it does not say so. How could they not have been saddened by both losses: both the loss of this man they loved and also the loss of everything everyone thought he was to bring: victory for Israel, freedom for the captives, a new world order. Finally, so important to Matthew, a good king of the line of David.

It turns out that the foundation of what they knew was shaky. The earth shook as they were at the tomb. It was scary, as earthquakes are. And scarier still: an angel in a white outfit suddenly appeared. It was a messenger—that’s what the word “angel” means—with a message for the two of them. The angel saw they were frightened. Who would not be? Do not be afraid, was the first thing the messenger said. As if they could not be. As if that would comfort them. Or maybe the angel meant to say: there is no reason to be frightened of me. I am just a messenger. The angel knew that they were seeking Jesus. And the angel said that Jesus was not there. Three clearly apparent things—their fear, their mission, and the empty tomb—one of which was astonishing.

Where was Jesus? He is not here, the angel said. Why not? Perhaps there were possible, reasonable explanations: Perhaps someone spirited him away (as the guards later think in verses we did not read). Perhaps this was the wrong tomb (probably not). Perhaps Jesus had only appeared dead (though they knew otherwise).

None of those things is the reason, says the messenger. Here is the message: Jesus has been raised. That is the reason Jesus was not there. Here is the same message again: Jesus has been raised from the dead. Here is the same message in a different form: You will see him soon, here, on this earth. As they did.

If you have come to Matthew’s Gospel looking for an explanation of what happened on Easter morning, you have come to the wrong place. There is no explanation. Matthew is big on history and genealogy, but not big on theology. Matthew’s is not like the Gospel of John. There is no theology here.

You may find that this text implies all sorts of things—in fact, people have been finding those things since the first century—but in this Gospel itself there are no implications drawn. There are only statements of fact. From this Gospel passage, here is all we know: the tomb was empty, Jesus was raised from the dead, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary saw him, Jesus spoke to them; and right after that the other disciples saw him, too, and he spoke to them. Aside from this, there is no help in Matthew for understanding Easter.

What did Jesus say to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary? He said “Hey, great to see you.” That’s really what the text says in Greek, which is translated in our Bible as “Greetings!” And he told them not to be afraid. What did Jesus say to the other eleven disciples? He gave them a command: go and baptize in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Which we here, 2000 years later, are about to do. And he told them to teach others all that they had seen and heard.

Most of the Gospel of Matthew is full of prophecy and prediction and foreshadowing, as we have talked about these past Sundays. But in the end, at the end, the message is this: keep your eyes and ears open, let Jesus greet you, tell everyone about it. Without elaboration or explanation. And tell them to do the same.

We are creatures of a moment. Here is what we do not know: almost everything. The story rarely turns out the way we think it will. The story is rarely over when we think it is. The boundaries are rarely as established as we think they are.

The Gospel of Matthew ends as Jesus meets with the disciples. But their experience of Jesus did not end there. The discovery of the empty tomb, the risen Christ, the appearance of Jesus gave energy and courage to the followers of Jesus to do as he ordered, telling the story over and over again. As we still do. Something happened—and continues to happen—with Jesus to transform people and shape their lives.

If we—like Mary Magdalene and Mary and the other disciples—if we follow Jesus, here’s one thing we know for sure: we will be surprised.

Great Expectations

Text: Matthew 21:1-11

Other texts: Passion according to Matthew

The sermon traditionally follows a reading from one of the four Gospels. That is because the preacher is supposed to take that his or her starting place. Even when the sermon talks about another of the readings, it is supposed to be influenced by the themes of the Gospel reading. But what are we to make of a day, like today, when there are two Gospel readings?

Grace to you and peace from God our father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Today is a strange day. It is like two Sundays folded into one. In fact, this Sunday has two names. One Sunday is Palm Sunday. We are in that Sunday now. In that Sunday, we re-enact a joyful march into Jerusalem. The people sing hosannas. They cry out that Jesus is a king and prophet and the fulfillment of prophecy and one who comes in God’s name. The disciples serve him.

The other Sunday is Passion Sunday. We will step into that Sunday in a moment. In fact, we are on the cusp between the two Sundays right this minute. In that Sunday, we hear the drama of the Passion of Christ. The people cry out for his execution by means of crucifixion and mock and torture him, and they call him a blasphemer. His disciples betray him and abandon him.

Why are these two Sundays mashed together like this? One reason is that the church at large decided a few decades ago that since people didn’t pay much attention to Holy Week anymore, they were missing the Passion story, which is what Holy Week is all about. They would hear about the triumph of the palm parade on Sunday. Then the next Sunday, being Easter, they would hear about the resurrection of Christ. But, they would miss everything in between, including the crucifixion, without which Easter does not make much sense. So the church affixed the crucifixion story to the palm story.

Another reason is that it seems like the two stories are actually related. The march into Jerusalem is, in Matthew’s Gospel, the beginning of the march of Jesus to his death. This, especially in Matthew but in all the Gospels, is Jesus’ destiny. By butting the two stories up against one another, we at least see that destiny unfold. What we don’t see is what goes on in the unfolding. I’ll talk more about that in a minute.

But the reason I like best is that by placing the two stories side by side, we are forced to see how desperately people wanted to know, as the story we just heard asked: “Who is this?” Is this the king who will drive out the Romans from Israel? Or is this a criminal, seditious, blasphemous? Is this the world’s savior and liberator? Or is this a man who cannot save himself? Is this the man who speaks for God? Or is this a man who will not even speak for himself?

Matthew’s is a gospel of high expectations. Matthew’s agenda is not to prove Jesus was divine or a healer or a prophet to all peoples, some goals of the other Gospels. Matthew wants to show that Jesus has come to fulfill the promises God made to Israel in scripture. All the Gospels do the same, but Matthew does it more.

So today he quotes Isaiah, and the Psalms, and the prophets. When Jesus comes riding into the city, Matthew says he rides on both a donkey and a colt, which is a literal reading of Zechariah, who wrote: “See, your king comes to you, … gentle and riding on a donkey, a colt, the foal of a donkey.” Yet the prophet was almost certainly writing Hebrew poetry, which uses repetition, not rhyme, for structure. Zechariah probably did not intend the king to straddle two animals at once. That is silly, something Luke and Mark seem to understand better than Matthew.

The people who line the road to Jerusalem expect that Jesus is the king who is to come to free Israel—that is, redeem it—from the occupying Romans and their toadies. The people sing that he is a descendant—son of—David, the greatest of Israel’s kings. He is the one who will restore peace, freedom, and justice—by restoring the nation to its rightful people and power. When we march down the aisles waving branches, we are acting as liberated rebels, welcoming our rebel leader. Singing hosanna! The word means literally “save, please.”

Yet, as we are soon to learn, it comes to nothing. Jesus is captured, tried, executed. The rebellion fizzles out. Jesus does not free Israel, and Rome remains powerful. With the same conviction as we re-enact the joy of Palm Sunday, we have to imagine the disappointment, the despair, of the people on Passion Sunday. This despair, though, does not have its roots in Jesus, but in us. Jesus did not promise to free Israel. We, standing by the roadside with our palms, just expected he would.

Expectation is cruel. It is bound to lead to disappointment. That is because expectations are fantasies of the future that are either met or they are not. If you expect the Red Sox to win the World Series—they either will or they won’t. You take no comfort in a near miss. If does no good to say “They didn’t win the World Series but they did well.” Not if you expected them to win. While I admit the Red Sox are important, if you find unmet expectation in, say, your job or in your relationship, it is much worse.

Since the first Palm Sunday, people have expected things of Jesus. For some, Jesus is not much more than a bundle of things expected. For many, Jesus bears all our longings: for comfort, or safety, or companionship, or liberation, or even victory in battle. For healing, and for justice. Since the time of the original Passion Sunday, people’s expectations have been unmet. I’m not saying that Jesus does not provide and effect much; I’m saying that our expectations of him often say more about us than about Jesus.

Apostle Paul writes that the death of Jesus on the cross was a scandal. Not only horrible, as it was for the many others of his time who were crucified, but inconceivable. Against all expectations and therefore a barrier—a stumbling block, he says—to those who might otherwise follow him. We put attributes and expectations on God, and then reject God when God does not conform to or meet them. Secularists sometimes do this when they argue against religion, but Christians do it too.

Holy Week is an intense time for Christians. A lot of story is crammed into a little space—like two Sundays into one. But it also can be a time to take a closer look at Jesus. Jesus did not go straight from Palm Sunday to Easter, but he did not go straight from Palm Sunday to Good Friday, either. While in Jerusalem, he said a lot of things and did a lot of things that made many people curious, apprehensive, or angry. The powers of the nation did not crucify Jesus because he was a nice guy. They feared and distrusted him and the transformation of the world that he preached about.

For this reason, I encourage you to read the parts of Matthew that we skip over today. That would be from chapter 21 verse 12 through chapter 26 verse 14. At the same time, I’ll be posting a short reflection about some of these stories each day this week, starting tomorrow, on Faith’s site. You can find out more in the bulletin.

The Palm and Passion stories together constitute a story of unmet expectation, but they say nothing about hope. Expectation and hope are two different things altogether. Expectations of others can mislead us, but our hopes are true because they are ours. We can hope for a World Series win in 2011 in spite of all the current evidence. Hope is not wishful thinking, it is deep longing. Expectations are tested, hopes are lived out.

The story of Jesus did not end with the Crucifixion. It did not end with the Resurrection. Or even with the Ascension a few weeks later. Whenever you expect the story of Jesus to be over, it turns out differently. It lived on in the apostles, in the early followers of Christ, and 2000 years later, lives in us. Sustained, as always, by hope for renewed life and a world transformed.