"Roll the Stone Away"

There is so much going on prior to Easter -- the emotional roller coaster ride of Holy Week, the expectations of each of the services to hit the right mark, and then, if you're like me, preparing your home for friends and family to celebrate. I wrote this Easter sermon in a state of extreme fatigue. It's short and to the point, but several people have told me that it affected them deeply.

“Roll the Stone Away”

John 20:1-18

Tobermory United Church

April 5, 2026

Let us pray: Holy and gracious God, these words were created with love for you and in humility. May they also be received in this way. Amen.

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark…” Those are the words that began our Easter passage today, and I have always loved them. Only thirteen words, but they roll off the tongue like poetry. We immediately get a sense that nothing has begun yet, that perhaps it’s too early even for the birds to sing, and certainly there’s no clang and clunk of implements or machinery, no chit chat of workers, just the world laid out in quiet darkness, the dew on the morning grass, the day presenting itself in portent and possibility. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark…” It sounds a bit like the beginning words of Genesis, “In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void, and darkness covered the face of the deep…” And you know that something is going to happen, because something has to happen to fill the formless void, and something does happen, and if you remember, it was good… but in this case, we have only a woman, half paralyzed with shock and grief, clutching a basket of spices and myrhh, making her way to the tomb of her beloved friend to offer one last act of love, to tend to his broken body. Her head is lowered, deep in thought, and what is it, exactly, that she’s thinking? Perhaps an image comes to mind of how only a week before, Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, the mock king, his delighted followers joining in the revelry and saluting him with waving palms, in deference to this strange royalty, laying their cloaks on the road in his path… Next her mind goes to a supper in an upper room, Jesus stripping off his clothes like a slave and kneeling down to wash his friends’ feet, saying ‘this is an example of how I want you to be in the world…’ and next, an arrest, a trial, and a crowd yelling, “Crucify him.” And they did, and there she was, at the foot of that cross, watching Jesus’ life ebb away. “It is finished.” That’s what he said right before he died. And it was like her life ended with his. They were all in hiding, his followers. Their movement was nothing now. All was lost.

          It is called liminal space, that time in which Mary found herself. A threshold. Neither here nor there. Waiting for the next thing, but no-one knows what it is…

          The fact is, in the last year or so, the Gospel of Jesus Christ has never seemed more relevant, not in my lifetime, anyway. As more and more authoritarian regimes take power in the world, we are able to more fully understand the times in which Jesus wandered through Judea teaching, healing and preaching. He did all this in a milieu of fear within an occupied territory. We knew that. But it seemed far away, distant, something that happened literally thousands of years ago. But Jesus – harassed, arrested, roughed up, mocked, sent to his death – all because he spoke of things that were a threat to the powers that be – we see such things throughout the world now… In Iran. In Hungary. In Russia. In the United States… It’s scary, and its close. And now, when world leaders ought to be begging each other to work collaboratively on mitigating the effects of global climate change, so many are, instead, dropping bombs and missiles, using the world’s precious resources and energy to destroy bodies, families, homes, towns, cultures, civilizations – even hope itself. Like Mary, we exist in a liminal space, waiting for, well, we don’t know what we’re waiting for… and like Mary, it may feel easy to feel sometimes that all is lost…

          And that, my friends, is why Easter matters. That’s why we have giant, glorious, outrageous flowers in the sanctuary today, to tell you that Easter matters…

          Remember back in the beginning of the Gospel of Luke when Mary, the mother of Jesus, is confronted with that possibility, and the angel says to her, “For nothing will be impossible with God.” Remember that?

          Well, Mary Magdalene gets to the tomb and the stone is rolled away. At first she thinks that Jesus’ enemies have added insult to injury. She tells anyone who will listen, including a man she assumes is the gardener, that she is looking for Jesus’ body, that she must find it, that she will carry it back to the dignity of the tomb herself if she has to. And that’s when she hears the man call her name, Mary, and she recognizes the timbre of his voice, and the tenderness and the familiarity and the love. Those of you who are parents, have you ever lost a child, like in a crowd, or in a store, or a park, and you’re looking for them, and then you see them, and it’s the best sight you’ve ever seen in your life, and you are so grateful that you could just fall on the ground, or kiss someone or pray thanks to God… Or if you’ve been a child and been lost, and then someone you love finds you… that’s what it’s like for Mary… Jesus, who was lost, just like so many of the things he taught about – a lost sheep, a lost coin, a lost son – he was lost, but now he is found! And it is like everything before has led to this one moment of tenderness and recognition, and everything that will come after, comes after…

          Easter tells us that when all may seem lost, it is not lost. It tells us that when all seems like it’s closed up in a stone cold tomb, permanently sealed with death, that the stone can be rolled away. Easter tells us that love wins over fear. That vulnerability is more powerful than violence. That putting one foot in front of the other and tending to those we love with love may lead to the most surprising things. Easter tells us that God loves abundance and colour and blossoming and flourishing. God loves life! Most of all, Easter tells us that hope is not futile.

          Mary, previously hope-less, runs down the hill with the first news of resurrection. “I have seen the Lord!” she breathlessly tells the rest of the disciples, and a whole new chapter begins, something huge and world-changing that takes on the fire of the Spirit at Pentecost. “Stand up, Mary,” the choir sang today, “You are a priest and prophet. Tell us the good news. The stone must roll away!”

          Christ is risen, my friends.

          In the face of everything, Christ is risen.

          And it makes all the difference.

          Thanks be to God.

          Amen.