"A Matter of Life and Death"

I have in my hand right now a small stone. If you are like me, from time to time you collect small stones or pebbles from the places where you travel: a shell from this beach, a smooth river stone from this camping trip, a mineral shining with a streak of silver. I have done it since I was a child.

Why do I collect stones? I take them with me as reminders of the places I have been, or reminders of what happened on my visit to a new place.

Many people carry reminders with them, of places they have been or stories they want to remember. Sometimes there is a physical object, like a stone, or a special kind of food or drink, that reminds us of the story; other times it is a song we sing, or a story we tell, that reminds us of what we want to hold on to from the story.

This morning we heard several special stories. One was the story of the life and death of Jesus, beloved by Christians, named as a prophet by Muslims, an inspiration to our own liberal faith as a teacher of kindness, love, and mercy. For Christians all over the world, today is a celebration of Jesus’ resurrection, the way he came back to life after everyone knew he was dead.

This morning you also heard a member of our congregation talk about his second birthday, how tomorrow he celebrates the day he came back to life, after he thought he would die, and members of our congregation talk about transformation in their families and new beginnings.

In each of these stories, I hear a fundamental mystery, as deep as any I know: the mystery of an ending that becomes a new beginning. It is the mystery of hope, shining in the darkness of hopeless and despairing places.

In the Gospel of Mark, it is written that on the first Easter morning, Jesus friends came to visit the place where he had been buried. They knew there was a great stone, a giant boulder far too heavy for one or two people to move, that had been placed over the cave where he lay. But they wanted to see Jesus again and take care of his body, so they came anyway.

In the Gospel of Mark, it is written,

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away.

When Mary Magdalene, Mary, and Salome went into the tomb, they saw that the body of Jesus was not there. And this is where the story of the Gospel of Mark ended, originally, though in the Christian Bible today there are more verses. But in ancient times, this gospel writer did not recount any further sightings of Jesus, only that on the first Easter morning, when the friends and followers of Jesus gathered to remember his story, they found that the stone of the tomb had been rolled away. What they thought was an ending was a new beginning, was a surprise, was a mystery.

In our faith, many struggle with the Jesus story: did he really come back from the dead?  Did he really turn water into wine, did he heal the sick and cast out demons? Was he the Son of God? 

But I think much of the struggle we have is not with the Jesus story – the story of the man who commanded us to love our neighbors as ourselves, who changed the world with his love. It is with the Easter story: that what was dead and gone, kaput and over, finished, hopeless, ended, comes back to life.

The Easter story tells us: This is not an ending. It is a new beginning.

So yes, even if we get the Jesus story, the Easter story is pretty unbelievable. And yet you and I and our families and friends and neighbors have seen it happen, not once but many times; not only in our lives but in the lives of those around us: teachers, babysitters, movie stars, grocery store clerks, carwasheros, homeless women, veterans.

What we thought was an ending was really a new beginning. Outside the tomb that was sealed up tight, sealed up forever, the stone was rolled away.

It is hard to believe in this kind of transformation, this kind of new beginning, unless you’ve seen it and felt it and heard it for yourself – as Karl has, as he shared with us this morning. It can be hard, unless you have with you a way to remember this part of the Easter story.

In a moment, I will invite some helpers to come forward and give each of you here this morning a stone to take home with you, to remind you of this part of the Easter story.

You may think it’s an odd choice. A stone is not usually used as a symbol of hope and new beginnings in our world. It is not a seed or a flower, or a bunny or an egg. It is not a piece of bread. It is not a cross or a star.

A stone is a reminder of a story we need to hear again and again in our lives: the story of an ending that becomes a new beginning. The tomb was empty.  The stone was rolled away. What we thought was dead can have new life. The story -- your story-- is not yet finished.

And it might not turn out the way you’re expecting.

I’d like my helpers to come forward now and distribute our stones.

[interlude]

As I said a moment ago, a stone is not usually used as a symbol of hope and new beginnings in our world. It is not a seed or a flower, it is not a bunny or an egg. It is not a piece of bread. It is not a cross or a star.

Weigh it in your hand, or bump into it in your pocket. Feel it warm to your touch. 

A stone is part of the earth, as we are. It is made of things that don’t change quickly, of things and stories that last.

Like the stones I collected from mountains and rivers as a child, these stones are a reminder of a story you can take with you when you leave the service this morning, a story we need to hear again and again in our lives: the story of an ending that becomes a new beginning. What you thought was dead can have new life. The story -- your story-- is not yet finished.

Take this stone of hope with you, and take with you, the unbelievable, inconceivable message Easter brings, which we sang together a moment ago: from deep despair and perished things, a green shoot always, always springs.

May it be so.