But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.
That’s what my son says every time he hears a bump or a crash or a siren. What happened, mommy? What happened?
We could ask the same question about the Gospel story this morning: What happened?
We didn’t hear the stone.
We didn’t see Him rise.
We weren’t met on our knees by men in dazzling clothes in the early dawn light, who tell the women, “he is not among the dead, but the living.” Who ask them to remember words these men have never heard—could they be angels?
No. We are with Peter. We stand with the eleven, who come to this news second-hand. We receive this Gospel from the mouths of others: from our church. From our family. From the word of God open before us today.
Perhaps that question is inevitable—when something we cannot explain occurs—an earthquake, a terrorist attack, a medical diagnosis, Donald Trump—we desperately want to understand. We start looking for answers, for proof. We run with Peter to the tombs of the world, needing to see the grave clothes for ourselves.
But he isn’t there. Remember? Why do you seek the living among the dead?
Like so much of our lives, this question—what happened?—is met with more questions. We don’t get easy answers at the tomb. Instead, we are told to remember. To reflect. To consider everything that happened before the cross. To ponder Christ’s insistence on the Kingdom of God, which he said could not be crushed by human hands.
We are asked to look beyond the inevitable darkness of a world that so often deals in death and suffering. For we all have seen the world blanketed in crosses too often borne by the poor and the vulnerable, the stranger and the refugee, the sick and mourning. We have watched as good, righteous, innocent people have been gunned down, blown apart, disappeared by a world that is so often unjust. We know what death looks like.
But this? This is different. As we stand before the empty tomb, as we ponder the space where the bodies ought to lay, we are asked to do something far more difficult than acknowledge the world as it is. We are called to remember the world as Jesus said it is meant be. The world God created, where every blessed thing is sacred. Where the sick are tended, the poor are fed, the stranger is welcomed. A world where political and religious power are no match for the justice and righteousness of a God who loves what he has made fiercely, fully, completely. A world where death has no sting, and there are no tears, for the Lord God is in the midst of the people.
Why do we seek the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen.
On this Easter morning, we who wonder—what happened?—cannot stay here. If we want to know what has happened, we have to leave the tomb. We must leave the grave and go out into the world, where the risen Christ is waiting for us. We must set aside our need to know, and seek Him out.
If we remember all that he said before, perhaps we will be swift to find him—for we will remember that Christ is among us whenever we feed the hungry, or give something to drink to the thirsty. That he is among us when we tend the wounds of the sick and the suffering and welcome the stranger. He is with us when we visit the prisoner, and clothe the naked. He is with us whenever we reach our hands out to grasp the hand of another beloved child of God.
So go. Make haste to find him. Grasp the hand of your neighbor and discover the Good News that the women proclaimed and the apostles wondered at—that he is risen, that he is among the living, that God has triumphed over death. And we are witnesses to these things.
Alleluia. Alleluia indeed!