Readings:
   Romans 6:3-11; Matthew 28:1-10

It’s been a long time coming, but we’ve finally arrived. The day that we’ve been preparing for for so long is here. The Lent that we put off for one more night as we celebrated Shrove Tuesday with pancakes and songs and stories and – not that any of us would forget – belly dancing; the Lent that we ushered in with the sobriety of Ash Wednesday, the litanies of our sins that we recited, the deprivation of music and alleluias that we endured – it is finished.

The last week has been pretty intense, too.  Especially for us Episcopalians, who like everything to be the same today as it was yesterday and will be tomorrow, and so we have nearly identical services every Sunday, this has been a week of fullness and variety. Solemn processions, services of light and darkness, washing of feet, stations of the cross – seventeen services in all, in less than a week. I’d say we deserve a break, and thank God Easter is here.

It’s funny, though, how people react when they finally get what they most want.  I have a friend who’s wanted to be a college professor ever since he was a little kid. He studied hard in high school and did well on his SATs. He got into a good college, where he studied harder and did well on his GREs.  He got into a good grad school and studied harder still, and after he got his Ph.D. he landed a job. He taught and published and schmoozed for seven years, and then, finally, after all that hard work, he got tenure.  His future was secure.  He could do what he most loved for the rest of his life.

He describes the day after he got tenure as the saddest day of his life. That might seem a little strange at first, but I think it makes a lot of sense. He didn’t know what to do with himself, because he’d focused on one goal his entire life.  And when he reached that goal, he didn’t know what to do next.  He’d achieved his reason for living, so what was left?

I think some of us Christians act that way, too. We work so hard to get to Easter, but when it arrives, we don’t know what to do next.  I’m not so much talking about Easter day. I’m talking about what Easter represents.  Easter is the center of our universe, the culmination of our church year. Today is where everything changes, where the world is made new: today is about the end of death, the assurance of salvation, the promise of eternal hope. Our sins are washed away, and forgiveness is ours.

But if we view Easter as simply the elimination of something negative, as the washing away of our sins, then what’s left for us to do? What do we do when the eggs are found and the chocolate finally finished; when, in the church calendar, we return to that period after Pentecost known as “Ordinary Time”?  Do we just try to hold on to what we’ve been given, trying not to slide back to where we once were, before the stones were rolled away from the tombs of our lives?

I think a lot of us do that. A lot of us treat God and Jesus and all that as a heavenly insurance policy.  We look to God for the forgiveness of our sins, and then we do our darndest to avoid making any more mistakes.  We feel like we’ve learned the truth, so our task for the rest of our lives is to hold on to the truth, no matter what trials or tribulations come our way.  The best we can do – the most we can hope for – is to stay right where we are today.

As you can probably tell from the way I describe that way of looking at things, I don’t buy it.  I don’t think Easter is the end of all our searching; I think it’s the beginning.  Easter isn’t where we should stay for the rest of our lives; it’s the starting point on the journey of discipleship.  If we look at Easter as the end of our journey – as the place that we always wanted to reach and now want to stay there forever – then tomorrow will be just as sad a day for us as the day after receiving tenure was for my professor friend.

If Easter is as much about the future as it is about the past, then the forgiveness it promises applies to the future as well. When Jesus rose from the dead, He didn’t just conquer the sins that had taken place up to that point.  He conquered Sin – capital “S”, the sins of all persons in all times, the very concept of sin. The offer of forgiveness isn’t a one-time thing – it goes on, for no matter how good our intentions, sin is as much a part of future as it was our past.

So what does all this theological talk of Christ conquering sin with a capital “S” mean for us?  Let’s get practical. First, it means that we don’t need to play it safe.  More than that, it means we shouldn’t play it safe.  Jesus didn’t die on a Cross for us so that we’d be timid and so afraid of making a mistake – of falling back into sin – that we wouldn’t take risks. We should remember the parable that Jesus told, where a rich man gave money to ten of his servants to invest while the rich man was away.  The first nine servants multiplied what they’d been given and they were praised, but the one who just buried his portion in the ground for fear that he might lose it was punished. 

We Christians often ignore that parable. As we fall asleep at night, we often evaluate the day in terms of the mistakes we made. We seem to strive for a mistake-free existence, never realizing that we’re acting like the one servant who was punished. Instead of asking ourselves what mistakes we made, I think we need to ask ourselves what risks we took. When did we lay ourselves on the line for the people we love?  When did we try to do things that we weren’t sure we could do, all the while trusting that God would pick us up if we fell flat on our faces? When did we venture into uncertainty with only the assurance of God’s love to comfort us? 

Those are the questions we should ask ourselves at the end of the day. That’s the life that the risen Christ is calling us to. Just like Martin Luther once encouraged his followers: “Sin boldly,” he said, “but rejoice in the love of Christ more boldly still.”

Second, we need to remember that God is the center of our universe; we’re not the center of His. Often when we think of Jesus we think only in terms of ourselves: our redemption, our forgiveness. What we fail to see is that redemption and forgiveness come from our relationship with God, and a relationship implies two people, each with their own thoughts and feelings and emotions.  We can’t take just what we want to take; we have to be willing to give, as well, and often give ’til it hurts.  God offers us the free gift of salvation, and all He asks in return is everything about us.

I once heard a story about a young woman who had just entered the convent. She had expected a life of discipline and order, but instead she found herself awash in emotions and doubt and uncertainty. Instead of feeling utterly protected, she felt vulnerable, even unsafe.  Yet for all that, she knew that God was with her.  She told the prioress of the convent how she was feeling. “It feels like I’m playing with fire,” the young nun said. But the prioress replied: “No, actually it sounds like the fire is playing with you.”

The new flame from which we lit the Paschal candle tonight, and which shared its light with all of us here – that’s a wonderful image for God. Fire dances and is unpredictable and spreads quickly and keeps us warm. But it’s also dangerous and impossible to control and threatens to overwhelm us at any second.  Just like God.

Finally, we need to hear the words of the angel at the tomb: “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised.” He has gone ahead of you to Galilee. You will see Him there.  When we live in fear of sin and making mistakes, it’s as if we stay there at the tomb.  We know that Jesus has moved on, but we’re afraid to follow Him.  Even though the stone has been rolled away, we never move, because of our fear. 

Easter is about about realizing that we don’t have any business at the tomb, because Christ is risen. It’s about going and finding Jesus wherever He is – out there, in the world – and taking risks along the way, all the while knowing that the forgiveness of God is always ours. And it’s about realizing that the fire is playing with us, just as much as we’re playing with it.

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