Sermon for the 2nd Sunday of Easter April 27th
The hymns and songs we sing at Easter are full of energy, joy and triumph. Rightly so, because we celebrate Christ conquering death and opening the gate of eternal life. They stand in stark contrast to the hymns and carols of Christmas, where, despite the joy of the incarnation – the coming of God among us as the Christ child – we sing about quietness and peace:
“How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given"; “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.”
The irony of this is that the Christmas narrative in scripture is actually rather noisy. Angels sing in the sky, shepherds rejoice and glorify God, a mass census takes place in crowded Bethlehem, strangers from the east cause fear in the palace of Herod, who orders a terrible massacre of children. Even though we sing about peace and quiet, the Christmas story is loud.
At Easter, we sing with gusto of choirs in new Jerusalem, Christ conquering, bursting from the tomb: “Up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph o’er his foes.”
And yet, when we read the Gospel accounts of the resurrection, we find only quietness, secrecy and peace. Jeus slips into rooms, appears unrecognised, walks quietly alongside people and breaks bread with them. The resurrection is not triumphantly brash at all; it is rather quiet and unexpectedly unassuming.
The resurrection appearances in our Gospel reading today gives two examples of that quietness. In the first, Jesus is in the room with his disciples. Although the doors are locked, Jesus does not break them down. He is simply and suddenly present among his friends. These are fearful people, and a loud entrance would not have calmed their fears. It is the evening of Easter Day, so we know that Mary Magdalene has already seen Jesus that morning and has shared her news with the disciples. But they are grief-stricken and no doubt perplexed by what Mary has told them. It’s significant, then, that Jesus’ first words to them are “Peace be with you.” He speaks a peaceful greeting, then confirms who he is, by showing them his wounds. Then comes John’s version of the giving of the Holy Spirit. We are probably more used to Lukes’s version, recounted in Acts 2, where the sound of the Spirit is ”the rush of a violent wind”, but here, Jesus breathes. It is a quiet dispensation. To those who are frightened and grieving, he breathes peace and the Spirit. For Thomas, not present that evening, Jesus returns to bring something more. Again, he offers peace as his greeting and an invitation to touch and understand. He doesn’t berate Thomas, but rather offers him an opportunity for encounter and faith. To the one who doubts, Jesus gives assurance.
So, what does this tell us, that the first Easter was quiet and unassuming? It tells us that Christ, even in his triumph over death, is not triumphalist. If we struggle with loud, noisy, brash interpretations of faith, then this can give us heart. Jesus appears quietly, breaking bread, on the beach, walking alongside people, offering peace. Even the Holy Spirit is given in a quiet breath, rather than a noisy rushing wind. Jesus appears to people who, despite having heard the news of the resurrection from Mary Magdalene, have locked the door out of fear. They are, to say the least, wary about what she has told them. Jesus does not wait for them to grow confident or certain – he comes to them anyway.
Jesus meets with those who are fearful, uncertain, doubting and grieving, and offers simply his presence and his peace. For those who struggle with faith, or with expressing it boldly and confidently, this is enormously helpful. We know that from such humble and inauspicious beginnings these uncertain and frightened disciples spread the good news of Jesus, so that two thousand years later we’re still reading this story and marvelling at God’s love and glory. Those of us who might find it hard to be bold can look to those disciples and know that we too are able to be vessels of the Holy Spirit and sharers of the good news, because Jesus Christ is quietly present, always by our side.
Illustration:
Christ and the Doubting Thomas by Luca Signorelli, fresco, Basilica della Santa Casa, Loreto, Italy. Early Renaissance 1477 - 1482.