Easter Sunday
Year A, RCL
March 23, 2008
All Saints’, Bentonville
Gospel:
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him." Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus' head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" She said to them, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him." When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?" Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away." Jesus said to her, "Mary!" She turned and said to him in Hebrew, "Rabbouni!" (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, "Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, `I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'" Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, "I have seen the Lord"; and she told them that he had said these things to her.
“Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first.” Biblical scholars have made much of this footrace to the tomb, speculating that the competition was emblematic of a rivalry in the early church between followers of Peter and of John, whom some think was the unnamed disciple -“the one whom Jesus loved.” And in this retelling of the story, John arrives first at the empty tomb.
But, you know, as a runner, I have a hard time imagining these two disciples’ sprint toward an empty tomb as a competitive event.
Most of you who know me well, know that I love to run. I run for the sheer joy of running, finding simple pleasure in lacing up my running shoes and feeling the earth beneath my feet. That hasn’t always been the case. There was a long period of time when I ran just to escape pain. A failed business and a failing marriage had plunged me into despair and I discovered that if I ran, and ran, and ran, that the pain would sometimes subside. Along the way I realized that as I brought my attention to the run itself, to the crunching sound of the crushed granite trail beneath my feat, to the steady rhythm of my breath, to the sun’s rays warming my bare back – I could find peace, in the emptiness of the moment. I was still running from the pain. I had not yet realized that running could take me toward the transcendent as well. I only knew that while I ran, the ache I felt in my heart would somehow lessen, become submerged in the swirl of effort, motion, and beauty of an afternoon run. I usually ran on the hike and bike trail that loops around and occasionally bridges the blue green waters of Town Lake, in Austin, Texas. As the name implies, this is an urban lake that is circled by an urban trail, but it is nonetheless an escape from the city. In fact, the sense of escape the trail offers is heightened by the proximity of the city streets. The downtown skyline is visible much of the way and traffic can always be heard. The city’s presence is constant. The trail parallels streets and sidewalks, where only moments before the runners had probably maneuvered their own vehicles through congested traffic. Looking to one side, the runner sees the city; looking to the other he sees the shoreline and the serenity of the water. The lake is fed primarily by the Colorado River, but made holy by the flowing waters of Barton Creek, emanating from the city’s spiritual center, Barton Springs. When running around the lake, there is an automatic shift of orientation, away from the city and toward the water, away from the secular and toward the sacred.
Like most who ran that day, the shift in consciousness took place without my awareness of the change. I only knew that when I ran, I felt better. I didn’t question why. Then the baseball fell from the sky. I was crossing the Congress Avenue Bridge. The bridge is expansive, bordered on both edges with a wide sidewalk. The bridge was unusually quiet, with cars only visible in the distance. The ball landed at my feet; a half step faster and it would have landed on my head. It had fallen from directly above. I stopped and looked around me. No one was near. One car receded in the distance. Another approached some 50 yards away. The ball had fallen from the sky. I picked it up and examined it. It was a very old baseball, not just well used. It was worn from time, not play. The seams were high, the leather was genuine horsehide, and it had the smell and feel of a ball that might have felt the sting of bats held by Gehrig or Ruth or DiMaggio. My first impulse was to hurl the ball over the railing and into the water below. It had appeared from nowhere and it seemed fitting to return it to nowhere. Instead I held the ball in my hand and resumed my run. I was certainly surprised to have a baseball fall from the sky, but my life had been topsy-turvy for so long that I wasn’t completely astounded. I had grown to expect the unexpected. Ruling out baseball bombing aircraft, I concluded that it must have fallen through one of Stephen Hawkin’s wormholes, the tunnels through which the renowned physicist believes it possible to move through time. I enjoyed holding the ball in my hand. I liked its feel and the sense it gave me of a connection with something historically significant – something bigger than myself. As I ran I occasionally tossed the ball into the air, contemplating the curious nature of the incident. I crossed the bridge and made my way back down to the trail. I continued running along the south shore of the lake, passing a large hotel and eventually running under the South 1st Street Bridge. I had run a half mile from the point of receiving the ball. As I passed by Auditorium Shores, a green expanse often used for concerts and fairs, I noticed from the corner of my eye a man appearing to be about my age playing baseball with a young boy.
The boy, though he held a very small bat, swung it awkwardly. As I drew closer, I could see that the boy seemed to be afflicted with a muscular disease – I guessed cerebral palsy – which had left him thin, weak and lacking coordination. It was a struggle for him to even bring the tiny bat across his body, but he did so with a smile and a look of determination. I thought of my own son, close to this boy’s age, but strong, fit and agile. I shuddered. My eyes shifted back to the man I took to be the boy’s father. He reached to the ground and picked up a few pebbles. Standing only a few feet in front of his son, he began tossing the pebbles across an imaginary home plate. Each time the father threw a pebble, the boy swung, always too low and always too late.
As I ran past, the father turned and looked at me over his left shoulder. His glance seemed that of a pitcher holding a runner on first. I looked down at the ball I had been carrying. The man held up his hand and, without a moment’s hesitation, I threw him the ball. The man caught the ball, turned back toward his son, and resumed his game. The father offered no thanks, no acknowledgment of my offering. His attitude was one of acceptance, of recognition of all being as it should be. I was meant to provide him with a ball so that he could teach his son.
I resumed my run without looking back. I knew that this moment was theirs and that my role in this event was complete. As I ran down the trail I tried to figure out what this curious incident meant. It was easily the strangest occurrence I had ever witnessed. As I reflected on its meaning, then and over the next few days, I concluded that the message I had received was about the importance of baseball in my life. I had always been a fan and was even more so now that my son had shown both an interest and an aptitude for the game. I resolved to pay attention to baseball and be aware of the importance it might play in my life. Indeed, baseball has kept my son and me close over the years. I coached his teams a number of times and have thrown him more pitches and hit him more ground balls than I could ever count. More importantly, when we have had conflicts and found it difficult to talk, we could always have a catch. Throwing the ball back and forth between us, the lines of communication slowly open up. The rhythm of the throw and the catch, the repeated sound of the ball landing in the pocket of the glove, becomes a mantra. The shared mantra frees our minds from the troubling thoughts that separate us. Slowly we can begin to talk, usually beginning with baseball, but eventually about ourselves.
I have continued to ponder the meaning of the baseball from the sky over the years. I realized that its significance changes over time -- that it has taken on the status of myth – and like myth, its meaning is subject to interpretation by those who encounter the legend. Later, I began to see the story as a parable about the importance of running in my life. Indeed, running has become very important, in fact it has become a critical part of my spiritual practice. Still later, I understood the baseball myth as a story of giving back what I have received. The baseball was a gift that fell to me. It was grace in its purest form. I was able to pass that gift of grace on, almost immediately, to the place it belonged. I witnessed Divine Love traveling through me and coming to rest in the hands of an earthly father who also was showing love to his son. The incident has instilled within me a desire to be a conduit of God’s love, to share what I have received.
But as I stand before you, here on Easter morning, I know now that this is a story of resurrection, of new life, of rebirth. That jog around Town Lake almost two decades ago, was a run toward an empty tomb. Faced with the dissolution of the life I had previously known, it would have been natural to fill the void quickly. Impulsively we seek to overcome loss by distracting ourselves with the rapid accumulation of new things, new relationships, new dreams, new ambitions. But sometimes we need to run awhile in the emptiness. To empty ourselves of the things the world tells us are important. Peter and the other disciple ran to the empty tomb. And if they hadn’t seen its stark emptiness, how could they have understood the resurrection? Unless we have experienced the emptiness of the tomb, how can we know new life?
There are enough people chasing after abundance. As Christians we find new life by running toward the emptiness. As Christians we can have the courage to turn away from the false security of a stale job. We have the freedom to let go of a poisonous relationship. We need not fear the empty tomb, because we have the assurance of the resurrection. We worship a living Christ – a dynamic vibrant Christ. To cling to a dying way of being in the world, is to deny the vitality of the resurrection.
There may be something to be said for patiently waiting for the resurrection. New life is, after all, a matter of grace, a gift. And gifts are to be received with a grateful heart, not sought after. But this gift of the resurrected life has already been offered, freely given to us. And it might be more fitting, on Easter morning, for us to run like Peter and John to the empty tomb. Run like our children running to gather Easter eggs. Run to the open tomb, where we find on this day, that the Lord has risen indeed!