There is an old Hassidic story told by a wise man who said:
There once was a holy Rabbi who used to go deep into the woods and light a sacred fire and whisper the words of a holy prayer.

And from this act healing and transformation would come into the world.
And when the next generation came the new rabbi no longer knew the prayer
but he would go to the place and light the fire
and after him, his disciple came, who no longer knew how to light the fire,
but he knew how to get to the place and I,
said the wise man,
I no longer know the place but I can still tell the story.
Can we, my friends, tell the Easter story,
the story of healing and transformation,
even though this story is so far from us.

Far from us historically.
Far from us, with our scientific post-modern rational minds.
And far from us as we struggle with the ache of our everyday?
Can we make this story our own?
Can we, even more importantly, make this resurrection our own?
Can we enter the empty tomb and walk out again into the light of a new day
as risen ones ready to transform creation?
Can we? Can you?

This morning, this Easter day, I would like to invite you on a journey.
The story that we tell today is one which we have told and retold
and in the retelling it has become part of the psyche of our common culture.
There is power to this. But there is also danger.
Danger that we do not listen.
Danger that we cannot hear.

Danger that the very rhythm of the words will rock us into sleeping and that we will travel forward from this day with nothing resurrected,
nothing illuminated,
nothing transformed,
Danger that this morning will have sat through yet another empty ritual
Danger that we will not allow ourselves to be broken open in wonder and wild joy.
So today we are going to attempt to listen to the story with our artistic hearts
rather than our rational heads.

What is the emotional journey which Luke’s Gospel takes us on?
And what happens when we arrive with the disciples at the empty tomb?

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared.

Greif: from the Latin to weigh upon, to oppress, to be harassed, to suffer.

A couple of weeks ago I asked those gathered here if they had ever held and washed and wiped the body of a loved one after that person had died.

It’s not something which we do very often anymore. Death, in our culture, is often something that happens in the presence of paid professionals, usually behind closed doors. It is not something which we touch, or caress or anoint.
But in Jesus time, to come to the body, in the early dawn,
with spices rich and potent,
this was not so unusual, this was not something to be feared.
But the hearts, of these women, so heavy with loss and longing and grief

the hearts of these women are full of  disappointment,
of abandonment, perhaps even of rage.
Have you ever felt this way?

They found the stone rolled away from the tomb,
but when they went in they did not find the body.

Shock: a heavy blow, an unpleasant surprise, derived from the French –to strike

After the death of someone we love we all experience shock.
Like a visceral blow to the gut,
like a ringing in the ears,
like a dislocation of soul,
Shock.
For the women, in the garden, the sight of the empty tomb must have been like-
a gash.
They have come to anoint, they have come to weep and yet they find only absence,
only an empty, mocking space.

I invite you to gaze upon the window in the far right hand corner at the entrance to the church. Mary is upon her knees. Mary is gazing in shock.

Throughout the ages Christian artists across cultures have attempted to capture moments of sacred story in physical form. Most of the early Christians were non-literate and so the way they learnt the story was through images.
All artists work in culturally specific ways, seeing the world as they see themselves and so our Mary in the window is strangely blonde and blue eyed
as is the Christ beside her. Putting this to one side, allow yourself to be
met by Mary on her knees. Mary in shock.
When was the last time you felt this way?
Can you remember the sense of stomach muscles tightening, of the intake of breath?

The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground.

Why do you seek the living amongst the dead. He is not here, but has risen

Absence: based on the Latin verb to be, to be away, to lack, to not exist

When my friend Craig was killed in a motorcycle accident and we went to view his body, lying ‘tall and skinny already, mouth open’
I remember feeling a certain horror and also, oddly, a certain comfort,
for he so clearly ‘was not here’.

When children and animals are allowed to see the body of one that they have
loved and lost
they can often experience a deep calm, a knowing.
The one they love is no longer here.

‘Nana gone, Nana not here’ I remember a small person once telling me.
Calmly, quietly. And I, the adult, was reassured.

Sit for a moment in an absence of input, be still with your own thoughts.
Be aware of what comes rushing in to fill the gap.
Is it possible to find peace in the silence?
Is it possible to move beyond the panic of what the Zen teachers call our monkey mind?
Is it possible to listen deep for the spirit voice within?

Then they remembered his words and returning from the tomb they told this to the eleven and all the rest. It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James and the other women with them who told the disciples. He is not here! He is risen!

Joy: Vivid pleasure arising, exultation, delight, bliss or blessedness from heaven,      a sweetheart, a loved child

A few months ago I went to the airport to meet two friends who had gone to India to bring home their newly adopted baby daughter. I waited, with all the other waiting folk and I watched the faces and the bodies and the surging rush of glory as families were reunited, as friends clasped each others hands over railings, as voice rang out in greeting.
Simple, human joy.

The joy of a child’s  at their first balloon.
The whirling wonder of gratitude when test results come back with the hoped for result.
The giddy slam of first love.
The warm hand of long marriage.
The indigo blue starry sky.
Imagine the joy in the hearts of these first disciples.
The joy of knowing that
somehow
they could continue to experience Jesus after his death
and not just as memory or as ghost
but as real numinous presence that held their hand and danced them into their own transformation.
What are about your own joy?

Why are you here, sitting on these old wooden pews on this Easter morn?
Is it because you too have danced with the living Christ?
Or is it perhaps because
in your shy humble heart
you too hope to dance with the mystery of the spirit.
Joy.

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.

Grace: free and unmerited favour of God, the beauty of a thing, inspiriting, regenerating

Have you ever had a moment in which the light is shot through with gold dust
and the stillness beats like wonder in your ears.
A  moment, with another or by yourself, when suddenly, somehow,
everything feels like its going to be ok.

A moment when you can feel the hum of creation, when your blood dances with the dapple of the leaves, when the water in your body swims with the swell of ocean, when you have been at-one with the spirit filled cosmos?

A moment when even though everything points to the contrary,
when even though your friend is gone and your dreams are shattered you know with every fibre of your being that God is love and only love
and that love will go on and on?