At funerals, people always ask the grieving family, “What can I do?”  Bring the broccoli casserole or plate the spinach quiche, cut the grass or rack the leaves, cover your work shift or cover your bills.

At the funeral of God’s Son, we come asking the grieving Father the same question, “What can I do Lord?  What can I do beyond chores and errands and punching time sheets Lord?”  (Scholar paraphrase)

 

—
John 20:1-18

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.  — 
















































































































































































































































































                                                                                             

                                While serving the local church, Fred Craddock recalled that people were always willing to cut the parsonage grass or wash the pot luck dishes, empty the trash or fill up the offering plate, serve on committees or serve up biscuits.  But pastor, they would plead, “Just don’t ever, ever, ever ask me to say anything.”

 

The government can’t say it, the schools can’t say it, industry can’t say it, but Christians can’t not say it.  He was born in Bethlehem and lived as a peasant in Nazareth.  Jesus’ life is public record.  He died a criminal, crucified among bandits.  Jesus’ death is public record.  But his resurrection is private, only made public when we interrupt the dead silence of a Good Friday world with our proclamation that the third day is now everyday.  That the third day is now everyday.  (Craddock paraphrase)

 

Years back, I served a church in Waynesville.  Every week a number of women and I would visit the shut-ins, all wheel chair bound and demented from age and Alzheimer’s.  And the encounter with Lorena always began the same way.  She would train her cloudy eyes on me and point her interrogating finger…

“What’s your name?”

“Brian.”
“Where are you from?”
“Charlotte.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your pastor.”
The loop of suspicion would continue again and again, and I would respond again and again.
“What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“Where are you from?”
“Charlotte.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your pastor…”

After our cyclical greeting, one of the church women who knew her best, who was reared in same cove, would unshelve the nearby hymnal.  Once in her lap, Lorena’s posture would straighten, her eyes would sharpen and her voice would strengthen.  “Page 182,” she would instruct.  In perfect pitch, hitting every note and recalling every verse, Lorena would sing, “Christ The Lord is risen today.”  “Page 259,” she would instruct.  In perfect pitch, hitting every note and recalling every verse, she would sing, “He Lives.”  “Page 323,” she would instruct.  In perfect pitch, hitting every note and recalling every verse, she would sing, “Up from the grave He arose.”  While Lorena couldn’t remember anything, she still had something to say, something to sing, something to proclaim about resurrection.
What can I do?  Start by repeating in voice and in discipleship, “The stone has been rolled away.”  “He’s not here.”  “He’s risen.”