Misleading Trumpets – Sermon for Easter Day
This past week, I heard a preacher and teacher I admire say that Easter is the day to pull out all the stops–to break out the brass, let the choir loose, let our worship be as big and bright as it can be. Get over our tendency to be restrained and polite and measured in church–it’s Easter, after all.
I like trumpets on Easter Sunday, too. I like trumpets and organs and drums and tambourines and electric guitars and cowbells and anything that sounds joyful. This is a day when we’ve got news to share, and why not share it in the most exuberant way? Christ is risen! We get to say that in as many ways as we can imagine, and an orchestra of instruments can only help do the job.
I like trumpets on Easter Sunday, but I also think there’s a way in which they can be misleading. They can be misleading because the way the Bible describes Easter morning, it doesn’t sound like trumpets were part of the soundtrack at all. The way the Bible tells it, there’s more mystery than clarity for the witnesses of the resurrection; there’s more wind than brass; there are more questions than bright, bold, definitive announcements in the air that morning.
Luke’s version of the story begins not in bright sunshine but in the hazy first light of day, as a group of women make their way to the place where they saw their teacher and friend buried just days earlier. They are there–as the saying goes–to give Jesus “a decent burial.” They’ve been busy, preparing the spices and ointments that were part of the customary treatment for a dead body in this time and culture.
Maybe staying busy was their way of grieving that day. You know as well as I do that for some people, keeping busy in the midst of loss is the best thing in the world. Maybe preparing spices is the ancient equivalent of arranging flowers, checking in at the funeral home, baking lemon bars for the reception. Maybe keeping their hands busy kept their minds and hearts safe from the full force of what had taken place.
They come with their spices and ointments, knowing full well what to expect. Dead bodies stay dead, and the women have no reason to expect otherwise in this case. They know what they’ll find, and they know what to do when they get there: at least that much is predictable. Maybe there’s something a little comforting in at least knowing how to be of use now–a token of certainty in the midst of the past days’ confusion.
But as the women near the tomb, it becomes clear that something is wrong–the stone has already been rolled away. In alarm and confusion their pace quickens, they rush and peer inside the tomb and find–nothing. No body, no angels, no farewell note. Nothing.
Okay, so the angels will show up in a minute, but I don’t think Luke means for us to miss this point. The first sighting of the resurrection is not a presence, but an absence; it’s not a superhero Jesus striding around in glowing robes, but a place where a lifeless body should have been; it’s a great, empty, mysterious space and a deep and profound question: how can this be?
The trumpets of Easter morning can be misleading. They can be misleading, because the constellation of scenes that follow the first sighting of that empty tomb are full of mystery and wonder: Messengers in dazzling clothes appear and ask a haunting question: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” Spices lay spilled across the tomb floor–what would they be needed for, now that there’s no body to anoint? The women make a breathless run through the morning air, and the first report of the resurrection is met with utter disbelief.
Our translation says the disciples considered the women’s report “an idle tale”–that’s a very polite translation for the Greek word leros, the root of our English word “delirious.” The disciples–the ones most in a position to know, the ones most in a position to believe–called the first message of resurrection hooey, hot air, nonsense, probably something a little more colorful.
The trumpets can be misleading–because ultimately the Easter news is not the bold brass of certainty but the mysterious wind of faith. Do you find it hard to believe the news of the empty tomb? Join the club–the disciples are right there with you. Do you find it hard to believe that death is not final, that God is working renewal in this great, beautiful mess of a world, that life and redemption are at the heart of creation? You’re in good company.
For centuries, Christians have gathered for something called an Easter Vigil. They’ve gathered after nightfall on the Saturday before Easter Sunday and celebrated the resurrection in the dark. It sounds a little funny when we’re so used to Easter being about bright sunshine and flowers in bloom and the “Hallelujah Chorus”–but if you’ve ever been part of an Easter Vigil, like the one here last night, you know that something feels right about speaking words of resurrection under a big, dark sky.
The service begins with only the sound of a bonfire, crackling away in the darkness. We light candles and pass the flame to each person, and we walk slowly, savoring the light on our faces and the mystery that surrounds the news of Easter. The soundtrack for the Vigil is mostly chanting, the instrument of a single human voice intoning words that feel too precious to shout: “This is the night when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.”
The trumpets can be misleading, because they can make it sound like faith is as clear as a fanfare, as bold as brass, as straightforward as a march. The church has acted this way sometimes, and it’s always been a mistake. The resurrection shakes up everything we know, or think we know, about life. It says that what we see around us–a world filled with need and hurt and death that looks final–is not the whole story. It says that the broken dreams in our lives are not the end of the story. It says that the broken relationships between people and nations, the violence and fear and divisions that fill up the newspapers are not the end of the story. And now we’re in the realm of faith.
For most of us, faith that grapples with the news of the resurrection isn’t as clear as a bell. It’s full of questions and doubts, wonderings and ponderings and the itch to know more.
Faith is like a piece of music that sounds a little strange at first. Maybe played on an instrument you’ve never heard. Maybe full of harmonies that don’t quite make sense to your ear. And yet, you keep returning because you’re sure there’s something there you need to hear; you’re sure there’s a richness and depth there that just might change the whole way you listen.
Faith is like falling in love. Maybe the way the other speaks catches your interest. Maybe the way he laughs, or the way she tells stories makes you want to know more. You spend time together, you get to know one another, you keep coming back, because somewhere deep down is the precious hope that this relationship might just change the whole way you love.
Faith is like that. Yes, it’s great joy–and right alongside it’s also mystery and wonder and the force that drew Peter to the tomb that day. Leros or not, he had to see for himself. And it’s only later that he found himself living in the bold faith of Easter, seeing the world through resurrection-colored glasses, walking in the light of this new reality that transforms our own.
The trumpets can be misleading–but I still love them on Easter. Let’s sing out today, not because faith is easy or obvious, but because when we do, we are giving thanks for the gift of the faith we have and calling out together for more.
Let’s sing out with all we’ve got, because when we do, we’re singing ourselves–and one another–into a new way of seeing and living, into life as Easter people, nto life shaped by the earthshaking news of resurrection.
Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed. Alleluia!