Sermons

The Tomb is Full

Tortured God, why?

Crucified God, where are you? 

Entombed God, what can we do in the face of suffering?

Amen. 

I used to live in the tomb. It was hours, days, months, in the dark.

Outside the tomb, life happened, the sun rose, and then set. There were thunderstorms, snowstorms, and sunny days. Seasons changed. Time passed by. At least, that’s what I assumed was happening. The walls of the tomb are thick, and I was so, so far away from anyone.

But inside the tomb, I would stare at a clock, and it would taunt me, like an experience of insomnia. I looked up, and the clock said 4:23. Then, the next time I looked, it said 4:24, and then 4:26.

And outside the tomb, people would say things like, “Wow, this year is really flying by!” But inside the tomb, time had nearly stopped.

I would ask friends, “Could you come over tonight? I’m going to be sitting in the tomb,” my version of “Would you watch with me for one hour?” But most could only make it a few minutes. They had never been in the tomb before, and it was scary. They didn’t want to get stuck in there with me. And can I blame them? No one wants to be in the tomb. As our journey through Holy Week attests, our brother Jesus knows the pains and toils of this life. He knows what it is to be betrayed by a close confidant, someone he loved.

He knows what it was to be mocked. This year, as I read the story anew, I was struck that the taunt “King of the Jews” is written not just in Latin but in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. It’s as if the Romans wanted every single literate person who passed by to read what they thought was a sneer. Jesus knows what it was to suffer, to be tortured. Jesus knows what it is to be abandoned, to die. He knows the tomb from the inside.

I don’t know about you, but for me, that is a great comfort. Only if I see the wounds on Jesus can I know that Jesus sees the wounds on me. I need a God who’s spent time in the tomb. That is the mystery of the incarnation. In Jesus, God takes on our ordinary humanness. And in so doing, humanity is bound to God in a new way, the chasm between Creator and creature is bridged, and we are united with God. We can be assured that God understands our human frailty and our strength, our misgivings and our convictions.

We walk the path of Holy Week each year, and each year some parts of it strike me anew, as pieces resonate with my own experiences and with the world around us. Last year, I was struck by how Jesus’s procession to Jerusalem and subsequent murder resonated with the killing of Russian dissident Alexi Navalny after he returned to his home country just weeks before Easter.

This year, the part of the story that strikes me happens largely off-stage of our story, but sets the whole thing in motion. That is the political leaders conspiring against Jesus. The image I keep seeing when I think about this is our own U.S. president sitting in the Oval Office with the president of El Salvador, Nayib Bukele. The two men are holding a press conference that addresses the imprisonment of Maryland man Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia, who was wrongfully deported to El Salvador and is being held at a mega-prison.

The two presidents sit, each shirking responsibility for this man and his fate, very clearly conducting a charade by claiming they are powerless to return him to the United States. They could not look more guilty. On Instagram, a Wisconsin priest, Fr. David Simmons, captioned the photo of the presidents with these lines of the Passion: “They handed him over to imprisonment and torture.”

Abrego Garcia’s case has received significant attention because he was deported in error. But we must also remember the three planeloads of people who were deported there with him to a brutal prison where torture is commonplace. Then there are the nearly 15k men who were already at this prison, a place I (and I’m guessing most of you) had never even heard of until the last month. No one deserves that treatment, not if they entered our country without the proper immigration documents, not if they are members of a gang, and not if they’ve been convicted of a crime. I imagine that these incarcerated men also feel they are in the tomb, paralyzed by inhuman treatment and cruelty, separated from family and friends, watching the clock tick by minute by minute.

A few days ago, St. Mark’s hosted Walking After Jesus, a service where the children of our church can follow the events of Holy Week in an interactive and age-appropriate way. Church members play parts: the woman in the upper room clearing away dinner, the sleeping disciple in the garden, the man weeping at the cross. At each station, the children come in looking for Jesus. But oh no! At each station, they just missed him. Jesus has gone on to his next location. At the end of the journey, the kids learn that while they never caught up to the human Jesus, they can always find Jesus here at the altar in our celebration of the Holy Eucharist.

Or at least, that is true every other day of the year. This day, the altar remains unadorned, and we do not receive the spiritual nourishment of the Holy Eucharist. Because on this day, the tomb is not empty, but full. On this day, we remember that Jesus has died. This day, the whole church waits in the tomb, watching the minutes tick by. For some of us, this is only our annual visitation to the place of desolation and despair. We spend most of our time in the other world, the one with seasons, where time flies by. But for others of us, those in grief, or fear, or despair, this is a place that you know well. We are all here with you. Jesus is here with you.

The tomb is full.