Amy McLaughlin-Sheasby 4-19-26

Good morning, Hyland. It is so good to be up here with you this morning. It has been a semester of traveling to preach at other churches from time to time, which is wonderful, but there's actually nowhere I would rather be on a Sunday morning than right here. And that's the truth. Let's begin with prayer.

Creator God, who's very special, hovered over the shadowy depths, whose very voice brought forth the stars, the sea, the trees and flowers, and all of life in its rich diversity. We ask that your creative word would abide in us again today. Stir within us something new. Stir within us some new hope, new life that only you can provide. May my words this morning participate in your creative mission, and may the church be encouraged to do the same.

In your son's name, we pray. Amen.

Many years ago, when I was working on my master's degree at acu, one day my mentor Tim Sensing, came to me and said, hey, how would you feel about getting to preach every Sunday morning? And, you know, I grew up in a context very different from Highland in that, like, we didn't have women in full participation at the churches I grew up in. And so this seemed like a real shock. And immediately I exclaimed, yes, of course. Absolutely.

When? Where? How? And he said, well, okay, slow down. I need to tell you a little bit about this context before you say yes.

You see, it's a church that's located on the property of a nursing home and assisted living care community. And all of the people who come on Sunday mornings are residents there at the nursing home and assisted living community. So, you know, it's a different kind of context. And, you know, I thought it over, and I thought, you know, I don't really think that there's another opportunity in the pipeline for me to, like, preach every Sunday morning at this stage. And, I don't know, it sounds kind of wacky and different.

I think I'll do it. So I said yes. And it was a wonderful, wonderful season of life, honestly. I received a set of keys to the little church building, and every Sunday morning at the crack of dawn, my husband Nate and I would drive out to the church, unlock the church building, turn on the lights, turn on the air conditioning, make sure the hymnals were where they needed to be, turn on the sound system, and. And then we would welcome people as they came in.

And oftentimes the nursing staff would help wheel people along this sidewalk that connected the primary residential building to the chapel. Sometimes nurses would help people navigate with their walkers, and oftentimes we had kind of Nurses waiting on the wings, if people needed help during church or whatever. And so this is what we did every Sunday. And if I had to guess, I would say maybe the median age of my Congregation was about 84, 85. We had a song leader named Edna who was 91.

Edna had very strong opinions about everything that happened. And I learned very quickly to wisely choose my battles. I figured she deserved to win the majority of the battles living up to 91. And so this was the context where I became a preacher. I have often said that this little church loved me into being a preacher.

They endured the truly terrible sermons of a young slugger in her 20s, and they gave me a lot of room to grow. And it was a real learning curve, not just because I was learning how to preach, but because it was a tough context to learn. I mean, what does a 20 something year old know about aging? What did I know about the loss of mobility or the loss of hearing or the loss of eyesight, or in the case of some of my congregants, the loss of memory? What did I know about approaching death or experiencing the rapid loss of my friends and peers?

I didn't know anything. I was clueless. And all I could manage to do week to week was just focus on the sermon, like focus on writing those sermons week to week. And I would do everything I could to kind of block out the sensory overload on Sunday mornings. The sights and sounds and smells that had come to associate with this place and you know, the kind of odors that you might encounter in a nursing home.

Right. It had kind of seeped into the pew cushions and into the tapestries on the walls or like the sounds of groaning or wheezing of congregants who were experiencing pain or a difficult time breathing. And I learned to maintain focus. You know, if somebody needed some medical attention during the service and a nurse comes in to intervene, and I would just focus on the sermon. And to me, I was doing what I needed to do, what they had called on me to do.

But after I had been preaching at this place for a few months, one of my favorite congregants, Wanda, just an absolute delight, an encourager to all. Wanda approached me one Sunday after service. She wheeled over to me, she took my hand in her hand, she looked me in the eyes and she said, hey, sweetheart.

And I was like, oh boy, here comes the punch. Hey, sweetheart. She said, I. I want you to know that we think you're doing a wonderful job. We are so, so thankful that you're here. But there's something I need to tell you.

We've all been talking amongst ourselves, and here's the thing. We all know that we're dying. We know we're dying. That's why we're here. And actually, this is kind of awkward, but it seems like maybe you're the only one who doesn't know that we're dying.

And, I mean, I was stunned. You know, she said it would be helpful if you could kind of preach to our situation, you know, and she was right. I had been really afraid to address it from the pulpit. That is absolutely true. Which is kind of interesting because it's not like anybody who knows me would describe me as a death avoidant person.

I grew up in a minister's home, which meant that we went to funerals all the time. I've walked with a lot of people through seasons of loss and grief. Heck, some of you know that I even teach a class at acu, a theology class on death and dying called Mortality and Meaning. The students call it Death Bible. And, like, sometimes I'll be walking on campus and someone will be like, are you the death professor?

So nobody's calling me death avoidant. I've never thought about myself this way. And yet I was pretty surprised by Wanda's confrontation. And it made me wonder, why was it so difficult for me to acknowledge that my flock was struggling and suffering and dying from the pulpit? What was different about the context that made it so hard for me to acknowledge death in my preaching?

After some time, I realized, I think I just didn't know how to speak of the good news of God in the presence of that kind of pain. It's one thing to sit with it, it's another thing to speak into it. And I didn't know how to preach about healing in a context where healing won't come. I didn't know how to preach about life abundant in the presence of people who were dying. I didn't know how to preach about Christian formation among those whose conditions were deteriorating so rapidly.

And thus I had inadvertently blocked out the pain of my congregation and in an effort to preach the good news of Jesus. And you know, what I discovered is that I had actually bypassed the good news of Jesus as I neglected the reality of my church. So I began to wonder, what does the gospel sound like in the pit of grief? What does the gospel sound like when present suffering remains? What could good news sound like in the real presence of death?

In hindsight, I think it's really possible that I had actually never understood the Gospel before, not in its full power and beauty, simply because I had not yet learned how to name death in its presence.

Our text for today comes From John, chapter 20, verses 11 through 18. In the previous chapter, John 19, we are told that Jesus was crucified and buried. All four Gospel accounts bear witness to this, right? Jesus was put on trial, was executed on a Roman crucifix and was buried in the tomb. Which is to say Jesus was dead, not almost dead.

There's no magic trick here, no sleight of hand. He's not pretending to be dead. He's not even asleep. He's dead. Jesus mother saw him die.

His disciples saw him die. His enemies saw him die. The Roman soldiers saw him die. And among the disciples, Mary Magdalene saw him die. Christians worldwide just rehearsed this story in previous weeks, right?

I think it's easy for us to forget just how devastating this would have been for the loved ones of Jesus who did not have the advantage of hindsight. They didn't have Bibles in their hands like we do. They can't skip ahead a few chapters. They didn't know where the story was going. Now, Jesus had tried to warn them again and again.

You know, the Son of Man must be handed over. This temple will be destroyed and rebuilt in three days. But they weren't getting it. They couldn't imagine where things were going. And I mean, if he's the savior of the world, he can't very well go and die, right?

They placed all their hope in him. He would be their deliverer and their rescuer. He would never leave them, right? It was inconceivable that he would die. And in the moment that he breathed his last, in the moment that he died, I have to imagine their hope died too, at least for a time.

I mean, so much for the Messiah, right? Like, so much for the kingdom of heaven. Rome wins the day. The turmoil among the Jews will peter out. And what will become of this group of disciples?

What will become of this ragtag little family, as Jesus calls them, sisters and brothers.

That's part of this too, right? Jesus wasn't just their teacher, he's their family. They loved Jesus as a friend, as a brother, as closer than kin. They loved Jesus enough to forsake all else. They loved Jesus enough to walk away from every other thing in their lives.

They've put all their chips down on Jesus. And in his death, for a time, it had to have felt like they had lost everything.

So Jesus is in the tomb for three days, which maybe doesn't Seem like a terribly long time, unless you've ever lost someone you loved, in which case then you know that a single day can feel like a week is the craziest thing, the way that time gets distorted. In the days and weeks and months after a loss, the hours pass unbearably slow. Three days was long enough for the disciples to lose sleep. It's long enough for them to skip meals. Long enough to cry until they have no more tears left.

Long enough to stare at the wall numbly. Long enough to shatter a plate or two against the wall. It is long enough to wonder how anything could ever be okay again. Again.

But then.

But then Easter, right? But then breath. But then life. But then an open tomb, an empty grave. The plot twist that nobody saw coming.

The occasion for all of our celebrations just a couple of weeks ago. And this is where our story picks up. In John, chapter 20, Mary Magdalene, one of Jesus closest friends, dearest disciples, the one who's going to be remembered as the apostle to the apostles, goes to the tomb and discovers it's empty. And you know, this must have been a horrifying discovery. At first, the only logical conclusion is that somebody has taken Jesus body.

Maybe grave robbers, but more likely enemies of Jesus. She runs to go tell the others, which prompts Peter and the so called Beloved Disciple to engage in a foot race to the tomb. This has to be one of the weirdest details included in the Gospels. The Beloved Disciple wants you to know that he's faster than Peter. He outruns him to the tomb.

Yes, they see for themselves it is empty. And then we're told that the men leave.

But Mary stays.

Mary stays.

And maybe this is relatable to some of you. I know that in my own life, upon losing someone that I loved very much, I felt like my whole life coiled around that loss in an instant. It feels nearly impossible to leave. It can feel impossible to go back to work or go be with friends or, or do anything even remotely normal. Your life just kind of collapses around the absence.

And I have to wonder, did it feel nearly impossible for her to leave?

John 20, verse 11 picks up here and it says, 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. And 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.

I love the poetic nature of this text. Supposing him to be the gardener. At first blush, this seems to be just a classic case of mistaken identity. We can imagine her eyes are watery with tears. Her face is puffy from crying for the last few days.

She can't see clearly. She doesn't see that it's Jesus. But I don't know that I'd be so quick to call it mistaken identity. I want to share a picture with you. A couple of years ago, the chair of my department at ACU gifted the faculty with an icon that is a painting of Christ or saints of Christian history in a traditional style.

Perhaps you've seen these before. Sometimes the figures are depicted with halos or holding items that are associated with their ministry. Sometimes the icons depict scenes from their lives or their martyrdom. So we were invited to select an icon by an artist named Kelly Latimore. And we received the link to the website and I began to peruse the artwork.

And when my eyes landed on this painting, my breath got caught in my chest. I want us to take just a moment of silence to consider this painting and see what catches your eye.

I don't know what's standing out to you right away, but you might notice, first of all, Mary's posture. Mary is nearly turning on her heel. One foot is turned away as though she just might walk away. She clenches this urn of burial spices in her hand, and she looks down at Jesus the gardener, with hesitation. You will notice the garden imagery there in the foreground, the desolate wasteland in the background.

You will notice the grave open. And yet the linens almost look as though they are still wrapped around a body. Can you see that? I don't think that the artist is refuting the bodily resurrection. I think that maybe the artist is suggesting something about the nature of grief.

That is, the death is still here and very much real for Mary. Her heart is broken. In fact, her heart is so broken that she's having a very hard time seeing what's right in front of her, but what's right in front of her. The gardener. The great gardener.

The word that was there in the beginning of the foundation of the world, and the very word that gives life to Everything that breathes the eternal word of God that cannot be defeated by death. And this word incarnate, this resurrected word, now kneels before her with a look of utter compassion, as though to ask, can you see that I'm making something new? Can you see that I'm growing new life? Can you see that death will not have the final word?

Christ the gardener makes an unexpected garden right there in the middle of Mary's grief.

Our text picks up in verse 16, with Mary still unsure about the identity of the man, until Jesus said to her, mary. She turned to him and said in Hebrew, rabuni, which means teacher. Jesus said to her, do not touch 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, my God and your God. So 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. It's pretty cinematic, isn't it? Like, I can almost hear the music just swelling in my head as I read the story out loud again. I love the scene. I love the emotion captured.

I love the language of my father and your father, my God and your God. This is language of promise. This is language of commitment. This is language of family. It's reminiscent of the vow that Ruth makes to Naomi in the Old Testament, you know, and of course, Jesus is the direct descendant of Ruth also.

But I also just love the power in Jesus saying Mary's name. In the oblivion and confusion of her grief, Jesus calls out to her clearly with her name. I am reminded that earlier in John's gospel, in chapter 10, when Jesus describes himself as the good shepherd, he says that the sheep know the shepherd's voice when he calls them by name, Mary.

And there he is. She would know that voice anywhere.

In the weeks following Easter, we celebrate the good news of God, the Creator, who conquers death once and for all. But we also celebrate the God who meets us at the tomb, the God who meets us at the grave, the God who can meet us in the pit of our grief and tenderly call us forward, tenderly redirect our attention, tenderly invite us to take a risk, to take a risk on hope, to dare to see the new things that are coming, to dare to receive new gifts. Signs of life, signs of beauty. And maybe sometimes the. The grief remains.

Maybe our hearts still ache. But the one who gives life is here beside us and is ready to spring up new life and beauty all around us. The Great Gardener is not finished. And there is so much more life and beauty to come.

Allow me to pray over you as a benediction.

God, you told your followers that in this life we would know hardship and sorrow. But you also told us to take heart. You are the God of comfort. You are the God who knows us by name. You are the gardener who has been in the business of creating new things from the dawn of time.

So whether in seasons of joy or seasons of loss, in times of strength or in times of weakness, God give us eyes to see and ears to hear so that we may bear witness to new life in you. In your son's name, the church prays. Amen. Go in peace.