Remembering the Words - April 8, 2007
Luke 24: 1-12Once upon a time I had to learn a whole new vocabulary. I had to learn it fast, I had to learn it well enough to pass a test, and I had to learn it in another language. I’m a visual learner, so I decided to surround myself with the words I had to learn so that every time I looked up, some of those words were right in front of me. I made posters of the words and taped those posters to the olive green kitchen cabinets in our seminary apartment. I started on the side of the cabinets that I could see when I sat at my kitchen table doing my Hebrew homework. As the vocabulary assignment grew, and I learned more verb conjugations, more pronouns, more participles, more ways of reading my Hebrew Bible, the posters seemed to multiply very quickly until soon every vertical flat surface in our kitchen and dining area was covered with three consonant words (Hebrew is written without vowels).
I’m sure it looked ridiculous to people who walked in who weren’t either in seminary or living with a seminary student. Some of my classmates laughed at me (but not at exam time.) You see, for me, seeing was remembering. And I desperately needed to remember in order to succeed. When I was finished taking Hebrew classes, I took the posters down and was amazed at how uncluttered my kitchen looked. But it didn’t stay that way for long—I took Greek the next year. Up went the posters again, this time in Greek.
One day in Greek class, we learned a special phrase—it was taught to us so that we might greet one another in the way that Greek Orthodox Christians do: “Christos anesti!” Christ is risen!
When one greets you with the proclamation, “Christos anesti!” There is a standard reply: “Alithos anesti!” He is risen indeed! We practiced that first day so that it became almost a reflex. If someone said “Christ is risen”, we replied “He is risen indeed!” If they said it in Greek, we replied in Greek. It seemed almost like a game of “Red Light, Green Light”—remember that game from your childhood?
Very early in the morning, the women came to the tomb, prepared to anoint Jesus’ body with spices. I was a final act of respect for someone who they had listened to, had loved, but in the final act of the dominion of the Roman state, had lost. They had had to wait until that morning, you see, because no such acts could be done on the Sabbath. The Sabbath was for honoring God—honoring a friend would have to wait. So they waited. And when it was no longer the Sabbath (at sunrise according to their tradition), they got on with the business of caring for Jesus in the only way that was left. It was what women did. So despite what they must have been feeling, they did this final sad act, this final grim detail of honor.
The author of this gospel tells us that the stone was rolled away when the women got there. Other gospels deal with the situation of a heavy stone blocking the entrance in other ways. Matthew has an angel roll the stone away as the women watch. But Luke seems to be telling us “It’s not about the stone. Go in, look for yourself.”
And so the women, seemingly unconcerned about the stone or how or why it is moved, enter the tomb. They expect to find a decomposing body, a sad reminder of what they have lost. What they find instead is at once frightening and perplexing. Jesus has left the building, and in his place are two fully alive, bright and shiny men. Not only that, but these men have the gall to admonish the women, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” Well, he was dead—they had seen that with their own eyes—and the tomb is the place where you would expect to find a dead body. It’s not rocket science that brought them there, just good common sense. And compassion. And duty. And love. And now these women—these faithful women—have to stand there and be chided by strangers.
Then suddenly, the dazzling men say the thing that turns it all around: “Remember. Remember, he told you this would happen.” And the women remember the words—his words. And nothing is the same; everything is changed. It all makes sense now. Christos anesti. Alithos anesti!
Unlike in other versions of this story, the women cannot keep this great good news to themselves. They leave the tomb and they find the others and they tell them—they tell everyone what they had seen. I wonder if they expected to be believed. They are women after all. Maybe they are used to not being taken very seriously. That is exactly what happens.
Now, about this “idle tale”. Anna Carter Florence, last year at the Festival of Homiletics, reminded a room full of preachers that the correct American English translation of the word leros (for which the biblical translators have so genteelly chosen the phrase “idle tale”) is actually a one-word, two-syllable English term, the first syllable of which is pronounce “bull”—you know, that substance commonly found lying on the ground on cattle ranches or dairy farms.
So while the translation I read to you this morning might conjure up images of the women being accused of sitting around the community well, spinning yarns, and idle tales, and clever stories, a more realistic interpretation is that the disciples thought they were full of it. They had seen the same miracles the women had, they had heard him preach and teach and heal. They had heard all the same words. But they had not remembered. And because they had not, this new reality was not real to them yet.
For just a moment, even while they are standing there calling leros on the women, we can feel just ever so slightly sorry for them…can’t we? Don’t we forget sometimes? Aren’t there moments in our spiritual lives when we forget that Christ died for us, that he rose again that we might live life abundantly? We forget the words. We forget the promises. We forget the miracles.
And so we need to be reminded. We need to keep saying it, over and over again until we believe, we remember. And if one of us forgets, we need to remember on that one’s behalf. If I forget, you remind me. If you forget, I will do the same.
We gather in this place every week, and we re-tell the story. There are certain lines in the story that we keep repeating until they are burned in our memory: “In the name of Jesus Christ, I declare to you that we are all forgiven” “Peace be with you.” “Thanks be to God” “They will come form east and west and from north and south.” “On the night which he was betrayed, our Lord took bread…” “I baptize you in the name of the Father…”
There’s another side to this remembering, you know. Calling leros on those who remember and proclaim resurrection did not end with the disciples—oh, no, that was just the beginning. For every small group willing to proclaim resurrection, there is a crowd waiting to call it leros. That didn’t stop the women, did it? And neither should it stop us. We are called not to just remember words, but to proclaim them in our very lives. These acts of remembering we do in this place are to build us up to live out the promises in the world.
It was several months after I had learned “Christos anesti! Alithos anesti!” that I heard it again on a very early Easter morning after having spent the entire night observing Easter Vigil. In a traditional Easter vigil, which begins at Sundown on Saturday and ends no earlier than after midnight, (when Easter begins) the entire story of salvation is told, beginning with creation. Through Scripture and song and chant, and using fire and water, bread and wine, the story of God’s people is told. The story is this: at every turn, at every opportunity that God has to abandon God’s people, God instead keeps the promises. Even when we turn our backs on God, God keeps the covenant with us. At Vigil we remember the promises. We remind each other that God created us and proclaimed us good; we remember our baptism, that Christ came to save us, that people who have walked in darkness have seen a great light and the darkness has not overcome it.
They are powerful words. They are our words. They are our story. They are worth remembering. “Christos anesti! Alithos anesti!” Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Thanks be to God.
