Easter Vigil Sermon

The Great Vigil of Easter • 11 April 2009

This wondrous liturgy of the Great Vigil of Easter begins in the dark with just the flicker of a small fire, the first fire of Easter, moves into the dark church, behind the pillar of light that the Paschal candle provides for us, and then asks us to sit for a while with our small candles, to ‘hear the record of God’s saving deeds in history, how God saved God’s people in ages past; and [to] pray that our God will bring each of us to the fullness of redemption.

Some may wonder why we chose (or, for some, have) to sit through all these readings. The reason is simple: This is the Easter Vigil. This is our great night of story telling. And what a set of stories we have to tell! The stories we tell tonight are those that are central to our faith and to our understanding of salvation. These stories tell us of God acting throughout history, being constantly with us throughout time. These stories tell us of God’s everlasting covenant with us, a covenant that is steadfast and loving — despite the worst we can do. These stories speak of hope, pardon, reconciliation and redemption. It is important for us to spend time listening to these stories for they are part of who we are and where we are going. Our time spent hearing these stories tonight is so short compared to the generations and generations who form the living texts we hear. If we seem tired, it is because we have travelled very, very far in a very, very short amount of time. We have travelled the road of salvation history.

Of all these readings, the one that the prayer book requires is the Exodus reading. For years, I have been greatly troubled by its inclusion. Even if the Book of Exodus is the first book of the people of Israel’s story to have been written, and even if it is the root metaphor of what follows, the particular story we always hear at the Easter Vigil makes my teeth grind. How can we, on this most holy night, celebrate the death of another people as God’s people were saved? It seems wrong. Each year, it grates.

Every year on the radio program, ‘Speaking of Faith,’ Krista Tippet spends an hour on ‘Exodus, Cargo of Hidden Stories.’ She talks with Avivah Zornberg, one of the great interpreters of the Talmud and Torah. Given that Passover and Holy Week coincide this year, it seems fitting for us, descendants of Abraham, too, on our most holy of nights, to reconsider a story that seems to counterintuitive but is that which our Jewish sisters and brothers remember this week, the Exodus and Passover.

Midrash, that wonderful process in Judaism of engaging with a story, asking questions of it and finding its meaning, a process in which we also engage, has tackled this story, too. Over and over, the midrash explanations say that when the angels begin to celebrate with the Israelites at the death of the Egyptians, God does not let them sing because God’s creatures — the Egyptians —are dying. The text shows the pathos and sadness that comes with the death of the Egyptians; even as the Israelites sing, they are aware of the price that has been paid for their liberty. God is sad at the brokenness of the world even as God’s people are set free from the bondage of slavery.

All the midrash demonstrate God’s sadness at the limitations of humankind. Even in the great moments of joy comes sadness. Nothing is simple in humankind’s life — to think that we can live in absolutes is to impoverish our lives. A mixture of emotions always comes at those major moments of transformation in our lives.

Even this glorious evening, as we ponder the gift of God’s love incarnate in Jesus, we must also recognise how it is that things got to be where they are. The stories we hear from the Hebrew Scriptures give us an idea of how our brokenness led God to send the prophets over and over again to remind us of God’s unfailing mercy and love.

If it were not for all the stories we have just heard, if it were not for the repeated promise of God’s covenant with us and of God’s faithfulness, we would be tempted to say that the story ends at an empty tomb, a sign of death and hopelessness. But just as the cross is not the last word, nor is the empty tomb.

Out of the emptiness comes life. Out of the emptiness, comes hope. Out of the emptiness comes the stunning news of Christ’s resurrection. The women, who come to bury his body and find the empty tomb instead, learn from the angel that Jesus has risen! Jesus has gone on ahead of them to Galilee and so they must go, too. As the women run to tell the other disciples the incredible news, in their disbelief and sadness, they meet Jesus on the way and their joy, wonder, and amazement is boundless.

We, too, are those women on the way. We have journeyed all the way to this moment and now it is time for us to move on, with all the welter of emotions that dwell in our hearts —on to Galilee, on to participate in the on-going story of salvation, on to proclaim the words that are the sign of God’s loving covenant with us:

Jesus Christ is risen! Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!