My sermon title this morning actually began as a mistake.  Back in January, when I was on planning leave, I was reading ahead to the commentaries for the coming year, and as I was skimming resources, I noticed in one of them an essay with a large heading that I thought said ”Unreasonable Resurrection.”

            When I stopped and looked more carefully, I realized it actually said “Unseasonable Resurrection.”  And the point of the essay was that because Easter is calendared extremely early this year –          in fact, as early as any of us will see it in our life-times – that it may mean that Easter, instead of happening when all the world is bursting into new growth, so you can talk about all the spring flowers, and so forth, may instead be happening when it’s still frozen and dark, when there’s still snow and ice on the ground.  And the interesting question the author raised was, how might that different environmental context shape how a person experiences Easter this year?

            While I certainly thought that was an intriguing question, I found myself going back over and over to my original mis-reading of the title:  Unreasonable Resurrection.  And the more I thought about it, and read and struggled with what other folks have thought about it, the more it made sense to me that it really is precisely what Easter is about:  something completely unreasonable, unexplainable, illogical, remarkable, and astonishing – not in any way, shape or form, “business as usual,” or the world as we’re used to it.  Which is exactly the way it must have seemed to those participants in the very first Easter story.

In all four of the Gospel accounts of what happened that morning, it is the women – always including Mary of Magdala – who go first to the cemetery where Jesus had been buried two days before.  In John’s version of the story, Mary has made the trip alone.  She has gotten up in the pre-dawn light and despite the dangers of the dark streets, gone to the cemetery, and searched through the darkness for the sepulcher – the cave-tomb -- where she and some of the other women had watched Joseph and Nicodemus place Jesus’ body.

            But even in the dim light, she realizes there’s something wrong – that the big stone that had been rolled across the entrance was no longer across the entrance, but had been moved aside.  She cautiously creeps up, and squinting against the darkness, looks inside the cavern, lets her eyes adjust to the even deeper darkness, and finally realizes that the tomb is empty – that Jesus’ body is gone.

            And what is her first thought?  Grave-robbers!  For some unexplicable reason, someone has come and stolen Jesus’ body.  It’s the only reasonable explanation for why it’s not there.  The possibility of resurrection never crosses her mind for a single second – despite all the scriptural predictions, that would be completely unreasonable!

            So she runs back through the half-light to a house where she knows Simon Peter and one of the other disciples are hiding and grieving, and she tells them what seems to have happened.  Jesus’ body is gone.  Someone must have taken it, and she doesn’t know where.  And the two disciples leap to their feet, and race one another to the cemetery to check out the situation for themselves.

The nameless “other disciple” creeps up to the tomb, and peers in, and sees the linen strips that had been temporarily used to wrap Jesus’ body lying there, then backs away as fast as he can.  Simon Peter, apparently a little braver (or more foolhardy) hesitantly comes closer, then goes into the tomb itself – and he sees the linen wrappings too, and notices that they’re not just scattered any whichaway, but neatly rolled up – which is really confusing, because if thieves had stolen Jesus’ body, why would they have taken time to unwrap it, and then leave the neatly rewrapped strips behind?  This does not make any reasonable sense at all!  And then the first disciple works up all his courage, too, and comes in, and sees the same thing, and it says he “believed,” but what he appears to believe is simply that Jesus’ body is in fact missing – since the scripture tells us “they did not yet understand … that Jesus must rise from the dead.”  And so, confused and puzzled, they simply went back to bed – or, as the Gospel-writer puts it,  “then they returned to their homes.”

            In the meantime, Mary has come back to the cemetery, and stands weeping outside the tomb.  When she peers in, she sees two figures dressed in white, who ask her why she’s crying.  It seems like a pretty ridiculous question, given that she’s standing in a cemetery, peering into a tomb where someone dear to her had been buried … but she responds, again, with the reasonable explanation:  that someone has taken away her Lord, and she doesn’t know where.

            As she speaks, maybe she hears a rustle, or the sound of breathing, and she realizes there is someone standing behind her.  When she turns around, she sees a man standing there who she takes – quite reasonably – to be one of the cemetery gardeners –             I mean, after all, who else would be out this early in the morning in the cemetery?

            And since he happens to be right here, by this particular – and now empty – tomb, she leaps to the reasonable conclusion that he has taken the body!  And so she begs him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”  Or, in more contemporary language, “Look … I know you have him … just tell me where you’ve put the body, and no-one gets hurt (well, more accurately, I won’t tell anyone; I’ll just go get him, and bury him properly)… and no-one else needs to know.”

            And then the man says one word:  “Mary.”  Her name.  “Mary.” 

            And in that one word – hearing in his voice the many times he must have spoken her name before – “Mary, would you mind getting me something to eat?”  “Mary, is there any water left in the water-bag?”  “Mary, what did you think of my sermon this morning?” – she realizes who it is standing there in front of her.  Her beloved “Rabbouni” – which actually means “my Lord,” rather than “teacher” (the way it’s often translated).  “My Lord!”  As completely, totally, and utterly unreasonable as it may be, this is her traveling companion, her Master, her loving friend, her Lord, who is standing right there, speaking her name, reassuring her that all will be well.

            Now, next to the fact of the resurrection itself, that may be the single most unreasonable part of the whole story.  That by speaking one word – just her name – Jesus could suddenly transform Mary from a woman filled with grief, unable to understand the events that God was unfolding, into a woman whose faith could embrace even what appeared to be impossible.  And yet, let’s stop and think for a minute about the power of names.

            I figured out pretty early when I was growing up, and I’ll bet some of you did too, that I could usually tell what kind of mood my Mom or Dad were in by the name they would use when they called to me.  “Sharyl” – just my first name – usually meant that all was well.  “Sharyl, how about helping me set the table for dinner?”  “Sharyl, is this your book on the table?”  “Sharyl Ann” was a different story.  “Sharyl Ann, why isn’t your bed made?”  “Sharyl Ann, are you hiding somewhere reading again?”  First name plus middle name meant I wasn’t in dire trouble, but it might be looming in the distance.  And my full name – “Sharyl Ann Bender” – as in, “Sharyl Ann Bender … what is this note from your teacher?” – meant that Mom or Dad were seriously not happy with me, and I was truly in deep trouble.

            I also learned young – as you did – that the names we use for others – and the names they use for us – say important things about the kinds of relationships we have with them.  For example, many of us have, or had, pet-names in our families … in my case, a couple of my favorite aunts called me “Sharyldee,” and several cousins and my own sister and parents called me “Shep” (which I hated).  In your families, you probably have a “Nana Poo” … or “Boo-baw”… or “Uncle Fee”… or you yourself are still known in your family, or to close friends, as “Bucky” or “Red” or “Sister,” even though it may be decades since the nick-name was first coined for you.

Even if we didn’t really like the particular nick-name we were dubbed with we still liked the fact of having a nick-name, because it meant that we were noticed, and valued, and connected with others.  And it is that connection – that sense of being known – to and by each other – that Jesus draws on here, speaking only her name – “Mary” – to reassure her, to begin to show her that a completely new, totally radical, even if utterly unreasonable thing had taken place in the world, and to call her to a new place in her faith.

            And as completely, totally, and utterly unreasonable as it may seem, the power – the mystery – the Holiness that we call “God” knows us, and cares about us, and calls our names too.  “Bruce.”  “Carolyn.”  “Dean.”  “Eric.”  “Pam.”  “Patsy.”  Our reasonable, logical, thinking selves may reject the whole notion as totally impossible, but it does happen in our lives – it has happened in our lives – and some of us are lucky enough to realize that it has happened in our lives. 

Maybe it happened for us when we were in the deepest depths of grief, mourning the loss of someone we loved deeply – and a note that someone sent – an ordinary card, with a few scribbled words on it – unexpectedly touched us and helped our hearts begin to heal.  Maybe it happened for us when the vocational path we were on – or an important relationship we were in – changed dramatically, and our future path seemed totally unclear, and we were frightened and uncertain – and a totally unexpected phone-call came, or a totally-unexpected new possibility opened up.  Maybe it happened for us when we felt our lives were totally bottomed out – when we were caught in the grip of an addiction – to gambling, or to alcohol, or to some other drug – or we were struggling with financial ruin, or the loss of career plans and hopes – and a friend – or a total stranger – spoke a word of challenge – or a word of grace – that made it possible to imagine that there could be a future for us after all. 

            And in whatever happened, somehow, some way, this God of love, the One we call Creator, called our name in love, and helped us create – or at least begin to imagine – something new and different and possible in our lives.  Somehow, some way, this God of compassion, the One we call Sustainer, called our name in love, and got us through whatever valley of death it was that we were standing smack in the middle of, and helped us find the strength – or the courage – or the will – to make it out to the other side.  Somehow, some way, this God of hope, the One we call Redeemer, called our name in love, and helped us face and deal with the most miserable, painful, terrible of circumstances – and manage to bring something good out of them.

            And that, my friends, is what Easter is all about.  It’s not about egg hunts, or pastel-colored duckies and chickens, or about all the chocolate and little pink marshmallow bunnies you can eat – even though those are all very nice, very comfortable, very enjoyable things.  Easter is about discomfort – it’s about the world as we know it turned upside down.  Easter is about the unexpected, the remarkable, the utterly unreasonable.  Easter is about mystery, and about the sacred, and about a God who loves us enough to make all things – all things – possible. 

            And the only possible response we can make to that extraordinary – unexpected – completely unreasonable Good News comes from the most famous Easter hymn of all:  “Alleluia!”  “Alleluia!”  “Christ – our Lord – is risen today!”  Amen.