Water and Whispered Alleluias

a meditation for Easter Vigil.

Last summer my husband and I trekked to an out-of-the way place for the first time – a place I had heard about often but never been.

It’s a famous place, perhaps many of you have heard of it, some have even been there.

But it’s a little off the beaten path. We really had to think about how we were going to get there. The place is called "Mesa Verde."

It is tucked into the mountains of Southwestern Colorado, on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, in a beautiful stretch of land.

But it’s not the beautiful, high mountains that are the main attraction there.

The scenery is breathtaking, but the main attraction is something historical – it is a number of cliff dwellings that are almost hidden underneath mesas.

　

People lived in these places several hundreds of years ago, and yet there is much about them that is preserved almost exactly as it was in about 1200 AD – even down to a child’s handprint on one of the walls.

Standing right in one of the cliff dwellings, our guide pointed out that these houses are so well preserved because the climate is so dry

– there is not much water here – there is not much water to wear down the rocks and disturb the sand.

Of course, that’s probably why the homes were abandoned, finally – there is not much water here.

But the guide asked us to look around and see if we could see any sources of water.

We had to look carefully, but we did see – we saw at first the pockets of green sprouting out from between the rocks, and then we saw small trickles of water too – the water that these people used to live.

We had to keep our eyes peeled, though – and we needed to know the signs, what to look for, to see the signs of life.

Water. We’ve spent so much time during Lent looking for water marks, which is to say looking for signs of life.

We’ve seen how many of the great stories of the Bible have to do with water – the waters separating at creation, the waters above and the waters below, the waters that the Israelites walked through, the waters we are thirsty for.

There’s the water that Jesus was baptized in, and the water the disciples fished in, and the water that Jesus walked on.

There’s the water Jesus washed his disciples’ feet with, and there’s the water that Jesus was thirsty for, and there’s the water that came from his wounded side.

Water.

Sometimes it’s obvious and abundant and there is so much of it you can drown in it,

and sometimes you have to keep your eyes peeled, because there’s just a little trickle, but it’s there, for those who have eyes to see.

There’s water. There’s life.

When I think about our gospel reading this evening – Mark’s resurrection story – I can’t help thinking about the little trickle of water I saw in Mesa Verde.

Partly because – well – here we are, it’s Saturday night – it’s dark.

This is the night that it all happened, in the darkness. It's the night that love conquered hate, that hope conquered fear, that life conquered death.

Remember when the women got to the tomb, the stone was already rolled away?

This is the night, the night that Jesus rose,

and even though a huge, momentous thunderous thing happened, it happened in the quiet of the dead of the night, when no one was watching.

Just a little trickle.

In the same way, when we read this story of the resurrection from Mark, might be left wanting a little more.

When we leave tonight, Jesus will not yet have appeared to his disciples, or Mary. The angels promise that he will appear to them, he will meet them, but not yet.

In fact, not only does Jesus NOT appear, but the women are terrified and run away.

They don’t say anything to anyone.

You have to imagine that it must have been very early in the morning.

There was so far just a trickle of light on the horizon.

It’s a sort of eerie, mysterious time of morning.

But there is this: the huge stone has been rolled away, somehow, and he’s not here.

And the angel says it, "He has been raised."

So far it is not the blazing light that will hurt our eyes, it’s not the water that will wash over us, it’s just this: "He has been raised."

And the women can’t say it.

The words stick in their throat.

They’re so thirsty, so thirsty, but they can’t say it.

But we can.

Tonight it’s still dark, which is the case so often for us, isn’t it? It’s still dark.

But he has been raised.

And tonight we can whisper.

Tomorrow we will shout it from the rooftops, but tonight, tonight we will whisper to one another: "Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia.."

And we will see signs of life, some small – that it is true.

The stone has been rolled away. Someone has taken our hand.

We have seen buds on the trees.

We heard a whispered prayer.

(Whisper: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia!)

The Story I Told At Easter Vigil

A number of years ago I took a busload of high school students from rural South Dakota down to the big city of New Orleans for a youth convention. Now, I didn't drive the bus or anything. Four other adults also went from three other churches. From my own parish there were twelve: a nice round number, don't you think?

We had a great time, great worship, good learning, 35,000 Lutheran students from all over the country. Our theme was Holy Week; we began with a Palm Sunday Parade, I remember, with giant marionnettes. It seemed appropriate for New Orleans.

On the way home, we stopped at a huge amusement park: actually, two amusement parks. One of them was called Oceans of Fun. We spent the day on the water: pools with fake tides that went in and out, roller coasters that sped on water, fake rivers with inner tubes to float on -- and water slides. Lots and lots of water slide. They were even conveniently rated for difficulty, 1 through 5.

I love the water. I am so old, though, I don't think water slides were invented when I was a little girl. And I am courage-impaired, generally. But I decided to try some of the more challenging waterslides. It was hot and humid, and we were at the end of a long trip.

There was one, I remember, a challenge 4 I believe. I remember standing in line for a long time and noticing a spotter down in the water below. I wonder what they need a spotter for, I thought. When it was finally my turn, I got careful directions: keep your arms folded across your chest, wait for the light, lie down on the slide. Then the person at the top of the slide gave the ok, and I was off.

For a few seconds it was simply exhilarating. Then the slide took some twists and turns. At one point I even seemed to be sliding upside down, and I became totally disoriented. By the time I reached the water I was sliding so fast and twisting and turning so often that it almost took my breath away.

It was then I discovered what the spotters were for. When I tried to come up for breath, I didn't know which way was up, and needed the spotter to turn me right side up so that I could find the water's surface and air. It was a totally disorienting and reorienting experience. It took my breath away.

*****

I love baptisms. But, to be truthful, what we see on Sunday morning when we witness a baptism is somewhat -- well -- misleading, I think. We see people all dressed up in their Sunday best, looking respectable. We see something rehearsed, with the people's responses well under control. We see a little water demurely poured over a very cute baby's head. If we're lucky, we might hear some cries or howls, which is just as it should be.

In reality, baptism isn't demure, or respectable, or quiet, or controlled. In reality, it's a lot more like the Israelites, running through the Red Sea, with the Egyptians in hot pursuit. It's a lot more like Jonah getting swallowed by a great fish, and spit up three days later with a new outlook on life. It's a lot more like the waterslide: an experience of total disorientation, of finally learning which way is up.

In the darkness of Easter Vigil, we re-enter the chaos and darkness of Jesus' death, and emerge finally right side up, gasping for breath, and grateful. This is the night, the night Jesus went down, went down to the grave, went down to the deep, pulled by gravity, pulled by our sins. This is the night Jesus went down to put us right, to put the world right.