Going to the grave

Sermon on Luke 24:1-12

Going to the grave gets easier with the years, some say. But sometimes the pain hits you again. On the anniversary: ​​"5 years today.", during the Christmas holidays: "The first, the second time without him.", at big events in the family: "He would have loved to celebrate with us."

Going to the grave somehow remains difficult over the years. It will never be easy, no matter how beautiful the flowers are blooming or how wonderful the view from the cemetery is.

The grave is always a reminder of who is missing, what is missing and with whom one shared one's life until death.

Until death changed life in an instant. Breath and heartbeat have stopped and are silent. Forever. The coffin was closed. Forever. Earth thrown, covering up the urn or coffin. Forever. The grave is closed. The path of life has come to an end. Forever.

The grave is a reminder of the day of the funeral and the last hours, of tears and the first steps on the new path, without her, different.

Some people are happy to meet someone in the cemetery, to chat a little: "How are the children?", "How's the garden?". Others prefer to be there when there is probably no one else around.

Mary Magdalene and Mary and Joanna leave very early, "at early dawn". The three women and their girlfriends want to be the first, all alone among women and undisturbed. So, they set off early in the morning.

Full of sadness, but grateful to finally be able to do something meaningful again. Full of thoughts, they suddenly remember what they have completely forgotten: Who will roll away the stone from the grave's door for them?

None of them thought of that. Too many thoughts, the heart too heavy. Everyone has forgotten that they won't even be able to enter the grave to anoint the dead.

The grave will stay closed. Forever. The stone will stand, forever. This way has come to an end.

How else could it be?

Graves remain closed. The dead stay dead. Painful things cannot be undone. There are some things you have to live with, and you may have gotten used to them:

You got used to people never coming back. You got used to pain that is sometimes less, sometimes more, but that never completely disappears. You got used to signs of aging that only grow, but no longer fade. You got used to times that won't come back, because time just goes on and years go by.

You got used to this life and you have come to terms with some things. Because you know that "Oh, I should have.", "What if...", doesn't get you any further. Because sometimes a path comes to an end. In life just like at the grave. Closed forever. Finally, forever.

Only flowers can still be planted where the path ends. In the graveyard and in my mind. "Maybe it had to be like this.", "Who knows whether it would really be so much better otherwise.", "You have to be content.” But there are doubts. The pain doesn’t fully go away. Questions remain.

The three women and their friends brought oil instead of flowers. It's their sign of love. Their way to say goodbye, to accept the end and to integrate it into their life. The pain will remain. Forever. Death. Forever. They are prepared for that. And for nothing else.

The stone is gone. The tomb is empty.

Instead of cheering, they look horrified. No Easter cheers. No joy or happiness or dance or laughter. 

Instead, trembling and horror, even if someone sits there and says: "Don't be afraid!" in a pastor’s voice.

First, the stone that was rolled away. Then the empty grave and then there is another one sitting there. That alone would be reason enough to be alarmed.

The grave closed. The dead man dead. Forever. They were prepared for that. The way to the grave, today they walked it for the first time. They know it will get easier, sometimes more difficult again, on anniversaries, on holidays, on special occasions. "He would have loved to be here."

And now he lives forever, someone says. The tomb remains empty. He has gone ahead. You just have to follow. Someone tells you.

There is a path, and you were prepared to walk it to the end. You were prepared to keep it that way. Where you have come to terms with his death, so that you can somehow keep on living. That you can somehow move on.

And now, there is no end. But there is a way. No end, but eternity. Even if you don't see it for yourself because the death of something, the death of someone, blocks your view.

There is a way and God has already walked it before you. God has explored the path, checked the ups and downs of the route, kept an eye out for the stumbling blocks or even cleared them out of the way. God knows you and the way ahead of you.

Your way. Your forever-way. Because you will not die, but live. The death you see is no more.

This is like walking into the unknown. Again, a difficult walk. Differently difficult. Frightening and terrifying, at least for the first few steps. At least for the first time. A walk full of silence and with great fear for Mary, Mary and Joanna and their friends.

No Easter cheers. No joy or happiness or dance or laughter.

Because everything is different from what you thought or feared.

The way has not ended. Neither does yours. Never.

Because the stone is gone.

The grave is open.

There is a way.

Jesus has already gone ahead. For you. 

Amen.