​Funeral sermon for Beverly Kitzmann
Psalm 23 // Joshua 24:14–15 // 1 John 3:1–3 // John 14:1–7
 
Grace, mercy, and peace to you from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Our sermon text for today is the declaration of Joshua as the Lord opened up the Promised Land to him and to the people of Israel, “For me and my house, we shall serve the Lord.” Our text thus far.
 
Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
 
Beverly was one of an army of kind and sweet church ladies that make a church house into a church home. She was one of many ladies who, at the end of her days, all that is left for us was that kindness and that sweetness. Beverly is a dear, dear soul, who blessed not only her church family but also her husband (as Proverbs 31 says, a fine wife is worth more than rubies – you know that, Frank), she blessed her children. She blessed her grandchildren.
 
Today, once again, we consider how much of a privilege it is that we get to lead our families in the fear of the Lord, how much of a privilege it is to be raising children and grandchildren and great grandchildren in the faith. Today, once again, we consider how sweet it is to be children ourselves, not only of our parents, but of our heavenly Father.
 
First, hear the words of Joshua 24, Joshua speaking to the children of Israel, “For me and my house, we shall serve the Lord.” Joshua says these words at the end of his life, after he has done all that the Lord commanded him to do for the children of Israel, shepherding them through the most change and travel that they would see in the next five hundred years. He was there disappointed with them as they were on the step of the Promised Land and turned back, forty years in the desert. He was there with the children of Israel as they were tempted and tested and tried. He was there to lead them as they leaned on the faithfulness of their God and conquered the Promised Land.
 
And here, at the end of his life, he speaks for himself and his household, that they would be holding fast to the teachings of the Lord, not only in his generation, but that that kind of a faith would be passed down to the next and the next and the next.
 
When I look at my two boys, I see all sorts of character traits and mannerisms I’ve passed down, some good and some not so good. On the one hand, the not-so-good. Every time my boys get too goofy (and it usually ends in someone getting hit and crying), every time I think, Lord God, is this what my parents had to deal with? Is this what I was like? Or, on the other hand, the good. Like my dad, I almost always thank my wife for the delicious food she cooked. Like my parents and grandparents, my family says the common table prayer together, we pray before bed, we read our Bible together, we go to church together.
 
No doubt, in these days, you see the touch of your mom and grandma everywhere. The look she would give, the care she would have, the kindness in her speech, these are gifts, extraordinary gifts passed down from generation to generation. These are gifts, extraordinary gifts, ones where we can say, with Joshua, “As for me and my house, we are marked with kindness, a kindness that we saw in our grandma. As for me and my house, we are marked with gentleness and thoughtfulness, the kind that we saw in mom.
 
Second, we consider how Beverly herself was a child, not only of her parents but of her Heavenly Father. Hear the words of 1 John 3 again: “See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God.”
 
It was her habit, through years and decades and a lifetime, to gather to the Sanctuary. It was Bev’s habit to be receiving the words of the Invocation, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and knowing that those were the words spoken over her in her baptism, those were the words that made her a child of her father in heaven, and in those words, “God his children ne’er forsaketh.”
 
It was her habit to speak the words of the confession of sins, confessing what she had done and what she had left undone, and hearing the sweetest thing ever said, forgiveness of her God
 
And in these last months, it was her habit to sit quietly on her couch as the pastor came by the house, as Frank held her hand, as they celebrated something that is totally out of this world, as they celebrated together the Lord’s Supper.
 
For in the Lord’s Supper, she looked forward. It is a foretaste of the eternal feast. In the bread and wine which are Christ’s body and blood, her heavenly Father scooped her up into his mighty arms, to bear her home. In the eating and the drinking, she was remembering the sole purpose of her God’s love, that she was coming home to see the mansion prepared for her in the presence of her God, for he is the way, the truth, and the life.
 
“Though he giveth or he taketh, God His children ne’er forsaketh; His the loving purpose solely, To preserve them pure and holy.”
 
May Beverly Joanne Kitzmann rest in peace. Amen and amen.

​Keeping Vigil On This Mountain
First in a series, “Keeping Vigil”
Isaiah 25:6–9 // 1 Cor. 15:1–11 // John 20:11–18
 
Grace, mercy, and peace to you from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Our sermon text for today is Isaiah 25, these words in verse 6, “On this mountain the Lord of hosts a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wine.”
 
Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
 
Today, we are beginning our sermon series, Keeping Vigil. What does that mean, keeping vigil? It’s the word we use when a friend dies in a car crash or a national disaster strikes. We stay up all night. We pray. We keep vigil. It’s the word that we use for Easter Saturday service, Easter Vigil service, as we remember the whole narrative of Scripture on that strange day of silence between the crucifixion of Good Friday and the joy of Easter Sunday. We keep vigil.
 
That’s the title of our sermons series in these days, Keeping Vigil. We are waiting and watching. We are praying in sure and certain hope of the resurrection even in unsure and uncertain times. 
 
Today, we are Keeping Vigil On This Mountain. 
 
On this mountain. I get that language from our Old Testament Reading, Isaiah 25. On This Mountain the Lord of Hosts is making a feast, and he’s talking in superlatives. The best feast ever. The best food. The best drink. And he will swallow up death forever. But let’s back up. 
 
I’m going to do some literary work here, so saddle up cowboys. Since chapter 13, Isaiah has been calling out nations around Judah, and all of Judah is saying, “Yeah! God, you get’m!” They’ve been seeing judgment come down on all the nations that have oppressed them, but then, but then, in chapter 22, God says, “Judah I’ve got to tell you about another people. This one is worse than all the rest. They knew the truth but they didn’t act on it. (Does that sound like us sometimes?) They were set apart but still they failed.” And then God says, “That people, Judah, is you.” Then, all of chapter 24 is about how God’s judgment is universal, how no one escapes, no one gets out of it, it is inevitable, and it is universal. And then we get to chapter 25.
 
Usually, we read this passage Isaiah 25:6–9 during funerals, because it’s beautiful; it gives so much hope. Isaiah is on top of a mountain where God dwells in all of his fullness with all of humanity, having a feast that never ends. The final enemy defeated, the final judgment judged. All tears wiped away, All reproach gone. The only thing left is life, life to the full, with no room for anything that’s not gladness and joy, the deep belly laugh kind of joy.
 
Can you imagine Isaiah turning toward this passage? Can you imagine him seeing this glimpse of the future? Can you imagine him absolutely busting at the seams to right this down, to tell this bit of good news to the people? Can you imagine him longing this longing, wishing for this dream to never end, hoping never to wake up from his vision? 
 
But then ... he does. He wakes up. And “On this mountain” becomes “On That Mountain.” The thing that was near for a moment is now far. The perfection that was at his fingertips is now a glimpse ended.
 
Has that ever happened to you? Leave it in the comments. 
It’s like you’re having a really good dream, but right before you get to the best part, you wake up.
It’s like being a kid, going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, hearing your mom and dad turn the car off, and thinking that you’re finally there but your mom says, “It’s only a bathroom break, we’ve got five minutes to get out, and we’ve got three more hours in the car.”
It’s like the first run that I ever took in Janesville, a run out to the lake, and I’m huffing, and I’m puffing, and I think I can see the lake over the hill. I get to the top of the hill, thinking that I’m there, and there’s.... another hill.
 
What does that do to you? How does that affect you? 
 
Two thoughts as we consider its effect in Isaiah. Two thoughts as we keep vigil on this mountain even as we long for that mountain. Thought #1 is that it makes this mountain harder. Thought #2 is that it gives this mountain meaning.
 
Thought #1, Seeing that mountain can make this mountain harder. How does it do that? By reminding you how far away you are.
 
Consider this thought about John 20, the story of Mary Magdalene weeping in the garden. Jesus comes up to her and reveals himself to her in a word. Mary. And she glimpses what she thought was impossible, her Savior right before her eyes, but then Jesus says (did you wonder about this?), he says, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to my Father.”
Mingled in with all the joy, all the astonishment, I would imagine her thought, “You want me to leave you again?” Seeing you now It’s the same thought you can imagine Mary and Martha having as they watched Lazarus age and decline for a second time.
 
Here's a quote via a friend, on why Zoom and other virtual gatherings end up being so exhausting: "Our minds [are] tricked into the idea of being together when our bodies feel we’re not. [And that] Dissonance is exhausting. It’s easier [either] being in each other’s presence, or in each other’s absence [rather] than in the constant presence of each other’s absence." Constantly reminded that we are not together. You seeing me through the video screen, but me not being able to see you. Constantly able to do something but not the things that we want to do. Seeing that mountain can make this mountain harder, because it gives us a glimpse of something we do not yet have.
 
C. S. Lewis said it like this in his essay, The Weight of Glory, (and he’s not just talking about stay-at-home orders in a pandemic, he’s talking about life before eternal life), “At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Someday, God willing, we shall get in.”[1] The pages of our Bible are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so.
 
The kingdom of heaven is like a man in the last chapter of life, but that chapter is longer than he ever wished it would be. His wife died 10 years before him. His children put him into a nursing home two years ago. Twenty years ago, he would’ve told you that he was the luckiest man alive. But these days, those memories are a distant past, a glimpse of what life will be, but not what life is now.
 
Thought #2, Seeing that mountain gives this mountain meaning. How does it do that? I’ll tell you, the language I’m using is from an author, David Brooks who has a book called The Second Mountain. 
 
The thought that he has is that when he was in the prime of life, in his career, doing all the things, he got to a point where he could be considered successful, but he didn’t feel happy. He had everything you’d think you need to be happy but he wasn’t. So, in this book, he talks about how he climbed to the top of one mountain only to see a second one, a new ambition. What was that new ambition? A rich and fulfilled life.
 
He goes on to say that for some this call to the second mountain calls them to leave their homes and live on the beach of Florida, or to sell all they have and do something entirely different, but that’s not what he was most fascinated by.
 
The thing he was most fascinated by is that for some, discovering this second mountain transformed them exactly where they were at. Or in other words, it gave new meaning to what they already did. How seeing that mountain gives this mountain new meaning.
 
Now this is a fine thought, but St. Paul says it better when he says it like this: “For I am the least of the apostles, unworthy to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain.” But by the grace of God I am what I am.
 
Notice what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t deny the reality of what he has been. He doesn’t forget what he did or where he went. 
 
But then notice what Paul does do. This is the next verse. “On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me.” He says that the glimpse of God’s grace upon the cross changes everything. He says that in Jesus Christ, all of the tears, all the hardship, even the covering cast over all peoples is swallowed up. They are covered in the blood of Jesus, they die with Jesus on the cross, and then Jesus does something more: he walks out of the open tomb.
 
For Paul, God’s grace transforms even our sin to be a part of the story of God’s redemption. God’s grace transforms all of our circumstances so that his name might be proclaimed in them. For Paul, he can say, “Even what I did for evil, God used for good.”
 
What does that statement do to your day, in these days of uncertainty? How does that thought change what you say on Facebook, to or about your neighbor? Because it should change what you are doing today.
 
The kingdom of heaven is like a large church in a small town keeping vigil whose lives are not what they were. Today was supposed to be Confirmation Day, and yet the Sanctuary is bare, the pews are empty, and the young people must wait to declare their faith to their congregation and to be welcomed to their Lord’s Supper. This is not the glimpse of heaven they were hoping for... and yet the grace of God covers all. Their story is held in the hand of their father. They are covered in the blood of Jesus. And because of the day that will come, because of that mountain, every thing, every day, in the meantime has meaning.
Amen and amen.




[1] C. S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory.”

​Keeping Vigil On This Mountain
First in a series, “Keeping Vigil”
Isaiah 25:6–9 // 1 Cor. 15:1–11 // John 20:11–18
 
Grace, mercy, and peace to you from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Our sermon text for today is Isaiah 25, these words in verse 6, “On this mountain the Lord of hosts a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wine.”
 
Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
 
Today, we are beginning our sermon series, Keeping Vigil. What does that mean, keeping vigil? It’s the word we use when a friend dies in a car crash or a national disaster strikes. We stay up all night. We pray. We keep vigil. It’s the word that we use for Easter Saturday service, Easter Vigil service, as we remember the whole narrative of Scripture on that strange day of silence between the crucifixion of Good Friday and the joy of Easter Sunday. We keep vigil.
 
That’s the title of our sermons series in these days, Keeping Vigil. We are waiting and watching. We are praying in sure and certain hope of the resurrection even in unsure and uncertain times. 
 
Today, we are Keeping Vigil On This Mountain. 
 
On this mountain. I get that language from our Old Testament Reading, Isaiah 25. On This Mountain the Lord of Hosts is making a feast, and he’s talking in superlatives. The best feast ever. The best food. The best drink. And he will swallow up death forever. But let’s back up. 
 
I’m going to do some literary work here, so saddle up cowboys. Since chapter 13, Isaiah has been calling out nations around Judah, and all of Judah is saying, “Yeah! God, you get’m!” They’ve been seeing judgment come down on all the nations that have oppressed them, but then, but then, in chapter 22, God says, “Judah I’ve got to tell you about another people. This one is worse than all the rest. They knew the truth but they didn’t act on it. (Does that sound like us sometimes?) They were set apart but still they failed.” And then God says, “That people, Judah, is you.” Then, all of chapter 24 is about how God’s judgment is universal, how no one escapes, no one gets out of it, it is inevitable, and it is universal. And then we get to chapter 25.
 
Usually, we read this passage Isaiah 25:6–9 during funerals, because it’s beautiful; it gives so much hope. Isaiah is on top of a mountain where God dwells in all of his fullness with all of humanity, having a feast that never ends. The final enemy defeated, the final judgment judged. All tears wiped away, All reproach gone. The only thing left is life, life to the full, with no room for anything that’s not gladness and joy, the deep belly laugh kind of joy.
 
Can you imagine Isaiah turning toward this passage? Can you imagine him seeing this glimpse of the future? Can you imagine him absolutely busting at the seams to right this down, to tell this bit of good news to the people? Can you imagine him longing this longing, wishing for this dream to never end, hoping never to wake up from his vision? 
 
But then ... he does. He wakes up. And “On this mountain” becomes “On That Mountain.” The thing that was near for a moment is now far. The perfection that was at his fingertips is now a glimpse ended.
 
Has that ever happened to you? Leave it in the comments. 
It’s like you’re having a really good dream, but right before you get to the best part, you wake up.
It’s like being a kid, going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, hearing your mom and dad turn the car off, and thinking that you’re finally there but your mom says, “It’s only a bathroom break, we’ve got five minutes to get out, and we’ve got three more hours in the car.”
It’s like the first run that I ever took in Janesville, a run out to the lake, and I’m huffing, and I’m puffing, and I think I can see the lake over the hill. I get to the top of the hill, thinking that I’m there, and there’s.... another hill.
 
What does that do to you? How does that affect you? 
 
Two thoughts as we consider its effect in Isaiah. Two thoughts as we keep vigil on this mountain even as we long for that mountain. Thought #1 is that it makes this mountain harder. Thought #2 is that it gives this mountain meaning.
 
Thought #1, Seeing that mountain can make this mountain harder. How does it do that? By reminding you how far away you are.
 
Consider this thought about John 20, the story of Mary Magdalene weeping in the garden. Jesus comes up to her and reveals himself to her in a word. Mary. And she glimpses what she thought was impossible, her Savior right before her eyes, but then Jesus says (did you wonder about this?), he says, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to my Father.”
Mingled in with all the joy, all the astonishment, I would imagine her thought, “You want me to leave you again?” Seeing you now It’s the same thought you can imagine Mary and Martha having as they watched Lazarus age and decline for a second time.
 
Here's a quote via a friend, on why Zoom and other virtual gatherings end up being so exhausting: "Our minds [are] tricked into the idea of being together when our bodies feel we’re not. [And that] Dissonance is exhausting. It’s easier [either] being in each other’s presence, or in each other’s absence [rather] than in the constant presence of each other’s absence." Constantly reminded that we are not together. You seeing me through the video screen, but me not being able to see you. Constantly able to do something but not the things that we want to do. Seeing that mountain can make this mountain harder, because it gives us a glimpse of something we do not yet have.
 
C. S. Lewis said it like this in his essay, The Weight of Glory, (and he’s not just talking about stay-at-home orders in a pandemic, he’s talking about life before eternal life), “At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Someday, God willing, we shall get in.”[1] The pages of our Bible are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so.
 
The kingdom of heaven is like a man in the last chapter of life, but that chapter is longer than he ever wished it would be. His wife died 10 years before him. His children put him into a nursing home two years ago. Twenty years ago, he would’ve told you that he was the luckiest man alive. But these days, those memories are a distant past, a glimpse of what life will be, but not what life is now.
 
Thought #2, Seeing that mountain gives this mountain meaning. How does it do that? I’ll tell you, the language I’m using is from an author, David Brooks who has a book called The Second Mountain. 
 
The thought that he has is that when he was in the prime of life, in his career, doing all the things, he got to a point where he could be considered successful, but he didn’t feel happy. He had everything you’d think you need to be happy but he wasn’t. So, in this book, he talks about how he climbed to the top of one mountain only to see a second one, a new ambition. What was that new ambition? A rich and fulfilled life.
 
He goes on to say that for some this call to the second mountain calls them to leave their homes and live on the beach of Florida, or to sell all they have and do something entirely different, but that’s not what he was most fascinated by.
 
The thing he was most fascinated by is that for some, discovering this second mountain transformed them exactly where they were at. Or in other words, it gave new meaning to what they already did. How seeing that mountain gives this mountain new meaning.
 
Now this is a fine thought, but St. Paul says it better when he says it like this: “For I am the least of the apostles, unworthy to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain.” But by the grace of God I am what I am.
 
Notice what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t deny the reality of what he has been. He doesn’t forget what he did or where he went. 
 
But then notice what Paul does do. This is the next verse. “On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me.” He says that the glimpse of God’s grace upon the cross changes everything. He says that in Jesus Christ, all of the tears, all the hardship, even the covering cast over all peoples is swallowed up. They are covered in the blood of Jesus, they die with Jesus on the cross, and then Jesus does something more: he walks out of the open tomb.
 
For Paul, God’s grace transforms even our sin to be a part of the story of God’s redemption. God’s grace transforms all of our circumstances so that his name might be proclaimed in them. For Paul, he can say, “Even what I did for evil, God used for good.”
 
What does that statement do to your day, in these days of uncertainty? How does that thought change what you say on Facebook, to or about your neighbor? Because it should change what you are doing today.
 
The kingdom of heaven is like a large church in a small town keeping vigil whose lives are not what they were. Today was supposed to be Confirmation Day, and yet the Sanctuary is bare, the pews are empty, and the young people must wait to declare their faith to their congregation and to be welcomed to their Lord’s Supper. This is not the glimpse of heaven they were hoping for... and yet the grace of God covers all. Their story is held in the hand of their father. They are covered in the blood of Jesus. And because of the day that will come, because of that mountain, every thing, every day, in the meantime has meaning.


Amen and am


[1] C. S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory.”

​Grace, mercy, and peace to you from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
 
In our Lenten Midweek sermon series, we are looking at the words for sin in the Old and New Testament. We are looking at the words for sin and the corresponding pictures of sin. Today, we look at the Hebrew word Avon, translated into Greek as Anomia, in English “Iniquity.” Today we see Iniquity as Crookedness.
 
If you watched the video that I posted, you would see that that’s one of the basic meanings of Avon, that sin is like a path that should be straight but it’s crooked. It’s like a way that should lead you to Mankato but instead leads you to Pemberton. 
 
We’ve used similar language in our confirmation program. In Genesis 3, everything that is good has been broken, marred, and smudged. Notice the first part of that statement. Everything that is good. The picture of sin as Crookedness helps us to know this truth, that sin isn’t a thing in itself. Sin is when something good has been broken.
 
Sin as Crookedness is like walking the wrong direction. No matter how fast you go, you’re not going to make it to your destination. 
Sin as Crookedness is like a bent bike rim. No amount of riding is going to make it better; anything you do will only make it worse.
 
It’s every time you go to talk to that one person, you know the one, and everything you say gets twisted into something you didn’t mean to say, or at least didn’t mean to sound that mean. 
It’s every time you get into a situation where there seems to be no way out, no right choice, no option rather than to take the hit and just get hurt.
 
Sin as Crookedness.
 
One of my good pastor friends has said this again and again to me, “Never waste a good crisis.” Why? Because crisis tends to set us straight. It forces us to choose what’s important and leave the rest behind. It challenges us to turn off distractions so that we can listen closer to what matters – to God’s Word, to long for what we know we should long for – God’s promises, to know them for the truth that they are, a truth that rises above the regular hum drum of our day-in and day-out.
 
It rises above. Notice what that means. It doesn’t mean that your problems automatically go away. It doesn’t mean that your situation will magically change. It does mean that God would challenge you to care about something greater, something grander, something more.
 
So,
 
What pettiness is God challenging you to rise above?
What distraction is God asking you to put down?
Where is God inviting you to listen close?
 
I can’t answer the first two but I can answer the last one. In fact, I’ll correct my earlier statement. It isn’t crisis that tends to set us straight; it’s God, your God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Today and everyday, he’s inviting you to spend your days holding your family close, starting your day in His Word, or doing what you’re doing now, ending your day with Scripture and song and prayer to the one who unbends what is broken. Today and everyday he’s inviting you to long for the fellowship in worship that even a month ago, we could have whenever we wanted.
 
He’s the one patiently calling to you when all is well and he’s the one who’s voice you hear when everything is falling apart. He is the one who unbends what is broken.
 
When I think about that, I think about my good friend Ernie Gahler who lent me some tools, he’s lent me a lot of tools, most of which I’ve given back. He lent me a pipe bending tool, to bend some copper pipe. 
 
Now I have to back up here. I can tell you that I’m not the handiest guy in the world so my wife does not ask me to do many handy-type projects. But one project she did ask me to do was she wanted me to make fanciful geometric designs out of 1/4in copper pipe. She wanted me to make a triangle out of this copper pipe to hang our hand towels on.
 
So, before I went to Ernie, mind you, I made the first bend, and I went, uh-oh that’s not right. So I went to Ernie and learned that there are tools for this, and I learned my first great lesson, which is, always buy more copper pipe than you need, and I made the thing, and then at the end I set to work on the first bit of pipe, and after fiddling with it for a while I learned my second great lesson, and this is the one that matters: You cannot unbend that which is broken.
 
I could get it better, yes, but I couldn’t undo what had been done. And the same is true for sin. On this side of eternity, we by ourselves, we cannot undo the effects of sin. Sin leaves scars. Hurts never really go away. Cares just grow.
 
But.
 
Praise be to God that he unbends us from our crookedness and by the miracle of who he is, he makes our path straight. Praise be to God that he sends his son to do everything that we needed him to do. Praise be to God that he can do what no one else can do. He can straighten our paths. He can show us a way of peace. He can defeat death, by his death, even death upon a cross. He CAN do this, and he DOES do this. He does it for you and for me. He saves us in Jesus Christ, in his cross, and in his resurrection.
 
Amen and Amen.

The Resurrection of Our Lord
To Rise and To Reign
April 12, 2020
John 20:1-18
The day of Jesus’ resurrection was a normal day. Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early while it was still dark. She was doing her normal thing – taking care of the dead body of Jesus since it was rushed into the tomb. However, when she get’s there something was not normal. The body of Jesus was gone. This naturally would have left her scared and confused. The logical, normal thing that could have happened was that someone would have taken Jesus’ body out of the tomb because dead people don’t get up and walk. 
All who have experienced a loved one passing, or have been to a wake, know how lifeless a dead body is. The person that we knew is gone, yet their body remains cold and lifeless. Death is something that we have gotten used to. It is hard to imagine a world that does not include death. Common phrases have arisen emphasizing death’s certainty. With April being the normal month for taxes to be due, it brings to mind the two things that are certain in life. Death and taxes. We tend to think that death is the end, and such thinking leads to despair. Even today, we do our best to avoid it. Certainly, we do not seek death out, but we as a society try to avoid death like the plague.
But since we know what death is, we can stand equally amazed in disbelief with Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Jesus. The empty tomb is the forensic evidence of our faith. It’s evidence that we do not see with our own eyes, and we doubt the reality of dead men returning to life. 
This doubt and disbelief are what send Simon Peter and John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, running to the tomb. And do not forget that John beat Peter there. When John arrived at the tomb and saw it empty he remained at the entrance of the tomb. After all, it is always better to leave a crime scene untouched until proper authorities arrive. That proper authority is Peter as he is the first of the disciples, meaning that he is the leader of the disciples now in Jesus’ absence. Both Peter and John were in that inner circle of Jesus that gave them respect among the other disciples. After all, when groups of people are suffering from crisis, when things are abnormal it is always better to keep some kind of normalcy so that the group can remain confident and not go into chaos and utter despair. 
We certainly see this today in our current pandemic crisis. Leaders of groups are taking charge and holding things together. Probably the closest these leaders get to our lives is in our very households. Fathers and mothers, even elder siblings, are taking charge in these days around the house and among the family to keep things from falling apart. Parents are discovering that they aren’t as good of teachers as they once thought. Older siblings are often taking charge and helping their younger brothers and sisters with not only school work, but even the other miniscule of tasks of the house. Still parents are navigating the difficult financial waters to make ends meet during this time and putting food on the table while also spending extra hours up at night completing their normal jobs from home. All the while everyone is just trying to hold it together. 
This is the thing about leadership: you never know if you’re doing it right, but you do it anyway. And somehow, and in some way, you exit the crisis of which you were leading and realize, “You know, that wasn’t all that bad. It wasn’t normal, but we made it through.” Leadership is always necessary in times of crisis and Peter with the support of John was fulfilling such a role as our holy mother, which is the church, is going through labor, as she is about to give birth to many children. John was the first to believe, as he believed in that very moment of entering the tomb. Even though he did not see Jesus yet, he believed that Jesus had risen from the dead. But none of this was normal. 
The first person to see Jesus risen from the dead was Mary. Mary was standing outside with Jesus, but she supposed Him to be the gardener. It wasn’t until Jesus called her by name that she recognized who He was. What an utter joy such an occasion would be to see a loved one who was dead, alive and well, call you by name.
What great joy you have already experienced this in part. For at the waters of your baptism, Jesus calls you by name, as your mother – the church – gives birth to you as God’s beloved child. As a beloved child of God you cling to Jesus, seeking to be where He is. And as we have discussed on Thursday, where Jesus is, is in the Lord’s Supper. He is in His word. He is present where two or three are gathered in His name. For where two or three are gathered in His name where His word is being properly taught and the Sacraments are rightly administered is where the bridegroom is with his bride. The church, the community of believers, is where people go to, to cling to Jesus. 
But at the time that Mary see’s Jesus, the time of the church was not yet. One thing remained. “JESUS SAID TO HER, “DO NOT CLING TO ME, FOR I HAVE NOT YET ASCENDED TO THE FATHER; BUT GO TO MY BROTHERS AND SAY TO THEM, ‘I AM ASCENDING TO MY FATHER AND YOUR FATHER, TO MY GOD AND YOUR GOD.’” The mission is not complete yet, but it is coming to a rapid end. We tend to think that the church year ends here on Easter Sunday, but rather another great feast is yet to come. The ascension of Jesus into heaven is what gives His church it’s purpose. As one commentator once said, “To bear witness to the risen Lord is to testify that His mission has been completed, and that He has returned to the Father who sent Him.” 
In Christ’s return to the Father, Jesus gives us a place as heirs to the heavenly kingdom. For Jesus says, “I AM ASCENDING TO MY FATHER AND YOUR, FATHER, TO MY GOD AND YOUR GOD.” This is the message that Mary is to bring to Jesus’ disciples, which He now calls as brothers, for they are heirs with Him. As are all who are baptized in Christ’s church. We are all brothers and sisters together as one family because we have one Father who we have been reconciled to through Christ.
Christ is the firstborn over all creation. He has the rightful place at sitting at the right hand of God where He lives and reigns over heaven and earth and bestows His heavenly gifts to His bride the church.  
THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS IS NOT A RETURN TO NORMAL, BUT RATHER A BEGINNING OF A DIFFERENT ERA WHERE HE REIGNS FOREVER.
Therefore, in this life we need not fear death, for “Death is swallowed up in victory,” and given to us by faith. 
Amen, and amen. 
The peace that passes all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.