“Gardeners of Hope”
John 20:1-18; March 31, 2013
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
I love John’s telling of the Easter story—the mistaken identity, the discovery, the tenderness, the proclamation.
I love that Mary is there. She goes before dawn, by herself, to sit by the tomb of her beloved friend and teacher. When she discovers the tomb is empty, she runs to tell the other disciples, but then she comes back. When Peter and the other disciple leave, she stays. She doesn’t try to hide from her sorrow; she doesn’t try to escape the confusion and uncertainty; she doesn’t run away from the possibility of new life.
I love the case of mistaken identity. Mary is standing right beside her dear friend, but she doesn’t realize it is him. Of course she doesn’t. She watched him die a horrible death. She cannot recognize him because she cannot imagine that he could be there. Jesus doesn’t judge her; he doesn’t suggest that she should have known who he was. Jesus understands what it is to be human. He understands that sometimes we are simply not ready to discover the new life—the new hope—that is right beside us.
I love Mary’s moment of awakening. It happens when Jesus calls her name—because that’s what Jesus did in his life. He called people by name—acknowledging them for who they were, looking beyond categories and judgments. He looked at a leper and saw a spirit yearning to soar. He looked at a tax collector and recognized a lonely man who needed a chance to offer hospitality. He looked at Mary and honored her as a whole person, a beloved child of God. So when the man she thinks is the gardener calls her by name, Mary gets it. As she awakens to her true identity, she awakens to his identity as well. It is Jesus. She awakens to the presence of the sacred in her midst, to hope in human form, hope that even death could not destroy.
I love what Mary does next. She does not cling to her beloved friend. She doesn’t try to preserve the moment for herself. She runs to tell the others. She proclaims the good news that will soon be spread far and wide: I have seen the Lord. Christ is risen. Hope is alive!
This story draws us in, inviting us to put ourselves in Mary’s role. Like Mary, we find ourselves in places of sorrow and uncertainty, in places where hope has been promised to us but we cannot imagine what hope could possibly mean. Can we, with Mary, find the courage to stay? Can we resist the urge to run away from our pain, to hide from uncertainty? Even when we cannot envision hope, can we stay open to possibility?
Like Mary, we yearn to be acknowledged for the whole of who we are. We long for someone to see past the boxes we check off—past our size and age and marital status, past our race and profession and favorite sports teams. We hope for healing of our fractured identities, our broken lives.
Like Mary, we encounter people we don’t know or understand. We try to put them into categories so we can figure out who they are. It must be the gardener. A stranger. A friend. An enemy. When Mary reaches out to the supposed gardener, she discovers who she is, and who he is. Are we willing to risk reaching out? Might we discover Christ in the gardener?
When we enter into this story from the perspective of Mary, we are challenged to take risks—to risk staying present to pain and possibility, to risk reaching out to someone who just might be Christ for us. What happens if we enter this story from a different angle? What if we become that mysterious figure she assumes is the gardener?
This summer I am sharing a plot at the First Methodist Church Community garden. The role of gardener suddenly feels daunting. It involves much more than scattering a few random seeds and watching them grow. There’s planning. What vegetables grow best in this soil and this climate? When do we plant? What about rabbits? Or bugs? When it comes time to weed, will I know the difference between a weed and a seedling? What if I get really busy and forget to water? I take comfort knowing I am not doing it alone; my gardening partner brings her ideas and expertise.
It is daunting to claim the role of gardener of a 20×20 foot plot. It is even more daunting to claim the role of gardener in this story—to be a gardener of hope. It’s not just about scattering random acts of kindness and then sitting back admiring their growth. To be a gardener of hope requires listening and learning–listening to what a friend really needs instead of what I want her to need, learning about a complex social issue so I can be a voice for effective public policy. To be a gardener of hope requires consistency–single acts of caring are nice, but regular, faithful presence is more likely to bear fruit. It requires patience, for as with seeds we plant in a garden, our acts of compassion may not germinate for a long time. It requires humility, for we are no more able to make hope grow than we are to make a gladiolus bulb sprout. And it requires trust: trust that what we do matters, trust that we don’t do it alone.
Gardeners of hope. It’s a metaphor, of course. There are other metaphors for this role as well—some of them hidden away in our Easter eggs. The teabags in some of the eggs invite us to be hosts of hope. To offer true hospitality requires some of the same qualities as gardening hope—careful listening and assiduous learning, perseverance and patience as we try to discern what someone needs to feel truly at home. Some of the eggs have little candles—calling us to be the light of hope, taking the light others have given us and carrying it forth to show the way for someone else. The pastels invite us to be artists of hope, offering vision to our communities. Dog treats and bird seed challenge us to care for all God’s creatures, protecting habitat and restoring balance. Friendship bracelets remind us that sometimes the most important thing we can do is just be there for someone.
Gardeners of hope. Hosts of hope. Light of hope. Friends of hope. Artists of hope. There are many ways to envision our role in this resurrection story.
Mary spoke to someone she identified as the gardener, and in that encounter, she awakened to the presence of the risen Christ. If we are faithful to our role—gardening, hosting, enlightening, befriending—perhaps someone we encounter will awaken to resurrection. Maybe we will be Christ for them. With God’s help, we can be part of the rebirth of hope in their lives.
“Choosing Hope; Being Hope”—today, as we enter into this gospel story, our Lenten theme comes to fruition. To choose hope is to join Mary Magdalene in the garden—choosing to be present to pain and uncertainty, choosing to be open to possibilities we cannot yet envision. To be hope is to become the gardener– or host or friend or light–, trusting that Christ is present in our planting and hosting, our befriending and enlightening.
By the grace of God, we can choose hope. By the grace of God, we can be hope. Christ is risen–for us and through us. Hope is alive–for us and in us. Thanks be to God. Amen.