445. New Lessons

(an Easter Sermon.)

New Lessons

(an Easter Sermon.)

Joh_20:15 : ’93She, supposing him to be the gardener.’94

Here are Mary Magdalen and Christ just after his resurrection. For four thousand years a grim and ghastly tyrant had been killing people and dragging them into his cold palace. He had a passion for human skulls. For forty centuries he had been unhindered in his work. He had taken down kings and queens and conquerors, and those without fame. In that cold palace there were shelves of skulls, and pillars of skulls, and altars of skulls, and even the chalices at the table were made of bleached skulls. To the skeleton of Abel he has added the skeleton of all ages, and no one has disputed his right until one Good Friday a mighty stranger came to the door of that awful palace, rolled back the door, and went in, and seizing the tyrant threw him to the pavement and put upon the tyrant’92s neck the heel of triumph.

Then the mighty Stranger, exploring all the ghastly furniture of the place, and walking through the labyrinths, and opening the dark cellars of mystery, and tarrying under a roof the ribs of which were made of human bones’97tarrying for two nights and a day, the nights very dark and the day very dismal, he seized the two chief pillars of that awful palace and rocked them until it began to fall, and then laying hold of the ponderous front gate hoisted it from its hinges, and marched forth crying, ’93I am the Resurrection!’94 That event we celebrate this Easter morn. Handelian and Beethoven miracles of sound added to this floral decoration which has set the galleries and the platform abloom.

There are three or four things which the world and the church have not noticed in regard to the resurrection of Christ. First, our Lord in gardener’92s attire. Mary Magdalen, grief-struck, stands by the rifled sarcophagus of Christ, and turns around, hoping she can find the track of the sacrilegious resurrectionist who has despoiled the grave, and she finds some one in working apparel come forth as if to water the flowers, or uproot the weeds from the garden, or set to re-climbing the fallen vine’97some one in working apparel, his garments perhaps having the sign of the dust and the dirt of the occupation. Mary Madgalen, on her face the rain of a fresh shower of weeping, turns to this workman, and charges him with the desecration of the tomb, when lo! the stranger responds flinging his whole soul into one word which trembles with all the sweetest rhythm of earth and heaven, saying, ’93Mary!’94 In that peculiarity of accentuation all the incognito fell off, and she found that instead of talking with an humble gardener of Asia Minor she was talking with him who owns all the hanging gardens of heaven, constellations the clusters of forget-me-nots, the sun-flower the chief of all, the morning sky and midnight aurora, flaming terraces of beauty, blazing like a summer wall with carnation roses and giants of battle.

Blessed and glorious mistake of Mary Magdalen. ’93She supposing him to be the gardener.’94 What does that mean? It means that we have an everyday Christ for everyday work, in everyday apparel. Not on Sabbath morning in our most seemly apparel are we more attractive to Christ than we are in our everyday work dress, managing our merchandise, smiting our anvil, ploughing our field, tending the flying shuttles, mending the garments for our household, providing food for our families, or toiling with weary pen, or weary pencil, or weary chisel. A working-day Christ in working-day apparel for us in our everyday toil. Put into the highest strain of this Easter anthem, ’93Supposing him to be the gardener.’94

If Christ had appeared at daybreak with a crown upon his head that would have seemed to suggest especial sympathy for monarchs; if Christ had appeared in chain of gold, and with robe diamonded, that would have seemed to be especial sympathy for the affluent; if Christ had appeared with soldier’92s sash and sword dangling at his side, that would have seemed to imply especial sympathy for warriors; but when I find Christ in gardener’92s habit, with perhaps the flakes of the earth and of the upturned soil upon his garments, then I spell it out that he has hearty and pathetic understanding with everyday work, and everyday anxiety, and everyday fatigue.

Roll it down in comfort all through these aisles; roll it in comfort to all these galleries. A working-day Christ in working-day apparel. Tell it in the very darkest corridor of the mountain to the poor miner. Tell it to the factory maid in most unventilated establishment at Lowell or Lancaster. Tell it to the clearer of roughest new ground in western wilderness. Tell it to the sewing-woman, a stitch in the side for every stitch in the garment, some of their cruel employers having no right to think that they will get through the door of heaven any more than they could through the eye of a broken needle which has just dropped on the bare floor from the pricked and bleeding fingers of the consumptive sewing girl. Away with your talk about hypostatic union, and soteriology of the Council of Trent, and the metaphysics of religion which would freeze practical Christianity out of the world; but pass along this gardener’92s coat to all nations that they may touch the hem of it and feel the thrill of the Christly brotherhood. Not supposing the man to be C’e6sar, not supposing him to be Socrates, but ’93supposing him to be the gardener.’94

That is what helped Joseph Wedgwood, toiling amid the heat and the dust of the potteries, until he could make for Queen Charlotte the first royal table service of English manufacture. That was what helped James Watt, scoffed at and caricatured, until he could put on wheels the thunderbolt of power which roars by day and by night in every furnace of the locomotive engines of America. That is what helped Hugh Miller, toiling amid the quarries of Cromartie, until every rock became to him a volume of the world’92s biography, and he found the Footsteps of the Creator in the old red sandstone. The world wants a Christ for the office, a Christ for the kitchen, a Christ for the shop, a Christ for the banking-house, a Christ for the field, a Christ for the garden, while spading and planting and irrigating the territory. Of course, we want to see Christ at last in royal robe and bediamonded, a celestial equestrian mounting the white horse, but from this Easter day to our last Easter on earth we most need to see Christ as Mary Magdalen saw him at the daybreak, ’93supposing him to be the gardener.’94

Another thing which the church and the world have not noticed in regard to the resurrection of Christ is that he made his first post-mortem appearance to one who has been the seven-deviled Mary Magdalen. One would have supposed he would have made his first posthumous appearance to a woman who had always been illustrious for goodness. There are saintly women who have always been saintly, saintly in girlhood, saintly in infancy, always saintly. In nearly all our families there have been saintly aunts. In my family circle it was saintly Aunt Phebe; in yours saintly Aunt Martha or saintly Aunt Ruth. One always saintly. But not so was the one spoken of in the text. While you are not to confound her with the repentant courtesan who made her long locks do the work of towel at Christ’92s footwashing, you are not to forget that she was exorcised of seven devils. What a capital of demonology she must have been. What a chorus of all diabolism. Seven devils’97two for the eyes, and two for the hands, and two for the feet, and one for the tongue. Seven devils. Yet all these are extirpated, and now she is as good as once she was bad, and Christ honors her with the first posthumous appearance. What does that mean? Why, it means for the worst sinners greatest grace; it means those lowest down shall come, perhaps, highest up; it means that the clock that strikes twelve at midnight may strike twelve at midnoon; it means that the grace of God is seven times stronger than sin. Mary Magdalen the seven-deviled became Mary Magdalen the seven-angeled.

It means that when the Lord meets us at last he will not throw up to us what we have been. All he said to her was ’93Mary!’94 Many people having met her under such circumstances would have said: ’93Let me see, how many devils did you have? one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. What a terrible piece you were when I first met you.’94 The most of the Christian women in our day would have had nothing to do with Mary Magdalen even after her conversion, lest somehow they be compromised. The only thing I have to say against women is that they have not enough mercy for Mary Magdalen. Christ put all pathos, and all reminiscence, and all anticipation, and all pardon, and all comfort, and all heaven into one word of four letters, ’93Mary!’94 Mark you, Christ did not appear to some Bible Elizabeth, or Bible Hannah, or Bible Esther, or Bible Deborah, or Bible Vashti, but to Mary; not to a Mary against whom nothing was said, not to Mary the mother of Jesus, not to Mary the mother of James, not to Mary the sister of Lazarus, but to seven-deviled Mary.

There is a man seven-deviled’97devil of avarice, devil of pride, devil of hate, devil of indolence, devil of falsehood, devil of strong drink, devil of impurity. God can take them all away, seven or seventy. I remember in 1884, I rode over the new cantilever bridge that spans Niagara’97a bridge nine hundred feet long, eight hundred and fifty-nine feet of chasm from bluff to bluff. I passed over it without any anxiety. Why? Because on the preceding December twenty-two locomotives and twenty-two cars laden with gravel had tested the bridge, thousands of people standing on the Canadian side, thousands standing on the American side to applaud the achievement. And however long the train of our immortal interests may be we are to remember that God’92s bridge of mercy spanning the chasm of sin has been fully tested by the awful tonnage of all the pardoned sin of all the ages, church militant standing on one bank, church triumphant standing on the other bank. Oh, it was to the seven-deviled Mary that Christ made his first post-mortem appearance.

There is another thing that the world and the church have not observed in regard to this resurrection and that is, it was the morning twilight. If the chronometer had been invented and Mary had as good a watch as some of the Marys of our time have, she would have found it was about half-past five o’92clock a. m. Matthew says it was in the dawn; Mark says it was at the sun-rising; Luke says it was very early in the morning; John says it was while it was yet dark. In other words, it was twilight. That was the o’92clock at which Mary Magdalen mistook Christ for the gardener. What does that mean? It means there are shadows over the grave unlifted, shadows of mystery that are hovering. Mary stooped down and tried to look to the other end of the crypt. She gave hysteric outcry. She could not see to the other end of the crypt. Neither can you see to the other end of the grave of your dead. Neither can we see to the other end of our own grave. Oh, if there were shadows over the family plot belonging to Joseph of Arimathea, is it strange that there should be some shadows over our family lot? Easter dawn, not Easter noon.

Shadow of unanswered question! Why were they taken away from us? why were they ever given to us if they were to be taken so soon? why were they taken so suddenly? why could they not have uttered some farewell words? Why? A short question, but a whole crucifixion of agony in it. Why? Shadow on the graves of good men and women who seemed to die before their work was done. Shadow on all the graves of children because we ask ourselves why so beautiful a craft launched at all if it was to wrecked one mile outside the harbor? But what did Mary Magdalen have to do in order to get more light on that grave. She had only to wait. After a while the Easter sun rolled up, and the whole place was flooded with light. What have you and I to do in order to get more light on our graves and light upon the graves of our dear loved ones? Only to wait.

Charles V of Spain with his servants and torches went down into the vault of the necropolis where his ancestors were buried, and went deeper, further on until he came to a cross around which were arranged the caskets of his ancestors. He also found a casket containing the body of one of his own family. He had that casket opened, and there by embalmer’92s art he found that the body was as perfect as eighteen years before when it was entombed. But under the exploration his body and mind perished. Oh, my friends, do not let us morbidly struggle with the shadows of the sepulchre. What are we to do? Wait. It is not the evening twilight that gets darker and darker. It is the morning twilight that gets brighter and brighter unto the perfect day. I preach it now. Sunrise over P’e8re le Chaise, sunrise over Greyfriars churchyard, sunrise over Greenwood, over Woodlawn, over Laurel Hill, over Mount Auburn, sunrise over every country graveyard, sunrise over the catacombs, sunrise over the sarcophagi where the ships lie buried. Half-past five o’92clock among the tombs now, but soon to be the noonday of explanation and beatitude. It was in the morning twilight that Mary Magdalen mistook Christ for a gardener.

Another thing the world and the church have not observed; that is, Christ’92s pathetic credentials. How do you know it was not a gardener? His garments said he was a gardener. The flakes of the upturned earth scattered upon his garments said he was a gardener. How do you know he was not a gardener? Before Easter had gone by he gave to some of his disciples his three credentials. He showed them his hands and his side. Three paragraphs written in rigid or depressed cuticle. A scar in the right palm, a scar in the left palm, a scar amid the ribs’97scars, scars. That is the way they knew him. That is the way you and I will know him. Am I saying too much when I say that will be one of the ways in which you and I will know each other’97by the scars of earth; scars of accident, scars of sickness, scars of persecution, scars of hard work, scars of battle, scars of old age. When I see Christ’92s resurrected body having scars, it makes me think that our remodeled and resurrected bodies will have scars. Why, before we get out of this world some of us will be covered with scars all over. Heaven will not be a bay into which float summer yachts after a pleasuring, with gay bunting, and with embroidered sails as fair as when they were first unfurled. Heaven will be more like a navy yard where men-of-war come in from Trafalgar and Lepanto, men-of-war with masts twisted by a cyclone, men-of-war struck on all sides by seventy-four pounders, men-of-war with decks scorched of the shell. Old Constitutions, old Constellations floating in, discharged from service to rest forever. In the resurrection Christ credentialed by scars. You and I will be credentialed, and will recognize each other by scars. Do you think them now a disfigurement? Do you think them now a badge of endurance? I tell you the glorious thought this morning, they are going to be the means of heavenly recognition.

There is one more thing that the world and the church have not noticed in this resurrection of Christ, and that is, that Christ from Friday to Sabbath was lifeless in a hot climate where sanitary prudence demanded that burial take place the same day as death, and where there was no ice to retard dissolution. Yet, after three days he comes up so healthful, so robust, and so rubicund Mary Magdalen takes him for a gardener. Not supposing him to be an invalid from a hospital, not supposing him to be a corpse from the tomb, but supposing him to be the gardener. Healthful by the breath of the upturned sod and by a perpetual life in the sunshine.

After Christ’92s interment every cellular tissue broke down, and nerve, and artery, and brain, were a physiological wreck, and yet he comes up swarthy, rubicund, and well. When I see after such mortuary silence such radiant appearance, that settles it that whatever should become of the dead bodies of our dear Christian dead, they are coming up, the nerves restrung, the optic nerve reillumined, the ear-drum a-vibrate, the whole body lifted up, without its weaknesses and worldly uses for which there is no resurrection. Come, is it not almost time for us to go out to meet our reanimated dead? Can you not hear the lifting of the rusted latch?

Oh, the glorious thought, the glorious consolation of this subject when I find Christ coming up without any of the lacerations, for you must remember he was lacerated and wounded fearfully in the crucifixion’97coming up without one. What does that make me think? That the grave will get nothing of us except our wounds and our imperfections. Christ went into the grave exhausted and bloodless. All the currents of his life had poured out from his wounds. He had lived a life of trouble, sorrow, and privation, and then he died a lingering death. His entire body hung on four spikes. No invalid of twenty years’92 suffering ever went into the grave so white and ghastly and broken down as Christ, and yet here he comes up so rubicund and robust Mary supposed him to be a gardener. So all the sideaches, and the headaches, and the backaches, and the legaches, and the heartaches we will leave where Christ left his. The ear will come up without its heaviness, the eye will come up without its dimness, the lungs will come up without oppressed respiration. Oh, what races we will run when we become immortal athletes! Oh, what circuits we will take when all earthly imperfections subtracted and all celestial velocities added we shall set up our residence in that city which, though vaster than all the cities of this world, shall never have one obsequy?

Standing round the shattered masonry of our Lord’92s tomb, I point you to a world without hearse, without muffled drum, without tumulus, without catafalque, and without a tear. Amid the cathedrals of the blessed no longer the Dead March in Saul, but whole libretti of Hallelujah Chorus. Oh, put trumpet to lip and finger to key, and loving forehead against the bosom of a risen Christ. Hallelujah, Amen!

Autor: T. De Witt Talmage