Easter begins with fear.  At least that's the way Mark tells it.  It's not that Easter begins with wild panic--no, not that.  Easter begins with the kind of fear that feels a lot like heart-break.  It begins with the twist in your stomach that comes when the phone rings and you hear the voice of your sister.  "Are you sitting down?" she asks--that kind of fear.  Early in the morning, three women approach the tomb bearing precious herbs and oils to wash the body of their Lord.  They have come to comb out Jesus' hair, to sponge away the dried blood, to massage precious myrrh into his skin.  They hope to engage in the ritual act (the act of care) that is traditionally done before sealing a body in the tomb.  They have come to anoint the crucified one.  Yet, even as they discuss how they will gain access to the cave (after all, it is closed by a massive boulder), they find that the stone has been rolled away.  The tomb is empty--vacant, except for some young guy who is definitely not Jesus; and suddenly, they are afraid.  They fear that their last chance to pour a little compassion on the broken body of Jesus has escaped.  They fear that they are witnessing the final insult of this whole horrible affair. First, Jesus' life is stolen, and now, even his body has been taken.  And, perhaps, they also fear... no, they simply must fear that death has won.  Death, the ever-ravenous monster, has finally, and utterly, swallowed up their beloved friend.

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