Raised
John 20:1-18
The Resurrection is a wondrous piece of theological miracle to keep before us in this moment.
Missiles fly; ICBMs are paraded as pinnacle of national achievement; dictators solidify their hold on their people violently and shabbily; whispers of war fill the news...we are in "a land of deep darkness," as Isaiah reflected so many centuries ago.
Then comes Resurrection Day.
The tomb was empty. The message clear, "He is not here; he is risen."
Mary stumbled into the garden lost in the darkness. The sun was still a couple of hours from rising, but she had not slept. Truth be told, she had not slept much since Wednesday. It had been on long, bad waking nightmare. She was lost in the darkness of grief, despair, and utter hopelessness. It's like that when your dreams die.
So many all around us stumble about in similar darkness. Relationships falter. Jobs vanish. Hope wavers. Where I am, some lose sleep awaiting the knock on the door that will mean deportation. Others lose sleep because the only job in town is Wal-Mart, despite living in one of the richest agricultural meccas on earth. Others lose sleep because there is no place to sleep--the $800K average-priced home will never be more than a mirage on a horizon so far off it might as well not exist. Dreams die, leaving empty nights of no rest.
The tomb, though, is empty.
Mary assumes the worst. A desecration to add to the insult of all that happened. Then a familiar voice speaks her name, "Mary..."
Friday, I shared lunch and communion with one of the oddest congregations I'll ever meet--a gathering of the homeless inside a church hospitality room, having soup, then worship that was no more than an invitation, prayer, the sacrament, and another prayer, amen. Some of the participants looked like they expected the worst. One had hurt his leg badly and faced being a homeless man in the free clinic--to go or not to go? It was real question. But I noticed folks sitting with folks, greeting each other BY NAME, asking how things were, and claiming a familiar space in a weird context.
That is resurrection--when your name is called in utter and sincere love.
You are known.
You are loved.
There is mercy.
There is compassion.
No matter what darkness you stumbled out of, there is glorious light that no darkness can overcome.
My prayer is that we of and in the church remember Resurrection Day tomorrow. The need does not stop after all the Easter eggs have been found. I pray we will remember it each tomorrow. The darkness is deep. It is drear. It is ominous. Call someone by name. Watch the darkness fade. Watch love bloom.
Then watch it change the world, one encounter at a time.
The Resurrection is a wondrous piece of theological miracle to keep before us in this moment.
Missiles fly; ICBMs are paraded as pinnacle of national achievement; dictators solidify their hold on their people violently and shabbily; whispers of war fill the news...we are in "a land of deep darkness," as Isaiah reflected so many centuries ago.
Then comes Resurrection Day.
The tomb was empty. The message clear, "He is not here; he is risen."
Mary stumbled into the garden lost in the darkness. The sun was still a couple of hours from rising, but she had not slept. Truth be told, she had not slept much since Wednesday. It had been on long, bad waking nightmare. She was lost in the darkness of grief, despair, and utter hopelessness. It's like that when your dreams die.
So many all around us stumble about in similar darkness. Relationships falter. Jobs vanish. Hope wavers. Where I am, some lose sleep awaiting the knock on the door that will mean deportation. Others lose sleep because the only job in town is Wal-Mart, despite living in one of the richest agricultural meccas on earth. Others lose sleep because there is no place to sleep--the $800K average-priced home will never be more than a mirage on a horizon so far off it might as well not exist. Dreams die, leaving empty nights of no rest.
The tomb, though, is empty.
Mary assumes the worst. A desecration to add to the insult of all that happened. Then a familiar voice speaks her name, "Mary..."
Friday, I shared lunch and communion with one of the oddest congregations I'll ever meet--a gathering of the homeless inside a church hospitality room, having soup, then worship that was no more than an invitation, prayer, the sacrament, and another prayer, amen. Some of the participants looked like they expected the worst. One had hurt his leg badly and faced being a homeless man in the free clinic--to go or not to go? It was real question. But I noticed folks sitting with folks, greeting each other BY NAME, asking how things were, and claiming a familiar space in a weird context.
That is resurrection--when your name is called in utter and sincere love.
You are known.
You are loved.
There is mercy.
There is compassion.
No matter what darkness you stumbled out of, there is glorious light that no darkness can overcome.
My prayer is that we of and in the church remember Resurrection Day tomorrow. The need does not stop after all the Easter eggs have been found. I pray we will remember it each tomorrow. The darkness is deep. It is drear. It is ominous. Call someone by name. Watch the darkness fade. Watch love bloom.
Then watch it change the world, one encounter at a time.
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