A Tender Resurrection

A rainy sunrise under lock down isn't really helping.
I miss the together of Easter Sunday,
the happy greetings and wide-armed hugs.
I miss the bigness of Easter Sunday,
the music and the strength
and the re-enactment of the disciples' wild joy.

I miss going in so early on Easter Sunday,
to watch the sunrise over the church building,
as if the sun itself was re-enacting the Son.

This is it for us Christians.
This is our big day.

But this year, not so much.

We'll try.
My church and other churches will do our best
to help us "connect" on line
and "celebrate" on line
and "worship" on line
and "do Easter" on line.

My husband and I will mark this day together
with a meal
and prayer.

I have an Easter lily!

But it takes more effort this year
to be all that excited.

I think I'm supposed to be.
I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be able to put it all to one side
and be excited
write something here that reflects all of that.

But it's a different way of being for me this Easter Sunday.
More like Mary hearing Him say her name.



It's John that records this moment of tenderness
in his resurrection account.

Mary, beside herself in grief and confusion,
desperately longing to finish the anguished task
of properly anointing the body for burial,
a ritual of respect
and love.

But now the body is gone!
After all they'd already done to Him.
This too?
This degradation?

She is overcome with all the dreadful dashing of hope.
Sobbing.
Like this morning's sky, I think.

And then she's interrupted by a Voice.

"Why are you crying?  Who are you looking for?"

John writes her reply as if it was almost polite.
But I hear a sudden intake of air,
the sobbing being startled to a sudden halt.
I hear more anger and accusation
coming from deep in her throat.
A lashing out, a meltdown,
with all the energy of grief.

"Where is He?!!!
What have you done with Him?!!!"

And that's when He says it.
Her name.

Simply.

"Mary."

And then she knows!
And then everything changes.

Wild! Clutching!  Joy!

I need this tender resurrection this morning.
And the real and living intimacy
of a Risen Saviour
who knows my name.

And it will be enough for today.
More than enough.

Because the resurrection bursts out of all restrictions.
If death could not hold it back,
then neither can a pandemic.

Worship.
Love.
Truth.

Silent Saturday

Words and words and words.

For all the words coming at me, relentlessly, 

on the news and in my newsfeed,

And all the words I’ve written this week 

in what ended up being an everyday reflection,

And all the words I’ve written for my paper, 

and sermons, and oh so many emails lately,

Or spoken on the phone,

And for all the words written 

in every gospel that describes the hell of Holy Week,

Come Saturday and ---

God lay silent.

Feels like I should do the same.

Just.  Be.  Quiet.

Just.  Let.  God.  Not.  Say.  Anything.

And still be God.

And that’s the thing.

Those disciples on that first Saturday between.

They had no idea.

God was still God but it looked like He wasn’t.

So much was happening

Cosmic noise and commotion.

One big battle in the name of redemption.

But it didn’t seem that way.

Just the silence of a tomb locked down.

Strange how a world pandemic

Imitates the pause.

Not What We Expected: Of Distancing and Donkeys

"Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion!

Shout, Daughter Jerusalem!

See, your king comes to you,

righteous and victorious,

lowly and riding on a donkey."

Zechariah 9:9

I am awake too early and immediately aware that I am out of sorts.
Sort of.

For all my mostly okay adaptation to staying at home for the rest of the week,
I really don't want to be staying at home on a Sunday.
And not this Sunday.
Not when it comes just before next Sunday!

I get up and make a fire and weep a while,
making space for the grief of all that's not okay,
and for the little bit of the dread of knowing
it won't be okay for a while.

In that space He sits with me,
not really saying anything.
Neither of us are.
The tenderness of the moment overwhelms me.
It's like we're praying together,
and it's one of those silent prayers
where nothing can be said,
so spirit and Spirit simply,
quietly
groan together.

But maybe then,
after a little while,
He does speak,
because I remember that He knows what it's like
for everything not to be okay.
And to dread something.
And that He rode the donkey anyways.

Not a steed.
Not a war horse.
Not the way Kings are expected to arrive.
Righteous.
Victorious.
Lowly.
Unexpected.
Dreadful.
Crowds shouting Hosannas.
Not expecting what would come next.

Palm Sunday just before Good Friday.
Suffering is ahead.
He knows.
And He rides the donkey anyways.

This is not the Easter week any of us were expecting.
Not the spring any of us wanted.
I don't like it.
But
I love that we have a Saviour like this One.
Who knows.
Who deserves our adoration
and rejoicing, shouting Hosannas
and palm branches of courage
and faith
and hope
right now.

I love that I have a Saviour like this One.
Who sits with me for a while
by the fire
and dissolves my expectations
with overwhelming tenderness.
Who inspires my own steely tenacity
with movement toward the Cross.