Risen: Easter Sunday

In Israel there is some question about the location of Jesus’ Crucifixion and then His burial--a couple of options, mainly because no searchers on either that first Sunday morning 2000+ years ago or since can find a body in either of them.

And in that detail rests the basis of Christianity through the ages.

Though we often overlook the place of women in Jesus' ministry, it matters that women mattered in His ministry so much. And on that Sunday morning, God chose a woman, Mary Magdalene, to first see a tomb empty, and to run to tell the men.

I love the scene in John's gospel where Peter and John react after Mary's news--John, younger, Peter, so desperately heartbroken after his betrayal of Christ during the various trials the few days before, both race to the tomb to see for themselves what Mary could mean. In his gospel, John never says his own name or uses the word, "I." He cannot help himself, though, and as they near the tomb, he has to let us know, "The two were running together; and the other disciple ran ahead faster than Peter and came to the tomb first;" (John 20:4). Two thousand years later, we know, "I ran faster than Peter; I got there first." Peter did, however, enter the tomb before the younger man, whether John feared what he might find or deferred from respect, we don't really know. First or last, the tomb held only the clothes of a dead man—the body was gone.

Soon after, the Gospels tell us, the risen Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene, she who first announced the news of the Resurrection, then to His Disciples, then to many others. Apparently, Mary grabbed Him, so overcome with joy was she at the sight of her resurrected Lord, her grief replaced with that elation that she must have thought, “You died once, now that You’re here again, I want to be sure You stay!” Gently, He removed her. For some reason, this resurrected body could not be clung to, no matter her happiness. But, no matter her inappropriate reaction, it was to Mary He first showed Himself.

And when she first saw him, the name Mary first called Him that morning, this Lord whom she had followed and served those years of His time here: "Rabboni!" in Hebrew, “Teacher.”  Until Jesus, women could not learn the spiritual lessons He taught. So precious was the teaching they learned, their most beloved title for Him, the one that flowed unprompted from the women's hearts, was Teacher. I have taught school for almost 43 years; those scenes move me every time. Teacher.

The Teacher, whose lessons still resound around the world, lived again, as He had taught them, as, now, some remembered Him teaching, and as His close followers taught to the next followers who taught the next who taught the next. . . . following the Teacher.

The tomb--well, both of the possible ones I know about in that beloved, tiny country--even now contains no bodies. This is the glory and the hope of Christianity. Right away, of course, the conspiracy started, the "cover-up," if you will, with church leaders bribing soldiers to say that unarmed disciples had snuck past heavily armed Roman soldiers--who could be put to death for shirking their duty--while those soldiers, well, slept and shirked their duty and the disciples supposedly snuck that body away. Of course, the Priests promised, we'll make it right with your bosses. So, they spread that story, and, according to Matthew (himself one of the disciples) the story continued “to this day.”

I guess he'd know.

But, for Mary Magdalene and Peter and John and Matthew, all those other folks who SAW Jesus alive after He was dead, those people who themselves died horrific, unspeakable deaths for refusing to say He is not now alive, knowing the truth of that statement, therefore dying either as fools or martyrs, those disciples who started life as pragmatic, blue-collar workers, many fishermen, one a fierce tax collector, women who lived as second class, who could not speak or learn before Jesus elevated their status, those men and women who wanted to overthrow the hated Roman government, but who ended life declaring the man they first thought would bring freedom from Rome but who they died declaring He had brought freedom from death. . . .those men and women and the women and men to whom they have told the Resurrection Sunday story throughout the ages and who tell it now

for them—for us--

the Tomb is empty.

He is Risen.

And if that is not true, then Christianity doesn’t matter.

But, if it is, then it matters more than anything.

Happy Easter, my friends.

Gone: Holy Saturday

Saturday.

Remember that time when you felt the world end? Remember your heart cracking and shattering and feeling you might not be able to get up in the morning? Remember your own, personal season of betrayal and heartache and loss? Remember the long, long day when you wanted just to not see anyone, to not hear from those who thought they won how glorious their victory?

Remember such a day as that?

Jerusalem

On that Saturday after the Crucifixion, how must the followers of Jesus have felt?

He was gone. No more a Savior to deliver Israel from Rome to oust the hated invaders from their holy homeland. . . . no more a Healer when illness struck and they had no where else to go. . . no more a Provider of meals for thousands from crumbs and food pittances. . . no more their Friend who laughed at a wedding, who called to Himself small children for their protection, “do not hinder (the children) from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these;” no more the Son who loved the mother who raised Him, who truly knew His birth story, no more crowds calling out praises, no more quiet times on the beach or the water fishing, no more. . . no more. . . no more.

Gone.

He had told them; told them that one of them would betray him, and what they thought was, “Not me! Not me!” then missed his naming of the traitor, “What you do, do quickly;” oh, how must Jesus’ own heart have splintered as Judas rose and left the room, though more, surely, as His friend betrayed Him in the garden with the kiss of friendship, a lie and a regret; He gently chided them as they asked to reign beside Him, never aware at the cost of their request; He prayed for them as He left them, “I ask on their behalf;” He warned Peter, that big fisherman, of that very own disciple’s betrayal to come, “A rooster will not crow before you deny me three times;” they heard Him beg His Father for another way, “if it is possible, let this cup pass. . . if it is possible.”

All of that after three years of ups and downs, miracles and magnificent scenes, the crowd’s “Hallelujahs!!” changed to a mob’s “Crucify Him!”

Gone.

Not just the Redeemer. Not just the Leader. Not just the Teacher. . . . .

their Friend.

How exhausted they must have been after the start of Thursday night with a large Passover meal, then Friday morning, a surprise arrest, multiple illegal trials, fear for their own safety, their own betrayals and backstabbings, and, finally, His death.

He had told them to wait; He had told them His death was not the end; He had told them.

As we so often do, they heard their desires and not His Truths.

But, who could believe such as that? Rome—all-powerful, all-cruel Rome—had taken their Hope and killed it, literally, figuratively, in all the ways Hope can die.

Jerusalem Rooftop

And they hunkered down in Jerusalem, unable to leave town on the Sabbath, unable to understand the enormity of their loss, unable to think past the day, and remembered Jesus,

now gone.

Until: Good Friday

They called him “The Teacher,” a term of endearment that moves me every time I see or hear it about Him.

Until. . .

Jesus, Who Scripture tells us was there at the start of the Earth, Who lived a life of perfect holiness, Who never acted from wrong motive or deceit, about Whom Christians believe the entirety of the Bible tells, Jesus, the Son, one-third of the Godhead, Whose first described miracle is to relieve embarrassment for a host at a wedding, Who brought to life the dead son of a widow even at the boy’s funeral in that land where having no man to care for her left women bereft in ways we cannot understand, Who told stories of leaving a group of comfortable, safe sheep to go and find the one frightened, lost, lonely lamb, Who could, even on that last minute, have called to His Father and had legions of angels come for rescue, angels who no doubt looked from the heavens, yearning to be released and end the treatment of Jesus in such despicable fashion, Jesus, who wept at the tomb of His friend just before calling that friend out of a tomb, THAT Jesus lifted the crossbar of the cross on which He would die, having been beaten and battered, torn and bloody, and firmly, willingly, from love and eternal purpose set His face to a hill outside the city of Jerusalem, step by step until He fell from the physical toll of it, and a passerby helped him carry the load to that Place of the Skull. . .

where He was crucified, a death so horrible that those who knew it was coming fought and tried to flee, begged and cried, had to be held by the soldiers as the large nails came pounding down into the flesh of human beings, then a cross lifted and dropped with the thud! of the hitting of the bottom of the hole, more flesh torn, more agony, trying to breathe in a completely unnatural position. . . . and he hung above the world.

He offered forgiveness and grace to a criminal at His side, looked with love at His friends below, made sure His mother had a home and care for the rest of her earthly life, endured for three dark hours, a darkness the world shared, separation for the only time of eternity, separation from the Father with Whom He shares that Godhead, so dear, so loved (“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”), He asked that same Father in Heaven who so loved Him, co-sacrificer at that unspeakable time, to forgive the ones so treating Him this way, watched those below gamble for the robe that Pilate had placed on Him and, sooner than might have happened, blessedly, crying out, “It is finished!”

And He died.

The Earth quaked.

The curtain in the Temple split.

A Roman centurion who saw the whole thing said, “Surely, He was the Son of God.”

His friends hastily retrieved His body, to get it from that despised cross before the Sabbath started and they would have had to leave Him there for three days. They tended that broken, beloved body, placed Him in a tomb of wealth, a position He never knew while living a man’s life on Earth.

A large, thousands-of-pounds stone rolled in front of the opening of the grave, then Roman guards were placed to keep any made-up story about His coming back to life from happening. After all, those scallywags who had walked with this Man, who could know what stunt they might pull?

His dispirited disciples went home, Peter lamenting his denial of Jesus during those mock trials, unable to believe his failures.

Judas hung himself, his guilt and grief finding no comfort anywhere.

Pilate slept—or didn’t, as his wife’s admonitions no doubt played over and over in his head. “Have nothing to do with that righteous Man; I have suffered greatly in a dream. . . Have nothing to do with that righteous Man, I have suffered. . . . Have nothing to do. . . . Have nothing.”

The religious leaders celebrated, all their wishes won.

The world slept.

In that whole day, I think no one called Him, “Teacher.”

The Teacher: Holy Thursday

Holy Thursday.

On this day, Jesus sent disciples into Jerusalem to find a setting for their Passover meal, to follow a man with water, to find the owner of the house that man entered, and to say to the owner, "The Teacher needs to have Passover here," or close to that. The house owner had a large upper room ready for them.

The Teacher. That title always moves me; Christ, the miracle worker, the healer, the multiplier of food, the fisherman, the carpenter, and so, so much more. But, here, he Himself, and elsewhere others who follow Him, use that beloved title "The Teacher." Here at the last meal He would have with them, right before teaching them some of the most important lessons they would need as He, their Leader and Friend, their Hope and their Purpose, knelt before them and washed the dust from those sandy, soiled roads of that Holy Land so they would be clean before they ate, and all the teachings and messages shown there, He called Himself, "Teacher."

Teachers instruct. Teachers show. Teachers plan. Teachers live public lives in front of students. Teachers prepare lessons and prepare students. Good teachers frequently involve themselves with students, love students, defend or reprimand students. Jesus did all of that and more.

If asked, "What do you teach," rather than list parables or laws, He may well have said, "I teach men and women, boys and girls. The LESSONS I teach are about living and giving and parables, etc. But I teach the people in front of me who see me each day."

"The Teacher says. . . ."

Jesus came, and throughout His life, living each day to the full, living it "abundantly," still set His face like flint always towards these final days in Jerusalem. And in this, the last full day of His life, he taught.

As a teacher, that title for Jesus always moves me deeply.

"The Teacher says. . . "

That phrase got an unknown house owner to give over his prepared Passover room to The Teacher and His Disciples for that Last Supper where He continued to teach even after one of His closest friends left the meal to go betray Him until, the hour finally came, and He led them out to the Garden of Gethsemane, prayed for His Father, if possible, for a way out, then turned, willingly, towards His eternal, sacrificial purpose. And even there, He taught.

After which, of course, came Friday. And Saturday.

And Sunday.

With The Teacher. . .