When Luke sat down to write his sequel to the gospel story of Jesus, he began his second volume with a strange statement: "In my former book… I wrote about all that Jesus began to do and to teach until the day he was taken up to heaven" (Acts 1:1-2). Began to do and teach? Well, after he ascended into heaven, didn't Jesus stop "doing" and "teaching"? Apparently not, according to Luke...
Visit a convenience store of your choice. Target, WalMart, CVS, whatever. Look for the Easter merchandise. You'll find that most of it is now deeply discounted. The chocolate bunnies and Cadbury creme eggs that were so hot, so seasonal a few short days ago? They're remaindered items today. The bottom line: Easter is over.
But is Easter really over? Well, yes--if you're living in HST (Hallmark Standard Time). But if you're living in gospel-shaped, Christian time, Easter has indeed come; but it hasn't gone. Resurrected life has only just begun...
I'll always be indebted to the Greek community that surrounded Elissa and me during the many years we lived in Astoria. I continue to be inspired by the customary greeting they give one another not only on Easter Sundays, but for a full forty days afterwards:
Christos anesti!
Alithos anesti!
He is risen!
He is risen, indeed!
Can I get an Amen?
Holy Saturday.
Jesus lies mangled, killed, lifeless in the tomb. The gospels go silent about the apostles, who must, on this terrible day, be stunned and drained and perplexed.
Two men, minor plays in the Jesus story, act with puzzling faithfulness. Joseph of Arimethea and Nicomedus, council members won over to Jesus, collect and bury Jesus' body in a tomb.
What are they thinking? What inner resources do these men call upon to stay faithful when every tangible shred of evidence is telling them that their Jesus-hopes are crushed and futile?
This side of the resurrection, with the benefit of holy hindsight, it's easy to side with Joseph and Nicodemus and to cheer them on. But on that miserable Saturday, when all visible hope was drained away: What were they thinking?
Lord, teach me this kind of faith. Teach me this kind of faithfulness. Teach me to continue to give myself to you even when everything seems surely crushed and lost. Let me trust in the sure strength of that which I can't see or even imagine. Let me know for sure that despite the death staring me in the face, life is on the way.
Resurrection. It's almost here.
A long time ago, when I would struggle with my faith, I'd talk to God. "If I could only see you," I'd say, "then I'd know for sure." But what was it that I hoped to see? If God actually showed up, right before my very eyes--what would He look like?
The stupefying claim of the gospels is that God did, indeed, appear on our earthly doorstep. He took the form of a man. And much to everyone's surprise, God did not appear as a King or an Emperor or any sort of VIP at all. He "made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant" (Philippians 2:7).
And in case Jesus' disciples had somehow missed the point, in case they failed to recognize the absolutely humble and yielded self-giving of their Master, he was careful to burn the image into their minds. Knowing he was about to die, Jesus left the apostles with a sort of acted-out last-will-and-testament. He revealed the heart and character of God in a way that, yes, they could see with their very eyes. And it wasn't at all what they expected...
You've been in the desert for weeks, now. You're thirsty, dusty, and spent. You've wrangled with some wild animals along the way. You've discovered some things about yourself you really didn't want to know in the first place.
Finally, there it is. Over the crest of one of the countless desert dunes, you see the city approaching. Jerusalem. At last: a place to get a square meal, a hot bath, and a good night's sleep.
But the horizon isn't quite what you remember, and not at all what you expect. There have apparently been some changes since you were last here. There on the outskirts of town, you recognize the slow and steady work of construction. Some ropes, some wood and scaffolding. You wonder--What in the world is going on? In an instant, your stomach sinks like a stone; you recognize what it is that the workers are erecting. A structure for torture and death.
It's a cross...
I've got to confess something.
I mean that literally. Every time I try to draw closer to Jesus, to walk with him on the desert road, I find myself face to face with a great big roadblock: my own sinfulness. I feel like I'm strong and doing well and then, cruising blithely around a corner--bam! There it is. My own stubborn sin is staring me straight in the face again...
