Fleshing It Out Sanctified Imagination in service of Truth By Alex Lee

 Handiwork

Genesis 1:1–2:3

 The Hand that lit the sun at dawn

And fanned its flames at noon

Now sprinkles dew upon the lawn,

Then brushes off a cloud and soon

Adjusts an orb and turns it on,

And having made its millionth moon,

Withdraws and hides a yawn.

Vanity and Brevity

Job 14:1,2

 Between pulses, a period—

So brief a myriad

Make but a while—

In which to smile

As the camera clicks—

In which to fix

One’s sleeves and tie

Before the guy

In the hood

Says, “Good,

Hold it,” and pulls the cord.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Do You See What I See?

John 1:1-5

The baby turned his head and blinked. One eye saw the head of a donkey, and of course the baby had no idea what it was. The smell was unfamiliar. Smelling was new to him, as was every other human sensation. But the baby, only a week old, saw with his other eye the creature whose progenitors he had created ages ago, when he first strung out the DNA of horses. He thought gray was a good color for a donkey. He remembered that sixth day of creation, when all the land animals began their existence. The act of remembering startled the baby. This was something He had never had to do, as God.

As God, he simply knew—knew everything, all at once, forgetting nothing, missing nothing.

The baby thought it was weird seeing the stars through the stable’s patchy roof. Billions of years ago, he had uttered the words, “Let there be light,” and light shone forth, and the universe expanded, matter and dark matter both, energy and time and space swirling like fairies.  Now, billions of years later, some of those stars into which the primal elements had congealed were twinkling in his own retinas. The baby blinked again. Closure, that deep need in the human psyche, was strange to him. The baby knew, on top of his omniscience, that there were a lot of things he would have to get used to, in the world he had come to save.

Finally, the baby fell asleep. The stars became the flickering illumination of our cities, and instead of shepherds and angels there were men and women rushing about, shopping, and making merry—celebrating Christmas with nary a thought to the child without whose birth this earth, though every forest in it were ablaze, would be forever dark.

One On One

Matthew 4:8-11

Matthew 16:26

The panorama, appearing at a snap of the devil’s crooked fingers, was dizzying: an immersive view of the world’s natural wonders, and of civilization’s signal achievements—spread out simultaneously like a vast, moving collage. Over him, in the dim upper reaches of the illusory sky, Jesus saw the northern lights swirling like neon banners, their magnetism tickling his skin.  At Jesus’s feet lay the chasm of the Grand Canyon, and superimposed on that, but never touching the desert, spilled the mighty cataracts of Iguazu Falls. Ocean waves crashed on a rugged, gull-flecked shore which sheltered alpine valleys thick with wildflowers and migrating elk, and dotted, here and there, with visitor centers.

 Then an eclipse-like darkness fell, revealing the illuminated skyline of Manhattan.

 “See there,” said the devil to Jesus.  “You can own that prime real estate, and have lots of primal sin to manage.”

Percussion music, from some volcanic loudspeaker, accompanied a mob of sleepwalkers driven by a mercantilist, idolatrous fixation with lucre. The music turned martial in tempo, a seismic march, then became cacophonous, as in a carnival. The sleepwalkers were transposed into a silhouette of a helmeted army, only to dissolve into throngs of shadowy revelers.

Light returned, not from any celestial source, but from harsh, hidden footlights in the netherworld.  New York was gone.  In its place were the Sphinx, the Acropolis and the Colosseum, ringed by the Great Wall of China. 

“Something with more character perhaps, Jesus?” the devil suggested.  “Old homes do have their charms. And these are even gated!  So—just to sweeten the deal—”

Instantly everything was transformed into gold and silver; the very air sparkled with diamonds, smelling of stiff greenbacks. The high mountain alone consisted of stone and dirt—the mountain upon which the devil had set Jesus. “It’s all yours,” the devil offered, “this splendor—if you will but give me my due.  Worship me. This one time. Just once. What do you say?”

What would you say, if you got that same offer today?

Cleaning Up After Dinner

Luke 9:13-17

All of us have read about the multiplication of the loaves and fish, a miracle performed by Jesus when a logistical need arose which flummoxed his disciples. Jesus on that day was preaching to a large crowd that had followed him to a remote place near Bethsaida. Since it was getting late, his disciples urged Jesus to send the people away, back to town, where they could find something to eat. There were in excess of 5,000 souls (and rumbling stomachs) in attendance, so it is understandable that the Lord’s “handlers” were concerned about crowd control and the optics for their ministry—better to avoid a dicey situation, they decided.

We know of course what happened next. Jesus let the people stay, and directed his disciples to bring him some provisions. Five loaves of bread and two fish were all his men could scrounge up. Jesus took these, and blessed them, and had them distributed to the multitude. And the multitude ate heartily, and had seconds.

A miracle is a miracle, but to me, the really interesting and telling thing about it is this:

When the disciples afterwards collected the leftover fragments of bread, filling twelve baskets with crusts and end-pieces, Jesus never says, “Ah, fellas. What’s the point of picking up leftovers?  I can make fresh bread at will, all day long, out of crumbs.  There’s no need to gather leftovers.”

No, Jesus was simultaneously a worker of miracles and a practical man. He expected his friends to pick up the leftovers.  As God, Jesus is the giver of all good gifts.  As man, he understands the value of those gifts, and appreciates and treats them the way a good steward would.

A Tale of Two Encounters

Luke 18:18-23

Luke 23:40-43

The last we see of the rich, young ruler is man looking troubled and sad, piqued that he could not do what Jesus had asked him. To sell everything he owned and give the proceeds to the poor was more discipline and humility than he could muster—it was positively reckless!  Why, if he did that, he might end up like that prodigal son, the young brother Jesus had spoken of in one of his stories—the guy who found himself wallowing in a pigpen, salivating over hogwash. The young ruler frowned at the thought of himself being deprived of wealth and, and options.

A man must have options, he believed. 

The young ruler desired to follow Jesus; that was something he could do, something he could put on his agenda, even make a priority. After all, he kept the laws of Moses most assiduously. What’s another commandment on top of those?

But Jesus had plainly given him this ultimatum: Give up everything, and trust the Lord exclusively.

Well, that was easy enough for fishermen to do—they had little to lose. But he, rich and young and pious and cultivated, had plenty to lose, thank you very much.

So, Mister Rich Young Ruler continued on his way, and the farther he went, the better he felt. He was truly sorry he couldn’t seal the deal with Jesus. Yet the soft texture of his robe was a comforting reminder to him of his station in life—this life, the good life, good ethically and lifestyle-wise. Soon, the rich, young ruler had nearly forgotten about inheriting eternal life.

Sometime after this encounter, there occurred another one. A thief hanging on a cross—a scoundrel, a loser, but a man with an honest, desperate heart—also had a conversation with Jesus, a short, painful exchange. From the sinner, a confession and a plea; and from the sinless One, who bore our sins, a promise of paradise. This thief, penitent, had little indeed to lose.  His loot was lost, his pride was long gone, his strength was ebbing.  Yet he perceived that his one last chance at life—real life, a NEW and everlasting life, lay across the space between his cross and the next.

In the end, this man inherited eternal life, no questions asked.

Somewhere between our own perceived need and our own perceived security, we in our turn must meet Christ. We will size him up against our egos, and then we will either follow him, transcending our miserable crosses, or else stay in the lush pigsty of our own making.

Rhoda at the Door By Wil Triggs

Prayer takes a long time. We pray for some things for many years—I think of prayers for family members who fight a debilitating disease or prayers for a person we love who has something for which there is no cure or effective treatment. Even when medical science cannot cure a loved one, the Good Shepherd walks with every one of his sheep no matter the path, and for this we pray, faithfully, regularly, sometimes faint-heartedly. We pray and it takes a long time.

In the prayer for the persecuted church group, we pray for the names of people so long that they become familiar to us even though we have never met. Leah Sharibu. Ken Elliot. Sara Atif. Zafar Bhatti. Yan Hwa. Imprisoned or kidnapped. We have a long list.
 
Prayer takes a short time. Just a few seconds while stopping at the traffic light. Maybe as you drift off to sleep, you only get half a sentence of thought in before the sandman takes over. Or we pray about something that’s happening today, in the next hour, at this very moment. We say the prayer and then it’s done. These are the sort that come to mind when we read the imperative to “pray without ceasing.”
 
I've been thinking about the long and short nature of prayer because of  a Christian couple in Iran who had been sentenced to 11 years in prison. We have been praying for them by first name. Homayoun and Sara. They had been convicted of “founding or leading an organization that aims to disrupt national security” and “membership in organizations that aim to disrupt national security.” They were meeting with other Christians in a home, like a small group. Maybe neighbors heard them singing or praying.

About a month ago, we heard that they were going to have a retrial around Easter. So we have been praying about their retrial. And this week we heard the news that the judge had dismissed all charges.

The judge freed them, saying, “The reports by the officers of the Ministry of Intelligence about organization of home-groups to promote Christianity, membership, and participation in home-groups, are not considered as acts against the country’s security, and the law has not recognized them as criminal activity.” Gathering together with people of the same faith is not a criminal act, but a natural part of faith. This from a judge in Iran.

I confess it was difficult to believe, but the news of this release brings joy.

Imagine being imprisoned for having a small group meeting in your home, being a counselor at Dickson Valley or Honey Rock camps, hosting a Backyard Bible Club. The message of Jesus’ love molds us so even when we face grief-induced responses to children or grandchildren making choices or facing illnesses that we never thought possible, we somehow pray for the strength and wisdom to respond as Jesus would, as he would have us respond. But some families do not respond in such a way. Faced with the news of a spouse or a child or a parent coming to Christ, in some places, instead of rejoicing, there is shaming, shunning, even violence and sometimes even murder. When Jesus comes into some places, he is met with hatred and violence.
 
But nothing stops Jesus. Not police or military or secularists or even our own sin. Jesus looked into the cup. He looked at the elixir of all the sin of everyone, the folly and shame and hatred. He prayed for another way.
 
Jesus also prayed for the Father's will be done, so he drank the cup, he drank it all. I can barely stomach my own sin, though sometimes I think I manage to manage it. There are plenty of sins I don’t even realize I’m committing, until the Spirit brings them to mind. Oh brother, again? Jesus doesn’t say that. I think that, but he doesn’t. He drinks the cup. My freedom is one hundred percent on him. He did so in prayer, in the garden, while his devoted followers nodded off to sleep.
 
Laws and walls do not contain the Spirit. When people are hurt, in jail, kidnapped, confined to a body or a mind that doesn’t work the way it should, the Spirit finds them and is with them. Prayer fits in here, somehow. Jesus is with them, and through prayer, maybe we are, too. We don’t need to understand how, only that we can be a part of God’s work through prayer.
 
We pray as we love—through a darkened glass. Even our prayers need God’s help to get through. The Bible tells us of Jesus going off by himself to pray. Sometimes we pray on the fly. Driving to work, before we go into a meeting, at the beginning or end of something, before our meals, when we go to bed and when we wake. It’s okay if it’s sometimes a struggle. The Spirit helps us.
 
Prayer is the gospel in jars of clay, human flesh doing what human flesh cannot do. The surpassing knowledge goes beyond our wildest dreams. Rhoda’s cameo appearance in Acts 12 reminds us of this.
 
The chapter begins with Peter in prison, and the “earnest prayer for him was made to God by the church.” (verse 5) A knocking at the door intruded on the prayer meeting, so Rhoda did what a servant does—she went to answer the knock, but she didn’t open the door. Instead, she ran to tell the others that Peter was standing at the gate—and they thought she was nuts.

And now, as I am about to send this, news of Ken Elliot, a missionary in his seventh year of captivity, released and reunited with his family. Some of us thought he must be dead by now, but we kept on.
 
Like Rhoda, eventually, with much joy, we tell others what God has done and we open the door and let Peter in. With the news of Homayoun and Sara and Ken, I say to you, “They are free.” And like our brothers and sisters at that prayer meeting, we are amazed.

Amazed at a God who hears and answers our prayers, a God who fills those jars of clay with the fragrant offering of his Son, that spills out in love and kindness and generosity to a hurting world that longs for the sweet sound of amazing grace.
 
When he realized this, he went to the house of Mary, the mother of John whose other name was Mark, where many were gathered together and were praying. And when he knocked at the door of the gateway, a servant girl named Rhoda came to answer. Recognizing Peter's voice, in her joy she did not open the gate but ran in and reported that Peter was standing at the gate. They said to her, ‘You are out of your mind.’ But she kept insisting that it was so, and they kept saying, ‘It is his angel!’ But Peter continued knocking, and when they opened, they saw him and were amazed. Acts 12:12-16

Best in Show By Lorraine Triggs

Blame it on jet lag, but we were mesmerized with the dog show competition on British TV channel 4. I found myself rooting, well, for the underdog, a golden retriever named Taffy. In one relay, the dogs had to pick up a raw egg and carry it from one spot to the other. Taffy dropped her egg. In another relay, the dogs were to carry a hot dog in their mouths to one end of the course and back again. Off the dogs went, and then disaster struck. The commentator was clearly upset, “Oh, my. Oh, dear. Taffy just ate the hot dog. She ate the hot dog.”

And there, sat Taffy, happily licking her lips, unperturbed. Each dog started with a perfect score. Points were deducted for every wrong action. When it was time for the commercial break, the dogs' names and scores flashed onto the screen. Taffy was at the bottom. My fan favorite.

I thought of Taffy the other day when The New York Times reported that “Buddy Holly, a fetchingly bewhiskered petit basset griffon Vendéen won best in show at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show on Tuesday night, beating back a field of fellow champions that included last year’s runner-up, Winston the French bulldog.”

Apparently, Buddy Holly’s owner and trainer had dreamed of this day since she was nine years old.

That dream of best in show is a reoccurring one for a lot of us who are way past our ninth birthday. We spend years training for it—we attend the best schools to secure the best careers so we can live in the best neighborhoods and send our children to the best schools. We want to be the best in our lives and the world is the show.

Schools, careers and neighborhoods aren’t the real problem.

The problem is the way I size up my competition. Who’s the biggest threat to my comfort? Who can make me look good? And who won’t? Maybe we should spend less time comparing ourselves with each other.

In Luke 18:9, Jesus told a story to people “who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt” Sounds like Jesus had an audience of top dogs, vying for Best in Show, but, like the Pharisee in the story, going about it all the wrong way: trusting in themselves, their training, their achievements, their righteousness.

The competitions and obstacles courses we set up for ourselves often aren't even measuring what really counts. Truth is, I'm more like Taffy than Buddy Holly.

The bigger truth is that we already have been disqualified from Best in Show, toward the bottom of the list. Trusting in ourselves won’t redeem us or exalt us in God’s eyes. Instead of thanking God that we are not like the others, we need to be the others and say every day, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” because he gives grace to the humble, exalting them to the ultimate best in show in heaven and on earth not on the basis of anything I've done at all. It's all Jesus..

The prize of life is Jesus himself. Not accolades or ribbons or trophies. And Luke 22 reminds us of his posture: "I am among you as the one who serves." 

As my husband prays each morning, "May we be more like you, Jesus, today and less like ourselves."

Sailing and Not Singing With Jonah By Wil Triggs

With the spring children’s choir concert happening this Sunday night, now might be a good time to share a memory of my brush with children’s church choirs as a child.

I was raised in a home that was more or less “Chreaster.” That is to say that we went to church on Christmas and Easter and considered ourselves to be Christians. We did not think of ourselves a Chreasters. We were Christians. Things had happened that drew my parents away from regular church-going. I’ve never learned what happened. All I knew for sure was that we were both Christian and Baptist, but we didn't make a habit of going to church.

There was a time when, it had to be Kindergarten or younger, that my mom or one of my adult siblings tried to help me get to church more often than the two biggest holidays of the year. The children’s choirs at College Church call for a school-year-long commitment. Kids memorize hymns and practice weekly. When we have musicals, children audition. It’s a big deal. Nothing could be more different from the College Church children’s program than the one I was part of as a child. To even say that I was part of it seems a stretch.

For a short time, I went to church, junior church and Sunday school. The memories are vague, but I did find myself suddenly cast at the last minute in their children’s musical. I was one of the men in the boat in the story of Jonah. I think they had practice on Wednesday or Thursday, but I was doing good just to get to the church on Sunday. Looking back, I wonder, had some other boy gotten sick at the last minute and they needed someone—anyone—to fill his spot? Or did they feel sorry for me because of the economic level of my family? I mean, how did I get on the stage in front of the church with no preparation or training. I have no recollection of singing at all. 

The only thing I remember is that I was the last kid on the boat. It was a badly constructed cardboard boat, and the stern where I stood kept coming detached from the rest of the vessel. I think the duct tape failed or maybe it wasn’t duct tape because it did fail. Would they have tried Scotch tape? 

I tried to reattach it with no success. We have to maneuver the boat from one end of the platform to the other. Fortunately, we stopped in the middle. There must have been lines between Jonah and the captain. And we must have sung a song—though I can’t imagine what the unbelieving sailors on boat would be singing. But all I was trying to do was keep the stern attached to the rest of the boat, and it kept falling apart in full view of everyone. It fell off. I picked it up. It. fell off. I picked it up. It was especially tricky when we were trying to move the boat across the stage.

I need to tell you that there was laughter coming from the audience and I don’t think it was about Jonah asking us to throw him off the boat. The broken stern was an easy out to get him off the boat.

One man told me afterward that I “stole the show.” He said it like it was supposed to make me feel good. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded slightly criminal. 

I don’t think I was too damaged by this, but I didn't learn the whole story of Jonah until much later. Now as an adult interested in stagecraft, I wonder, how did they do the whale scene? I’ll bet they ended with the people repenting and skipped the whole ending with the dead plant.

Looking back at this experience makes me grateful for the care that our adult volunteers take in teaching children music and the Bible passages on which the music is based. If you go to the choir concert, know that the volunteers don’t really want to get much attention. It’s all about the kids, not them. 

And as a child who didn’t get much training from the well-meaning people who cast me as the last sailor on the boat, I’d like to thank the choir volunteers who work so hard year after year to teach the kids gospel truth through music.

Life sometimes brings us poorly constructed props that fall apart. We can make them over or get better tape. We can build our prop boat over if there's time. Sometimes we ourselves might be the poorly constructed parts. I’ve seen churches in other places of the world who have to stop their building projects because they’ve run out of money, and they’re trying to hold their ministry together like I was trying to hold the boat together with my little boy hands. Somehow God still uses broken things to bring new life to the lost, hope to the hopeless, good news to the undeserving. His work, not ours. His glory alone. That’s the stealer of the show. When we think it’s all about one thing, Jesus turns it all upside down. And here we are—forgiven Ninevities on the road to heaven. 

Enjoy the music.

Birthday Party Time By Lorraine Triggs

One of the most memorable birthday parties we threw for our son was when he turned six. It involved 10 yard waste bags and the monkey brains (aka Osage oranges) that had fallen from the Osage orange tree on the parkway. We lined up the bags and announced a contest to see who could fill up his bag with the most monkey brains. The clear winner: my husband who could now give the lawn its final mow of the season. 

Imagine my chagrin, when I read this headline of a recent New York Times story: “It’s a Toddler’s Party. How About a $75,000 Budget?” 

My chagrin increased as the article described six-year-old William’s birthday party. One hundred people (oh, just think of all those monkey brains and yard waste bags) RSVP’d for the party, which was held at a Los Angeles park on a March afternoon. By 12:30 p.m., the fire station-themed event was in full swing when the actual firetruck and firefighters arrived. Energetic attendees donned fire-hose backpacks and gleefully coasted down slides into a large custom ball pit, detailed with flames and the slogan, "Let’s Get Fired Up!”

“Preparation for the event had begun three months before when planners began working with the birthday boy’s mother and 14 vendors to hammer out details.” The article said.

The party included a 20-foot-wide wooden backdrop, more than 40 feet of balloon garlands, a food truck and canvas umbrellas shading a long wooden table. Oh, FYI, this party was scaled back from last year’s. The parties don't just celebrate a child's birthday, but they also provide fodder for parents' social media, with people trying to one-up each other on how big their child's party could get.

An LA party planner noted that kids’ parties for the “uber-wealthy” can cost as much as $75,000 but reassures that other parents who hire planners only spend between $10,000 and $40,000.  

Well, that’s a relief.

All of this sure beats a stable for a birthday venue—or does it? 

Philippians 2:6-7 describes the preparation that went into that stable birthday: “who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of servant, being born in the likeness of man.” 

What was our birthday boy thinking—not grasping what was rightfully his? People didn't even notice, only animals, shepherds and, oh yeah, a sky filled with angels.

I wonder if those LA moms would have let even one balloon slip from their grasp as they posted the birthday party of their dreams on Instagram. How they excitedly post images and videos for the praise of other wealthy people. And it’s not just moms out there in La La Land who grasp and clutch at treasures and the oohs and aahs of others admiring the lengths they'll go to throw parties for the ones they love.

We obviously aren't planning a $75,000 party anytime soon (sorry), but I can get a bit selective about my guest list. I feel hurt or slighted by an offhand remark or I'm shocked that a person would do that to me. Well, delete those names off my guest list. Some days I grasp my right for self-care. I need to do this for me so I can’t come to your party. Thanks, but no thanks. I want to be right, get in the last word, the last post, the best Instagram, the witty comment. These things are as far as they can be from our Savior or the way he has for us.

In contrast, Scriptures tell us what Jesus was thinking when he came down, down, down to earth, and “being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on the cross."

Dying to forgive is a far cry from dying for people to see the firetrucks and chefs and firehouse backpacks. And inviting the lost and misfit to the party makes it far more wonderful than any curated guest list party planners in Beverly Hills handle, or the more meager ones I clutch in my Midwest hands.

The Monday Call by Wil Triggs

He had told them that it was going to happen. He had said it several times.
 
But this was something they didn’t want to hear.
 
They didn’t want to think of it, and really it didn’t make sense to them.
 
Better to talk instead or even argue about which one of them was his favorite.

He’s about to bring in his kingdom, so where will he have each of them sit? Who will be his right-hand man? Which one of them performed the most miracles when touring on the road?
 
Why did he keep bringing it up? Stop that.
 
And things were getting so intense and amazing. Feeding thousands with next to nothing. Saying that someone was just taking a nap when she was dead as a doornail. And then—at his word—the person is alive and sitting up. A man walks out of his own tomb when he told him to.
 
So, when he talked about being lifted up, they thought of being lifted on some sort of royal chair. Is it called a dais? Exalted.
 
It never surely occurred to them that he meant being lifted up on a cross after having been nailed to it. When he spoke of the temple being destroyed and rebuilt in three days, it was not in their hearing minds that he could have possibly been talking of his own death and resurrection.
 
Even though he had told them.
Surely it was there, somewhere in the back of their minds,
but they did not know.
 
When he was arrested and then killed right there in public, they scattered, denied, hid, then assembled behind closed doors, praying, wondering, probably weeping. Then when he died, people came out of tombs, walking, talking, breathing, alive. Not zombies. What did people think was going on?
 
No. They did not know. Easter Sunday shocked them all. When they woke that morning, they were not rejoicing, but in shock and despair.
 
Big events in life have a way of changing people. Think of the wars or the Great Depression, or maybe pandemics, how they change people for the rest of their lives. That was Easter Sunday.
 
The angels, the gardener who turned out to be him. He was suddenly with them, in their midst. Thomas, though doubting, got to touch his wounds. And Thomas changed. It was not some kind of head knowledge, but truth experienced through face-to-face events. He cooked them breakfast on the beach. He walked on the road with them and explained the Scriptures,

The Word began to come alive, too, in ways that they never dreamed. They watched him go up to heaven and stood staring until someone asked what they were doing. Jesus began to appear to them, not just in his body, but in the Word. The Word in the Word and in their souls. And then, at last, the Holy Spirit, not out there somewhere, but in them, alive in them.
 
Everything was changed.
 
Sunday wasn’t Sunday anymore. It was Resurrection Day. Their week changed. It had an anchor.
 
Joy and awe and a kind of fear. Every day when they woke up, they would remember. Jesus is alive. He was dead and then he was alive. Then they saw him go up into the sky. So, Sunday was celebration day, the day of the week he rose from the dead.
 
The day to gather and worship and remember and celebrate. Let’s do the last supper again. Let’s remember what he said. It didn’t really make sense the first time, but it does now. So every week began together, marking and remembering and celebrating resurrection.
 
And the Scriptures, they began to take on new meaning as they looked at it afresh, seeing Jesus in it. And the Apostles were alive still and telling about the Jesus they knew in every way they could.
 
Here, look what we have this Sunday, a new letter from Paul.
Unroll the scroll and let’s hear what he has to say.
Remember what we heard last month from John?
And the stories of Jesus, the things he said,
how he quoted from the psalms into his specific day,
the people who followed or opposed or the miracles he did.
And the gathering on Sunday to mark the day everything changed.
 
How hearts must have burned as they journeyed on life’s road. The living Word pushed itself into them and the newcomers, even those who opposed or grew up following different gods. Some of them believed, too.
 
They took to the road and onto the seas, going everywhere, telling everyone that Jesus and Spirit and Father all live and rule. Forgiveness and life are real, out there and in here and lasting forever.
 
The gospel news of great love for everyone, everywhere; the news that Jesus was and is alive, this was not something people wanted to hear exactly, not everyone, though why resist such news?
 
They were the ones, unsettling to the normal human ways.
 
Most everyone knew that sin was real, at least a few bad things. Sure, they might debate what was sin and what wasn’t, but the idea of a once-and-forever person taking it all on, dying and living, a divine person worth giving up everything and following him wherever.
 
These were criminals of the resurrection, arrested, beaten,
sometimes exiled, sometimes killed,
sometimes released to tell still even more folks;
there’s another way to live and another way to die
and live again.
 
When they woke on Easter Sunday, they did not know.
 
When they woke on Easter Monday, they knew the Resurrection
and received the Monday Call.
 
The Spirit was nearer than near.
The people who scattered in fear
Were scattered themselves like seeds
Around the ancient world they knew
The light of the world full of life so new
They embraced their own crosses,
Created the creeds.
The people of God took care of all needs.
It was not a war. It was a brand new world,
Though Rome all around them swirled,
battles raged; the war already won
on the cross and the tomb and the sky that’s all.
This truth and beauty is our Monday call.
Unspotted Lamb,
General Shepherd,
One
Only alive and ever
Triumphant forever
Father,
Spirit,
Son.

From A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley

Blessed Redeemer, beautiful Savior,
Author of all grace and comfort,
We approach you with the deepest reverence—
not with any presumption, nor with servile fear—
but respectful boldness—because of your gracious invitation.
In days of yore, you met the invited penitent at the mercy seat.
There the sprinkled blood was a covering for sin.
Today, our needed blessings are to be found at the throne of grace.
Here it is that we find grace in every—every—every! time of need.

It is easy for us to elaborate our needs, as trouble upon trouble piles up on us:
fragmented friendships,
hostile relationships,
adversarial conditions,
financial roadblocks,
family nightmares,
unanswered questions.
Some of these heartburning situations have plagued us without relief,
and we have pled with you to alleviate—
yet still we wait for divine answer.
Lord, we have nowhere else to go but to you,
and so we again cast ourselves upon your mercy.
Maybe you delay because of the insidious sins
we tolerate or turn a blind eye to!

Galatians tells of good old Barnabas and influential Simon Peter who were
captured by flagrant hypocrisy.
Maybe that’s our sin today—protection of self—
desiring the approval of the crowd rather than God.
Father God, it will take a detergent as strong as the blood of Jesus Christ
to wash away that sin.
We confess with tears all the times we played the hypocrite
and curried the world’s favor—in the world’s place—
and tried some face-saving, self-serving falseness around God’s people.
Forgive us, Lord.

Thank you Father; help us to never again indulge in hypocrisy.
In the name of Jesus, the way, the truth, and the life.
Amen.

The In-Between Day by Lorraine Triggs

“Easter’s coming,” I whispered on Good Friday as we left the church in silence and darkness. Soon my social media feeds will post assurances that Easter is coming—a hope-filled reminder that darkness and death are not the last word.

Jesus’ first followers didn’t have the luxury of bypassing Saturday. By the time Saturday dawned, this Easter story of ours had been marred by betrayal, bitter tears, despair, a Savior who could but didn’t come down from the cross to save himself, and followers who watched him breathe his last. We have Joseph of Arimathea who went to work quickly and secretly to take away Jesus’ body, which he and Nicodemus wrapped in linen cloths with spices, not with resurrection in mind, but because of the Jewish day of preparation.

For some of us, the solemnity of Good Friday quickly gives way on Saturday to Easter’s triumphant song, that “Made like him, like him we rise, Alleluia! Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!” For most all of us, Saturday is the day we spend getting ready for Resurrection Day in one way or another.

But for some, ours is still the cross and grave. We relate more to loss, bitter tears and fear than we do to hope and joy. We sit in Saturday’s darkness, painfully aware of its suffocating silence and uncertainty. For me, it’s the uncertainty that creates low expectations that nothing will change for a sick family member. Am I am going to be perpetually stuck in this bleak in-between day of Easter?

On this in-between day, women who had followed Jesus now trailed Joseph of Arimathea to the tomb. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary watched him lay Jesus’ body just so and then roll a great stone to its entrance and leave. Matthew 27:61 describe the two Marys sitting there opposite the tomb, sitting through the shock and grief of Saturday. Eventually, they went home to prepare spices and ointment to take to the tomb the next morning and lovingly attend to Jesus' corpse.

How confusing those moments must have been when the tomb was empty. There was no body to tend. The costly jar had been broken, tears had already washed his feet and they were nowhere to be found.

I would like to think that at some point, the burial spices and ointment went every which way when they saw an angel of the Lord sitting on the stone they were sure Joseph had rolled to the tomb's entrance. Instead of a body to tend, they were greeted with the news that the lifeless body no longer existed. Death and loss were gone. "He is not here, for he has risen as he said. Come, see the place where he lay." (Matthew 28:6) Saturday's shock and grief gave way to Easter as the Risen Savior greeted them.

Perhaps Saturday’s expectation isn’t that Easter’s coming, but that the sunrise has visited us from on high “to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:78-79) That darkness isn’t darkness to God, and that night we’re sitting in is as bright as day, that fear and joy and hope are part of Easter expectations, and we can look for a return visit from on high.

As kids, my sisters and I dubbed any large grey clouds with shafts of sunlight beaming through them “Second Coming Clouds.” Actually, these are Crepuscular rays—“God rays”—sunbeams that originate when the sun is just below the horizon, during twilight hours. These God rays are “noticeable when the contrast between light and dark is most obvious,” like between Easter Saturday and Easter morning.

Today, for all who sit in the darkness, ours is the cross, the grave, the skies.

Alleluia.