Turn the key one more time, even though the starter won’t even click because the car battery is dead.
We search around through containers of fuzzy leftover food in the refrigerator, hoping to find something edible.
Birds build a nest in a flower pot near my front door. I went out to see the eggs every day, until the day when there weren’t any. I don’t think they hatched. I think a lizard ate them. But I still peeked in every day or so, just to make sure I didn’t miss new ones.
When I need some help shopping in a big box store, I futilely scan every aisle to find someone in a blue or orange vest. Not a single soul to be found.
I show up at someone’s house for a visit. I called ahead to set up a time. Upon arrival, no one answers the doorbell and then a knock. I peer in the windows around the door. No lights are on. No one is home. They forgot.
Why do many return to cemeteries after the burial of a loved one? To complete unfinished conversations? To have the last word? To keep memories alive?
Just like the women who showed up at to tomb at early dawn on the first day of the week, we go to places of death. The angels who appeared are surprised to see the women. “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” Don’t you remember what he told you? Don’t you remember how the prediction of his crucifixion was followed by the promise of resurrection? What are you doing here?
We can’t help it. Death is the end of the story for leftovers, batteries, and human life. Until Jesus rewrites the ending. Until we encounter an empty tomb. Until we remember what he said.
“He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.‘
And they remembered his words (Luke 24:6-8).
Jesus did explain these events to the twelve. “But they understood none of these things” (Luke 18:34). In Mark’s gospel, he explains it three times. But they were afraid to ask him what he was talking about. The resurrection is something to be experienced rather than simply explained.
Many years ago I sat with my daughter waiting to see an orthopedic doctor about her foot. The waiting room was packed. More patients entered, but none were called back to see the doctor. After an hour I overheard a conversation at the front desk. “No, he isn’t here. He got called away for an emergency.”
“Let’s go. We’ll call for an appointment on another day.”
The open, empty tomb of Jesus had to be seen, but it was the wrong place and the wrong time to see Jesus. He wasn’t there. Rather than dead, he was alive.
It’s embarrassing to show up for an appointment on the wrong day or the wrong time. Especially since you’ll receive texts, emails, and phone calls to remind you. But it happens. More than once families showed up late for a baptism or wedding, missing all the action. I shouldn’t have found it entertaining. But I did.
So pay attention to what Jesus says. If you’re not sure what he means, ask. He doesn’t mind questions. But he does what he says. He is faithful and true.
“When they went in [the tomb] [the women] did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were perplexed about this, behold, two men stood by them in dazzling apparel. And as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:3-6).
All four gospel accounts include angels. Their brilliant white appearance and shocking words stop the women in their tracks. Death is off the table. Now we’re talking about life.
A frequently asked question is, “But did you die?” A killer workout. A long shift at work. A painful procedure. A bank-account draining expense. A bad hair day. Burnt food. Hateful words that cut deep.
It’s like a flow chart. Did you die? No. There will be another day. Life goes on.
While it’s good to keep mortality in mind, we need frequent reminders that we’re alive. I woke up, I’m breathing, my heart is beating. I’m alive.
“But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb” (Luke 24:1-2).
Imagine that you are one of those who visits the grave of a loved one in a cemetery. But one day you find a hole in front of the tombstone. Right next to it you see an excavator and a pile of dirt. The vault is open, the coffin is overturned, and the lid is open. The corpse is gone.
How would you react? Shock. Anger. Confusion. What in the world is going on here? How could this happen? Who would do this?
That’s the situation at dawn on Sunday morning. The stone has been rolled from the tomb. Scholars believe it was at least four feet in diameter, weighing between one and two tons.
The women didn’t think it through. In Mark’s gospel, they ask, “Who’s going to roll the stone away?” But it wasn’t a problem. In Matthew’s gospel, the stone is moved by an earthquake and an angel. Here in Luke’s gospel, it’s not supposed to be open. What happened? Who would do this? Who could do this?
When Jesus died, the curtain in the temple was torn in two, and that restricted space was suddenly open. On the third day, the tomb is open. Now it’s time to open hearts and minds to the new reality of resurrection.
“But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared” (Luke 24:1).
I’ve never felt compelled to go back to the cemetery where my mother and father are buried. I know that many people do. Before his own death fourteen years later, my dad planted flowers at my mother’s grave at a church in suburban Philadelphia. Others return to talk to deceased loved ones. Some go to confirm genealogical information.
Those who went to the tomb were women who had come from Galilee with Jesus to Jerusalem. They watched as Joseph (from Arimathea) and Nicodemus (John 19:29) took Jesus’s corpse from the cross, wrapped it in linen, and laid it in a cave, a garden tomb cut in stone. That all happened late Friday afternoon, just before sunset, the beginning of the Sabbath.
These women went to the tomb to complete the burial ritual for Jesus. This includes washing the body, rubbing it with spices, and wrapping it with a shroud, before placing it in a tomb. It was a last act of love, a final goodbye, and part of their grieving process.
It probably wasn’t the first time they had done this. But death is death, and their hearts were heavy. Their minds were filled with horrific images of crucifixion. They had no thoughts about the future. They focused on the task at hand.
To catch the nuance of this verse, try to remember a moment when you had to say goodbye.
It was that kind of a morning.
This is the second in a series of reflections on Jesus’s resurrection as recorded in Luke’s gospel.
They weren’t dead after all. I got down on my knees, dug through the mulch and saw a little bit of green. There is still some life here!
The winter in northeast Florida had just enough freezing days to knock the life out of a lot of my yard plants. I thought I lost my hibiscus and crotons. They were nothing but brown sticks standing around the house. I needed to replace them.
I was not prepared for the high prices at the big box garden center. Inflation is alive and well. Nine dollars for a bag of dirt? Five dollars for a blooming quart sized annual? Six dollars for a pepper plant? Nine bucks for a croton? That was the small size. A big one will set you back $16.
I went back home to rethink my garden strategy. I went back out to the front yard and looked at the sticks in the ground. Being a glass half full kind of guy, I got up close and personal with them to see if there was any sign of life at all. And there was. Little tender green shoots were just beginning to reach up from the base of the sticks. I pulled back the mulch to give them better access to sunlight. I poured on some water and a little liquid fertilizer. I think they’re going to make it!
I’m going to start a lot of my own plants from seeds now too. I did a little research and it’s not hard to propagate crotons or just about any other plant. Remember putting a seed in a cup of dirt in kindergarten to grow a flower for mom? There’s another early education lesson that pays off later in life.
A lot of my neighbors don’t even try. I don’t see many colors in their yards when I go for a walk. Just green and brown. I’m not going to be that guy. I’ve got my sights set on the whole rainbow.
It’s Holy Week. I’m not preaching this year, but my garden is. The Creator cleverly embedded the message of resurrection in his creation. Nice job, God!
Bonus “Mirror of the Passion” devotion for Easter Sunday. Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash
But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. (Luke 24:1)
It’s early. It’s still dark. But I’m awake. I always wake up five minutes before my alarm. It’s how I’m wired, I guess. I might as well get up. My routine: feed Samson (my dog), start the coffee maker, walk the dog, pour a cup of coffee, grab my bible, journal and a pen. It’s time to find out what Jesus has to say today.
That’s right, he’s already up. His word is active and alive. It will easily cut through joints and marrow and speak to my heart. It might be something I’ve heard a hundred times before. It might be something I’ve never thought about before. It might be a promise I’ll need to get through the day. Or it might be one I can pass along to someone else.
Jesus is up before the women who went to the tomb. He is risen, the stone’s rolled away, the guards have fainted, and the tomb is empty (except for the linen). Maybe they can return those spices for store credit.
If you ever think you’ve go it all figured out, just remember Easter. Nothing went as expected. Yet it turned out better than anyone could have imagined! Add a bit of Easter to your daily routine and you’ll never be bored.
Funeral for William Douthwaite, Jr. St. Mark’s Lutheran Church, Ridley Park, PA
We had been getting ready for this funeral for three years.
That’s how long it had been since my Dad fell, his kidneys failed, and my
brother, sister and I gathered to say goodbye to him at age 92. By the time I got
there, though, he had rebounded and returned home after a few days in the hospital.
Rather than a funeral, we started making arrangements for assisted living.
Two years ago, still in the memory care unit of a very nice
assisted living facility, Dad stopped eating. Rather than another trip to the
hospital to find out what was wrong, we admitted Dad into hospice so he could
stay where he was. Once again, we gathered for what we thought would be the end
of his ninety-three year earthly journey. However, his appetite soon returned,
especially for ice cream and other desserts, and we did not need to make any
arrangements.
This summer, after about three days into the Dallas portion
of my vacation, I got the call that Dad had a fever that wouldn’t break, and
was less and less lucid each day. The hospice nurse predicted he would only
last a few days, if not a few hours. I quickly booked a flight as my sister
boarded a train, and we once again gathered to be with Dad.
This time was indeed different. Dad was on oxygen, was not
responsive, and indeed looked like he was at the end. My sister and I spend
three days there, watching and listening to his rhythmic breathing. We read to
him, sang some hymns, and agreed that even though this might be the end, we
would never bet against Dad recovering.
At the age of ninety-five, though, his body just couldn’t
fight the infection. No eating or drinking for days took its toll on his
strength. But not till he stuck around for another six days. I had returned to Dallas
and then home. My sister had gone home and returned over the weekend.
The call from my brother came early Monday morning, August
12. We had gotten home late, so we didn’t hear the phone buzz the first ten
times. Finally, I heard something about 4 am, and my brother confirmed that Dad
had died shortly after two, with him, my sister and sister-in-law holding his
hand. Calm, peaceful, and pain-free, accompanied by families on this side and
angels on the other. Not a bad way to go at all.
Over the next few days, my brother made arrangements for the
funeral that had long ago been planned for Dad’s long time church in Ridley
Park, PA and internment next to Mom at a cemetery in Aston. I booked flights
for my wife and I, my son, and one of my daughters who brought her youngest
along.
That Friday (August 16), a few family, friends and church
members gathered to worship, remember Dad’s life, and look forward to the resurrection.
My son, a pastor from Dallas, my brother, a pastor from Vienna, VA and myself
co-officiated the service and all took a turn preaching. My sister played the
organ and my nieces played violin. It was a unique and fitting moment for a man
whose quiet faithfulness had left a legacy of three pastors (so far), and three
generation of faithful children, spouses, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
When you live to be ninety-five, you outlive most of your family
and friends. Dad was the youngest of seven children. His last remaining sibling
had died some fifteen years before. Five of my cousins who were still in the
area joined us that day. About half-a-dozen members of the church who had known
Dad were still around and attended the service. A few folks from my brother’s church
and some area clergy friends also attended.
While neither my brother nor I wanted to preach at my Mom’s
funeral fourteen years ago, we both wanted to speak for Dad’s. I didn’t know
how I would feel. You never really do, until you’re in the moment. My voice
cracked just once, when I spoke of Dad, along with us, waiting for “that day,
for that voice, for that trumpet and for the resurrection!” (1 Thessalonians 4:16).
My brother Jim spoke on Dad’s favorite verse from Romans 8, that nothing can
ever separate us from God’s love in Jesus Christ. My son Adam reminded us that
even though our hearts and minds are filled with great memories, the best is
yet to come when we get to be with the Lord.
My brother and I draped Dad’s casket with the funeral pall as my son reminded us of Dad’s baptism. We took turns reading scripture. Isaiah 55:6-13; Philippians 1:18-26; Romans 8:26-39; Matthew 28:1-10. We preached around some great hymns. “For all the saints,” “The Lord’s my shepherd I’ll not want,” “My hope is built on nothing less,” “I know that my Redeemer lives,” and “Jesus lives, the vict’ry’s won.” It sounds like a lot, but only lasted a little more than an hour.
The procession to the cemetery had to navigate some
interesting interstate traffic, but we all made it. After a brief committal and
military honors, many of us gathered at a nearby restaurant for lunch, memories,
laughter and a few pictures.
I had to get my son back to the airport for an evening flight
home. My brother’s family, my sister and my family then hung out at our hotel
suite that evening. That night was much more relaxed.
And just like that, it was over. Everyone returned home safely
the next day.
I’m still trying to figure out how I feel. I don’t feel sad,
but I know I’ll miss Dad. Our recent visits weren’t much. It’s not like I’ll
miss our conversations. He typically sat and snoozed while I sat and visited
with him. I’m a bit relieved. I didn’t get up there to visit him very often,
and I always felt a little guilt about that. My brother, on the other hand, was
there every day. This will leave a bigger void for him. We didn’t shed that many
tears. Smiles and laughter predominated those last few days and the funeral
service. Dad always made us laugh before, so why not now?
Most of all I’m just thankful. I’m thankful for what he
taught me, for my memories of him, and for the faith he and Mom passed along to
us kids.
Holy Saturday. For we pastors who run the entire Holy Week race, we’re coming out of the final turn on the way to Easter morning. The week has been filled with extra worship services for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday and a few visits to some homebound members who won’t be in worship tomorrow, perennially the biggest Sunday of the year. What do pastor’s do on that in-between day?
For me, it’s pretty relaxing. I didn’t have to get up as early as I usually do. I did a little sermon review for Sunday. Then I oiled up the valves and blew a few notes through my trumpet, just staying limber for tomorrow’s hymns. I exercised, did some grocery shopping, bought a new tie for tomorrow, got into the Easter candy, and may still take a nap this afternoon. All in all, a pretty nice day.
What happened on that Saturday before Jesus’ resurrection? Not much. It’s the Sabbath, so it’s a day away from the regular routines of work. The reality of Jesus’ death is beginning to hit those who knew and loved him. Thoughts of having to get up early to finish taking care of his corpse were on the minds of some. Fear haunted those in hiding; “Now what are we going to do?” The Roman soldiers had to work, guarding the tomb.
The one thing that we do not see on that Saturday is any kind of celebration from Satan and his demons. Why not? The Christ is dead. This should be their moment. They can run amok unhindered through creation and mankind. They’ve won. They should be celebrating. They should be planning the parade.
But they’re not. Maybe they knew. Maybe they knew that this pause in the story isn’t a good thing. When Jesus said he’d rise, the disciples didn’t get it. Maybe the demons did. From the beginning they knew who he was. And they knew they didn’t have a chance.
In a sense, much of life is Saturday. We’re waiting for resurrection, for the return of Christ. For some, it’s relaxing. Others have to work. Some are afraid. Many hope it comes soon. We’ll get a taste of it tomorrow, in word and sacrament and song, and be reminded that death doesn’t have a chance!
Waite for it... 