Easter Thoughts
Like the group of women so long ago, I woke up early this morning. Also like them, I couldn’t sleep. They put on their headscarves and sandals; I put on a bathrobe and a pot of coffee. They were off with their salts, oils, balms and fragrances; I was off with my laptop and my head full of thoughts.
As much as I try, I will never be able to put myself in their sandals. I will never be able to imagine the disappointment that instantly turned into shock, fear, anger, hope, doubt or sadness. I know the feeling of going someplace thinking you’re going to do one thing and then end up doing another. Those women thought there were going to embalm a dead friend and ended up being the first to know the truth. Yesterday, I went to Home Depot, thinking I was going to buy 10 bags of pea pebbles, but after I paid, it turned out they didn’t have any more pea pebbles, so I had to get a refund and then drive to the other Home Depot south of town to get my 10 bags. I know, it’s not the same.
Beginning tonight, is the cultural post-Easter hangover. Since Lent, newspapers and Good Morning America have carried spiritual stories as headlines. Whether the topic was baptism, emergent, or Da Vinci, religion in general and Christianity in particular fills the pages and minds of mainstream America. But soon, Easter morning will become Easter afternoon and then Easter night, and the spiritual stories that had been told for the last eight weeks will be packed away like old Easter baskets, waiting in the background for another year until we get excited enough to play with them again.
Several of the regular blogs I read have been reflecting well on this Easter season:
I am a firm believer that the life we live is the story we tell. Say all the words you want to, write all the books you have the patience and skill for, send out press releases and emails – it all won’t matter if I can get a fifteen minute sneak peak into your life. And it is the same with your (and my) theology.
Claim to be a Calvinist or an Armenian, say you believe in a literal or metaphorical Bible, tell people you think prayer works or is merely a feel-good tool, describe your thoughts on extra-canonical texts, parse some Greek verbs, never miss a quiet time, always be on time to the service in the sanctuary – say and do whatever you feel you need to in order to be a ‘good’ Christian on Sundays and/or Wednesdays. For me, none of that is your theology. For me, let me see what makes you angry, what makes you cry, how you spend your money, who you ignore, what you watch on TV, what you think about when you’re not thinking about anything, what you dream about when you’re awake, and who your enemies are – that, my friend, is your theology.
It is very easy to get caught up in the business of drawing lines. Like some sort of sadistic hobby, Christians have become notorious for drawing lines in order to keep themselves safe and keep the unwanted out. Creeds, by their very nature, are exclusive, forcing people to ascribe in order to ‘prove’ they’re inside the circle. Creeds were a way for the early church to decide who they wanted in and who they wanted out. Creed-like litmus tests have followed through the centuries: Whom did you vote for? What is your view on women in the ministry? What is your opinion on speaking in tongues? Do you believe in an inerrant Bible? Do you think Colossians is authentically Pauline or deutero-Pauline, and is this belief based on the text’s cosmology?
We’ve failed to ask the more difficult questions begun by the nonviolent revolutionary: Are you angry with someone? Do you see anyone who needs food? Can you give away more of your money? Do you think yourself the greatest? Can you be nicer to your enemy? Will you fight back when they come for you? Can you be anonymous? Are you willingness to sacrifice security for obedience? Can you include those you’ve been deliberately excluding?
And, like so many of these spiritual stories this time of year, we really miss the point. Stories about Jesus’ murder, where the tomb is, or how church attendance peaks on this Sunday, miss the point of the tortuous cross and the empty grave. Like the women who went about their faithful and honest duty on an early Sunday morning, so we are called to daily live in community, telling our story of hope and inclusion to a world that is hopeless and left out.
And for me, this is why the Emmaus story is so God-awful scary. I never know where Jesus will show up. Maybe he’s that guy outside of the Church Street post office, asking if I can spare a dime. Maybe he’s Raymond, knocking on my door, looking for a dollar fifty to catch the bus. Maybe he’s the bag woman who I so conveniently ignore with the yellow skin making her way down my street. Maybe he’s the old guy in the motorized scooter who hangs out at the discount tobacco store behind my house. Maybe he’s the conservative Congressman I find so repulsive. Maybe he’s the immigrant, washing the dishes I just ate on at the restaurant I love. Maybe he’s the freedom fighter in Iraq. Maybe he’s the person I least expect, always changing, never absent, and always in need of something I can provide.
Regardless, Jesus shows me on this Easter morning that love for him is found in faithful obedience.
As much as I try, I will never be able to put myself in their sandals. I will never be able to imagine the disappointment that instantly turned into shock, fear, anger, hope, doubt or sadness. I know the feeling of going someplace thinking you’re going to do one thing and then end up doing another. Those women thought there were going to embalm a dead friend and ended up being the first to know the truth. Yesterday, I went to Home Depot, thinking I was going to buy 10 bags of pea pebbles, but after I paid, it turned out they didn’t have any more pea pebbles, so I had to get a refund and then drive to the other Home Depot south of town to get my 10 bags. I know, it’s not the same.
Beginning tonight, is the cultural post-Easter hangover. Since Lent, newspapers and Good Morning America have carried spiritual stories as headlines. Whether the topic was baptism, emergent, or Da Vinci, religion in general and Christianity in particular fills the pages and minds of mainstream America. But soon, Easter morning will become Easter afternoon and then Easter night, and the spiritual stories that had been told for the last eight weeks will be packed away like old Easter baskets, waiting in the background for another year until we get excited enough to play with them again.
Several of the regular blogs I read have been reflecting well on this Easter season:
- Ann reminds us of peaceful revolution and holy anticipation.
- Myles tries to put us in first century Palestine as the curious outsider most of us would have been.
- Jonathon takes us through holy week in order to remember and reconnect.
I am a firm believer that the life we live is the story we tell. Say all the words you want to, write all the books you have the patience and skill for, send out press releases and emails – it all won’t matter if I can get a fifteen minute sneak peak into your life. And it is the same with your (and my) theology.
Claim to be a Calvinist or an Armenian, say you believe in a literal or metaphorical Bible, tell people you think prayer works or is merely a feel-good tool, describe your thoughts on extra-canonical texts, parse some Greek verbs, never miss a quiet time, always be on time to the service in the sanctuary – say and do whatever you feel you need to in order to be a ‘good’ Christian on Sundays and/or Wednesdays. For me, none of that is your theology. For me, let me see what makes you angry, what makes you cry, how you spend your money, who you ignore, what you watch on TV, what you think about when you’re not thinking about anything, what you dream about when you’re awake, and who your enemies are – that, my friend, is your theology.
It is very easy to get caught up in the business of drawing lines. Like some sort of sadistic hobby, Christians have become notorious for drawing lines in order to keep themselves safe and keep the unwanted out. Creeds, by their very nature, are exclusive, forcing people to ascribe in order to ‘prove’ they’re inside the circle. Creeds were a way for the early church to decide who they wanted in and who they wanted out. Creed-like litmus tests have followed through the centuries: Whom did you vote for? What is your view on women in the ministry? What is your opinion on speaking in tongues? Do you believe in an inerrant Bible? Do you think Colossians is authentically Pauline or deutero-Pauline, and is this belief based on the text’s cosmology?
We’ve failed to ask the more difficult questions begun by the nonviolent revolutionary: Are you angry with someone? Do you see anyone who needs food? Can you give away more of your money? Do you think yourself the greatest? Can you be nicer to your enemy? Will you fight back when they come for you? Can you be anonymous? Are you willingness to sacrifice security for obedience? Can you include those you’ve been deliberately excluding?
And, like so many of these spiritual stories this time of year, we really miss the point. Stories about Jesus’ murder, where the tomb is, or how church attendance peaks on this Sunday, miss the point of the tortuous cross and the empty grave. Like the women who went about their faithful and honest duty on an early Sunday morning, so we are called to daily live in community, telling our story of hope and inclusion to a world that is hopeless and left out.
And for me, this is why the Emmaus story is so God-awful scary. I never know where Jesus will show up. Maybe he’s that guy outside of the Church Street post office, asking if I can spare a dime. Maybe he’s Raymond, knocking on my door, looking for a dollar fifty to catch the bus. Maybe he’s the bag woman who I so conveniently ignore with the yellow skin making her way down my street. Maybe he’s the old guy in the motorized scooter who hangs out at the discount tobacco store behind my house. Maybe he’s the conservative Congressman I find so repulsive. Maybe he’s the immigrant, washing the dishes I just ate on at the restaurant I love. Maybe he’s the freedom fighter in Iraq. Maybe he’s the person I least expect, always changing, never absent, and always in need of something I can provide.
Regardless, Jesus shows me on this Easter morning that love for him is found in faithful obedience.
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