Was It a Morning Like This?

Oh, Mary of Magdala - was it a morning like this, when you went to the tomb - carrying the burial spices, the cleansing cloths and the new, clean shroud in which you would wrap your beloved Rabbi as you said goodbye for the last time? Did those necessary things feel like weight in your hands? Did you hurry to the tomb that morning, just to get it over with? Or, as the old song says, did you walk "with painful step, and slow?" Did you weep as you went on the way, or was your heart a stone like the one in front of his tomb?

Did you and the others converse as you walked? Did you make a plan? Yes, Joseph and Nicodemus did the best they could in such a hurry, but it was not good enough - even their seventy-five pounds (seventy-five pounds!) of spices was not good enough. Not for Jesus.  Were you not compelled to clean the blood and caked dirt from the pierced feet of the Man who walked everywhere offering hope and forgiveness? Didn't you have to wash those broken, bleeding hands that healed the leper, the blind, the deaf and the demon possessed? You must have wanted to wash the hands that blessed children and broke bread. Did you want to gently wash the bloody, bruised but beautiful face of your beloved Rabbi one last time? 

Did the sun slant through the mist like it did here today, or did it come with sudden, unbearable heat? (How dare the sun keep shining when the Light of the world had been extinguished!) Those dark hours on Friday must have been what your heart felt. Dark. Light-less. Hope-less.

And what did you think Mary, as you approached the tomb and saw the stone rolled away? Were you grateful? Afraid? Hopeful...that somehow, some way...

When you saw the angel, were you confused? Terrified? He told you, "Do not be afraid!" You must have been.

In that moment, did the flutterings of hope stir in your heart, or did hope come crashing in like a tidal wave?

Did you drop your burial spices in your haste to run and tell the news? The angel said it, but could it be true?

"Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here! He has risen!" 

Don't skip Saturday

Why do we skip over Saturday?

The disciples didn't. The women didn't.

Hopeless. Grief-stricken. Crushed by disappointment. Confused. Lost. Angry. Afraid. Hopeful?

Those religious leaders didn't.

Smug. Victorious. Proud. Afraid?

Yes, we skip past Saturday as if nothing happened. We hunt eggs. We have parties. We smile and say, "Sunday's coming!" with joyful anticipation.

We skip past Saturday at our peril. Saturday teaches us that when we have lost all hope, we are not hopeless. It teaches us that when all our best-loved dreams are sealed in a tomb, there is something going on in there we can't see. It teaches us that when the death-blow has seemingly extinguished all light, the Light of the world is still shining. Saturday teaches us to wait. Saturday teaches us that it is human to doubt, feel hopeless, to despair; to feel lost and angry and uncertain.

But thank God, Jesus didn't skip Saturday.

Spirit regenerated. Slashing through hell. Setting captives free. Defeating death. 

Yes friends. Sunday is coming.

Holy

For the first time in more years than I can remember, I am not caught up in the church-world vortex of Easter weekend preparations. No flyers to hand out. No rehearsals to attend. No events to coordinate or volunteer for. No worries about how many people will come to services and how many services shall we hold to contain the CE (Christmas/Easter) crowd. No over-the-top egg hunts. No stage decor to arrange. No songs to prepare. All I have to do this week is be present in the magnificence of the Holy Week.

It's different for sure. It's sobering. I feel a sacred anxiety in my chest. I am seeing Jesus' roller coaster of emotions during his last week as the God/man.  His resolve as he entered Jerusalem for the last time. His sadness over those who could not, or would not believe him. His anger at injustice and oppression. His tenderness with disciples. His very real, very human grief over what he must suffer. His courage in the face of the most horrific of deaths.

I hear Jesus' words:
"My house will be called a house of prayer..."
"If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer."
"...many are invited, but few are chosen."
"The greatest among you will be your servant."
"Woe to you..."
"Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of many will grow cold."
"Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away."
"Take and eat; this is my body."
"I tell you the truth, this very night, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times."
"Sit here while I go over there and pray."
"My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done."

This year, I'm walking with Jesus through his final days without the trappings of 21st century Christianity. I'm holding on to every precious moment. Someday, when (if) I am in the trenches of church ministry again, I want to remember and resist the temptation to go back to the old way of thinking. I want to hold on to this feeling of mystery and awe and the knowledge that this week represents the most shocking, sobering, thrilling and liberating event in all of history. The redemption of mankind through Jesus death on a cross, and the promise of eternal life because of his resurrection. Thomas Merton said, "Easter is the mystery of our redemption. We who have died and risen with Christ are no longer sinners. Sin is dead in us. The Law has not further hold on us."

So now there is no condemnation to those who belong to Christ Jesus. For the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed us from the power of sin that leads to death.

Avery Nicole

Early Sunday morning - on St. Patrick's Day, my newest granddaughter made her grand entrance. Avery Nicole Judd was born at 2:44 a.m., weighed 8 lbs. 1.3 ounces and was 21.5 inches long. She's the lightest and the longest of the Judd sisters so far. Her birth story unfolded over 56 + hours. 56 hours. That's a long time to labor in case you wondered. I never had that experience with my own birthing stories. They were much shorter (MUCH).

On Thursday morning Amanda's Dr. announced that due to low amniotic fluid, she wanted to start labor by use of drugs. The process began at 6:00 p.m. Thursday night. Friday at 6:00 came and went. Saturday at 6:00 came and went. Still no baby and very little "progress." Two worried Moms kept vigil. Friends and family prayed, sent encouraging texts and Facebook messages. It seemed everyone was waiting. By late Saturday evening, Amanda's naturally positive spirit was starting to wane. The C-word hung unspoken in the air. Finally, the Dr. felt Amanda was far enough along to warrant and Epidural. Though I never had one, or even thought they were necessary - watching my daughter-in-law convinced me that the epidural is God's gift to the modern woman. It is a partial redemption of the Curse in my humble opinion! Being able to relax and rest seemed to do the trick. In just a little over four hours, Amanda's cervix softened and opened up to allow baby Avery safe passage from her warm, watery world into this one.

Watching the birth process is one of the most incredible things I've experienced in life to date. Even though I did it myself four times, it still astounds me to think of how it is even possible. God was incredibly good at creativity. The whole process, from conception to birth is just pretty darned amazing.

Amanda's doctor is a wacky young Chinese woman with an infectious grin and kooky sense of humor. She kept us all laughing - sometimes a big shocked at her over-the-edge jokes. When the baby's head appeared in that bloody, liquid oval, the Dr. played with her thick, black hair between contractions and gave her a faux-hawk. She said, "Look! It's a Chinese baby!" Two moms sat with apple-sized lumps in their throats and tears threatening to spill over and laughed at her audacity.

With the next contraction Amanda pushed that little head out into the oxygen filled room and Avery took her first breath on earth. She let out the first of many piercing newborn cries and we all cried along with her. She was slimy and bloody and bluish and beautiful. With the next contraction, the rest of her perfect little body slid out into the doctor's waiting hands where she was rubbed and suctioned and poked into a full-on wail. Daddy cut the umbilical cord and the doctor placed that squirming, vernix covered human onto her mom's bare chest for some skin-to-skin bonding. Beautiful.

I'm still in awe of the miracle of birth. And so thankful to have witnessed yet another miracle.