2nd Sunday of Easter


I couldn’t find my passport yesterday. Technically, Nathan couldn’t find his first. We’re traveling to British Columbia this afternoon for a conference and while getting ready Nathan realized he didn’t know where his passport was. I all but rolled my eyes at him as he searched from room to room; how careless of him! Of course his searching prompted me to lay eyes on my own just to be sure, and sure enough it wasn’t where I thought it was, either. So I began discreetly looking for my own passport under the pretense of helping him find his. Which is my least favorite thing in the world, looking for something I’ve lost. Or perhaps it’s just the losing. Elizabeth Bishop called it an art, one not “hard to master.” Her poem One Art catalogues a list of things from keys to an “hour badly spent” to names and whole continents which so “seem filled with the intent/ to be lost that their loss is no disaster.” I’m not convinced. There’s nothing so disastrous to me as not being able to put my hands on something which I know must be hiding just beneath another pile of magazines or in the back of some unopened drawer. Thomas, it seems, is not convinced either. In the story we tell every year on the Sunday after Easter he can’t believe that all the other disciples have laid their eyes upon their recently deceased friend and teacher and he has not; and who can blame him? The first loss was traumatic enough, and now they would arrest his grief, also? Death is like this. Many of the familiar habits which were tied to a beloved now gone still reach out into the world like phantom limbs: picking up the phone a moment before realizing they will not, discovering mementos of their presence like detritus washing up on shore. When Thomas says, “until I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my hand into his side I will not believe,” I imagine him having a moment like this, casting about the house for something which was here just a moment ago but is now gone. All the others seem to have found it already. The other disciples have their ticket, ready to go, ready to embark on some new journey where now life is death and death is life and here’s Thomas with everything lost, about to get left behind. It seems that more than proof, Thomas only wants to touch what is real. What a relief when you finally open the right drawer and find what had been missing. All the flurry melting into foolishness, the sudden sense that of course it had been waiting there all along. The future changes suddenly from a dire one where everything goes wrong to one where maybe fate will cut you some slack after all.

Nathan’s passport happened to be in a box where I had mistakenly packed it away with some other things. Mine was only in an unkempt room. Holding it, I couldn’t help but think how made up it was, how unreal. Here was a piece of paper I’d been desperate to find because it proves to some person guarding some border that I belong somewhere. A belonging and a border and a piece of paper which are each essentially made up, agreed upon by enough people with enough power to make them somehow real. Most of us find that we are drawn to something more real than that. Many of us share community with those not so lucky as to find themselves in possession of such magical papers. When the government says, “unless I see the papers which prove it I refuse to believe these people belong here,” we say, “we know their belonging is real, it is rooted in our family, in this community, in this land, as much as anyone’s.” But that does not seem to be enough for the powers of the world. The people of the world, like Thomas, long to touch what is real, but we are sold imaginary substitutes instead: false securities, mistaken enemies, half truths. We cast about in search of some missing solution to a problem we did not invent. One side says, “love would remake the world entirely.” Another side says, “prove it.” Proof, in that case, means losing many of the things the world instructs us to hold dear. Unjust laws, dishonest wealth, arbitrary lines between us and them. In the Resurrection each disappears like misplaced keys or a name not easily remembered. What remains to be found? God, having been waiting there all along to show us.

Easter Morning


When did it happen? Did he wake up in the middle of the night like an old man who has to pee and step outside his cave scratching to see through half open eyes the full moon lonely above him? Or did he become a kind of night light, himself, the dead cells of his bio body switching one by one into something more serene, already gleaming before the dawn outside arrived? Did angels see it happen or were they sleeping, too? Did a band of rebels break in to steal him so rumors could foment? Was it a surprise, even to him, the way abandonment had been surprising, too? Was there urgency? Relief? Was it like the way you wake up on a day with nothing scheduled? The story doesn’t say. The story only shows a hole where the body had been, a real absence staring back into the one these three women had already been walking around with in their hearts for three days, a gap in the expected, attended by a young man dressed in white. Any renaissance painter worth his salt has offered his own suggestions to fill it in. Piero della Francesca’s resurrected Jesus stands with one foot in the grave, one out, like a miner on his break. Paolo Veronese’s pirouettes from death while scattering a choir of soldiers to the ground. But these are not the kind of details which matter to our author. He only has the young man dressed in white tell the women that the one whom they are looking for is not there, that he is where he always said he would be: raised from death and gone ahead of them. The first women to receive this news do not know when it happened. Or how. Or even what it means. Their evidence is an absence. Their guide is trust. The one who was God with them always said it would turn out this way. Now they’re left to believe him or not. It’s the same for us. He is not here. And you get the same thing they did: a young man -youngish- dressed in white telling you that it all went down the way he said it would. That violent death was inevitable for someone like him in a world like ours and that death is not the end. Death died with him. He is raised. I do not know when or how or even why. There is no intellectual trick to trust. There is no clever story to tell or convincing argument to make. It is, however, easier to trust what one knows. The women knew Jesus intimately. I have a few friends whom I love so dearly and who seem so clearly close to the heart of God that sometimes I imagine them telling me that they cannot be contained by death, either. We know Christ communally. We’ve meet the incarnate heart of love here regularly. We’ve know Christ in the wounds and resilience of those of us who have faced sickness and addiction and divorce this year. We’ve know Christ in the honesty of those facing death. We’ve know Christ in the insistence of those who call our societal bluffs and greed. We know Christ as the one we’re always speaking with about our fear and singing to with our joy. We have learned to see Christ in the stranger who shows us pain bigger than we know how to fix and grace more rich than we could have imagined partaking in. We know what Christ Jesus said about life and death. So when did it happen? The better question may be when does it happen still? I, for one, would not know faith in God’s power for resurrection if you weren’t here to proclaim it now. Our experience to trust or leave is the steady repetition of this strange faith back and forth to one another through the centuries, a question of whether we can look into the absence and see life, an answer that beyond all reason we have. It happens in hymns which reach for the impossible with a language only the heart can understand. In happens in whispered confidence that love will have the final say. It happens every time we answer the acclamation of our faith, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”