Easter 2025

tomb

/toom/

 noun

a place of darkness where dead things are placed. Originally used for dead bodies, now also used for tragic moments, painful wounds, and poor decisions.

a place out of sight, usually dark and dank, used so one need not think about, recognized, or acknowledge what’s stored there.

a place with thick walls protected by large, heavy stones, much like a cave.

a place of shadows - of fear, sorrow, all-consuming guilt - which reaches out with its dark fingers seeking to take hold and pull us in.

a place, external or internal, made by an individual who cannot, or will not, let go of the past, or by others who seek feelings of superiority or self-righteousness at the expense of others.

the place God needed to go to remove all death from one’s life, a place made empty and full of light, so one can dance again and sing “alleluia” from the depths of one’s liberated soul.

 See “Resurrection.”

Palm Sunday: Seeing Jesus

“Sir,” they said, “we would like to see Jesus.” John 12: 21

It’s a brief moment in John’s narrative, and yet it captures the desire so many of us carry deep within. Jesus entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday and a group of men came to Philip and asked to see Jesus. Like many others, they’d heard a lot about this man and wanted to see him for themselves. After 2000 years, not much has changed. You and I have heard a lot about Jesus, and yet on this Palm Sunday we still want to see him for ourselves.

Looking over at the bookcase in my study I see many books about Jesus. I think about the countless hours I’ve spent going to church, the sermons I’ve heard and delivered, the classes I’ve taken and taught. All of it speaks to my desire to see Jesus, and I’m embarrassed to say that I’m not sure I have ever seen him for myself - glimpses maybe, but never a lasting vision. This Palm Sunday I find myself standing beside the men who came to Philip wanting to see Jesus. Perhaps you do too.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem there were people lining the road, some waving palms and laying them on the road to honor the man on a donkey. Some climbed trees to get a better view and others looked on from afar. Everyone was curious about this man they’d heard about. Now they wanted to see him for themselves.

The problem was, they wanted Jesus to be who they expected him to be. Those who were looking for the Messiah had expectations about what a Messiah should be and do. Those looking for a political leader, had expectations about what such a leader would be and do. In the end, Jesus would disappoint them all. He rarely appears to be who we expect or want.

Nothing’s changed.

We still wave palms, sit in the pews, and seek a better view. We come seeking Jesus but do so full of expectations and preconceived notions. No wonder we remain spiritually hungry. Perhaps the key is seeking Jesus without expectations. Perhaps the key is confessing our pre-conceived ideas and welcoming him into our lives as he is and not as we want him to be.

Such an approach is dangerous. What happens if we see Jesus and he’s not who we want or expect? What happens if he tells us to care about people we don’t want to care about? What if he asks us to forgive people we cannot stand, or value things that are silly, foolish? Even worse, what if he challenges our political leanings?

We will either want to worship him or kill him. It’s been that way for 2000 years.

Lent 5: The Rafters

I have a thing for churches!

Big or small, I enter them with eyes and heart wide open, trying to take in the space and feel what makes it sacred. In one of my favorite churches, and enormous cathedral in London, I remember looking up in the rafters and thinking I could see clouds. Maybe it was incense smoke from a past service, but I stared up at the rafters wondering what else was floating around up there. Were the words of sermons delivered long ago up there? What about hymns sung by people who live no more? Are the prayers offered – both aloud and silent – swirling up in the rafters? I don’t know, but I believe they are. Their echoes can still be heard if we slow down and listen.

I believe more and more that, like churches, we, too, have rafters. Into them go every experience we’ve had, everything we’ve been taught, and every prayer we’ve offered. If we take the time and look up into the rafters of our hearts and listen, we will hear voices from those who have long since passed. We can feel experiences, both pleasant and difficult, as if they happened moments ago, and we can see how the prayers we offered long ago sound hauntingly familiar to those we offer today.

The little boy playing with his dog in the backyard is up there in the rafters, so is the boy awkwardly making his way through high school and college. The working man, still wet behind the ears, is there, as is the bewildered father holding his newborn child. We often think such moments are a thing of the past but listen to the elderly woman at the nursing home who calls out to her husband and speaks as if they’re having their first dance at their wedding fifty-six years ago. The rafters hold everything, and sometimes they reveal their secrets through a dramatic event, a subtle touch, smell, or forgotten melody.

Lent is a season of reflection, and it seems a fitting time to pause and look up into our rafters. There’s no better time to listen for the voices of our past, the emotions we thought had disappeared with the seasons, and the people we once were. In them are the experiences had, songs sung, and prayers offered.

The least we could do is listen.