A Letter to Wheaton's Class of 2020

Wheaton is much on my heart these days. It's Wheaton Gives day - and I gave in honor of Julius Scott, a professor I never met but whose presence at Wheaton indelibly impacted my time there decades later. Several days ago, I got an email asking recent grads to send a note of encouragement for the class of 2020. I sat and typed this out on my phone with my whole heart. 

Dear Wheaton Senior,

The first time I cried during the pandemic was for you. I graduated just three years ago, and I grieve with you for the loss of your final quad at Wheaton.

But I have also rejoiced to see you responding with hope and resilience. The insta account @overheardatwheaton brings me so much joy. I’ve talked to some of you about the unexpected fruitfulness of online discussion forums, even in the midst of frustrations regarding zoom classes.

You didn’t leave Wheaton as you expected to. But you do leave prepared. You spent nearly four years at an institution dedicated to shaping you to go out into this broken world with great hope as you live for Christ and His Kingdom. I believe that even this unexpected end is for the purpose of preparing you to live with that call shaping your life.

Your dreams may be crumbling, or taking new forms. God has dreams for you, too, and the pandemic is no glitch in His plans. He is with you. He goes before you to guide you, behind you to protect you, beneath you to sustain you, and beside you to befriend you. Do not be afraid. The blessing of God is upon you. Although you are sad, do not be afraid. Go in peace - the peace that passes understanding, that is the shelter of those whose minds are fixed on the Lord, that is the gift you carry as you endure Coronavirus.

So stay strong as you finish up those zoom class sessions. Relearn your class song and sing it with gusto. Teach it to the family members you are quarantining with. Look through the years of photos and quotes from quote walls and send them to the friends you looked forward to celebrating your achievement with. Remember, and grieve, and laugh, and celebrate. During my last quad at Wheaton I found that laughter and tears are strangely suited to be beautiful companions. But even when it doesn’t feel beautiful - when it feels ugly and wrong and unfair - feel those emotions and bring them to the God who brought you to Wheaton in His own good time and has taken you from Wheaton according to His timing, not yours.

He meets you here - in online learning, in uncertainty for the future, in loose ends left untied - and He holds all of you with care and compassion and grace.

Be blessed, and know you are beloved.

Grace,

Kate 

people of the resurrection

Finally - Easter Sunday. 

****

an unnamed woman

I wake with the birds, weary from sorrow. I roll over and look around the room. The other women are also beginning to stir. 

We spent the sabbath day in shock. Comforting Mary. Comforting each other. 

Today we will serve Him for the last time. I dread it. This is goodbye. After this, there will be nothing left to do for Him. I will have to build a life without Jesus. Is it even possible? I know intellectually that life is always possible with God. That God is still good and still in control. But I can't feel it. I pray that He will have mercy. This is not the normal bereavement experience. I know - I don't just feel it - that the Light has been sucked out of the world and things will never be right again. Lord, have mercy.

We rise and prepare to go. We don't talk much - there isn't much to say.

We walk to the tomb, feeling the cool morning air. Wondering who will roll away the stone. Slightly intimidated at the thought of the Roman guards. 

We get to the tomb and discover that the guards are nowhere to be seen, and the stone has already been rolled away. Odd. But it makes our task easier. I brace myself and walk into the tomb.

He isn't there. 

It's such a shock that I don't know what to think. Rational thought flees. It is too much. All that we have been through and now the body disappears? We can't even do this one last thing for Him? I am just barely holding myself back from hysterics, and I sense the other women in the same perplexity.

As I try to get a grip so we can decide what to do, the soft morning light is suddenly electric. There are two - men - among us, dazzlingly white, of tall and imposing stature. Their faces are otherworldly. I cry out and fall on my knees, looking at the ground because I cannot bear to look at them.

A voice fills the tomb: "Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen."

My heart stops. I can't breathe.

"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."

It is not a question, but a command. Remember.

I do remember. Three times He told us, and we hadn't listened. It was too impossible to picture Him dying. But now that that impossible thing had happened, was it really unbelievable that He be risen?

No. 

In less time than it takes to process, I believe.

I look up and the angels are gone.

For a moment there is stunned silence. Then chaos - joy - skepticism. Mary Magdalene in particular is too stunned to believe it. But I know that it is true, and that we must go to tell the disciples. I start to run.

They are all up and gathered together. I burst in first, exclaim, "He's alive!" and then all the other women catch up. Chaos. Uproar. Too many people talking. I look around at the fear and skepticism on so many of these beloved faces instead of the joy that fills me so that I could burst.

Thomas says we must be imagining things. That the strain of the last four days has been too much. 

I stamp my feet, dancing in frustration. 

I tell him that we were absolutely not imagining things and how could those men be made up and remember what Jesus said???? And if they didn't believe us they should go look at the tomb themselves. Imagining things?!?! This is the only way that God could still be good and in control. I don't know how I didn't see it before. I am in a frenzy of joy and frustration and impatience.

Peter and John, at least, take my word for it and bolt for the tomb. 

****

John

I wake worried for Peter. As hellish as the last few days have been for all of us, Peter is at his wit's end. He doesn't talk much. When he does, he keeps saying things about his "perfect [threefold] denial."

I don't know how to help him. I can't express the devastation of being with Jesus as He died, but I also know there is no other place I would rather have been. I want to tell Peter that the Lord understood and still loved him, but that would have to come from the Jesus Himself. And that is not possible. My face crumples.

I look at Peter. He's lying on his side with his face to the wall, but I can tell he's awake. I brace myself to try to get him to get up and have something to eat. Previous efforts have been exhausting.

A commotion breaks out downstairs. 

Peter rolls over and looks at me. Sighs. Says we'd better go down. I am grateful for something to do. A distraction. A flicker of Peter's old tendency to be in the thick of things. 

We go downstairs, pause on the bottom step.

It's mayhem. The women have seen - something - and the men are questioning them. For a moment I can't understand what anyone is saying.

Then two sentences hit me.

Mary is frantic: "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him!"

She is standing in front of me, wringing her hands. 

But another woman grabs her by her shoulders and shakes her. She turns to me, face radiant, and before she says it a wild hope springs up. Lazarus...

"He is risen!"

I think she says more, but Peter is running and I am running and I have to get to that tomb.

I outrun Peter, but pay the price for it. My lungs are about to burst. I bend over outside the entrance - the stone has been moved and the guards are gone - trying to catch my breath. I look into the tomb, and Jesus isn't there. But His grave clothes are.

Peter arrives, panting, and goes into the tomb.

I follow. He stands, silently gazing at the remnants of burial.

I look. Possible explanations flash through my mind. But suddenly I know it's true. It has to be true. The Lord is alive. Alive! ALIVE! I believe it with every fiber of my being, and the joy is so great that I can barely stand.

Peter is in a stupor. I don't know what he is thinking or feeling, but I don't have to. Jesus is alive. And He will make things right with Peter.

I am going to burst with joy.

I don't understand it, but I know this is not wishful thinking.

What grave robber would leave the clothes?

And then I remember Mary. His mother. I have to find her, tell her, share with her the great eucatastrophe.

He is alive!

****

Mary Magdalene

I follow Peter and John back to the tomb. I don't know what else to do: I had thought of this place as the closest I could come to Jesus, and now He is gone. I weep in grief and fury and frustration. What right did they have? First to kill Him and then to take His body? The last remaining vestiges of His presence among us? It brings the grief of His death - which had numbed a bit - back in full force.

I suspect the others think I am over-indulgent in my grief, but I can't help it: I can't bear it.

WHERE IS HE?

I am still crying, but less violently. I notice the garden for the first time. It is beautiful. Contemplative. Lovingly tended - a peaceful place for a tomb. A bird sings. I wonder who the gardener is. A man who tends a garden with this much care wouldn't disdain speaking to me. All I want is to find the Lord - be near Him even in burial. 

I realize subconsciously that Peter and John have left. That there are two strangers in the tomb. I answer their questions mechanically, not really paying attention.

Where have they taken Him?

Where is the gardener?

I sense someone behind me. I turn and glimpse a figure standing there. I quickly turn away again to try to wipe my tears away and compose myself.

"Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?"

I take a deep breath. Try to speak calmly. 

"Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where," the tears start flowing again and I squeak out, "tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away."

So much for remaining calm. But how am I supposed to speak calmly of Him? He is - oh Lord, was - my everything. Oh God, is this a penalty for idolatry? Lord have mercy, and show me where He is. Let this man have mercy toward me, or my heart will shatter.

How am I supposed to live without Jesus?

I cannot stop sobbing. 

Then in a voice so low I barely hear it, but so resonant with compassion and joy it reverberates through the garden: "Mary."

My name. How many times have I heard Him say it? I thought I would never hear Him say it again. My world, which had come crashing down in the last days, rebuilds itself with a speed too dizzying for me to comprehend. But it doesn't matter. My world doesn't really concern me right now. My Lord does.

I turn - "Rabboni!" - and fling myself at His feet. I don't know what is going on. Intellectually the pieces are all muddled. But I know that this is my Jesus, my Lord, alive, and I will never let go of Him again. My intellect is slow but my emotions are on overdrive and I almost choke on the laughter and tears bursting from my frame.

He places His hand on my head, and I grab it, feel the scar, kiss it. There are no words for this explosion of joy.

He pulls me up, laughing deep wells of laughter and joy. I have heard Him laugh so often, but never like this. Like hell itself has no more power.

"Ssshh. Hush. Mary, don't cling to me so. You will have to let go. I have not yet ascended to the Father. And remember? I promised that when I do ascend I will send you a greater gift even than my physical presence. So continue to rejoice! But you must go and tell my brothers the good news. Tell them that I am ascending to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God."

****

the unnamed woman

I'm jittery and totally unable to stay in one place or focus on one thing for a reasonable length of time. I believed as soon as we saw the angels this morning, but I haven't seen Him and it's driving me crazy. But now four people have seen the risen Lord. I bounce up and down.

Mary Magdalene is near a window, beaming. Sometimes a cluster of people will gather around her and she will speak with animation. At other times she simply gazes out the window, radiant.

Peter is sitting at a table, staring at nothing. He is very unforthcoming about what the Lord said to him. I think he is still wrestling with guilt about denying Him. But he is more at peace than he has been since that night. People have given up trying to talk to him.

Cleopas and Mary Cleopas are now the center of attention. They just arrived, and they, too, have seen the Lord. They are being peppered with questions.

Someone makes sure the doors are locked. Resurrection or no resurrection, the Pharisees may still be out for blood.

The mood is chaotic. The four who have seen Him insist that He is alive. Some, like John and I, have not yet seen Him, but we believe without doubt that He is risen. Others are skeptical - afraid to hope. Unable to wrap their minds around the possibility. Besides - why is He so difficult to recognize? And why doesn't He stay put? Could it be that they were seeing a ghost?

Someone posed this question and instantly voices are raised in an escalating argument. I stay out of it because I have zero evidence. I go and stand beside Peter.

Things are getting heated when suddenly He is in the room. "Peace!" - in the voice that calmed the storm. Instantly there is complete silence.

My heart leaps into my throat. It is the Lord. I recognize Him at once, though I see why the others didn't. There are lines of sorrow on His face that were never there before, but also unrestrained joy in His eyes, no longer tempered by knowledge of future suffering. His body is whole - no longer battered, shredded, and bruised, though I think I see - is it my imagination? - glimpses of the nail holes. 

The silence lasts only a heartbeat. 

"It's a ghost!" Someone shrieks - "Only a ghost can pass through locked doors!"

Instant mayhem, for the umpteenth time that day. Peter's voice cuts through it all: "Even before, He walked on water. This is no ghost."

In the hush, Jesus speaks. He released a sigh in the midst of the hubbub, but now a smile plays around His mouth and lights His eyes.

"Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? See My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself. Touch me, and see. As the Father sent me, eve so am I sending you."

He goes to each person in turn, seeking to them quietly. I drink Him in. Marvel that He stands among us, watch the release in each disciple's face as He speaks to them.

He embraces John, tears filling both their eyes.

He stands before Peter, who bows his head and murmers: "My Lord." Jesus touches his shoulder. When Peter looks up, He bends down and breathes on him. Peter's tension relaxes, but he ducks his head again, overwhelmed.

Now Jesus is standing before me, looking at me. I look at Him and marvel at His compassion and joy and strength and love. This is the same Jesus, but as if a veil has been removed from my sight. I fall on my knees at His feet, weeping and laughing with joy. His feet are scarred. He lifts me up, taking my hand in His. When I stand, He shows me the nail holes in His hands.

"You are bound to Me by these scars. As you walked with Me in My death, so now abide in Me in my Life. Apart from Me you can do nothing. Cleave to me."

I want to pour out my soul to Him, but I can't find the words. So I just look at Him, overwhelmed and overjoyed by His presence.

He smiles, leans forward, and breathes on my forehead. "Receive the Holy Spirit." It is the breath of an anointing.

I am the last one.

As He steps away, He glances at the table, where someone had absentmindedly left some dried fish. He raises His eyebrows: "Anything to eat?"

I grin and offer Him some fish. He takes it and eats it before us all. This is no ghost. And suddenly we are all dancing, the joy too great to contain. At first, Jesus dances with us. Then He steps back. Later, I look around and notice that He is gone. 

they call this Friday good

Yesterday in my Maundy Thursday piece I shared a bit of what I recorded last year as I contemplated the Passion accounts as part of the Ignatian Exercises. Today, I reread my record of the Good Friday contemplation, and I wanted to share it here as well. Hang tight - it's Friday now, but Sunday is coming.

The night is cold. Overcast. Breezy. Not a pleasant night. The thugs lead Jesus into the High Priest's courtyard, hollering that they've got Him. He is exhausted, having endured the night in the garden and been roughly run through the streets with His hands tied. But He is firm in His purpose. 

The High Priest comes out and rebukes his ruffians: "Quiet! Do you want to rouse the city? Hold him here until the council assembles. Feel free to have some fun. But keep him conscious."

The thugs start shoving Jesus around.

Peter and I slip into the courtyard, staying in the shadows. A group of the High Priest's household, roused by the commotion, is waiting to see what will happen.

I can hear the occasional vicious thud as Jesus is beaten. I want to cry, but the shock and the danger sting my eyes dry. 

Eventually the household, tired of standing around in the cold, kindles a fire. Cats skulk in the shadows. Hands numb with cold, Peter and I sidle in to the fire. As we approach, a servant girl looks at Peter. "Hey! This is one of his followers!"

Peter opens his mouth, shuts it, and then mutters: "No I'm not. You must have mistaken me for someone else." I can sense his fear, relief, and shame. I'm just glad they haven't asked me.

A little later someone else looks over at Peter: "Certainly I've seen you with Him."

Peter responds curtly: "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen Him before. Only heard tell."

The questioner catches my eye as he shrugs and turns away. Peter refuses to look at me. I want to tell him that I understand. I don't know if I'm courageous enough, either. I can't process what's happening.

Nearby, the thugs have blindfolded Jesus, laughing as they strike Him and ask Him who did it. It makes me sick and angry - and there's nothing I can do. He may not even know we're there, trying to stay close. His lip is swollen.

The thugs get tired of their game and sit around, forcing Jesus to stand. It begins to get incrementally lighter. I hear birds waking up.

This whole time members of the council have been trickling in, some with attendants.

Suddenly everything happens at once.

Caiaphas announces that the Council is complete and the trial can begin.

An attendant comes over to the fire, takes one look at Peter, and says: "You. Galilean. Weren't you with him?"

I sense Peter close to the breaking point. He snaps: "Good God! What is with you people? I swear by all that's holy that I am not with him!"

I know the man is about to ask the same thing of me, but before he does, two things happen: the thugs release Jesus' blindfold, and He turns to look at Peter as the rooster crows.

His face is black and blue, with one eye nearly swollen shut. His gaze as He looks at Peter is not condemning. It is sorrowful, exhausted, and compassionate. Beside me, Peter breaks. He turns and stumbles out of the courtyard. I can hear him choking back sobs. He is finally assured of his own weakness. In the moment he wanted most to be there for Jesus, he failed HIm.

Jesus looks at me next. I try to communicate how confused and scared and upset we all are. How desperately we want to be there for Him, but how with Him under arrest we are panicking like sheep without a shepherd. How every bruise on His face is a punch in my gut. 

As He looks at me, I see something beneath His sorrow and exhaustion and loneliness and pain. I see His courage. I see that He is active, not passive in this nightmare. I see resolve and purpose. I barely understand what's happening, but as surely as I know that He is suffering horrifically, I know that He has already counted the cost. 

All of this takes mere moments. I'm ripped from Jesus when the man addresses me: "And you? Are you with Him?"

I speak quickly and quietly, before I lose my nerve. "Yes. I am."

In the beat following my response, the commencement of the trial is announced and all attention turns to the leading figures.

***

Torches illuminate the walls of the courtyard, flickering over the faces of the sleepy, bored, impatient, and (in the case of Joseph and Nicodemus) numb Jewish leaders.

Jesus is seated. Silent. His face battered and bruised. Disfigured, a man of sorrows. Yet somehow He is the most calm of everyone in the room. He knows what is going to happen. He has chosen it. All that remains is to endure.

Caiaphas fumes as yet another witness stumbles over his words and contradicts himself. This was supposed to be an open and shut case - verdict predetermined. It should not be taking this long. He slams the palm of his hand down on the table.

"Enough! I will question the man myself."

He rises, bypasses the witness, and stands before Jesus. Jesus stands, flinching a bit at the pain.

"Do you hear what these men say? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Jesus remains silent. Resolute.

The High Priest puts his face inches from Jesus' own. He can smell blood and sweat and tears. His voice is low.

"Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?"

Jesus does not move. Does not falter.

"I am. And you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven."

Time slows.

Suddenly every member is wide awake, nerves taught. 

It is almost absurd to hear this broken and bruised man stand there claiming to be equal with God. Can He even understand what He's saying? Yet He seems to be perfectly sane. 

Triumph flickers over the High Priest's face, quickly replaced by outraged incredulity. He steps back and tears his robes theatrically.

"You have heard it from his own lips! What shall we do with him?"

"Execute!"

Only Nicodemus and Joseph remain silent. Stunned. 

Jesus does not seem remotely surprised. He gazes levelly at the High Priest until the guards take Him away.

***

I gasp when Jesus reappears after being questioned by Herod and Pilate. He looked awful before. Now He is nearly unrecognizable. He has been brutally scourged. Skin is peeling off His back in shreds. He is covered in blood - it's even dripping into His eyes from that brutal crown of thorns. His face is swollen and disfigured. I don't know how He can still be conscious, much less stand.

They shove Him down the stairs and none too gently hoist the cross onto His shoulders. For one awful moment I am in His skin, feel His pain. The rough wood on the tattered, burning back makes what was nearly unbearable literally excruciating. Blood fogs over His eyes, and He stumbles and blacks out.

I spring forward instinctively to help Him, but someone holds me from behind. Peter? No, Peter is gone. John. He will not let me go to Him. At first I struggle, then give up, sobbing onto his shoulder. John comforts me, watching Jesus all the while.

The soldiers consult. They look around for someone strong, and they grab a man trying to get through the crowd. He clearly wants nothing to do with this, but knows that in a situation like this it's best to do what's demanded. He shoulders the cross. The soldiers splash water over Jesus and pull Him up.

Jesus plods on, followed by a rabble of mockers and a group of lamenting women. He is painfully slow. 

At one point He turns and addresses the weeping women. When He turns again to continue, He stumbles. I have had enough. I elude John, run to Jesus, and put His arm around my shoulder to support Him.

A soldier considers stopping me, but he decides not to, seeing that Jesus will never make it to the execution site on His own.

Jesus is focusing hard on each step. He has no energy to spare to thank me or comfort me. But it doesn't matter. I would rather be with Jesus, bearing the scorn and shame, than anywhere else in the world. My tears have dried up, and I help Him approach Golgotha. 

***

I watch them crucify Him.

Nearly cry out with the pain of the nails that go through His hands and feet. 

Flinch as nearly every person there mocks Him.

Marvel at His words.

Remember His miracles.

The world goes dark. At first I think it is my vision clouding from the pain, but then I realize it really is dark.

Mary crumples. I help support her - John takes the other side.

All we want, still, is to be with Jesus. If it is in His death, so be it.

He is suffering. Every moment He suffers. Breath ragged. Face disfigured. Blood everywhere. It hurts to look at Him, but turning away hurts more. His eyes are clouded with pain. He is conscious, but only with an effort. I wish He would allow Himself to pass out.

He assures the thief that today they will be together in Paradise.

He entrusts Mary to John. She weeps.

I begin softly singing Psalms for the dying. When I reach Psalm 22, He cries out the first line with me - "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Then I sing a bit of Psalm 31. 

Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow, 
my soul and body with grief.

But I trust in you, oh LORD.
I say, "You are my God." My times are in your hands;
Deliver me from the hands of my enemies,
from those who pursue me. Let your face shine on your servant;
save me in your unfailing love.

Before I can continue, He cries out: "It is finished."

The earth shakes. We are all thrown off balance. When we regain our feet, He is dead.

The centurion pierces His side - Mary cries out and leaps forward. Blood flows out. The man says under his breath, "Surely this man was the Son of God."

Joseph of Arimathea approaches. "I've gained custody of the body from Pilate. We can put Him in my family tomb. It's just around the corner, but we have to hurry - it's nearly Sabbath."

We take Him down from the cross, bloodstained and bruised. Dead weight. Mary embraces her Son, kissing Him as we remove the crown of thorns, sticky with blood. She holds her Son as we wash and cover Him.

The men carry Him to the tomb and we follow. Nicodemus is there with the embalming spices and oils. But the sun is nearly setting, and there is no time. We wrap Him in linen and step out side, running into a group of guards led by a Pharisee. As we leave, they roll a stone before the tomb.