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. 

a journey through five years of Maundy Thursdays

Maundy Thursday 2016 - London, England

I slip into Westminster Abbey - late. Much too late to have a seat where I can see the celebrant and the speaker. I walk down the side of the ancient building - one of my favorite holy spaces in the world - and take a seat on a folding chair in Poets' Corner. 

A boys' choir sings through the service. Clergy kneel to wash twelve congregants' feet. I rejoice in my favorite line of the liturgy - "Lift up your hearts! We lift them to the Lord!"

Returning to my seat after receiving Eucharist, I step over the memorial flagstone for C.S. Lewis - "I believe in Christianity as I believe the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."

Suddenly I am in awe. I feel the weight of glory - the cloud of witnesses. A statue of Handel - who wrote his Messiah oratorio in a bare three weeks - looks down on the scene. William Wilberforce sits in a tucked-away corner. According to the plaque beneath his statue, he added "to high and various talents, to warm benevolence and universal candour . . . the abiding eloquence of a Christian life." 

It is not just the witness of these great men that overwhelms me. It is the witness of the hundreds upon hundreds of faithful believers commemorated in this space. It is the witness of the thousands upon thousands who have worshipped in this space every Maundy Thursday for more than seven hundred years. It is the witness of the millions upon millions of Christians gathering today to remember - to remember Our Lord Who knelt with a basin and towel, Who broke His body and shed His blood to heal us, Who remained faithful when we were faithless, Who is the source of our unity and strength. 

Maundy Thursday 2017 - Wheaton, IL

It is the start of Holy Week services at Church of the Resurrection in Wheaton. I see my friend Karis across the sanctuary and slide into the pew beside her. During the time for the foot washing, she washes my feet so tenderly. I wash hers. 

We receive communion for the final time before the cross is shrouded. I will spend many hours in this space between now and Resurrection Sunday, but for all the many services, there will be no communion until the declaration of His resurrection is made. 

I don't know it yet - though I suppose I have an inkling - that those few days will be life-altering. 

Maundy Thursday 2018 - Großgmain, Austria

I live in Munich, and my college roommates Angela and Bryn are spending Easter weekend with me and my parents in a tiny town split by the Austria/Germany border. 

We read excerpts from T.S. Eliot's "Little Gidding:"

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. 
[. . .]
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. 
[. . .]

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. 
[. . .]

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Maundy Thursday 2019 - Winnweiler, Germany

I am working my way through the Ignatian Exercises, part of which involves imaginatively exploring the gospel accounts. 

In the evening, there is laughing and banter, good conversation and good food. Jesus is a little subdued, but we barely notice. It is a night for celebrating. Someone asks, "Why do we keep this feast every year?"

A shouted response: "To remember how the Lord God led our ancestors out of Egypt with a mighty hand and outstretched arm and brought them to the Promised Land."

Simon the Zealot asks Jesus: "Lord, is the time soon coming when You will restore the Kingdom to Israel?"

There is a lull in the conversation - people waiting for Jesus' answer. My heart beats faster.

But Jesus seems not to have heard the question. He rises and leaves the room. 

There is a confused pause. The conversation slowly picks up again, people asking one another why He is in such a strange mood.

I notice Him come back in, a towel wrapped around His waist. He fills a basin with water, kneels down behind John, and starts washing his feet. John starts, but says nothing, going quiet and trying to take it in. I glance around the table. Most people haven't noticed anything amiss - conversation continues.

Jesus dries John's feet and moves to Peter. Peter startles violently at Jesus' touch, clattering against crockery and bringing all conversation to a halt. Jesus smiles and reaches again for Peter's foot. Peter pulls away.

"Lord! Do you wash my feet??"

Jesus sits back on the balls of His feet and looks at Peter. "What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand."

"You shall never wash my feet!"

Jesus continues to gaze at Peter. "If I do not wash you, you have no share with Me."

Peter looks at Jesus, stupefied, jaw dropped. He does not resist again, but looks on in a daze. He has seen those hands heal the sick, multiply loaves, cast merchants from the temple, calm a storm. And now those hands are washing his filthy, callused feet.

As Jesus begins drying his feet, Peter blurts out: "Lord, not only my feet but also my hands and my head!"

Jesus smiles - oh, impetuous Peter. "The one who has bathed does not need to wash, except for his feet, but is completely clean. And you are clean, but not every one of you."

He moves on to Andrew.

I am next.

I look at Him as He began to wash my feet, hands tender and firm. The water is cool and refreshing after a long day of preparing and no time to sit down. I don't understand, but I feel His love and care - and also sorrow.

"Lord," I ask, "Who is going to wash Your feet?"

He looks at my face, but gives no answer.

After He finishes washing everyone's feet, He goes back to His seat. "Do you understand what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them."

I have been debating ever since it was my turn. Now I decide. As Jesus speaks, I get up as quietly as I can. I wrap the discarded towel around my waist, take up the basin, and kneel down behind Jesus. I take a deep breath, then I gently take His feet and start pouring water over them, spongeing them off. He turns toward me, and I am startled to see tears in His eyes. My own brim. 

Maundy Thursday 2020 - Montreat, NC - Church of the Resurrection, Wheaton, IL

Tonight I am in the guest room at my grandparents' house in Montreat, North Carolina. For the first time in three years, I join the Church of the Resurrection Maundy Thursday service - one silver lining of a pandemic is that I am able to worship with the Rez community even though I'm hundreds of miles away.

The service is bittersweet - as the bishop asked, "Who would have imagined a Maundy Thursday in which we cannot gather around the Table?"

And yet, I am reminded of the clouds of witnesses I felt so overwhelmingly four years ago in Westminster Abbey. I may be alone in this bedroom, but I am joining in community with over 400 people tuning in to this livestream, and with hundreds of thousands who are celebrating Maundy Thursday from the shelter of their own homes.

The longing for kingdom community is real - and it is a reminder that even we can gather together in churches, we are still waiting for the time when all things are made new and we feast at the wedding supper of the Lamb - with Jesus in His Kingdom.

But for now I ponder the words of the sermon-

He gives us provision in the wilderness.

He places us in a family.

He prepares for us a feast.

He plans for us a future. 

Jesus' suffering on the cross is so that His Father can be our Father. He places us in His family with His Father, because He knows the wildernesses we will walk through, and He gives us one another to wash each other's feet and love one another to the end. 

He gives us Himself. 

This is Jesus' Story. This is why He came. Jesus longs for the fulfillment of the Passover Feast in the Kingdom of God. 

He waits for us and He waits with us. 

"Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many rooms. . . And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also . . .Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid. . .This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. . . .I have said these things to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have trouble. But take heart; I have overcome the world" (John 14:1, 3, 27; 15:12; 16:33). 

We rehearse the story of Jesus, Who has overcome. 

Though we are quarantined, the Power of Jesus is not. The Holy Spirit is not on lockdown. We shelter at home, but we shelter under the wings of Jesus. 

We have been shaken, but we hold fast to a kingdom that is unshakeable.

***

Every night for three weeks I have read a poem on my instagram stories. Tonight's poem is "Judas, Peter," by Lucy Shaw.

because we are all
betrayers, taking
silver and eating
body and blood and asking
(guilty) is it I and hearing
him say yes
it would be simple for us all
to rush out
and hang ourselves
but if we find grace
to cry and wait
after the voice of morning
has crowed in our ears
clearly enough
to break our hearts
he will be there
to ask us each again
do you love me?

unexpected fellowship

Online church is not my thing.

Which is something I need to work on, since online church is the modus operandi for churches worldwide these days.

Maybe tomorrow I'll gear myself up and attend an online Palm Sunday service. But to be honest, the last few weeks, I haven't even tried. Don't get me wrong; in many ways I'm more connected to my spiritual community right now than I was before a global pandemic kept us all at home - praise the Lord for technology. But that doesn't mean I'm watching the weekly sermons.

Strange how the Lord provides even when I don't feel like showing up.

Last Sunday, my grandparents' previous pastor and his wife, whom I have known my whole life and absolutely adore, appeared on the front porch with a guitar and a pie. They came around back and announced that they were there for a 10-minute church service - and they meant a full-blown church service, complete with prayer, sermon, hymns, offertory (the pie), special music, and benediction.

They are absolutely amazing.

We all kept our distance (probably the hardest thing so far - I dearly wanted to hug these precious friends) and reveled in the fellowship.

The sermon, well, it was something else.

After a couple of songs, Owen directed us to open our Bibles to John 11:35. We chuckled as we all leafed through imaginary Bibles, until he "arrived" at the text:

Jesus wept. 

"As we examine this text together, it occurs to me to wonder why Jesus wept. Yes, Lazarus was dead, but Jesus knew that before long, He would raise His friend from the dead. So why did he weep?

James Tissot / Public domain

"There are many theological reasons that people have proposed, but there are two that I want to focus on today. For the first, please turn with me to Isaiah 53:3 (more imaginary leafing): 'He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.'

"The first reason that Jesus wept is that He knew the pain of sorrow and grief. He knew the hearts of Mary and Martha in their grief and confusion, and He sorrowed for their sorrow, even though He knew that the cause of their weeping would soon turn to joy. He weeps with those who weep.

"Now, as I said, there are many theological reasons why Jesus wept, but it strikes me in this time that one of those reasons was that He simply missed His friend" - Owen choked up - "just like we miss you, precious friends."

Wow. What a sermon for this time. Jesus wept. He knew what it was to sorrow with devastated friends - friends who were at least partly devastated because they knew He could have stopped the death, had He so chosen. He did not stand back callously and refuse to share their sorrow, knowing that it was temporary. He entered into their grief with them, because even though He knew the ultimate story would be one of resurrection, this part of it hurt like hell. Because death must precede resurrection.

He also knew what it was to miss dear friends - to face the pain of separation on earth. And He wept for it.

I've been talking to my students about two things as we prepare to enter into Holy Week during a pandemic. First, God is in control. He is not surprised. He is not overwhelmed. He holds each of us in His hand and guides our steps. He will work out all things for the good of those who love Him and who are called according to His purpose.

Second, He is not removed from us in sorrow and confusion and pain. He steps into those emotions with us, even though He knows the bigger picture. He is not impersonal - He is deeply personal and caring.

That precious ten minutes on the back patio on a Sunday afternoon will be one of the sweetest memories from this time - sweet for the unexpected fellowship with longtime friends, and sweet for the reminder that God fellowships with us.

Grace be with you. 

Blind Bartimaeus

"Blind Bartimaeus."
Sometimes the moniker was mocking.
Sometimes compassionate.
Sometimes matter-of-fact.
The epithet fit; after all, he was blind. 

He had not always been blind.
He had known sunlight - not just through the warmth seeping into his skin.
He had known the whiteness of milk - not just the taste of its richness.
He had known a time when darkness heralded the advent of night, not its perpetual presence.
He had known what it was to see. 

But now,
"Blind Bartimaeus" begged for charity -
       for compassion
       to be seen, though he could not see
- on the side of the road. 

"Blind Bartimaeus"
used his ears to see the commotion of the crowd coming up the road.
Used his smell to see the ripeness of the bustle on the highway outside Jericho.
Used his touch to see the sun beating down, the dust clinging.
Used his ears to decipher the cause of the commotion.

"Jesus of Nazareth!" "Rabbi!" "Master!" "Healer!"

Healer?
Could a blind man be healed of his malady? 

"Jesus!" Desperate. Hopeful.
"Jesus! Son of David!"
Feet shuffled by and kicked him.
Voices reprimanded - "Hold your peace!"
He cried all the louder
"Jesus! son of David! Have mercy on me!"
Please.
Please. 

A pause in the whirling currents eddying around him.
A voice.
"Bartimaeus."
The blind man held his breath within himself.
"Bartimaeus."

Not "blind Bartimaeus."
Simply Bartimaeus.
He sat perfectly still, unbelieving.
Unsure. 

"Get up, man! Take heart!
He's calling you."

He scrambled to his feet.
Cast aside the cloak that tripped him.
Groped his way to the center of the crowd's energy. 

"What do you want me to do for you?"

Blind Bartimaeus caught his breath again.
Could he dare to ask?
Could he do it?
All at once:
"Rabbi, I want to see."

Silence. 

He strained his ears and heard nothing.
The sensation of touch vanished.
Even the pungent smell of the crowd evaporated. 

But he saw.
The Rabbi.
The Master.
The Lord.
He saw. 

Blinked his eyes.
Squinted at the harsh sunlight.
Stepped back from the awed faces.
Looked back into the face of Jesus. 

"Go." He said.
"Your faith has healed you."

Bartimaeus had not always had sight.
He knew what it was
To not be quite whole.
To decipher the world through the testimony of taste, touch, sound, smell.
To put together a simulacrum in his mind.
A poor excuse for sight. 

And now the world was dazzling. 

***

"Blind Bartimaeus."
The moniker seemed a joke.
No one who knew him had ever known anyone else who relished sight so ravenously.
The man was more observant than anyone around him.

And he had eyes for only one man:
Jesus of Nazareth.

The One who called him by name.