Same Storm - Different Boats

Same Storm - Different Boats

The story is familiar. In the late afternoon of a long day, Jesus indicated that they were to head over to the other side of the lake. It is to their credit that, despite the fact night was falling and the other side was not a destination any of them would have chosen, they took Him in a boat belonging to one of them and headed out across the lake.

 A few of them were experienced on these waters and the others would likely do as instructed – which, for the most part, would have been to row the boat into the gathering night. The storm would have been expected and, while unpleasant, not overtly threatening as long as they kept the front of the boat headed into the waves. It would have been the task of the one sitting on the cushion, hand on the rudder, at the back of the boat to ensure that this happened. But, instead of heading into the waves, the boat got sideways to them – so much so that they were breaking over the boat, filling it up at an alarming rate. Jesus’ failure to do what he was supposed to do, choosing to sleep on the cushion instead, put them at risk to the point that they believed their lives were in danger.

Quickly diagnosing the problem, they woke Him, questioning whether He cared that they were about to perish. Jesus, still half asleep, rises up on one elbow and speaks to the wind and sea in language they recognized from previous exorcisms – likely adding to their fear. Then, bleary eyed, drifting back to sleep, he teases them, “How is that you are you so… timid? Do you still have no faith?” They are dumb-founded – more afraid in the immediate stillness which resulted from the storm’s obedience, than they were when it was at the height of its raging. Their question, “Who is this?” suggests that Jesus was right in His assessment that they had no faith – that they didn’t yet stand in the reality of Who He was.

Mark includes a tiny detail in telling this story that I missed for years. As the disciples set out with Jesus, he records, “…and other boats were with them.” That suggests that a small flotilla set off in the late afternoon to join Jesus’ mission to the other side – and that, therefore, the ensuing storm – and the same sudden, glass-flat stillness of the water – was experienced equally by all, but differently by each. The others will not have had a clue what has gone on; while they will have experienced the same storm, they will have missed the point, and missed knowing of the One revealed in it.

I was reminded of that story this past week in reading someone’s post regarding the current pandemic to the effect that, while we are all in the same storm, we are not in the same boat. It is incumbent on those who know Who Jesus is – who have faith – to tell the story of His non-anxious Presence. And, by our non-anxious, faith-full presence, to bring a measure of peace in the midst of this common storm. In other words, to join Jesus on His mission to those on the other side.

Thomas

Of course it would be him. Who else could it have been? The rest of them were stuck in a daze of fear driven sleeplessness, blank expressions, dull eyes. Understandable, really – given all they had been through over the past few days. To have fallen from such a height of hopeful expectation, encouraged by the roar of the crowds just a week ago – crashing on the rocks of hopeless despair on Friday afternoon – watching hope bleed out, only the women – and John –seemed not to be aware of the risk of such close association. The rest in ones and twos shuffling in horror, in disbelief around the edges of the crowd – lost in the throng heading towards the city for the festival. You could hardly blame them – stuck in the bleakness. Not yet considering what might be next. But that was what he did. Maybe that is why Jesus kept him around – to keep the rest of them grounded in reality, no matter how hard it was. He wasn’t caught up in it all – at least not in the same way the rest of them seemed to be. He was, if nothing else, a realist. And now, look where that had gotten him.

He had snuck out early – wakened by the women heading toward the tomb to whatever it was that women did at tombs. He followed them just long enough to make sure they got where they were going safely – you never knew what or who they might run into. As for him, he had no business at the tomb – he knew how it worked. The grip of the tomb – of death – was unbreakable. So… no point standing around, wringing his hands in despair. It is what it is – nothing more to be done about it. Dead is dead. No, he had things to do. Apparently none of the rest of them had thought too much about next. Of course, that had been his job – as painful as it had been – keeping it real. So, he was out in the city trying to determine next.

Avoiding the early patrols, getting lost in the crowds arriving for early prayers, listening in on conversations for any hint of Friday’s disaster… all that meant he arrived back a bit later than he’d hoped – but at least he had a pretty good plan for getting them all out of the city safely. Nothing could have prepared him for the craziness that greeted him. People running in and out, laughing, crying, embracing one another, shouting, dancing – tables and chairs knocked over in celebration! Not what he had expected at all! When he finally got a couple of them to settle down for a moment all he could get out of them was, “He’s ALIVE!” before they collapsed into laughter or tears or both. “He’s alive!”

Who’s alive?!

Jesus! Jesus is alive! We saw Him! We ate with Him! He was here!

That was too much for him. This was going to get them all killed! He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he knew for sure it could not have been what they said had happened. He knew dead. And dead is dead. Nothing more to be said about it. “Unless I put my finger through the hole in his hand – my hand in the wound in his side, I will not believe.”

Later in the day two arrived just after sunset with a story of a familiar stranger who had joined them as they made their way home to Emmaus. Having been intrigued – excited even – with what He was saying, they invited Him to share a meal. But when He broke the bread in a way they had come to know – they recognized Him as Jesus! But then, laughter ringing in their ears, He had just disappeared! Despite the lateness of the hour, they set out and made it back to Jerusalem just before the city shut down for the night.

Their story was the proof he needed; he knew they were all deluded. There was no way Jesus could have been with this lot when they said He was – and be with these two when they said He was. No way! Not possible! That is not how things worked. He was not sure exactly what had happened – but he knew for sure what didn’t happen!!

To his credit, he didn’t abandon them to their crazed fate. To their credit, they didn’t out him for not believing what they believed.

So it was that they were together again on the eighth day. The significance of the eighth day, reflecting the second creation account, did not occur to him until later. In the moment, standing back to the room, he felt a sudden shift – enough to cause him to look up from what he was doing. It was as if the air had suddenly become thicker, more… alive somehow. The overheard conversation suddenly stopped, replaced with gasps, the air too dense to breathe. Slowly turning around to see what had happened, his eyes widened in shock and surprise to see Jesus standing there, arms outstretched, hands wide open, a smile on his face, laughter in His eyes.

He heard his angry words, flung into this very room in fear and frustration, apparently heard by One present but not seen, come echoing back to him, laughter bubbling up through the challenge… “Reach here with your finger – see, my hands! Reach here with your hand – put it in my side!” Like so many times over the past three years, Jesus was playing – teasing His realistic friend – challenging him to a deeper reality. And Thomas rose to the challenge – going further than had anyone in the room with his worshipful declaration, “My Lord and My God!!” Aware, in a moment, of reality deeper than what can be seen. Apparently, in this deeper knowing, this deeper thicker reality, dead is not dead after all – it is the door to new life – an eighth day new creation.

Home

Home

looking back

it was clear

like so many things

when you know what to look for

but not in the moment

in the moment it was shameful

no other way to see it

no other way to understand

the horror

they had just gotten it wrong

how wrong and how so wrong

was the tear stained

fear stained conversation

on the long road home

first he then she

gave voice to heartbreak

heart break

hopes dashed

no future imaginable

now that the future imagined

lay buried

shared sorrow bound them to each other

in way deeper than

marriage

stuck in the collision of what

they had hoped would happen

with what actually happened

unable to consider

what might happen

now…

Tear blind weary blind heart blind

they did not recognize the

familiar stranger

whose greeting was

grating

salt in a wound

“What are you talking about?”

“What things?”

So…

they told Him His story

fascinated He seemed not to know it

as they did

Foolish! Slow of heart!

with laughter to ease the sting

of words more true

than they imagined possible

and the long walk home

became a

long walk Home

as He told them His story

fascinated that they seemed not to know it

the suffering was necessary

it was the entrance to glory

long journey home too short

heart warmed hospitality

And, in the bread breaking… known.

Then… laughter echoing as

Bread thumped on the table

He was…

Gone?

Home.

Mary

Mary

Almost from the beginning there was something special about their bond. It was easy to understand – the gratitude of the captive set free. The problem with liberty – with real freedom – is that the captive released has no bearings, no familiar constraints – and can quickly fall into the safety of deeper bondage. He said something about that – and so, with nothing better to do and nowhere better to be, she joined the band of women accompanying, beginning a friendship that deepened into the purest love she had ever known – He coming to trust her as much as she trusted Him.

She knew her way around men. She’d been forced to learn very young as a way to survive when she was first reduced to a commodity, commercialized. But there was, even then, for all that ways that she had been violated – something about her that was… unavailable – fully her, right at the center. That part was never touched. Nobody got in. She was good at being what was needed in the moment – more as a way of defense, of control, than anything else – but always a part of her standing at distance, watching, guarding, holding the hand of the little girl she could scarcely remember being.

They all knew her – knew who she was, where she had come from. In the early days, they all made it quite clear that she didn’t belong… But it was not long before they had to take their lead from Him – He would not tolerate anything but her being treated as a full and equal member of the community formed by following. And it wasn’t just her. His anger was fierce in defense of those who had no voice. It wasn’t something you wanted to feel more than once! So… they made an uneasy peace with her and the rest – which finally yielded into a tacit acceptance – and finally, toward the end, grudging gratitude that she was there.

As time went on, His relentless and unfailing kindness wore her down – just like it did everybody else. Or at least those who stayed close through the challenging and confusing things he said and did. Nobody was coerced – nobody forced – everyone free to go as they wished. Many did. But it was truer the longer she was with him – she had nothing better to do, and nowhere better to be. She was included, as were all the women, in the conversations – the men soon stopped with the sideways glances and they became learners and followers – disciples – together. She had something about her – a core inner strength, a fierce and free commitment – that made her a leader among them. He recognized it and celebrated it.

In the long days walking she would often find herself in His company – safe, known, loved for who she was without demand. They would share in the laughter of the loved, risking an intimacy shared with few others, teasing each other in the way good friends do. She was never quite sure when it happened – but that it happened she never doubted. One day she noticed that the protected, hidden little girl had come out to play – to laugh and dance with the delight of freedom from fear – not hiding – completely and utterly and fully herself. To risk being known by love.

Perhaps it was love that tuned her ear to the shift in the tone of His words. She recognized the dark shadows, having lived there for so long. She was not afraid of the shadows of death. But aware. Courage was required in this fearsome place. Perhaps that is why most of the men missed it – even though he said it over and over again. Perhaps that is why, when courage was most needed, they had none… Their faith in him shattered by the failure of the outcome they had imagined. She had faith, too – but that had bled out in the horror that was Friday. It was as though it was her life that had drainedd into the dust of Golgotha. Would that it were so. But still, she was drawn by love to the task of women for ever – to them was left the serving of their dead. The last act of love. And so, she was ready. Ready to finish what the crashing in of Sabbath had interrupted.

With the first rosey hint in the eastern sky, she led the way through familiar streets finally finding her way to the remembered place, forever seared into her heart. But nothing in all of her days in the darkness could have prepared her for what met her there. Gone! Empty! Racing back and forth – seeing but not seeing – uncertain as to what it all meant – gripped by an unspeakable horror. Finally, left alone there… She had nothing better to do, and nowhere better to be.

Finally, she stooped to look in… and her horror made more so by the gleaming light of emptiness… She would not be put off, not be intimidated, even by these men, glistening in light flooding out from them. Her voice demanded response, “Where have you put Him?” Their bemused response made no sense – but stirred something. Something deep in her little girl’s heart – something not quite real enough to grasp – something not solid enough to be called anything yet – much less… hope. Stumbling out of the tomb in the still dark dawning she almost bumped into Him. Eyes instinctively averted, she demanded response to his question – only recognizing in memory a familiar lilt in his voice – “Where have you put Him?”

And then, the earth stopped. And jolted to life again. The dawn broke the back of the night. Life sprung up in one word, spoken heart to heart, “Mary.” The laughter unmistakable. Nobody said her name like He did. She catapulted across the clearing launched by joy, flinging herself at feet still marked with the torture of the cross, clinging to them as if her life depended on it. Only to hear him trust her once again… “Go and tell!”

And so, she did. That’s what love, great love, the love of a friend, does. Not concerned with whether they believed her or not. She had heard His voice speak her name! Nothing more was needed. “Go and tell!”

Saturday

Saturday

He sat on the floor, back against the wall, paralyzed by waves of grief – of disbelief – of horror at things he would never be able to unsee. A lifetime in the dark only days before ended in response to the question, “What do you want me to do for you?” And now, in so many ways, this darkness is bleaker than any he had known. Eyes wide open staring into… into… It was all just too much. But he couldn’t move and so… he stared into the black. A watchman longing for dawn.

He shouldn’t have come, the first Passover in Jerusalem in… he couldn’t remember how long. But everything changed that moment a lifetime – a week – ago when he heard his name called and looked down into those dancing black eyes and heard the laughter in the demand, “Hurry down… today I must stay at your house!” Still remembering, still feeling, the surge of warmth – of welcome. He hadn’t been able – nor did he want – to stop the sudden generosity that erupted out of being seen, of being known. He still felt the blush of excitement overhearing, “He, too, is a son of Abraham.” So… where else would a true son of Abraham be on Passover – but Jerusalem? But now… it felt like a prison – a prison framed by Sabbath restrictions. He would set out a first light. A watchman longing for dawn.

 She had seen it coming but hadn’t counted on the awfulness of it all. She imagined her hair still fragrant with the perfume – damp with remembered tears – acquiescing in grief to his words. Prepared, with the others, to finish her care for him – spices at the ready – the way to the tomb seared in her memory. Then, she would weep again. But now, there is work to be done. A watchman longing for dawn.

He couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to. Every once in a while his hand would reach up to touch his ear in wonder – still feeling the slice of steel – the gush of blood – the warmth of his touch. His touch. Never, in all his years in service, had he seen such a thing… the desperation driving his master, the grim satisfaction at the outcome, the fear still lurking behind his eyes – an impossible promise echoing… But no. No. Still… touching his ear again… who can say for sure? A watchman longing for dawn.

Too much wine – but not enough to dull the sharp pain of colliding words crashing around in his head. “Never! Not me! Them, maybe – but not me!” …  “I do not know Him.” “I am not!” “I don’t know what you are talking about!!” Then echoing, careening, bouncing around… that screeching crowing marking his long and sleepless night. Not afraid to die. But terrified to live. Crushed by shame, by a sorrow deeper than any he has ever known, by the weight of what might have but now could never be. Nothing for it but to get out of this god-forsaken city. A watchman longing for dawn.

It gave her no pleasure to have been proven right. From the beginning it seemed that she alone had heard the dark tinging his words. The men, arguing over their places, missed it – or couldn’t abide it. But she had known a darkness deeper than death… and, like women everywhere in all times, recognized the trajectory. Still, she had nowhere to be – and love kept her here. Her robe still crusted with blood – refusing to change – waiting to go where love was drawing her. Back to the tomb – back to where her life lie dead. A watchman longing for the dawning.

The earth jolted. Then came the Morning!

Betrayers all... welcome

Betrayers All… Welcome

this was His table

to which all were invited

at which all were welcome

all

welcome

jostling for place

shaped by the argument

strung out along the road since yesterday

continuing up the stairs until moments before

the greatest still unsettled

still…

all welcome

the bread broken

the wine poured

for all

     a place at the table

     His table

shocked shamed silence

echoed with the splash of water

the whisper of sandals loosened

the rustle as feet are dried

all feet

do as I have done…

One of you…

is it i

that all asked

suggests the possibility…

     the answer could be

          yes

protest aside

declarations aside

          yes

And…

     so it is

     betrayers all…

          welcome

Perfume and Tears

Perfume and Tears

uninvited

she snuck in

but she was noticed

she was definitely noticed

and dismissed

Until…

she made a scene

messy

fragrant

turn your head away

can’t turn your head away

a scene

embarrassing

scandalous

or it should have been

Instead

eyes

his hers

filled with tears

tears and perfume mixed

in shared sorrow

anointing

preparation

acceptance

as if to say

love lets die

if Love must die