On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.
—Luke 24.56b
How do you spend the day before Easter? You may be madly cleaning house and doing laundry. You may be setting tomorrow’s dining room table with Grandmother’s china and that crystal you got for your wedding. If there’s time, you’ll polish the silver. Menu? Check. Last minute groceries? Check. Too bad the eggs are too fresh—they’ll be fine to color but madness to peel.
How would you spend today if you didn’t know Easter was coming? As Luke tells it, the women who followed Jesus followed Joseph to the tomb, saw the body laid out, and came back to make preparations of their own, mixing spices and ointments for burial. Then on Saturday, on sabbath, they rested.
I hope you have set aside some sabbath time for yourself this weekend—for rest, renewal, silence, and spiritual preparation. You might not get the benefit of an entire day—but whatever time it takes, take it. Sabbath, to remember God’s rest in creation. Sabbath, to give thanks for our own liberation. Sabbath, to prepare for whatever may come.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Being Joe
Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph… This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.
—Luke 23.50, 52
In the aftermath of a tragedy, all it takes is one person to do the right thing. It may be someone to hand you the phone, someone to make travel arrangements, or someone to fill your glass with water. Or it may be someone like Joseph, who can take the body and place it in the tomb.
Maybe someone’s been a Joseph for you. Your life has been turned upside down by grief or loss, confusion or guilt, and there’s Joseph, asking how to help—not generically saying, “Call me if you need anything,” but being truly helpful. “I’ll take care of the laundry.” “I’ll pick up the kids.”
Tonight, I’m grateful for all Josephs—the one who buried Jesus’ body and the countless others who in the aftermath of tragedy are able to do what needs to be done. Name the Josephs in your life. Give thanks. Someone may need you to be Joe for them someday. It’s just what Jesus’ followers do.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
—Luke 23.50, 52
In the aftermath of a tragedy, all it takes is one person to do the right thing. It may be someone to hand you the phone, someone to make travel arrangements, or someone to fill your glass with water. Or it may be someone like Joseph, who can take the body and place it in the tomb.
Maybe someone’s been a Joseph for you. Your life has been turned upside down by grief or loss, confusion or guilt, and there’s Joseph, asking how to help—not generically saying, “Call me if you need anything,” but being truly helpful. “I’ll take care of the laundry.” “I’ll pick up the kids.”
Tonight, I’m grateful for all Josephs—the one who buried Jesus’ body and the countless others who in the aftermath of tragedy are able to do what needs to be done. Name the Josephs in your life. Give thanks. Someone may need you to be Joe for them someday. It’s just what Jesus’ followers do.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Burning
For if they do this when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?
—Jesus, Luke 23.31
Final things are on my mind. Last words matter.
Here, just before he is crucified, Jesus is speaking metaphorically—no surprise—making reference to the destruction that is coming. He is the green wood; this much is clear. But whether the dry wood that is to burn is that of the disciples or that of Jerusalem at the hands of the Romans doesn’t really matter. It’s not even important that the destruction may well be not just from the Romans but from God.
What matters is this. At our worst moments, when we’ve hurt someone deeply—perhaps we’ve betrayed a trust, or maybe it was a white lie that got out of control, or even a cruel remark spoken with more anger than compassion—it is here that we confront the seedy “dry wood” underside of human nature. We are able to hurt each other. And we do. We are able to wound. And we do. We can even destroy.
As much as I want to believe in our essential goodness, created as we are in the image of God, I also know we are sinful, falling short of God’s glory. I don’t like to talk about sin, think about sin, or even for the most part acknowledge sin in myself or anyone else. But it’s there. And it has the ability to burn even the greenest wood, even the most immune, the most innocent, the most pure.
What will my last words be tonight? Will I light a fire, falsely accuse, deny, or hammer a nail? By Easter morning—dare I hope?—perhaps the embers will cool. Perhaps my life and yours will be redeemed, and we can bear witness to the goodness of the coming reign of God.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
—Jesus, Luke 23.31
Final things are on my mind. Last words matter.
Here, just before he is crucified, Jesus is speaking metaphorically—no surprise—making reference to the destruction that is coming. He is the green wood; this much is clear. But whether the dry wood that is to burn is that of the disciples or that of Jerusalem at the hands of the Romans doesn’t really matter. It’s not even important that the destruction may well be not just from the Romans but from God.
What matters is this. At our worst moments, when we’ve hurt someone deeply—perhaps we’ve betrayed a trust, or maybe it was a white lie that got out of control, or even a cruel remark spoken with more anger than compassion—it is here that we confront the seedy “dry wood” underside of human nature. We are able to hurt each other. And we do. We are able to wound. And we do. We can even destroy.
As much as I want to believe in our essential goodness, created as we are in the image of God, I also know we are sinful, falling short of God’s glory. I don’t like to talk about sin, think about sin, or even for the most part acknowledge sin in myself or anyone else. But it’s there. And it has the ability to burn even the greenest wood, even the most immune, the most innocent, the most pure.
What will my last words be tonight? Will I light a fire, falsely accuse, deny, or hammer a nail? By Easter morning—dare I hope?—perhaps the embers will cool. Perhaps my life and yours will be redeemed, and we can bear witness to the goodness of the coming reign of God.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
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