The Risen King

We’ve spent these four Sundays leading up to Easter considering the dimensions of Jesus’ kingship. We’ve been poking around John’s account of Jesus’ Passion Week listening to the stories of people who were there. We’ve learned that Jesus is a lowly king, a servant king, and a suffering king. None of those adjectives sound very kingly. And when Jesus is riding a donkey’s colt instead of a stallion, washing the disciples’ feet instead of the disciples washing His, and willingly enduring suffering rather than dishing it out, well, Jesus doesn’t look like much of a king.

That all changes on Resurrection morning. That all changes in John 20, when Jesus Christ is raised from the dead. Jesus is the risen King. It was the resurrection of Jesus that caused His followers to take a second look at Jesus’ life and ministry. Maybe Jesus wasn’t just a Nazarene peasant with a bunch of new ideas. Maybe Jesus was more than just another martyr for a lost cause. He really is the Messiah King. This is Jesus’ followers’ conclusion: “Though in disguise, the eternal King was among us all the time.”

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I don’t know why I went to the tomb so early on Sunday morning. I couldn’t sleep. It was still dark. I guess I just had to be near him. I guess I just had to convince myself that it was true—that this was not just a nightmare from which I’d awake. Jesus is really dead.

On the way to tomb, I replayed it over and over in my mind. There are images of sights and sounds seared in my memory that I suspect will never go away.

· The shouts of the crowd: “Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!”

· The snap of the whip upon His back, coupled with the grimace on his face and the guttural groan rising out of the agony of bloody wounds that covered him from head to toe.

· The clank of the hammer on the nails driven into his hands and feet.

· The mocking crowd.

· The laughing soldiers throwing dice for his clothes, carrying on as if killing Jesus was no different than butchering a cow.

· I remember his gasping for every breath … his last breath.

I’m afraid to close my eyes lest I see it all over again. If I’m going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable at his grave. At least I will feel that I am close to him again.

It was dark and I was careful not to trip over a rock or a root as I made my way to the tomb where we had buried Jesus’ body just two nights before. But dark as it was, even from a distance, I could tell something was wrong. Things were not as we had left them Friday night. I could smell damp earth, cold rock from inside. Oh, no … the stone … someone has moved the stone! Were they afraid Jesus would become a saint, afraid His tomb would become a shrine? Wasn’t killing him enough? They can’t even let his body rest in peace. And where have they taken him? To toss him off a steep cliff? To bury him among the garbage at the town dump? Why disturb his body? His body is all I have left, and now it’s gone too?

I didn’t stay to investigate. I’ve got to tell Peter and John. I ran faster than I’d ever run in my life to find them. I banged my fist on the door. “Peter? John? Wake up. I’ve got terrible, terrible news!” Apparently they weren’t sleeping all that well either; they opened the door immediately. Gasping for breath, I fell into Peter’s arms. “Catch your breath,” he said, “and tell me what’s wrong.”

So I took a deep breath and said, “They’ve taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they’ve laid him.”

Their eyes got big. “What?”

“Somebody’s taken Jesus’ body and who knows where he is now.”

Without a word, they pushed right past me on a dead run to the tomb to check this for themselves. I followed as best I could. By the time I got there, they were just coming out of the tomb. I hadn’t thought to go in. But with daylight breaking, they could see at least a little bit. They told me they saw the linen burial cloths there. And strangely enough they found his head cloth folded and in its own place. They weren’t sure what to make of it. Nor was I. If someone stole his body, why take the time to unwrap the burial cloths? It made no sense. Our heads were spinning. Puzzled, Peter and John returned to their homes.

I stayed. I had come to the tomb to be near him, and even though he was no longer there, it’s the last place he was. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t know what to do next. I just stood there and cried like a baby.

Finally, I composed myself enough to stoop down and peek into the tomb. I saw what must have been two angels. “Why are you weeping?” they asked.

“Why am I weeping? They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have laid him.”

It never occurred to me that these angels might have done the taking, but I was not doing my best thinking in those moments. I was in something of a daze, I guess. So much so, that when I left the tomb I didn’t see the gardener either and bumped right into him. “Why are you weeping?” he asked. “Who are you looking for?”

“Sir,” I said, “if you’ve carried away my Lord, tell me where you’ve laid him, and I will take him away.” Like I said, I wasn’t thinking clearly. What was I going to do, pick him up all by myself, or ask the gardener to throw him over my shoulders? My request must have sounded rather silly, but the gardener didn’t seem to mind.

“Mary,” he said to me.

Hmm? I know that voice. I turned into the sun to get a better look. “Rabboni!” I said, “My Teacher!”

It was Jesus … alive! “Don’t hold on to me,” he cautioned, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father.”

“Don’t hold on to me?” What did that mean? I wasn’t holding on to him. And then, before I could respond, he gave me a job to do: “Go now to my brothers and tell them I’m ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”

Go? He told me to “go”? I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to be sure it was really him. We were together, and in those moments, that’s all that mattered to me. But he said, “Go.”

So I went. I took only a few steps and looked back, but he was gone. I don’t know if the disciples will even believe me. When I arrived at the house most of the disciples were there, buzzing about the empty tomb Peter and John had told them about, speculating about what it might mean. “Mary,” they said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, the Lord. I have seen the Lord.” And they stared at me as if I had two heads: stunned silence. I told them the things the Lord had told me. More silence. I don’t know if they believed me or not. And we sat in that room not sure whether to laugh or to cry or to shout for joy, without one clue as to what to do next. But we were certain of this—at least I was: things would never be the same again.

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Mary was right. Things were never the same. Jesus’ resurrection changed the course of history and the course of countless lives across the ages. So join me in worshiping Jesus Christ, the Risen King, on this Easter Day. All hail King Jesus! All hail!

Images of Easter

Sun rising in the east;
In spite of the cross, life goes on.

Morning dew glistening on the flowers in the garden.
Women making their way to Jesus’ tomb
to ready His body for its long, long rest.

What happened to the tomb?
Something’s wrong!
No! Something’s right!
Stone—rolled away; Jesus’ body—gone.
Angel-like men standing there with a message:
“Why do you seek the living among the dead?
Jesus is risen just as He said He would.”

Stunned, frightened, bewildered women race
To tell the disciples the story.

What does it mean?
Jesus wins.
Death loses.
Satan is thrown down.
Life is greater than death.
Hope is greater than despair.
And the living Jesus stands ready to share
that life with all who believe.

Easter in a nutshell … uh, tomb-shell:

Jesus Christ is Lord!

Hallelujah! Amen.

Let's Hear It for the Underdog!

Let’s hear it for the underdog! VCU and Butler? Are you kidding me? I know Butler made it all the way to the final game last year, and if not for a missed shot at the buzzer would have won it all. But two years in a row to the Final Four? Give me a break! What are the odds of that? And VCU? They lost eleven games during the regular season to mostly mid-major competition and they knock of King Kong Kansas to get the Final Four? No way. Yes way! And even though these two schools have pretty much busted everybody’s bracket, you can’t help but pull for them (unless, of course, they are playing your team). Too bad they have to play each other in the national semi-finals. Who knows? We could have had an 11-seed and an 8-seed in the championship game. But one of them will be there against a traditional basketball powerhouse: Kentucky or UConn. Whatever happens, it ought to be fun. And I bet that about the only folks who’ll be pulling for the UConn/Kentucky winner in the championship game are their own diehard fans. Most of America will be pulling for the underdog. Most of America always does.

What is it about the underdog that engenders such interest and support? Could it be that most of us feel like underdogs most of the time in our own lives? Could it be that we like to see the little guy win against all odds? Or maybe we just like it when the “script” gets interrupted by an unexpected and better storyline? There's a reason why Cinderella is a timeless story.

This weekend’s games got me to thinking about other underdogs that captured the imagination of sports fans everywhere.

• How about the New York Jets and their mouthy quarterback, Joe Namath, upsetting the Baltimore Colts giving the upstart AFL their first Super Bowl championship in only the third year of that game? Namath guaranteed it would happen. Everybody wrote him off as a nut case. It happened.

• How about the U.S. Hockey Team defeating the U.S.S.R. in the 1980 Olympics. It happened during the height of the Cold War. It happened while we still had a bunch of our citizens held hostage in Iran. It happened when American pride was taking a beating. And it happened against a team of professionals who were the heavy favorites to win the gold. I still remember Al Michaels’ comment as the game wound down, “Do you believe in miracles?” That’s what it felt like.

• And one of my personal favorites: the 1978 Orange Bowl—Oklahoma vs. Arkansas. Texas had lost earlier in the day and if Oklahoma won that game they would be crowned national champions yet again. Both teams had only one loss, but prior to the game Arkansas had suspended three of the top offensive players on the team. It looked like a disaster waiting to happen for the Razorbacks. But the Razorbacks played inspired, a reserve running back named Roland Sales ran for a then record 200+ yards against the vaunted Sooner defense, and the Hogs won 31-6. Let’s hear it for the underdog!

It happens in realms outside of the world of sports too, you know. Who would have believed the sophisticated, well-supplied military machine of the Soviet Union would go to war with a bunch of peasants in Afghanistan only to withdraw with their tail between their legs, limping back to Russia about ten years later? (Well, maybe we Americans would believe it now, huh?) And what about the church in China? When missionaries pulled out around the time of the communist revolution, the church in China was doing pretty well. But how would they fare without Western missionaries to teach and reach and train? How would they fare under a government that was committed to stamping them out by any and every means? Well, when the country opened up about 40 years later, visitors discovered that the Chinese church had grown into the millions. Let’s hear it for the underdog!

All this underdog talk got me to thinking of underdog stories in the Bible. And there are plenty. Most of us are familiar with young small David against Philistine giant Goliath. Talk about a mismatch! The Israelites were holding their collective breath in fear. Goliath and the Philistines were holding their collective sides in laughter. And yet David laid out that giant with a well placed rock from his slingshot right between Goliath’s eyes.

And what about Gideon? God told Gideon to crush the merciless Midianites and their oppressive rule over Israel. Gideon was from the smallest tribe in Israel, and he was the runt of the litter. He was fearful, doubtful, and weak. He did assemble a big army however, but by the time God pared that army down to size Gideon was left with only 300 men to fight a multitude of Midianites. You know the phrase, “to get an omelet you’ve got to break a few eggs”? Gideon’s tiny army broke a few jars and did something akin to the Confederate rebel yell, and those Midianites were so caught off guard that they started killing one another. Mission accomplished for the underdog.

And in the New Testament we bump into a few underdogs as well. You remember the woman with the 12-year hemorrhage who’d spent all her money on doctors and for nothing? She got no better; she only got worse. And she thought maybe if she could get to Jesus, He could heal her. The best she could do was squeeze through the crowd and just get a hand on the hem of His robe. Nobody would have given her a chance of getting better on no more than that … but she got better; she got well.

And then there’s the woman the Pharisees caught in adultery and paraded to Jesus for a ruling on what was an open and shut case. They caught her in the act; the law said to stone her. She didn’t have a prayer. But she had Jesus. And Jesus essentially said, “So stone her already, and whoever has never sinned can throw the first stone.” They threw their stones all right. They threw them down on the ground and walked away. Jesus forgave her sin. And this woman on the edge of death walked away alive and free.

These are all good underdog stories, but I think my favorite might be Jesus vs. Death. We know the story, so it doesn’t catch us by surprise. But had we been eyewitnesses to these events in that day we would have been as shocked, stunned, and amazed as everybody else. Sure, Jesus had raised the dead in His ministry: He took a dead little girl’s hand in His and lifted her back to life. He touched a dead young man being carried out to his grave, and the young man sat up in his casket. Then Jesus called forth Lazarus who had been dead and buried some four long days. Lazarus came forth from his tomb looking something like the mummy. Jesus told the folks to unwrap him and set him free. Lazarus had supper with his sisters that night. So Jesus raised the dead in His ministry. He didn’t do it much, but He did do it some.

And that was the problem. Now that Jesus was dead, who would raise Him? Who would take Him by the hand? Who would touch Him on His way to the grave? Who would call Him forth from His hillside tomb? Who indeed? That’s why the disciples and all who were close to Jesus assumed that when they took His dead body off the cross and put that dead body in the tomb, the story was over. It was nice while it lasted. Jesus did a lot of good. Those who followed Him would have some good memories. But Jesus ended up like everyone ends up—dead as one of the nails they used to pin Him to the cross, and six feet under.

But like I said, we know the story. And early in the morning, on the third day, Jesus rose from the dead. Nobody saw Him come out of the tomb, but a lot of people saw the empty tomb and later saw the risen Jesus with their own eyes. They saw Him, they touched Him, they heard His voice. It was Jesus. The nail scars gave Him away. It was Jesus and the one who was dead is alive evermore. Something like that had NEVER happened before. Death had always won the day. Rich, poor, every color, every language, every person—didn’t matter. Death played no favorites, cut no one any breaks. You could run from death but you could not hide. Sooner or later, Death would track you down and take you down and that was that! Death caught up to Jesus on a cross. Death took Jesus down. But Death could not keep Jesus down. Jesus rose from the grave—the first-fruits for all who believe. Jesus rose from the grave, and all the power of death is dead.

Yes, of all the great underdog stories I’ve enjoyed, this is my favorite because it didn’t just matter in the moment; it matters forever.

An Easter Reflection on Death

Rising out of Hades like smoke from a smoldering fire,
roaming the earth with sickle in hand,
reaping one person after another
with no respect for age or race or creed or position,
Death has done his dirty work.

Death: an equal opportunity destroyer.

But descending from heaven came One
who had the courage and power
to look Death in the eye and say "No!"

"No! You can't have Jairus' daughter. Get up, child!”
And she did!

"No! You can't have this widow's son.
Come out of the casket, boy,
and kiss away your mama's tears."
And he did!

"No! Not even four days' death can seal your grip.
Lazarus, come forth!"
And he did!

It seemed as if Death had met has match.

Until …

Until one Friday.
A crown of thorns.
Nails in hands and feet.

"Crucified," they called it.
And with his ever insatiable appetite,
Death swallowed up
the One who had spit in his eye;
the only One who had been able to say "No!" to him
and have His way.

Jesus: dead and buried:
stone cold dead,
dead as the nails they pounded through His hands and feet.
Dead—no heartbeat, no pulse, no breath. Dead.
And buried:
hastily wrapped in death rags
and layed in a borrowed tomb—
a tomb sealed with a heavy stone.

Stick a fork in Him;

He's done.

Now Death, drunk with power,
reclined in his Lay-Z-Boy
after his best day at work.
Wine glass in hand,
he offered himself a toast:
"To me!" he said.
"I am more powerful than God!
I have done battle with His Son,
and won the victory!"

Oh, really?

Think again, Death.
Sunday dawned,
and God stomped so hard on Death
that the earth shook,
and the stone rolled away.
And from an empty tomb an angel said
to women who had come to anoint Jesus' dead body:
"Why do you seek the living among the dead?
"He is not here;
"He is risen, just as He said."

Death is swallowed up in victory!
And we who know the Victor share in the spoil of His war.
So Jesus, not Death, gets the last word,
and that word is "Eternal Life."
For Death has met his match,

he's lost his stinger,
and all the power of Death is dead.