For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve. … Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me. 1 Corinthians 15:3-5,9
The sky outside my window is low and grey. I can see snow misting the mountains. The glory of Easter weekend, warm and ripe with the promise of spring, has faded.
But the glory of the Resurrection has not.
“He is risen!” cried those first witnesses.
Three days before, the very same people had been crushed, broken, destroyed. The One they loved and had given their lives to, the One they thought was God’s Messiah, had been arrested, tortured, crucified, before their eyes. They ran like hunted rabbits, hid in whatever hole they could find, listening in shivering terror for the tramp of the Temple guard outside their locked doors. They had no hope, no faith, no future.
Then, came the miracle of miracles. Jesus stood before them—healed, whole, real. They saw Him, heard Him, touched Him. He assured them of God’s amazing promise: because He lived, they would, too. Death was defeated. Eternal life was real. He was the evidence.
So transformed were they that they ran back through the same streets through which Jesus had staggered to the cross, to the Temple where His enemies had plotted against Him, to those enemies, themselves. The rabbits had become lions, roaring in victory.
“He is risen, indeed!” they cried. “We have seen Him! Say you’re sorry!”
Frightened in their turn, the Temple authorities arrested the witnesses, threated them, told them to be quiet.
“Do what you will,” they replied, “we cannot help telling what we have seen and heard.” (See Acts 4:5 ff.)
Nothing—not beating, not torture, not crucifixion, not burning, not even real lions—ever shut them down again. Two thousand years later, we Christians still believe their witness because it cost them everything to proclaim it.
The message of the Resurrection is the bedrock of our faith, the anchor of our hope that no one and nothing can rip away, (Hebrews 6:19), a message that has endured the church’s own flaws and failures, as well as everything the world has thrown at it for two thousand years.
It endures still.
So we Christians celebrate still, no matter what. We join with Paul, himself a witness and a proclaimer, to cry:
“Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” 1 Corinthians 9:15
First published in “Bozeman Daily Chronicle,” April 18, 2021
So much has changed in 75 years. The sad history of what happened after one half of the planet encountered the other has so overwhelmed Columbus’ story that the holiday I celebrated as a child (“Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred ninety two”) is almost embarrassing to modern American culture. Many places have even changed its name.
But I hope you’ll indulge this old lady her upbringing and allow her to look at this day from the perspective of the explorer and his crew.
Imagine yourself on a small, fragile, wooden ship—70 feet long, 23 feet wide–sailing a huge, unknown ocean with sails as your only power. You are at the mercy of wind and current, as well as the limited wisdom of your navigator. You get what sleep you can on the open rocking deck, washed by the occasional wave. You have one hot meal a day, if you’re lucky, of skimpy food eaten wherever you can find a place to sit. You strain your eyes and your senses, desperately looking for land but can find none.
Twenty days go by. Thirty. You begin to doubt yourself, the men you sail with, your captain. There may be no land ahead. You could sail forever. Starve to death. Die of thirst.
It was a test of faith and endurance. They very nearly failed it.
On October 10, Columbus wrote in his log, “they could stand it no longer. I reproached them for their lack of spirit.”
“…an all-out mutiny threatened. … Apparently, a bargain was struck whereby the men agreed to sail on for three more days, and Columbus agreed to turn back if no land was sighted in that time.” (“Columbus and the Age of Discovery”, Zvi Dor-Ner.)
On the very next day, the crew saw reeds and a carved stick float by. That night, Columbus saw a light “like a little wax candle, bobbling up and down” to the west. Later, a sailor on the Pinta thought he saw land in the moonlight. They tacked back and forth, waiting for daylight. Was it land at last or their too-eager imaginations? After all, they’d had other sightings…which turned out false.
At dawn on October 12th, after 33 days and nights at sea, they finally saw what they longed for—an island they christened San Salvador. A whole world, a culture as ignorant of them as they were of it, awaited. And the world was changed forever.
The goal they sought was a mere two days ahead …and they almost missed it.
In this strangest of strange years, it feels as if we, too, have been on a long sail across uncharted waters. Storm after storm rocks our fragile craft; we’ve lost all our landmarks. We don’t know where land is or even what it will look like when we get there. We’re worn and weary, not sure we trust our Navigator. The temptation, as it was for them, is to give up.
But the relief, the answers, the end we so desperately seek could be as close for us as it was for those old Spanish sailors.
How was your Christmas season? Whether it was busy and exciting or quiet and nostalgic, I hope you had a “God moment”—a time when you knew He was real and He was really with you, no matter what. A moment that, as C. S. Lewis put it, you were “surprised by joy.”
I believe that, in His compassion and grace, God reveals Himself in ways uniquely suited to each one of us. He came to my scientific husband most clearly in the calculations and astronomy of “The Star of Bethlehem.” He comes to me best in music and poetry. Words that sing of His presence.
So my special moment happened on the Sunday before Christmas as I was flipping through the TV channels, looking for something seasonal. I stumbled on a show about the composer George Frederich Handel and his writing of “Messiah.”
Now I have a long and happy history with that glorious piece of music, starting with the world-famous “Hallelujah Chorus” with which we finished our high school Christmas concert every year. When we sang more of the full oratorio in college, “Messiah” began to move me from performance into faith. The chorus, “For Unto Us a Child is Born,” filled my eyes with tears and choked me up so much I could hardly sing.
It was the first time I realized who Jesus was.
And here was the story behind “Messiah.” Music and history—my passions. Of course I stayed to watch.
I was fascinated to learn Handel wrote his famous oratorio during the darkest period of his life, when he faced failure and bankruptcy. Moreover, his collaborator was dealing with depression and the suicide of a beloved brother. His favorite lead singer was traumatized by abuse and scandal. The themes of darkness and light, of hope and despair, of suffering, rejection and eventual triumph woven into the composition had deeply personal and emotional roots for all the artists involved.
No wonder I was so moved.
But God had another surprise.
Unsure of the “Messiah’s” reception in London, its first performance had been in Dublin, Ireland. The composer and musicians decided to donate the proceeds to a fund for the relief of people trapped in debtors’ prison.
Eighteenth-century prisons were horrible places—cold, dark, damp, filthy, crowded, full of disease and abuse of all kinds. The show depicted such a prison– stone walls, filthy straw-covered floor, ragged, dirty, people sitting in complete despair. As the chorus “Lift Up Your Heads, O Ye Gates” was sung, the iron gates suddenly swung open and the stunned inmates were ushered out, blinking, into the sunshine of the courtyard. They stepped forward, one by one, as the jailers read their names and amount of their debt, crossing each person off the list and pushing a stack of coins across the table. Overwhelmed by joy, the freed prisoners ran into the arms of their waiting families.
“Jesus paid a debt He didn’t owe,” said the narrator, “because we owed a debt we couldn’t pay.”
It was the clearest picture of redemption I have ever seen. And of the glorious reunion at the gates of heaven when, freed and forgiven, we stagger into the arms of our waiting loved ones…to live forever.
“And that,” whispered the Voice to my heart, “is what Christmas is about—not Santa and presents and ho-ho-ho. Not even a celebration of love and good feeling, nice as that is. I came—not just to love the world, but to redeem it.”
When the show finished with “Hallelujah” as sung in different languages and different ways by people around the world, I got a glimpse of the glorious Christmas moment yet to come “when every knee shall bow…and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord…” (Philippians 4:10)
“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered…” (Jesus) Luke 12:6,7 NIV
Do you doubt that? Yeah, me, too. How can the Lord of the measureless universe care about me at all, let alone the smallest concerns of my life?
A recent devotional reading suggested we fight that doubt by noting the little ways God shows us His love.
My first entry is a lulu.
Have patience with the details here. They turn out to be important.
It was 4th of July weekend—a holiday for many but a normal Friday for me. My “to do” list included buying groceries, getting some cash for the Farmers’ Market, and, looking at the stuff piled up in the garage, taking in the recycling.
I live in between two towns about ten miles apart. I’ve been doing the first two items in the smaller town—easier on a Friday afternoon—but the recycling in the bigger one.
Surely, I thought, the smaller town must have a place. I googled it, got a company and an address, loaded up my car and set off, only to find Google was wrong. The company no longer existed.
What now? I wasn’t going to unload all that stuff again. I couldn’t just keep going, either; I could hardly see out of my car. With a sigh, I went to the bigger town, only to find the first recycling place closed for the weekend. Third try: Wal-Mart. Success at last.
By this time, the afternoon was getting late. Should I just go home? No, I needed the cash as well as the groceries. With a frustrated sigh, I re-traced my steps.
Groceries bought at last, I chatted with a friend from church as I stood in line at the bank counter, while the teller smiled and handled his business.
My turn. I slid my check and drivers’ license over the desk.
“Did you know your license is expired?” she asked.
What? Sure enough, there it was. It had expired on my birthday back in April. I had no idea–and neither had all the people who been looking at it since then. Only this sharp-eyed teller had taken the time.
I ran home and checked the Department of Motor Vehicles website. Good news: I had three months’ grace period. Bad news: the first appointment I could get at our licensing station was August 28. I would have to go in Monday morning, hoping they could fit me in.
So there I was at opening time on Monday with a small group of other folks…most of us without appointments. They gave us a form and a number.
When I finally got to the desk, the clerk looked at my license and gasped. “You could be in serious trouble here.”
“Don’t I have three months?”
“No,” she replied. “It’s—90–days.” We added it up. My birthday is April 9; today was July 8. 30 days in April minus 9 = 21; plus 31 in May = 52; plus 30 in June = 82 days; plus 8 days in July. Grand total: 90 days!
Now all those unimportant details became critically important. If I’d decided to go home on Friday, or decided to shop at a different store, if I’d gone at a different time, hadn’t chatted with my friend who just happened to be there, giving the teller time to look, or had a different teller, I’d have been too late. My license would’ve been cancelled. In Montana, that means complete re-testing—written and driving. Since such tests are only done with appointments, I’d have to wait until the end of August before I could drive again!
The Nazis invaded Norway on the day I was born. Before I was two months old, Poland fell, ending the so-called “phony war.” Europe was crumbling like a piece of rotten wood; England was hanging on by the tips of its fingernails; Japan was sweeping through Asia, crushing its subjugated peoples with sadistic brutality. I was about 18 months old when the bombs fell on Pearl Harbor.
I grew up in a world at war. One of my earliest memories was praying with my mother for “the soldiers and sailors overseas.”
I didn’t know what it meant. At age 3 or so, I had a dim idea of what soldiers and sailors were but I remember wondering about “overseas.” Was it a place? If so, where was it? And why did people there need prayer?
Many a child of my age throughout the war-torn world knew only too well what we were praying for, why we prayed, as they trembled in bomb shelters, fled as refugees, knew hunger as I have never known it.
I met some of them the other evening.
Flipping through the channels on a rainy afternoon, I stumbled on a PBS special called, “America’s Finest Ambassadors.” Did you happen to see it?
Germans of my age shared their memories of the names and the faces of American GI’s who had showed them kindness and compassion at the end of the war, sharing their rations in a time of great hunger, protecting and helping them, playing with them, giving them candy bars and gum. One battalion stationed in bomb-wrecked Berlin even held a Christmas party, complete with a turkey dinner and gifts of candy, for 200 children of their neighborhood. 75 years later, their eyes filled with tears and voices with emotion. They are still grateful.
I, too, found myself moved to tears. I was so proud of those young men whose faces filled my TV screen—ordinary boys from ordinary backgrounds, fresh off the horrors of the battlefield, who could show such compassion for the hungry, frightened, traumatized children of the enemy.
They were real soldiers who had just fought a real war, war that demanded terrible things of them. What they had seen and done there would haunt them forever.
But they were good men who had fought for the future, for the children of the world…and I was one of those children. They gave their lives, their health, their safety, their innocence so we wouldn’t have to. They bequeathed us a better life than they could ever have dreamed of.
I pray my life was worthy of that sacrifice.
For on this Memorial Day, I look back…and like those Germans, I am grateful. And humbled.
It was a cold rainy Saturday morning. December 1983. My first time to Europe, to Paris, to Notre Dame. I walked through the west doors under the famous sculpture-covered arches and was stunned to silence. The vaulted ceiling curved high overhead, the arcades along sides spread into candlelit gloom, the central aisle stretched away in front of me. It was immense. Quiet. Awe-inspiring.
Then I got to the “crossing” where the arms of the church meet… and stopped dead, speechless.
For at the end of the transepts on either side of us glowed the huge rose windows in all their red and blue glory. I thought of the all devotion, the artistry, the skill which created this wondrous sight, all the history this place had seen and survived. I was moved to tears.
I’ve been to Paris many times since then and gone to Notre Dame every time. It became my place to go on that first afternoon when I was too jet-lagged to go anywhere unfamiliar, a special spot to simply sit and absorb the ageless beauty.
So, like the rest of the world, I was shocked and horrified to see it burning last Monday. Someone said it was “like a punch to the gut.” Yes, that was the feeling. I could hardly believe something that had survived so much for so long might not survive me.
Despite the inferno which consumed the 12th century “forest” of trusses and beams under the roof, the flames shooting hundreds of feet in the air, the collapse of the spire at the very top of the cathedral, Tuesday morning revealed the cathedral, though deeply wounded, was not destroyed. The ancient walls still stand. Most of the relics and treasures were rescued. Even the rose windows I so cherish survived—something I think is pretty close to a miracle.
But that wasn’t all that survived.
In scrolling through the photos posted after the fire, I came across this one.I noticed something a sharp-eyed commentator on the evening news also did. What do you see first? What stands out to you beyond the gloomy scene, the heap of blackened rubble?
The cross. The golden cross behind the altar glows brightly as ever.
I was reminded of the cross formed by the steel beams in the wreckage of the World Trade Center, the huge face of Jesus I saw painted on the underside of the onion domes in the Kremlin. To me, they all whisper: “I’m still here. No matter how bad things look, how far My people have wandered from Me, I’m still here. I have not abandoned or forsaken you. And I will prevail.”
“The cross has the final word,” writes Cody Carnes in a recent song with the same title,
“The cross has the final word
Sorrow may come in the darkest night
But the cross has the final word. …
The Savior has come with the morning light
The cross has the final word. …
He traded death for eternal life
The cross has the final word.”
What a message for Holy Week! No matter how dark things look in the world or in my own life, God is still in control. And He has the victory.