“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
On Maundy Thursday
we sat around tables
out in the sunroom,
ate borscht (beet soup),
pondered Jesus’ last meal
with his disciples — the one where he breaks bread
and he washes feet —
and we shared stories
of important meals
and moments of footwashing
from our own lives.
My table dug deep into
the meals —
a neighborhood meal in the wake of fire,
meals that forged strangers into community,
wedding banquets of starched New Englanders eating plated Ethiopian food,
or the one where the chicken was dry
but everyone — for the first time — managed to get along.
On Thursday,
my table never got to the footwashing,
until later in the evening
when we were actually
kneeling down,
washing one another’s feet.
But, I do have a footwashing story,
of sorts.
It’s of a footwashing that hasn’t happened, yet.
One just talked of once-in-awhile
over wine after the kids go to bed.
I’m not sure how exactly it comes up,
but my husband Matt asks,
and I promise,
that when he dies,
before they take him away,
I will wash his body.
We really know how to have
a good time, huh?
But, I guess this is what happens
when you are a hospice chaplain
and a pastor — when you sit
at bedsides for a living.
Death becomes a real thing
in your future, part of being human.
You plan for it,
kinda like your next vacation,
or your next kid.
You see it done well
and not so well.
And, you know that life continues, again,
on the other side.
“I want you to wash me,”
Matt asks.
“Yes. I will do it,”
I promise.
I have already imagined it.
Kind of like dreams,
the details don’t make a ton
of sense.
We are in our last apartment.
The pepto pink tile is distinct.
With help, I carry him from our bedroom
and place him into the tub. There,
we are left alone
one last time. I bathe him
from head to toe
just like his mother bathed him
for the first time
when he was born,
not neglecting an inch.
I can’t tell if I cry.
But, I know I am grieving.
I know it is the longest bath
he has ever taken.
I will lock the door
until I am good and ready.
There are years of love —
of flirt and babies and door-slams
and I’m sorries and I forgive you
and laughs and adventures
and losses and foundings
in that bathtub —
and so,
I will wash that body.
From head to toe.
“Why do you look for the living
among the dead?”
I get their point, these
angelic snazzle dazzles
here in Luke.
Jesus has said he will rise,
so why are the women there
looking for the body?
Jesus is alive, not dead.
Except, where else would they be?
Risen or not,
dead or not.
When there has been so much life
there — and so much death:
that’s where you go.
When there has been so much healing there
and so much feeding there
and so much revolution there
and so much future there;
When there has been so much pain there
and so much terror there,
and so much suffering there,
and so much, so much death there
and so much love there,
that’s where you go.
You go with your spices
that you’ve been up all night preparing,
and your body that has not slept
for three days.
You go with a broken heart
that is so full it feels like it will
bust out of your chest.
You go first thing,
ready to anoint,
to touch, to care for that body
one more time.
And there,
at early dawn: resurrection finds you.
Or, the next day.
Or, the next.
Or, the next.
But, it finds you.
Those first breaths of new life.
Confusing, at first.
Disorienting.
Where’s the body? Where did it go?
But then, resurrection:
it will call you by name — like in John.
Or, find you on the road,
and eat a meal with you — like in Luke.
It will whisper: do not fear —
like in Matthew.
It goes ahead of you, making a way —
like in Mark.
The snazzle dazzle angels
mean well. After all,
they have good news!
Yes, we know,
Jesus is not dead, he’s alive.
Bling! Bling!
Duh. We’ve heard the story before,
or at least know generally how it goes.
And, it seems, so do these women.
For, they do not come out of fear
or coercion, or — it seems — obligation,
unless we are talking about obligation
of the heart. Because, clearly:
they come out of love.
There are years of love —
meals and healings and feet washed,
and betrayals and I forgive yous,
and revolutions and crosses,
losses and foundings —
in those hearts.
They grieve
because they love —
a Love that has been strung up, nailed to a tree
and buried with death in the ground
and could, would not be contained.
A Love that will call them by name,
meet them on the road, over a meal,
whisper: do not fear,
and going ahead, make a way.
Ever their future.
Women and men go this morning,
with spices prepared, not yet slept,
hearts broken and bursting,
first thing, ready to anoint,
to touch, to care for those bodies —
bodies in Brussels and Nigeria and on the streets across our country —
one last time:
and resurrection meets them there.
Our neighbors go this morning,
with spices prepared, not yet slept,
hearts broken and bursting,
first thing, ready to anoint,
to touch, to care for those bodies —
bodies living in tombs of homelessness
or walking the streets in fear
of deportation or no-cause eviction
or their trailer park home
being sold from under them —
in love, one last time,
or one more time:
and resurrection meets them there.
We come this morning,
spiced prepared, sleep deprived
hearts broken and bursting,
first thing, ready to anoint,
to touch, to care for
all we’ve lost,
all we love —
one last time,
or one more time:
and resurrection meets us here.
Or the next day,
or the next.
Confusing, at first.
Disorienting.
Those first breaths of new life
when we realize
that Love could not,
cannot,
will not
be contained.
Brothers and sisters,
with the women who come,
first thing, to the tomb,
we are a community
forged in returning, in love,
for the body. A community made
in the way of remembering
the One we’ve lost —
and there we are found
in water,
in bread and wine and neighbor.
It’s said that Christians are
Easter people.
Yes. I wonder if a more accurate
description is that we are
first thing in the morning,
early dawn people?
What does it mean
to be a community formed
on the way of grief?
It got me thinking, wondering, making promises —
it means we are a community
that can go anywhere.
We can enter tombs,
stand at the foot of crosses,
go to the centers of power,
sit by the bedside
or across the kitchen table,
get down on our knees
and wash some feet,
or carry the body into the tub
and bathe them, like their first bath,
every inch from head to toe —
because we’ve been there before
and we know that’s where death ends
and life begins again.
Resurrection always, always
meet us there.
Where are the bodies,
brothers and sisters?
Where are the tombs
in our streets, in our mosques,
in our schools,
in our neighborhoods?
Let us prepare the spices,
let us make our way…
God has already
rolled away the stone.
The razzel dazzels were right
and so were the women.
Christ is risen.
Christ is risen, indeed!
Alleluia!
+Amen and Alleluia!
Prepared for the people of Salt & Light Lutheran Church and Leaven Community, Portland, OR, Easter Sunday, March 27, 2016.
Spokin' in Portland 
Leave a comment