Easter morning – I search my closet for something springy and find a little number I had forgotten about that I picked off a clearance rack where it hung due to a tear in the bodice. Did I mend that tear before hanging it in the closet? No, I did not. So, famously, there I am stitching the fraying fabric to its moorings in those last minutes before wanting to wear it. Because an important detail of Easter is the dress…
I did a bit of a perfunctory read of the resurrection stories that morning as well, before the scalloped potatoes went into the oven. Ever since a friend pointed out years ago the significance of women showing up at the graveside before anyone else, I have been drawn to that detail. There are four different writers who tell the story of that first Resurrection Sunday, and all four of these authors tell of women, not men, women, showing up at the graveside that morning, spices in hand. “Whether we like it or not, women were not regarded as credible witnesses in the ancient world”, writes N. T. Wright (Surprised By Hope). The fact that these in-credible witnesses are in these stories actually leads to a certain credibility of the stories. At that time, no one would make something like that up or add it into a story, because it would’ve taken away from the credibility of the account. N. T. Wright goes on to note that by the time Paul the apostle writes about the resurrection, he (Paul) has already bracketed out the detail about the women being the first witnesses (what is Paul’s deal with women anyway?!).
I read again about these women, these friends of Jesus who must have been numb and raw with grief after seeing their beloved friend executed at the hands of religious and political authorities, coming to the graveside with spices in hand to tend to the care of his dead body. They didn’t head to that hollowed out rock to see if Jesus had magically come back to life; they went to look after a detail of life expecting to find his dead body. They showed up with their spices to administer end of life care. They showed up. They showed up.
A bit further on in the resurrection narrative, there is the story of two guys walking along the road to the village of Emmaus which was about 11 km outside of Jerusalem. They were followers of the one who had just been executed, and they were talking about the events that had just occurred. As they walked, they were joined by a third dude who appeared to have no clue about what has just happened. The three of them walked and talked their way to Emmaus with this mysterious third explaining from the writings of Moses and the prophets what had just gone down. When they arrived home, they begged their fellow traveller to stay with them for the night. He obliges, and they sit down for some supper. When he offers thanks for the food and breaks the bread which he gives to them to eat, they recognize him – Jesus! He off and disappears on them then, but they knew who they had seen.
Again there is this ordinariness of living woven in with the extraordinary. The two guys don’t recognize Jesus by his smarts, by his command of the text, or by how well he could expound on these things. No, they recognize him when he serves them supper.
Is this resurrection? To accept hospitality? To extend hospitality? To break bread with people? To show up with my spices? To show up with my life? To show up to my life? Nothing loud, nothing flashy, simply a showing up to the ordinariness of living – maybe with an invite to tea, or by wiping a runny nose, or with a pot of soup or a loaf of bread, maybe by creating a piece of art or writing a poem or a song, or by paying a generous and genuine compliment to someone. Maybe showing up to my life is turning off all the outside noise and soaking long in the tub.
According to Rob Bell, we water down the richness of this pivotal celebration by calling it “Easter”. He suggests it is better called “Resurrection Sunday” (She Thought He Was the Gardener – Robcast). Elsewhere he talks further saying – “Resurrection says that what we do with our lives matters … every act of compassion matters, every work of art that celebrates the good and the true matters, every fair and honest act of business and trade, every kind word … every glimmer of good … it all matters.” (Resurrection: Rob Bell)
Sometimes this story of resurrection seems remote and other-worldly to me. It’s a story that can bring a measure of comfort when rubbing up close to death, but otherwise it seems to be a story that I’m encouraged to believe as though that belief in and of itself is the end in itself. Have I been duped? Have I truncated the story? Does it not make sense that a story about resurrection be about how I live, how I show up to my life, my very ordinary life? Rather than letting this story gather dust on the shelf with its emphasis on life beyond death, might I actually live this story while I’m living?
Life is busy. Life is mundane. But there is an invitation to show up – to show up in the busyness, in the mundaneness, to show up to my life, and as one poet aptly pens –
“… Practice resurrection” ~ Wendell Berry
