Spreading the news

After Like 24:1-12

 

Stunned. Overwhelmed.

The three women were

the first to hear the news.

Then they remembered

his words, but was he

really serious? He would

rise on the third day?

They hurried to tell

the others, the eleven and

the rest, with a not

entirely unexpected 

response: skepticism, 

doubts, perhaps a trace

of ridicule, surly this was

idle talk and speculative

rumor. A story, in other

words, a tale, and it was

somewhat cruel of them

to repeat it. But the one

called the rock listened;

something struck him

as true, and he raced

to the tomb, finding it

just as the women had

said. It was empty.

He was gone.

 

Photograph by Logan Weaver via Unsplash. Used with permission. 

Some Sunday Readings

 

Reading as Rebellion – Trevin Wax at The Gospel Coalition.

Christianity in China – Ndrew Wilson at Tabletalk.

Field of Bounty and of Grief – Steven Searcy at Mere Orthodoxy. Related: Four Poems from The Locust Years by Paul Pastor – Rabbit Room Poetry.

“On Shakespeare. 1630,” poem by John Milton – Sally Thomas at Poems Ancient and Modern.

How Adam Zagajewski “Accidentally” Wrote the Definitive 9/11 Poem – Elaine Wang at Literary Hub.

How the West Lost Its Soul – Paul Kingsnorth at The Free Press.

Two men, dazzling

After Luke 24:1-12 

The women stood

by the empty tomb,

perplexed that

the body was gone,

unsure what to do

next. Suddenly,

with no warning,

two men were

there, their clothes 

dazzling and blinding

in brilliance. Frightened,

the women gathered

together, bowing 

to the ground before

the men. The men speak:

do not seek the living

among the dead; remember

what he told you long

before, that he would be

betrayed, he would be

brought before sinful

men and judged, that

he would be condemned

and killed. But then 

there would be 

a third day.

This was

the third day.

This is 

the third day.

 

Photograph by Gavin Allenwood via Unsplash. Used with permission.

Some Friday Readings

 

The Power of Prayer Meetings – Paul Levy at Ligonier.

 

“Psalm 90,” poem by Mary Masters – D.S. Martin at Kingdom Poets.

 

“Jesus, Name All Names Above,” hymn by St. Theoctistus – Anthony Esolen at Word & Song.

 

Tender Feet – poem by Kimberly Beck at Rabbit Room Poetry.

 

When Death Draws Near – Greg Morse at Desiring God.

 

An empty tomb

After Luke 24:1-12 

The first day of the week,

the women return to the tomb,

bringing their spices and

ointments to prepare the body.

The stone covering the tomb

has been rolled away, leaving

the space open. The tomb is

empty, Stunned, shocked,

perplexed, the women see

the men arrayed in clothes

that dazzle and shine, telling

them not to seek the living

among the dead, that 

he is not here, 

he is risen, 

he is living,

just as he told you he would.

He kept his word.

The women are the witnesses,

the first to see an empty tomb.

The one who denied him,

three times, runs to see

for himself. What he sees:

only the strips of linen

remain.

 

Photograph by Nicolas Hans via Unsplash. Used with permission.

The stone rolled back

After Mark 16:1-8

The stone was rolled

in place, blocking

the small cave serving

as the tomb, blocking

entrance to the body,

shrouded. And guards

stationed in front,

to protect, what, 

the powers that were

from confronting

their sin.

Two women come, intent

on anointing the body within,

shrouded, but knowing

the stone is blocking and

the soldiers guarding. But

they see the stone

is already rolled back,

the soldiers have fled.

The open tomb beckons.

Inside, the body, shrouded,

is gone, its absence shouting.

A young man sits, and

tells them he is gone.

The place where he was

is empty. He is gone.

He is not here.

Find him in Galilee;

the end is the beginning.

Photograph by Bruno van der Kraan via Unsplash.  Used with permission.

Three days

The rising sun erases

the parenthesis of Saturday

that last Sabbath

and so confusion

the earth shakes

reminder of Friday

guards cower as

a glowing white rolls

away the stone

what is left to death:

strips of linen

and emptiness

Sunday begins because

of what was not there.