it's a family thing

Let’s play a little guessing game, shall we? After his resurrection what message does Jesus give Mary Magdalene to report to the disciples? Yes, you can cheat and look in your bible (John 20:17) but be prepared, it’s pretty awesome and a detail I never paid much attention to—until now.

. . . [Go] find my brothers and tell them that I am ascending to my Father and your Father, my God and your God.

In the past, I really hadn’t thought too much about those above words. But lately when I’ve read the resurrection story, I’ve been amazed by something. The very first message Jesus has for his disciples is all about relationship, namely ours, with his God and with his Father. 

Not only that, but when Jesus gives Mary the message he tells her to “go find his brothers” rather than referring to his followers as disciples or even his friends. Brothers and sisters signifies a deeper relationship, a stronger bond. It’s what Jesus’ mission and purpose were all about—to bring us back into the family, God’s family. 

You see Jesus had the right to call God his Father. The disciples knew that. They got it. Who could perform such miracles and preach with such authority unless God was truly with him?

And though in the beginning humans had the privilege of calling God our Father that relationship came undone in a garden. Think about it. God walked with Adam and Eve. He talked with them. He laughed with them—gave them gifts and things to do. In other words, they had a relationship. But as time marched on that bond began to unravel.

Adam and Eve got kicked out of the garden and that was just the beginning of the sad story about how we lost our Father—how we lost our God. Over time we fooled ourselves into thinking that God was a distant deity living in a land far, far away.

But when Jesus gave that first Easter message, we see what his whole calling, his whole purpose in life was about. He wanted to find God’s lost kids, namely you and I, and bring us home. 

. . . [Go] find my brothers and tell them that I am ascending to my Father and your Father, my God and your God.

I bet Jesus gave those instructions to Mary with a smile on his face. He had done it! He had reunited God and his children. Everything he’d come to do, every miracle he’d performed, every word spoken, the suffering, the cross, and now the empty tomb all led up to this miraculous event, Jesus brought us back into the family.

So when you sit in church this Sunday, and I hope you’re able to, don’t just skim over this central part of the Story letting it get lost in all the seemingly more important details. Don’t be deceived into thinking the instructions Jesus gave to Mary are trite and insignificant. Listen to them. Let them sink in. Jesus brought us back to God. Jesus brought us back to our Father. 

It’s the best family reunion ever and it gives me goose bumps just thinking about it. Hope it does the same for you. Happy Easter!

the sweetest victory

A few weeks back, the pastor of our congregation preached a sermon that got me to rethinking the whole death thing. You see, both my parents are gone now. Mom passed away two years ago on December 15^th. Dad died eight years ago this coming July. 

My parents died in very different ways. Dad’s was a sudden heart attack—an unexpected-out-of the-blue kind of death. Mom who had been sick virtually her whole life was told that her transplanted kidney was failing, put on hospice and died six months later. 

Neither was easy, as I’m sure you’re all aware of. It doesn’t matter how you lose a loved one, none of it is fun. Absolutely none.

I grieve over the loss of my parents for sure, but the sermon my pastor preached got me to rethinking who really has it the worst, my parents, or myself. As a person of faith, the answer is pretty obvious. I have it the worst. I do. My parents are done, they’ve lived their lives, they‘ve fought the good fight and finished their race. 

I’m not there. So I hurt, and cry and miss them. But in my faith I have to remember something; my parents are on the good side of heaven. You see, when my pastor mentioned that death is a victory for those who die in the faith, my ears and heart perked up a bit. I guess you could call it “a light bulb moment”—oh yea, they’re in a good place now. Somehow, thinking of my parent’s death as a victory lap makes missing them a little less painful.

A long, long time ago (I can say a long, long time ago now that I’m forty) I was a volunteer teacher in a Vacation Bible School class. One day, I was put in charge of teaching the lesson—a story from Acts Chapters 6-8. It’s the story of Stephen—the one who was stoned to death for telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it. 

As I read the story aloud, three very simple words caught my attention; [Stephen] fell asleep. Take a look for yourself:

  ⁵⁹ While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” ⁶⁰ Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he fell asleep.

I think I’ve shared this verse and my thoughts about it before. In fact, I know I have, but luckily for me my failing memory doesn’t recall what I wrote. So if this is a rerun, bear with me.

The story doesn’t say that Stephen died. It says that he fell asleep.  And that’s what I like best about it; Stephen fell asleep. Because, of course, if he’s fallen asleep, he will wake up again.

But I think the story gets even better. Stephen is done. He has fought the good fight. He has finished the race. So too, have my parents. It’s a much lighter burden realizing that my parents are living the good life now, not in Nebraska, but in eternity.

It makes the sorrow a little bit easier to bear and gives me hope for the day I will get to see them again. Sometimes it even brings a smile to my face knowing that my victory lap is drawing nearer, too. 

Coming home to heaven is like crossing the finish line after a long, often painful and grueling run. For those who enter the pearly gates, death is a victory not a defeat. That makes the loss a little bit easier to bear knowing that someday I’ll reach the finish line as well. And I have to tell you—that’s one victory lap I’m really looking forward to taking.

He is not here.

Matthew 28:5-7 The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."

He is not here; he has risen.

I traveled up to my hometown this past weekend. It was my niece’s confirmation and I wanted to be there for the important occasion and celebration. On Saturday, in between preparations, I slipped away to take a walk to the cemetery where Mom and Dad are both buried.  As I made my way along the path, a sort of sadness overtook me. And as I stood at their gravesides, I waited for the tears to come. But they didn’t.

He is not here; he has risen.

In the midst of my sadness a jolt of hope entered in. I remembered this well-known verse from the Easter season--a reminder from God and a promise: my parents weren’t there anymore either. Mom wasn’t there in that grave. Not the true part of her. Dad wasn’t either. They were gone to a much better place. Because of their faith in Jesus, my parents are very much alive. In a beautiful and perfect place that I can’t even begin to imagine.

He is not here; he has risen.

Yesterday morning, my little girl asked how old Grandma Toie is. Not how old she was when she died, but how old she is now. It would have been so easy to say, ‘Well, honey when she died she was seventy.’ And I nearly found myself saying those very words to her. But a small smile came to my lips and I realized that the faith of my child was strong and sure. Grandma Toie is very much alive. ‘She’s 71,’ I said. Satisfied with that answer Katie went back to eating her bowl of cereal. Then I asked her a question, ‘Do you suppose they celebrate birthdays in heaven?’ And we all agreed that, yes, they must.

He is not here; he has risen.

The other day, I told a story about when I was a little girl and did a very silly thing. Mom had made mint chocolate brownies, my favorite. One afternoon, while she was visiting with some of her friends, I snuck into the kitchen and found them and proceeded to eat half the pan. Half. When I had finished telling her the story, my daughter got a twinkle in her eye. “Mom, I can’t wait to get to heaven because I’m going to tell on you.”

“Tell on me?” I asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to tell Grandma Toie that you ate all those brownies.” Then she skipped off happy as could be in the knowledge that someday she would get to “tell on me.”

He is not here; he has risen.

Because Jesus lives, we also will live. Death will not have the final say. Someday, it will be swallowed up in victory. During this joyous Easter season may we, with child-like faith, trust and believe this most important message:

He is not here; he has risen.