Daybreak

Sensing rather than seeing the columns of tall evergreen trees along the path, our small church family made its way in the dark toward the beach. We had come to celebrate Easter with a traditional sunrise service, however, winding our way through the woods in predawn darkness felt far from traditional. It felt humbling, even a bit perilous, to journey in the dark to the untamed shoreline of a coastal island so we could worship the risen Christ.

I couldn’t help but think about the two women making their way in the darkness to the tomb of Jesus. Not only were they surrounded by the gloom of the waning night, their hearts were also darkened with grief and loss. By the time they arrived at the garden, a thin gray light had begun to seep up from the horizon, revealing the darker forms of rocks and trees, and the looming cliff face where the tomb had been carved out.

Daybreak is a strange thing. It happens without measurable progress, beginning as a mere lessening of darkness until the moment when the sun edges over the horizon to flood all in its sphere with light and life. Perhaps for the two women coming to Jesus’ tomb, daybreak came as a herald of the dawning of a new era. In the increasing light of dawn they saw the stone rolled away from the tomb; the first rays of sunlight revealing its empty interior. Then to verify what they saw as reality, an angel said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!” (Luke 24:5 NIV)

Could the beginning of each new day ever be the same for these women? With every sunrise the brilliant reality of Jesus’ resurrection would dawn anew in their hearts, the power of His indestructible life flooding theirs with light, joy and hope.

Once on the beach that Easter morning, our small congregation stood silently on the sand facing the ocean. With each wave whispering on the shore, the deep rose flush of dawn pried apart sea from sky until the whole expanse filled with the glory of God’s light. For those of us who rarely witnessed a sunrise, its beauty indelibly imprinted on our hearts the scripture recited by our pastor.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on His shoulders. And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (Isaiah 9:2, 6)

The whole earth is full of resurrection reminders. Each spring when new life emerges from dormant winter, each baby born from a dark womb, every morning sunrise breaking the hold of night, is a picture of rebirth. The resurrection of Jesus Christ has given us new life and the sure promise of eternity with Him. He has broken the bonds of death for all who believe in Him. His light has dawned.

“Let us acknowledge the Lord; let us press on to acknowledge Him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.” (Hosea 6:3)

A Sword and a Saviour

Malchus’ eyes stung in the smoky haze of many torches, and his ears rang with the clang of boots and weapons. He let himself be carried along by the crowd of soldiers and temple guards streaming through the gate into the olive garden. Leading the way was a man called Judas Iscariot, purported to be a follower of the revolutionary they were sent to find. Malchus’ master, the high priest, had ordered him to witness the arrest and make sure the prisoner was brought immediately to him.

Malchus expected armed resistance, or at least a search for the fugitive and his men. Instead he saw a man robed as a rabbi walking purposefully toward them out of the gloom. A few men followed him, some with swords at their sides. When Judas Iscariot approached the rabbi and kissed him on the cheek, Malchus heard the man say, “Friend, would you betray me with a kiss?” Judas then slunk back behind the crowd.

“Who is it you want?”, asked the rabbi.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” was the reply.

“I am he,” Jesus said. At those words the whole company of men stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Malchus felt as if a mighty hand had pushed him from his feet, where he lay for a moment in a daze. He expected the rabbi and his men to use the opportunity to run, but the question came again, “Who is it you want?”

Unnerved, his captors restated as they got to their feet, “It is Jesus of Nazareth.”

“I told you I am he. If you are looking for me, then let these men go.”

Looking into the resolute face of the rabbi, Malchus thought, “he is about to be arrested and yet he protects his men? What kind of man is this?”

The rabbi’s men drew closer, ready to defend their leader at a moment’s notice.

Malchus didn’t see it coming until it was too late. A sword flashed in torchlight, sudden, searing pain smote the right side of his head, then his hand come away holding the scrap of his ear drenched in blood. The soldiers around him bristled as Jesus commanded the man who attacked him, “Put away your sword! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

Turning his powerful gaze on Malchus, the rabbi placed his hand over the streaming wound where his ear used to be. He felt a tingling warmth, then the cessation of pain. Never taking his eyes from Jesus, he tentatively raised his fingers to feel a whole, healthy ear attached to his head. His hand came away clean, no blood staining his palm. Before he could speak, the soldiers surged around him to grab the rabbi, bind him roughly and drag him out of the garden.

After the rabbi’s crucifixion and burial, Malchus heard rumors whispered around his master’s house, rumours that Jesus was not really dead, that his tomb was empty because he had come back to life and had been seen by many. These rumors caused his master, the high priest, many sleepless nights. But they were more than rumours to Malchus. They were confirmation of the truth that the healing touch he experienced in the olive garden belonged to none other than Jesus, the Messiah, now his Lord and Savior.

(based on John 18:1-11 NIV)

© Valerie Ronald and scriptordeus 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Valerie Ronald and scriptordeus with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Solitary Seed

I was given an amaryllis bulb as a gift one winter. When I planted and nurtured the bulb, it produced a long stem with four large, red, lily-like blooms at the top. I enjoyed the exotic flowers for several weeks before they died off. In order for the bulb to produce flowers again it needed to have a dormant period of several months in cool darkness without water. Having never grown an amaryllis before, I found myself checking the bulb as it rested, sure it must be dead. But when replanted and cared for, it grew and bloomed again even more beautifully.

Within the darkness of a garden tomb lay a Seed, fallen to the ground and dead, like a kernel of wheat. “I tell you the truth: unless a grain of wheat is planted in the ground and dies, it remains a solitary seed. But when it is planted, it produces in death a great harvest.” (John 12:24 The Voice)

This Seed, called Jesus, endured vile abuse and death. His body was not dormant; not in some inactive state of reduced metabolic activity. He was actually dead. For three days His corpse lay cold in the darkness of the grave.

Then in the hidden depths, a supernatural germination occurred; a transformation from earthly body to glorified. Life shed the husk of death, bursting forth like a fresh green shoot. Stale air was stirred with an intake of breath, the whisper of a burial shroud discarded on stone. The Seed, planted in death, was now unleashed to begin a great harvest.
“But God raised Jesus and unleashed Him from the agonizing birth pangs of death, for death could not possibly keep Jesus in its power.” (Acts 2:24)

Because of His resurgence after death, we too are given opportunity for new birth. But not without dormancy. First our spirit, that part made to be responsive to God, is dormant. Muffled in darkness, cold to His breath of life upon us, sin’s inertia keeps us stuck in the dirt. When a crack of light seeps into the darkness, we begin to rouse, to stir to the hardly believable possibility of life beyond this confining skin. The agony of cracking open the dry shell of our earthly existence is a small but necessary death. Offering the brittle roots of brokenness to God, we minutely share in His crucifixion. It is what is necessary to absorb the life of Jesus into our own, thereby living anew.
“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” (Galatians 2:20 NIV)

Without dormancy, the amaryllis would not bloom again. Without the death of Jesus, suffered willingly so we might be restored to God, we would never bloom in new, eternal life with Him. “Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!” (2 Cor. 9:15)

 

 

 

 

Burden of Innocence

Drawn by the roar of an excited mob, Simon stepped out from a narrow Jerusalem street into a scene of mayhem. He had traveled  far from his home in Cyrene to celebrate Passover on the Temple Mount, never expecting to come upon such chaos on a Feast day.

Fists punching the air, voices yelling invectives, the crowd surged closer to the entrance of the Praetorium. Simon found himself absorbed in the seething throng, jostled and pushed until he was thrown up against the open gate.

The object of the crowd’s ridicule hardly seemed worth their fury. Surrounded by a company of Roman soldiers, a man beaten and bloodied beyond recognition struggled under the burden of a heavy beam. Simon winced at the gruesome sight of the prisoner’s back laid open by brutal flogging and his limbs purple and swollen from countless blows. He had seen condemned prisoners before but none tortured so viciously. The man’s face was a mass of open flesh where his beard had been plucked out; his brow gouged by the long, cruel thorns pressed on his head. Blood filled the hollows of his eyes, running down his chin to pool on the paving stones at his feet. Simon thought of his sons, Alexander and Rufus,  relieved they were not here to witness this atrocity.

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”, screamed the mob while soldiers goaded the prisoner forward through the gate. His clothing hung in bloodied shreds, still Simon recognized  remnants of the tasseled stole of a rabbi. Could this be the rabbi he had heard stories about ever since he arrived in Jerusalem? The one rumored to have healed the sick and raised the dead? Some even linked the title Messiah to his name. Surely he did not deserve this inhuman treatment.

Simon wanted to shut out the awful procession; close his eyes to the pain and blood, his ears to the labored gasps for air, his nose to the reek of sweat, but he could not. The prisoner sagged beneath the weight of the rough timber, stumbled then collapsed to his knees at Simon’s feet. Sentenced to die, he was forced to carry the beam of his own cross to the place of crucifixion but he could go no further.

Suddenly rough soldier hands grabbed Simon, shoving him toward the man on the ground, shouting at him to pick up the beam and carry it. He felt the sharp prod of a Roman spear in his side and knew he must obey or die. As he stooped to lift the blood-slick beam, the condemned man raised his head to look at him. Roaring mob, forceful soldiers, the smell of blood faded before that capturing gaze. The pain and suffering creasing the man’s brow and squinting his eyes could not diminish the absolute love blazing out. Simon’s heart suspended its beat for the length of that look, only to take it up again as a renewed heart, an alive heart touched by this almost-dead rabbi.

Hefting the rough wood across his shoulders, he felt sticky blood staining his hands but he was not repulsed. Instead, strength coursed through his limbs, enough to grip the beam with one hand, reaching down his other to help the bleeding man to his feet. The crowd parted as they moved towards Golgotha.

(based on Mark 15:21)