in the breath

John 20:19-31

 Every year, poor “doubting Thomas” gets a bad rap. And every year, I try to undo the damage of all those “just trust!” “Just believe!” “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” sermons in my own small way. I love Thomas. I love that he’s out there in the world, and not hiding in some house cowering and licking his wounds like the rest of the disciples. I like that he needs to see Jesus in a real, visceral, physical, bodily way. And I like how he needs empirical evidence. He needs verifiable data. He needs peer reviewed articles and repeatable experiments and consistent data before he puts his trust into anything as crazy as the resurrection. It warms the cockles of my post-Enlightenment, post-scientific revolution, postmodernist heart. Thomas and I, we are buds. Best buds. We are tight. We like the same foods, have the same taste in music and can finish each other’s sentences. 

Give me the bodies. Give me the flesh. Let me put my hand where they’ve hurt you and let us find some peace in our pain. I’ll be here to defend you, Thomas, from all of those accusations of doubt and disbelief brought up by all those terrified, cowardly disciples who put their heads in the sand and locked themselves up in fear. At least Thomas was out there, wherever, out in the world, still relating to the world, still trying to get back to normal. Maybe he woke up that morning  after the Sabbath and thought, well, I guess we go back to work now, and he put on his fishing gloves, grabbed his net, and walked out the door, squinting in the harsh sunlight. 

Yup. When tragedy strikes, you pick yourself up by your bootstraps, you grin and bear it, you fake it til you make it, everything happens for a reason, God has a plan, all’s well that ends well, when the goin’ gets tough, the tough get goin’, if at first you don’t succeed, dig deep, because "things may come to those who wait, but only those things left by those who hustle.” Like Dory the fish in Finding Nemo, “just keep swimming, just keep swimming” because we can do hard things, no pain no gain, and when I get knocked down, I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down, because when God closes a door he opens a window. 

Thomas went out there, he faced the music, he braved the wild, he risked imprisonment. If anyone earned the opportunity to experience  his risen Lord, it was Thomas. 

Thomas and I are thick as thieves, two peas in a pod, cut from the same cloth.

Push through the pain, because that’s how you get stronger. Laugh with them when they’re laughing at you. Don’t let them see you sweat. Just keep moving, and you won’t have to face the horrors of two days before. Just go back to work, back to routine, and you can pretend the trauma didn’t happen. Thomas and I, we don’t need those days in the dark. We’re gonna show them that we are made of stronger stuff. We’re going back out there. Back in the ring. We’re getting back on the horse, back in the game, put us in, coach, ’tis but a flesh wound.

Because if we stop. If we stop, we might find darkness all around us. If we stop, we might find that our savior has left us, all alone. If we stop, we might discover that all the hope we ever had was crucified up there on that cross. If we stop, we might have to admit that we’d given our whole selves to a lie. That Jesus wasn’t who he said he was, that he wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. That all that hope we’d invested in him came up twos and sevens. No full house, no royal flush, not even a pair of deuces. We put in all our chips, but of course, we should have known, the house always wins.

If we stop and think about it, we’d fall apart. If we took a deep breath, we might cry, or get angry, or need to throw something. If we stop to breathe, we might feel that sharp pain as it pierces our ribs.

So keep rowing. Keep swimming. Keep pushing the buttons and cranking the cranks. Keep punching the time cards and putting your best foot forward. Take it on the chin. Bills still have to be paid. Mouths still need to be fed. We don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Carry that sadness like a badge of honor, show everyone else out there that you can handle it, that you’ve got it under control, that if the wave of despair and horror knocks you over, you’ll just get right back up again. Put up your dukes. Put ‘em up. C’mon. Let’s go another round. 

But it’s weird, though. Real life is happening out there and yet Thomas and I, we come back home to all these others who say, “We have seen the Lord!” While they were hiding in their basements, indulging in a good cry, taking a minute to mourn, wallowing in self-pity, and getting in touch with their emotions, Jesus showed up. Jesus revealed himself in the darkness. Full of sweaty bodies and snot drenched handkerchiefs and tear stained sleeves. Jesus came in the midst of their fear and devastation and as they threw up their hands and moaned, “oh, what are we going to do now?” Jesus came in the darkness. 

And we missed it. 

It happened, and we were out there, doing stuff, moving around, rearranging the deck chairs, keeping busy. Keeping that pain at arm’s length and with a stiff upper lip.
They were crowded inside, cowering in the dark, and Jesus doesn’t even open the doors to let a little light in first. He just shows up. Right there. Right in the midst of all that embarrassing and messy and vulnerable out of control emotion and despair.

Thomas and I come in with pizza and beer and some VHS reruns of “I Love Lucy” to distract us through another sad night, and we’re told that we’ve missed it. Jesus came back. He showed up in the dark. He showed them his hands and his side and he offered them his peace. They were floored. “We have seen the Lord!” 

Like all those who came before them and who will come after them and say, “God spoke to me.” “God is telling me…” “Trust God.” “Just have faith,” “Let go and let God,” “God has a plan,” “It’s all in God’s time,” “I had a vision from the Lord,” “Just believe.” Why do they get to have such an easy faith? Why do they get to hear so clearly? They aren’t out there, throwing out the nets, sweating in hot sun, asking all the questions, doubting all the doubts, trying to forget and keep moving and not let them see your weakness. They’re just here, inside, with all this stale air, all these tears, the sobs, the crying headaches, all this humid, recycled breath.

Funny, how we can go an entire day without breathing. 

I mean, sure, we’re breathing, that’s how we survived through the day. But we weren’t really breathing. We weren’t really aware, really mindful, really paying attention to that thing that gives us life. Deep breathing stimulates the vagus nerve, which runs from the brain to the abdomen and is in charge of turning off our “fight or flight” reflex. When we breathe deeply, we activate the relaxation response in our parasympathetic nervous system, and we calm down. When we breathe deeply, our heart rate slows down, our blood pressure steadies. 

When we stop to take a few deep breaths, we have to deal with what is, with what is right in front of us, we are pulled into the present moment. And sometimes, that present moment is really, really hard. Sometimes, in that present moment, we are confronted with truths that we have been trying to ignore and overcome with our shallow breathing and our constant moving. Like a mother in labor, when we breathe deep, we stop fighting the pain, and we start to roll with it, we start to ride it where it takes us. We let go of control. And somehow, when we stop fighting it, it becomes just a little bit more manageable. Somehow, when we let go of control, the pain stops controlling us. And it all starts with the breath.

So when Jesus barges in there, his evidence that he is alive is his pierced hands and feet, the gash in his side, and his breath. In the midst of their sorrow and pain and darkness and fear, Jesus doesn’t come in and remove it all, he doesn’t fix anything, he actually shows them evidence of all the suffering that has happened. See. Look. My hands. My side. Still open. Still wounded. Still aching and sore. But as you look upon this suffering, as you remember this struggle, as you sit here in the dark and another sob forces its way through the deepest parts of your body, here’s some breath. Breathe. Stay. My peace be with you.

Jesus meets the disciples in the dark and he gives them breath. 

That’s resurrection.

Like the spirit-breath-wind hovering over the waters, like the breath that gives life to the dust, life, resurrection, is in the breath.

Breathe that in.

But you know what else is resurrection?

When Thomas misses it. When I miss it. When we doubt and ask questions and fail to believe. When a week goes by and you’re surrounded by all these people who have had this profound life changing experience, and they don’t kick you out. They don’t shun the nonbeliever. That’s resurrection, too. They keep coming back to the house. They keep coming back to the dark. And they keep inviting Thomas to join them. And he feels free enough, comfortable enough, not judged enough, home enough, that even though he doesn’t share their beliefs, or have their same experience, even though he is actively and vocally clear about his disbelief, a week later he is with them, back in that locked room, back in the dark. He felt safe and loved enough to keep coming back.

Holding each other in the dark, no matter what we believe, no matter where we are on our faith journey, no matter what level of denial or grief we’re occupying, that’s a kind of resurrection, too. 

Because Jesus comes again. And keeps coming.

Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Jesus showed Thomas his hands and his side. Jesus meets Thomas there, in the dark, in the community that still embraced him amidst his doubt and his busyness and his refusal to deal with the hard stuff head on. Jesus shows up there, in the dark. And Thomas answers, “My Lord and my God,” as if he’s taken his first deep breath in a long long time. The fight or flight response calms down, he activates the parasympathetic nerve, he is here, right now, in this moment. It’s not easy. It still hurts. He’s still in the dark, and Jesus’s wounds are still gaping. He stops fighting the pain. Instead, he breathes in to it. But it’s here, in that deep breath, amidst the pain, in the middle of that crowded, paranoid, sloppy dna-filled room that the risen Christ reveals himself. “My Lord and My God,” Thomas cries. 

Is this the first sob he’s allowed himself since they hung his Lord on that cross and heard him cry out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me”? Is it the first time he’s let the breath fill his lungs and pierce his heart?

Blessed are those who sit in the dark. Blessed are those who have not seen, yet still believe. Blessed are those who breathe deep, even though it hurts. Blessed are those who hold us in the dark, even when we don’t believe.

Breathe.

Receive the Holy Spirit.

Thanks be to God. 

My Name is Mary Magdalene

Luke 24:1-12

 I never had to worry about folks mixing me up with all the other Marys. I was the notorious one. The one with tattered clothes and loose living. The one with dirt under her nails and dirt in her past. You know, the one from Magdala. 

They called them demons. They said I had seven of them. I don’t know about any of that, but I do know that I couldn’t even see straight. Everything felt fuzzy, sort of unreal. All the time. I couldn’t focus my eyes. And listening to what someone else was saying just exhausted me. Every time. Especially when they were trying to tell me that they were praying for me, or loved me or needed me to stay. “Mary! Mary!” They’d say. They’d wave their hands in front of my face. Or so they told me later. I just wanted to sleep, all the time. It’s the only time I could escape the madness. I’d take a pill, cry, and finally, fall asleep. It was a deep, dreamless sleep. Sometimes I saw colors. Or heard voices. But it was better than the relentless pounding of self-loathing that weighed down every thought of my waking hours. 

Some called it “depression,” some said “borderline personality disorder,” some said I just wanted attention. Jesus said, after he’d healed me, he said it’s important for me to remember. To remember my story. To remember where I came from. To kneel and kiss the ground. To keep the dirt. 

I just wanted to forget. Forget all the hospitalizations, forget all the failed relationships and the lost jobs. Maybe if I scrub long enough, they won’t find all that dirt still stuck in my pores. I’m different now. I do mindfulness practices and centering prayer. I pay attention to my breath. But every time one of the disciples looked at me, I knew that they weren’t just looking at me -- they saw seven demons staring back at them. They saw the dust from all that hard ground. I wanted to shout at them, “I’m not like that anymore! I’ve healed. I’ve done the work. I’m in recovery!” But instead, I inhale for seven, hold for three, exhale for eight. 

And they were polite enough, I guess. They held the door open for me when I brought in the supper, said thank you when I poured them more wine. But I knew, deep down, they were remembering for themselves. They were remembering all the hurtful things I said. They were recounting all the painful things I’d done. 

They let all of us women tag along because we were useful. Joanna, Susanna, Mary, mother of James, we bankrolled the whole operation after all; there’d be no “bread, broken for you,” without our trips to the marketplace, no “cup of salvation,” without our bartering with the owners of the vineyard. 

Thank God for Joanna, and Susanna, and even Mary the mother of James. We formed our own little care team. We were a recovery support group. We met in the dank basements and drank bad coffee. We told the truth about our lives. We believed each other. We knew some of the horror of each others’ demons, and when we saw each other’s, we didn’t flinch. We were all smudged with a little dirt. And it was ok. 

And Jesus knew. He saw our demons and then saw past them. He’d been to a few of our meetings. He’d had some of that stale coffee. He’d hold that styrofoam cup in his hands like he was cradling a baby. Like it was sacred stuff. When he looked at us, we knew he wouldn’t stop at that poor choice or that reckless behavior. He didn’t stop at the overdose or the outburst, or the doubt or the fear or the failure. He saw us. The whole thing. When we were with Jesus, we could bow our faces to the ground and be lifted up at the same time. We could stare at our muddy selves in the mirror and find seeds growing there.

Maybe that’s why we weren’t scared. I mean, of course we were scared. Heartbroken. In shock. But we didn’t leave. Not even with all those Roman soldiers all over the place. All of us were there with him to the end. With him as he dragged that cross. With him as he fell to the ground. With him as he called out to his Father, and with him when he cried for his momma. With him when his tears mixed with blood and sweat and mud and fell to the ground. We were with him as he breathed his last breath. Inhale for seven, hold for three, exhale for eight. 

And then it was done. Everyone else was gone, even Peter. Even the sun. Even God. But we stayed. We bowed our heads to the ground and wept. Our fingernails filled with dirt. We lifted our heads to the cross and we cried. We fought back all those demons that threatened to overtake us again and we stayed. 

We stayed all day Saturday. It was a quiet Sabbath. We had a meeting. Told the truth. Said we saw each other. We cried and lit our candles and said our prayers and slept and cried again. Just us women, huddled together in the dark, chairs scraping against the worn basement linoleum, spending all our pain on Jesus, giving no energy or thought to the demons that threatened to creep back into our lives again. Or, at least, trying to.

So when the sun came up, we wiped our noses on our sleeves, splashed some water on our faces, and set out to the tomb with the spices. Our eyes still swollen from crying, I thought we were just seeing things. But someone must have gotten there before us because the stone was already rolled away from the tomb. We bent down, we peered in, and there it was, nothing. Just dirt and rock and empty space. Joanna asked Mary to light the candle to get a better look. Sure enough. No body. Some dust. Some linen cloth folded neatly at the end. But nothing else. 

Of course we were scared. We were heartbroken. In shock. But we still didn’t leave. None of it made any sense. We were confused. Lost. Alone. But we stayed. We didn’t leave. And before we could let our demons of self-doubt and failure creep back into our consciousness, before we could throw ash on our faces for another round of mourning, two men just showed up. They sort of…glowed. Susanna dropped the spices. Joanna spilled the water. We all fell to the ground. We burrowed our faces into the dirt. 

They asked us, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” 

And before I could answer, “Well, where else would we look?” 

Before I could say, “Because that’s where Jesus looked.” 

Before we could respond, “Because once we were dead and then Jesus came and gave us life again.” 

Before I could say, “because that’s where life starts, in the dirt, and in the dingy basements where we break ourselves down and we tell the truth," 

they said the strangest thing. They said, “He is not here. But has risen.” 

And somehow they knew the whole story. They knew that he’d told it all before. How he’d be handed over, how he’d be crucified, caked from the mud made of dirt and tears, and then, on the third day, he’d get up again. He’d told us that cradling his bad coffee, down there at our last meeting. It smelled like wet carpet. The faucet was leaking. He’d wanted us to hear it from him.

How’d they know that story? How’d they know our story? 

And so we counted on our fingers. We’d lost so much time. How long does it take to lose your savior? How long does it take to get him back again? Friday. Saturday. Today. The third day. 

Of course the disciples didn’t believe us. They thought we were out of our minds again. That the demons had returned. That the exorcism was undone as soon as Jesus was gone. They’d never believed our resurrection then. And they didn’t believe Jesus’s now. They thought we were delirious. Crazy. The stress of the last two days had taken its toll and now we were regressing to our previous selves. We were ranting, they said. Raving mad. Overcome with grief. We’d lost our minds. We’d left sanity behind. We’d gained our minds when Jesus healed us, but now that he’d gone, we’d lost them again. Go clean yourselves up, they said.

But we stayed. We stayed with the story. We knew what resurrection looks like. We’d felt it before. I knew this earthy lightness. It’s the same feeling as seven demons being removed from your body. It’s the same feeling as being truly and fully seen for the first time. It’s the same experience as when Jesus looks you in the eye and says, “Your sins are forgiven, go in peace.” And it’s the same as looking up to the heavens only to see your beloved murdered on a cross. It’s the same as burying your face in the dirt and somehow still finding life there. It’s the same as when the sun is blotted out and God is silent and your friends are gone, and yet, you stay. It’s the same as when you tell the truth about your life in a dingy basement. You stay. You stay with your face toward the earth until you find something growing there.

Suddenly, Peter got up. Peter just. Left. We tried to follow him, but he’s running too fast. The disciples stayed behind. But Joanna, Susanna, Mary and I, we found him eventually, back at the tomb, back on his knees, looking down, looking low into the tomb. And he saw it, too. We know the look. We’ve seen it in each other. It’s the look of seeing empty grave clothes. It’s the look of being released from your demons. It’s the look of searching for the living among the dead and finding a whole lot of nothing. It’s what happens when you bow low, when you put your face into the dirt, and you wonder if those might be seeds, germinating. 

Peter looked back at us. And he saw. He didn’t see the demons or the trips to the marketplace. He didn’t see us hanging their laundry or bartering our purple cloth. He didn’t see us in our failures or our regrets. He didn’t even see the seven demons. He saw us with the dirt still smudged on our faces. He saw us with the mud still crusted under our nails. And we saw him, his forehead caked with sweat and soil, muddy tears running down his cheeks, Galilean clay on the palms of his hands.

“Let’s go home,” he told us. And we did.

And he stayed. 

He comes to the meetings now. He brings the coffee. We go around the room, introducing ourselves. We get to Peter. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Peter. And I think I’ve seen the resurrection.” “Hi Peter,” we all say together.

Funny, how resurrection can look like you’ve gained and lost your mind at the same time. 

Weird, how, you have to have your face in the dirt to see the new life. 

It’s just like him, you know, to ask us to bend low, to fall to our knees, to stoop down into the tomb, before we can see what isn’t there. Before we can see that the demons are gone. That Jesus has been raised. 

Sometimes, our understanding of the resurrection begins with our faces in the dirt. Sometimes, our understanding of the resurrection begins with remembering all the horror and the hard stuff. 

Sometimes we have to remind ourselves of our demons in order to remember that they’re not there anymore. 

We have to remember that they were in order to remember they’re gone. 

Weird how when we see it in each other, in each meeting of our dirty brokenness, we are resurrected all over again. 

Strange how the resurrection happens when we let the beauty we love be what we do, when we find hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

We still meet together. In basements. In crumbling churches. In living rooms. We greet each other with “Christ is Risen! He has risen indeed!” We set out extra folding chairs. The disciples will join us soon.

“Hi. My name is Mary. My name is Peter. My name is Jenn. My name is Dan and Jonah and Levi, Tim and Debbie and Diane, Judy and George and Reni and Toni and Scott and Sydnie and Emylia, and Ayden, my name is Jim, my name is Rose. I’ve put my face in the dirt. I think I’ve seen the resurrection.”

Thanks be to God.