Let the trumpet sound!

Spring’s daffodils take me back to my childhood in a rainy Western  Washington valley renowned for acres and acres of golden blooms. Daffodils are glorious, but short-lived.  As Robert Frost wrote in his famed 1923 poem: spring’s first "green" is gold, and nature's "hardest hue to hold." I find it meaningful that daffodils bloom close to Easter. Their trumpet-like centers prompt me to recall the magnificent chorus from Handel’s Messiah that quotes 1 Corinthians 15:51-52:
Behold, I show you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
In ancient times, trumpets heralded great news. They were associated with royalty and victory.  What greater occasion to herald than the reunion of Christ with Christ-followers!

Like a hand in a glove, these verses pair with another by Paul about death and eternal life:

We who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord will by no means precede those who are asleep [dead].  For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God.  And the dead in Christ will rise first.  Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.  And thus we shall always be with the Lord. (1 Thessalonians 4:15-17)
Or, as the late author Barbara Johnson put it humorously in one of her book titles: “He’s Gonna Toot and I’m Gonna Scoot!”

As for “scoot,” this year I was reminded of my mortality as I got hit by a string of serious illnesses, including pneumonia. Recently, in my doctor’s office for help with a month-long battle with bronchitis, I asked what might be compromising my health. Aware of the mind-body connection in illness, I told him of stresses from someone's many negative E-mails and phone calls. One day, the same person showed up at our door and ranted "I hate you" repeatedly, then turned and left. Such stresses, my doctor said, no doubt took their toll.

Yes, I pray for this person. The day of the front porch “hate” rant, my adrenalin flowing from this surprise attack, I sensed Jesus saying, “This is not of Me. Remember, while I was dying on the cross, people ranted negatives at Me.”

He died... but He rose again! The miracle of His resurrection guarantees the eternal life, free of sin and sorrow, that we rightly celebrate at Easter. Let the trumpet sound!  Each day, we’re closer to Heaven’s final call. Hallelujah!

Toot-n-Scoot!

He’s Gonna Toot and I’m Gonna Scoot!  I couldn’t help but think of that book title by Christian humorist Barbara Johnson as I wandered an old cemetery in Roslyn, a sleepy town in central Washington state.  Just a few days earlier, we’d enjoyed a brief visit from the minister who married us 35 years earlier. Now 83, he told of visiting another cemetery where he buried his wife just last year. This weekend would have been their 56th wedding anniversary. A son and a grandson are buried there, too.  As his daughter helped him leave flowers, he said he thought how people better watch out when these loved ones experience resurrection and zoom out of their graves!  He was referring to the apostle Paul’s letter to the ancient Thessalonians, who were confused about death and heaven:
According to the Lord’s own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep.  For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first.  After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.  And so we will be with the LORD forever. (1 Thessalonians 4:15-17).

Two sisters, almost 3 and 2 years old.

Once a booming coal mining town that grew to more than 4,000 in the 1920s, today it has about 900 year-round residents.  Its name made news when three movies were filmed there, including “Northern Exposure.”  To work the early mines, immigrants came from throughout the world. But stories of poverty, disasters (45 perished in an 1892 mine explosion) and epidemics are told through the crumbling headstones over 19 acres of cemetery. Many are for infants and small children. I recalled how some of the most poignant scenes of Jesus’ earthly ministry involved common people bringing their children to Him for blessing. He said, “Do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 9:14). Like a shepherd who went to great pains to find his lost sheep, Jesus said God the Father “is not willing that any of these little ones should be lost” (Matthew 18:11).

The Roslyn cemetery’s most distinctive feature is ethnic segregation. Twenty-six sections, like jig-saw puzzle pieces, divide the 19 acres of woods and hills.  Many family plots are surrounded by ornate iron fences, probably to keep foraging cattle and wildlife out.  Ethnic customs were also behind having some plots being raised above the earth, rimmed or covered with concrete, supposedly to protect “consecrated” grounds.  Many cemetery sections were labeled as burial places for those of Eastern European background. One huge section was for African Americans.  Again, I thought of Paul’s reminder about the snare of prejudice, that:

There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28).  

A baby who died in 1903, not even a year old.
Artificial flowers abound on the graves.

Heavily littered with dead needles from the many ponderosa pines there,  the cemetery was a sobering, sad place. But I was taken back to the “Toot” and “Scoot” image that Barbara Johnson gave us in her humorous book about God’s final plan.  I recalled her story: of losing one son in the Vietnam War, another son to a drunk driver, and being estranged from a third son for many years. Her “Spatula Ministries” (alluding to being shocked to a splotch on the ceiling over family problems), borne of her own trials, helped many find God’s purpose and hope in life’s most difficult experiences. Those hard times aren’t forever. The best is yet ahead.  Paul also wrote, “I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:14).  Did you catch that—“called me heavenward”?  What an exciting moment it will be when “toot- and-scoot” happens—not only in Roslyn but everywhere around the world!

Holy tears

Oh, how the tears flowed! I was chopping up a large onion for future cooking projects. One of my cooking tricks is to divide the pieces into paper-lined muffin cups, freeze, then remove and toss the handy-sized portions into a freezer bag. That way, I only have to have a good cry from chemical irritation about one time out of five or six.

I’m not as clever in reducing the incidence of “spiritual tears.” I’m not talking about selfish, immature “I-didn’t-get-my-own-way” tears, but those poured out without shame before a holy God. There’s a reason a tissue box is next to the chair where I meet with God. It’s also why I can’t read the shortest verse in the Bible, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35) without pausing and tears welling up.

Bible teachers say Jesus wept because He knew the pain of His dear friends and how they were disappointed that He didn’t come earlier to heal Lazarus. He also wept because death, the result of Adam’s sin, had claimed Lazarus, as it had claimed millions before. He wept in full knowledge that He would soon face death. Already, the Jewish leaders were seeking His death. After the astonishing demonstration of His deity through Lazarus coming back to life, the pressure would increase. In fact, He had to essentially go undercover to a desert village (11:54) until just before Passover. That high Jewish celebration would be the week of His own death.

Fast-forward through the tears of His finals hours and death, the pained good-byes of those who loved Him. Come to the cave where friends put His body, where women have come to anoint His body according to customs. Mary Magdalene is highlighted in John’s account. She sees the stoned rolled back and can only think of body-snatching: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!” (20:2). She runs in panic to the disciples. They race to the tomb and confirm her report. They leave, she stays, crying and crying. She’s so blinded by her tears that she doesn’t realize angels are there to give her an incredible hope. Like a broken recorder, she replays her lament, “They have taken my Lord away, and I don’t know where they have put him.” Then Christ appears. Same basic reply. She can’t see through her tears or understand through her emotions that He’s right there in front of her! Then the Voice: “Mary.”

That, she knew.

Probably more than we care to admit, there is a sobbing Mary Magdalene in all of us. We think the Lord is no longer there for us. We worry or give up. We go through the motions of a religion without the heart-burning recognition of the risen Jesus. Patiently He waits for us to dry our selfish, blinding “it-didn’t-happen-like-I-wanted-it” tears. The plan He had all along is so much better—if we’d only take off the blinders of our own preconceived ideas of what life should be.

Mary Magdalene finally got it right. She rushed to find the disciples and declared, “I have seen the Lord!” (20:18). Actually, that’s what often brings tears when I pray. It’s for others who haven’t yet “seen the Lord” through the eyes of faith. They don’t get past the tears of Friday, or the numbness of Saturday to declare, with everything in them, “He is risen! He is risen indeed.”

And I have to admit: When I join my congregation in that Easter morning declaration of His resurrection--well, tears come. Happy tears!