I don’t
really like goodbyes. I’m generally one
of those people who tends to quietly slip away from a party, rather than going
round bidding farewell to everyone I know.
And with casual acquaintances, or good friends we’ll only briefly be
separated from, that’s OK (even if it verges on unconscionable for some of my
more extroverted friends). But the
dearer the friend and the more remote the absence or uncertain the possibility
of renewed contact, the more important the goodbye is. And the harder it is. So, I really don’t like those goodbyes, as
much as I still cling to them as precious.
The
Passion story that we heard, in Matthew’s version on Palm Sunday, and in John’s
on Good Friday, ends with what might seem pretty anticlimactic: Jesus in a tomb. But it’s not just Jesus in a tomb, but Jesus
lovingly placed in a tomb. It’s precious, because it’s the story of a
goodbye. As John tells it, and this is
what leads right into the Easter Gospel we just heard, Joseph of Arimathea secures
Jesus’ body from Pilate and Nicodemus carries an extravagant 100 pound quantity
of oils and spices and together they prepare Jesus’ body.
These
weren’t Jesus’ closest companions.
Joseph had been a secret disciple, and Nicodemus had only dared come to
Jesus when it was dark. They had both
held back out of fear, but now something emboldens them. Not something, someone. On the cross, John
tell us, Jesus handed over His Spirit. His dying breath fanned the flames of
the meager embers of their love and courage, as happens to us too. On Ash
Wednesday we proclaimed that we are ash, and today we celebrate that ashes get
fanned into flames. Joseph and Nicodemus found the strength to secure Jesus’
body from murderous Roman imperial power.
They took Jesus’ lifeless naked body and gave it what dignity they
could. But ‘gave it’ is slightly off.
They saw that what the world rejected had great dignity and acted accordingly.
They did what we are to do as Church, on every margin, with every rejected body.
They clothed it, they anointed it, giving it a smell almost as sweet as their
memories of him, and then finally (as I imagine this scene) took out their
facecloth. They covered his face, and
probably bound it tight, shutting his mouth so as no bug could enter. It’s a
simple, slightly messy, very earthy act, but as I was reminded when washing
feet on Thursday, those are some of the most loving we have. And then they lay
him in the tomb. The last touch, at least as they thought at the time, a
tender, mournful goodbye.
Jesus refuses
that. This is the heart of our Easter
message. The most tender, most loving,
most dignified farewell: Jesus refuses.
Jesus refuses any goodbye, however good it may be. We can’t know exactly what happened in that
tomb, but there’s a long tradition in the Church of imagining, and our
imaginings can be a space for the Spirit to work, so long as they touch back to
what scripture assures us: Jesus removed that head-cloth. It’s up to us to imagine how. I like to imagine that he took it off
lovingly, with a gentleness that shone in its contrast with the dull roughness
of the soldiers’ ripping at his previous garments; that he took it off with his
heart warmed at what these two standoffish secret disciples had done for
him. I like to imagine him carrying it
for a while, treasuring the precious gift that it was, as inadequate as it was
compared with the reality of his presence among them, and I like to imagine
that that’s why it was separate from the other grave clothes, why it was rolled
up with special care, maybe even kissed goodbye to. I don’t know, but I like to imagine. And
maybe the Beloved Disciple did too, and that’s what brought him to faith.
What we
as Church do know is that he took it off.
That he refused a goodbye. That
he refused to have his face veiled, and insisted: he will present his face of
joy and love and sorrow and compassion to us still. That he refused to have his mouth tied shut,
and insisted: he will speak his words of everlasting life, he will shout from
the rooftops, and whisper in the silence of every heart: “I love you.
I want to live with you forever.”
Yes, the
fullness of intimate joyful union with God awaits us still in the heavenly
banquet that Christ has prepared for us, but Jesus insists us being present to
us now and active in our lives. He
refuses to have his face veiled or his mouth bound, but speaks his word, in
prayer, in scripture, especially when scripture is proclaimed in the midst of
his people gathered together for prayer.
He
speaks his word of welcome in baptism, when we are given the gift of his Spirit
to dwell in us, a closer union than even the Beloved Disciple resting on his
chest could have imagined. He speaks his
word in confirmation, when that gift of the Spirit is strengthened that we
might be more closely joined and better equipped to speak his words ourselves
to our neighbor. He speaks his word of
mercy in the confessional, of comfort in the anointing of the sick and of
blessing and gift and challenge in marriage and ordination. And he speaks his ultimate word of love at
each and every altar when his sacrifice is re-presented and a priest says in
his name: This is my body, given up for you.
There is no goodbye.
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