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, and
still less final goodbyes, as much as I still cling to them as precious.
If you
attended a Passion Service on Good Friday, you heard two continuous chapters of
John’s Gospel read, narrating Jesus’ arrest, trial and death and culminating
anticlimactically with his burial in a cave.
A curious coda to such a grand tragic account. But it’s precious, because it’s the story of
a goodbye. As John tells it, 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. Christ’s gift of self on the cross, even
before the resurrection, has wrought something in them. As he handed over his Spirit, his dying breath
fanned the flames of the meager embers of their love and courage and they found
the strength to secure Jesus’ body from murderous Roman imperial power. They took Jesus’ lifeless naked body, whose
clothes had been taken by the soldiers as recompense for their dirty work, and
gave it what dignity they could. They
clothed it, they anointed it, giving it a smell almost as sweet as their
memories of him (almost!), and then finally (as I imagine this scene) took out
their facecloth. They may, as our
translation suggests, have covered his face with it: saying their last goodbye
to the face that had showed them joy and love, and that had wept at the death
of his friend. Like that powerful moment
when we close the eyes of someone recently died, they may have asserted some
small control over the last moment they would see that face, taken a deep
breath and covered it. Or, that cloth
may have been tied around his head, holding his jaw shut, finally shutting the
mouth that had spoken words of grace, because they were convinced those words
were silenced, and all they could do was to protect that boundary so as no pest
might enter the muted mouth. And then
they lay him in the tomb.
We don’t
know the details of what these two men did with that facecloth, these two men
who were feeling a sorrow that fear may have never allowed them to feel before,
but we can imagine the fragility of that moment, the tenderness, the love, the
sweet sweet sorrow of parting in its application.
Jesus
refuses that. This is the heart of our
Easter message. The most tender, most
loving, most dignified goodbye: Jesus refuses.
Jesus refuses any goodbye, however good it may be. A friend of mine told me that his toddler son
recently said that he wanted to know exactly what happened in that tomb. We can’t give him all the details he
wants. But we can tell young Simeon
something with surety: Jesus removed that head-cloth. And I like to imagine. 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, though inadequate, 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.
What I
do know, what we as Church know, what we profess, 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.”
And his love is so powerful that not even death, death at our hands, can
keep him from being with us.
The
Beloved Disciple sees that head-cloth and comes to faith. He doesn’t come to understanding, not yet. But he sees, and believes; he ‘gets it’ in
his heart and in his gut, that Christ has refused goodbye. And Christ will not entertain talk of goodbye
with us either.
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 on 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 represented and a priest says in his
name: This is my body, given up for you.
There is no goodbye. There is
invitation, embrace and call to follow him home.
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