This is Sunday, All Day Long

What if I told you that you could change the world using only the first 3 things that you touched this morning?

For instance… I bet shortly after waking this morning, you touched a cell phone. Turned off the alarm that woke you up. Checked the weather to plan the shoe situation and, oh look at that, it’s SNOWING. On Easter. Maybe you also answered a message or checked the news to see what kind of day it’s going to be.

And then, maybe you had a cup of coffee. Before you got dressed, before you spoke to anyone… before you were good and awake even. How is a person supposed to look the world in the eye?

And maybe—just today, because it’s Easter–maybe you had a donut. If not, just roll with me for a minute…

The point is—think about the first 3 things you touched today. What are they for? The obvious? Or… some miraculous purpose that your day has yet to reveal?  

On the third day, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb to see the place where they had laid her friend and teacher. The past 3 days had been spent in wordless grief; 3 days behind closed doors; 3 days of furtive conversations, of “this is just what he said would happen,” and “what are we supposed to do now?” 3 days in darkness.

And now—the place where they left him is empty. Mary walks back out of that dark empty cave, squinting into the just-risen sun. It’s blinding. They’d known this might happen. Of course this might happen. Everyone hated him. His disciples had known that his body might stolen—further abused, if that was even possible. This is exactly why they’d put the heaviest stone they could find at the mouth of the cave; this is why they’d posted watchmen outside.

She wandered through the garden, not really seeing. This changed everything. Not only was it painful to think about his body being desecrated, after everything he’d suffered—it also meant the end of what small hope remained… They’d been holding on, however loosely, to those mysterious words that he’d left them with… That he would be raised from the dead; that they would see him again. They didn’t understand any of it, but it had been something. It had been enough to keep them breathing.

But now—even his body was gone. How could he possibly come back to them now? The tomb was empty.

Mary walked on, through that garden path, still in that blinded daze. Not noticing the flowers that came awake with the morning, not seeing the clear blue after-the-storm clarity of the sky; and certainly not noticing—never suspecting—that right there in front of her, was the one she sought so desperately.

“Woman,” he said, “Why are you weeping?”

“Because all is lost now,” she said. “Until just now there was hope. But now, he’s gone. He is just gone.”

And the gardener, who was not a gardener at all, called her by name. “Mary,” he said. “That was Friday. But this? THIS is Sunday!”

Sunday turns everything upside down. Sunday shakes off the dust of Ash Wednesday, and melts the ice of Thursday’s betrayal, and calls awake the victims of the Friday storm. SUNDAY is a game-changer. Sunday is life. 

This week, like that one long ago, started in darkness. That first, early morning scan of the newsfeed brought the news of death and destruction— a terrorist bombing at the Brussels airport; unknown number of casualties, unknown perpetrators, yet-unnamed victims… So many questions and so much senseless loss.

And yet, even as the number of casualties emerged throughout the day, so did the other news… Images of those rushing to help; the prayers and words of compassion expressed from all over the world; and the stories of instant community, formed as ordinary citizens of Brussels picked up their cell phones and posted on social media—a hashtag with the simple phrase #PorteOuverte —which means Open House. The message pouring across the city through Twitter,  Instagram and facebook—that doors and homes were open to stranded travelers and victims’ families.

When is a phone not just a phone? On Sunday. 

Another image was popular this week… this one from Portland, Oregon, at a Dutch Brother’s Coffee.  The young man working at the register noticed, as he handed a woman’s order out the window, that she was really upset, visibly shaken. When he asked what the matter was, she told him that she had just lost her husband the night before. The kid at the window—he was 19— asked if he could pray with her. And two of his co-workers saw what was happening and came over to join them. In the picture, captured by the driver of the next car back in line—these three young men are bunched together, leaning out one small window together, and clasping the hand of this grief-stricken woman; all their heads bowed together in prayer.

One of the men, later told an interviewer that he doesn’t consider himself to be religious in anyway. “But in that moment,” he said, “if that lady had told me she’d wanted an apple? I would have gone to plant a tree.”

When is a cup of coffee not just a cup of coffee? On Sunday, of course. 

In St Louis last week—early in the morning, while it was still dark—a crowd began to gather. A line began to form… people willing to wait hours and hours to see Donald Trump later that day. A man named Syed, director of the local chapter of the Council on American-Islamic Relations, wanted to meet those people, who were up so early for this purpose. He thought it might be good for them to get to know some actual Muslims who live in their own community.

The best way to do that? Show up with donuts. And that’s what Syed and a few friends did. They circulated through the crowd, visiting, shaking hands, and sharing morning treats.

It wasn’t always nice —some shouted obscenities at them, told them go to back where they came from. But most of that early morning crowd received the offering, said thank you, and engaged in conversation. Some even shared hugs. Syed says “A lot of people come to these events expecting hostility, even conflict. and when you have a bunch of Muslims coming to you, bringing you a donut and just wanting to talk, it took a lot of people by surprise,”

Surprise, it seems, is what resurrection is all about.

When is a donut not just a donut? When you are an outsider, in a place where you may not be welcome. Or when you harbor hate in your heart for neighbors that you don’t really know, and find yourself face to face with one of those neighbors—and he turns out to be the gardener.

When is a donut not just a donut? On Sunday. Always on Sunday. 

And guess what. It’s always Sunday somewhere.

Maybe not in the same the way that it’s always 5:00 somewhere. But every day is Sunday, philosophically speaking —because we are Easter people. It is always Sunday somewhere, because resurrection is always taking shape. In that in-between place that we first thought was emptiness. New life is always unfolding in the darkness, under the frozen earth, in the cold of the tomb… It is always Sunday somewhere, because we follow the way of Christ. And Sunday is all he knows how to do.

The thing about resurrection is… It’s not just life. It’s not even just new life. Resurrection is new life in a place where it shouldn’t be. New life in a place where all was death and awfulness. New life in something completely ordinary that you never knew had miraculous properties. Resurrection is new life that surprises.

Remember that, the next time you are wandering, unable to see what’s in front of you… through whatever haze of grief, pain or uncertainty is clouding your vision; keeping you from seeing the life that might take shape around you. Remember that, the next time the world is so violent and hateful and what is the point anyway… Remember that, the next time you think God is all out of surprises.

Remember that Sunday is all Jesus knows how to do.

And in those places where it feels like Friday has spoken the last word,

That is exactly when you will look up and see—

A stranger w/ an open home

A coffee guy who prays

A neighbor with a donut.

The gardener.

Isn’t it always the gardener?

Yes, there is terror, and violence and suffering in the world. Yes, there is death, and the impossible loss of people we love; yes, there is hatred and fear of our neighbor, and people shouting loudly and calling names and building bigger walls. But you know what?

That’s all Friday. And this is Sunday. All day long, it’s Sunday. And Sunday is full of surprises.

And what other ordinary thing might have unseen miraculous properties? What other every day thing might have surprising, resurrection potential?

Well…what else do you have in your hand?