Beastly

Beastly

Jesus was beaten with whips and handed over to the soldiers to be crucified. The governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the governor’s palace, and they all gathered around him. They took off his clothes and put a red robe on him. Using thorny branches, they made a crown, put it on his head, and put a stick in his right hand. Then the soldiers bowed before Jesus and made fun of him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on Jesus. Then they took his stick and began to beat him on the head. After they finished, the soldiers took off the robe and put his own clothes on him again. Then they led him away to be crucified. (Matt. 27:26–31)

What would have happened to the Beast if the Beauty hadn’t appeared? You know the story, don’t you? There was a time when his face was handsome and his palace was pleasant. But that was before the curse, before the shadows fell on the castle of the prince, and before the shadows fell on the heart of the prince. And when the darkness fell, he hid. Secluded in his castle, he was left with a glistening snout, curly tusks and a bad mood.

But all that changed when the girl came. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened to the Beast if the Beauty hadn’t appeared? Better yet, what would have happened if she hadn’t cared? And who’d have blamed her if she hadn’t? He was a beast. Hairy. Drooling. Roaring. Defying. And she was such a beauty. Stunningly gorgeous. Contagiously kind. If ever two people lived up to their names, these two did it in spades. Who would’ve blamed her if she hadn’t cared? But she did. And because the Beauty loved the Beast, the Beast became more beautiful himself.

The story’s familiar to most, but not just because it’s a fairy tale. It’s familiar because it reminds us of ourselves – there’s a beast in each of us. Oh, it wasn’t always that way. There was a time when humanity’s face was beautiful, and the palace was pleasant. But that was before the curse, before the shadow fell across the garden of Eden, before the darkness fell across the heart of Adam. And ever since the curse, we’ve been different. Beastly. Ugly. Defiant. Angry. We do things we know we shouldn’t do and then we wonder why we did them.

The ugly part of me showed its beastly face one night when I was in college. I was driving on a two-lane road that was about to become a single lane. A woman in a car beside me was in the lane that continued. I was in the lane that stopped. I needed to be ahead of her. My schedule was, no doubt, more important than hers. So, I floored it. Guess what? She did, too. And when my lane ended, she was a fender ahead of me. I growled and slowed and let her go ahead. Over her shoulder she gave me a sweet little bye-bye wave. But then the sinister part of me said, “Hey, wait a minute. She can’t do that! Maybe you should shed a little light on the situation.” So, I put a little high beam in her rearview mirror. She retaliated by slowing down. To a crawl. This woman was mean.

She couldn’t have cared less if the whole city was late; she wasn’t going to go beyond fifteen miles per hour. And I wasn’t going to take my lights out of her rearview mirror. Like two stubborn mules, she kept it slow and I kept it bright. But then, after a few more unkind thoughts, the road widened and I started to make my pass. Wouldn’t you know it? A red light left the two of us side by side at the intersection. What happened next was both good and bad. The good news is that she waved at me; the bad is that she waved with just one finger.

Then conviction surfaced. “Why did I do that?” I’m usually a pretty calm guy, but for fifteen minutes I was a beast. And only two facts comforted me: I didn’t have a fish symbol on my truck, and the apostle Paul had similar struggles: “I do not do what I want to do, and I do the things I hate.” (Rom. 7:15) Ever felt like saying those words? If so, you’re in good company because Paul isn’t the only person in the Bible who wrestled the beast within. In fact, it’s hard to find a page in Scripture where the animal doesn’t bare his teeth.

King Saul chasing young David with a spear. Shechem raping Dinah. Dinah’s brothers (the sons of Jacob) murdering Shechem and his friends. Lot selling out to Sodom and then getting out of Sodom. Herod murdering Bethlehem toddlers. Another Herod murdering Jesus’ cousin. If the Bible is called the Good Book, it’s not because its people are. Blood runs as freely through the stories as the ink on the pages. But the evil of the beast was never so raw as on the day Christ died.

The disciples were first fast asleep, then fast afoot. Herod wanted a show. Pilate wanted out. And the soldiers? They wanted blood. So they scourged Jesus. The legionnaire’s whip consisted of leather straps with lead balls on each end. His goal was singular: beat the accused within an inch of his death and then stop. Thirty-nine lashes were allowed but seldom needed. A centurion monitored the prisoner’s status. No doubt Jesus was near death when his hands were untied and he slumped to the ground.

The whipping was the first deed of the soldiers. The crucifixion was the third. (We’ll get to the second in a moment) Though his back was ribboned with wounds, the soldiers loaded the crossbeam on Jesus’ shoulders and marched him to the Place of the Skull and executed him. And we really don’t fault the soldiers for these two actions. After all, they were just following orders. But what’s hard to understand is what they did in between. Here’s Matthew’s description:

Jesus was beaten with whips and handed over to the soldiers to be crucified. The governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the governor’s palace, and they all gathered around him. They took off his clothes and put a red robe on him. Using thorny branches, they made a crown, put it on his head, and put a stick in his right hand. Then the soldiers bowed before Jesus and made fun of him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on Jesus. Then they took his stick and began to beat him on the head. After they finished, the soldiers took off the robe and put his own clothes on him again. Then they led him away to be crucified. (Matt. 27:26–31)

The soldiers’ assignment was simple: take the Nazarene to the hill and kill him. But they had another idea. They wanted to have some fun first. So, these strong, rested, armed soldiers encircled an exhausted, nearly dead, Galilean carpenter and beat up on him. The scourging was commanded. The crucifixion was ordered. But who would draw pleasure out of spitting on a half-dead man? Spitting isn’t intended to hurt the body — it can’t. Spitting is intended to degrade the soul, and it does. So what were the soldiers doing? Weren’t they elevating themselves at the expense of another? In other words, they felt big by making Christ look small.

Ever done that? Oh, maybe you’ve never spit on anyone, but have you ever gossiped? Slandered? Have you ever raised your hand in anger, or rolled your eyes in arrogance? Have you ever blasted your high beams in someone’s rearview mirror? Ever made someone feel bad so you would feel good? That’s what the soldiers did to Jesus. And when you and I do the same, we do it to Jesus, too. “I assure you, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me.” (Matt. 25:40) In other words, how we treat others is how we treat Jesus. Ugh.

That’s tough to hear, but we’ve got to face the fact that there’s something beastly within each and every one of us. Something beastly that makes us do things that surprise even us. Haven’t you surprised yourself? Haven’t you reflected on an act and wondered, “What got into me?” The Bible has a three-letter answer for that question: S-I-N. There is something bad — beastly — within each of us. As the Apostle Paul so plainly put, we are “by nature children of wrath.” (Eph. 2:3)

It’s not that we can’t do good. We do. It’s just that we can’t keep from doing bad. In theological terms, we’re “totally depraved.” Though made in God’s image, we’ve fallen. We’re corrupt at the core. The very center of our being is selfish and perverse. David said, “I was born a sinner — yes, from the moment my mother conceived me.” (Ps. 51:5) Could any of us say any less? Each one of us was born with a tendency to sin.

And this depravity is a universal condition. Scripture says it plainly: All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned, every one, to his own way. (Isa. 53:6) The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? (Jer. 17:9) There is none righteous, no, not one .… All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. (Rom. 3:10, 23)

Some would disagree. They look around and say, “You know, compared to everyone else, I’m a pretty decent person.” But, a pig might say something similar. He might look at his trough partners and announce, “I’m just as clean as everyone else.” Compared to humans, of course, that pig needs help. But compared to God, we humans need the same. The standard for sinlessness isn’t found at the pig trough, but at the throne of heaven. God, himself, is the standard.

Our deeds are ugly. Our actions are harsh. We don’t do what we want to do; we don’t like what we do. And what’s worse — yes, there’s something worse — we can’t change.

We try. Oh, how we try. But “(c)an a leopard change his spots? In the same way, Jerusalem, you cannot change and do good, because you are accustomed to doing evil.” (Jer. 13:23) The apostle agreed with the prophet: “The mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law — indeed it cannot.” (Rom. 8:7)

Still disagree? Still think the assessment is too harsh? If so, try this. For the next twenty-four hours lead a sinless life. Not a perfect decade, or year, or even a perfect month. Just one perfect day. Can you do it? Can you live without sin for one day? No? Well then, how ‘bout an hour? Could you promise that for the next sixty minutes you’ll have only pure thoughts and actions? Still too hard? Then how about the next five minutes? Five minutes of worry-free, anger-free, unselfish living — can you do it? No? Neither can I.

Then we have a problem: we are sinners, and “the wages of sin is death.” (Rom. 6:23) We have a problem: we are not holy, and “anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord.” (Heb. 12:14) We have a problem: we are evil, and “evil people are paid with punishment.” (Prov. 10:16) Then with all those problems, what can we do?

Allow the spit of the soldiers to symbolize the filth in our hearts. And then observe what Jesus does with that filth. He carries it to the cross. Through the prophet he said, “I did not hide my face from mocking and spitting.” (Isa. 50:6) Mingled with his blood and sweat was the essence of our sin. God could have deemed otherwise. In God’s plan, Jesus was offered wine for his throat, so why not a towel for his face? Simon carried the cross of Jesus, but he didn’t mop the cheek of Jesus. And legions of angels were only a prayer away. Couldn’t they have taken the spittle away?

They could have, but Jesus never commanded them to. For some reason, Jesus chose the saliva. Along with the spear and the sponge, he bore the spit of man. Why? Could it be that he saw the beauty within the beast? But that’s where the correlation with Beauty and the Beast ends. Because in the fable, the beauty kisses the beast. In the Bible, the Beauty does much more. He becomes the beast so the beast can become the beauty. Jesus changes places with us. We, like Adam, were under a curse, but Jesus “changed places with us and put himself under that curse.” (Gal. 3:13)

What if the Beauty had not come? What if the Beauty had not cared? Then we would have remained a beast. But the Beauty did come, and the Beauty did care. The sinless one took on the face of a sinner so that we sinners could take on the face of a saint.

Grace,

Randy

Leave It

Leave It

Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you. (1 Peter 5:7)

The hill’s quiet now. Not still, just quiet. Because for the first time all day there’s no noise. The noise began to subside when the darkness — that weird midday darkness — fell. And the darkness seemed to douse the ridicule because there were no more taunts, no more jokes and no more jesting. And, in time, no more mockers. One by one the onlookers turned and began their descent. That is, all the onlookers except me and you. We didn’t leave. We came to learn.

And so we’ve lingered in the semidarkness and listened. We’ve listened to the soldiers cursing, the passersby questioning, and the women weeping. But most of all, we’ve listened to the trio of dying men groaning their hoarse, guttural, thirsty groans. They groaned with each rolling of the head, and each pivot of the legs. But as the minutes became hours, their groans diminished, too. The three seemed as if they were dead. And if it weren’t for their belabored breathing, you’d have thought they were.

Then he screamed. As if someone had yanked his hair, the back of his head slammed against the sign that bore his name, and he screamed. And his scream cut the dark. Standing as straight as the nails would permit, he cried as one calling for a lost friend, “Eloi!” His voice was raspy, scratchy. “My God!” Ignoring the volcano of erupting pain, he pushed upward until his shoulders were higher than his nailed hands. “Why have you forsaken me?”

And the soldiers stared. The weeping of the women ceased. One of the Pharisees sneered sarcastically, “He’s calling Elijah.” But no one laughed. He’d shouted a question to the heavens, and you half expected heaven to shout back in return. And apparently it did. Because the face of Jesus softened, and an afternoon dawn broke as he spoke a final time: “It is finished. Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Then, as suddenly as the silence was broken, the silence returned. And now all’s quiet. The mocking has ceased because there’s no one to mock. The soldiers are busy with the business of cleaning up the dead. Two men have come. Dressed well and meaning well, they are given the body of Jesus. And we are left with the relics of his death: three nails; three cross-shaped shadows; and a braided crown with scarlet tips.

Bizarre, isn’t it? The thought that this blood is not man’s blood but God’s? That’s crazy. To think that these nails held your sins and mine to a cross? Absurd, don’t you think? That a scoundrel’s prayer was offered and answered? Or, is it more absurd that another scoundrel offered no prayer at all? Absurdities and ironies. The hill of Calvary is nothing if not both.

We would have scripted the moment differently, don’t you think? Ask us how a God should redeem his world, and we’d have scripted white horses, flashing swords and evil laying flat on its back. God on his throne. But God on a cross? A split-lipped, puffy-eyed, blood-masked God on a cross? Sponge thrust in his face? Spear plunged in his side? Dice tossed at his feet? No, we wouldn’t have written the drama of redemption that way. But, then again, we weren’t asked to. The players and props were heaven-picked and God-ordained. We weren’t asked to design the hour.

But we have been asked to respond to it. Because in order for the cross of Christ to be the cross of our life, we need to bring something to the hill. We’ve seen what Jesus brought. With scarred hands he offered forgiveness. Through torn skin he promised acceptance. He took the path to take us home. He wore our garment to give us his own. We’ve seen the gifts he brought. Now we ask, what will we bring?

We aren’t asked to paint the sign, or carry the nails. We aren’t asked to wear the spit, or bear the crown. But we are asked to walk the path and leave something at the cross. We don’t have to, of course. Many don’t. Many have done what we’ve done before. More minds than ours have read about the cross; better minds than ours have written about it. Many have pondered what Christ left; fewer have pondered what we must leave.

We can observe the cross and analyze the cross. We can read about it, even pray to it. But until we leave something there, we haven’t really embraced the cross. We’ve seen what Christ left. Shouldn’t we as well? How about starting with our bad moments, or those bad habits? Leave them at the cross. Our selfish moods and white lies? Give them to God. Our binges and bigotries? God wants them all. Every flop, every failure. He wants every single one. Why? Because he knows we can’t live with them.

Many a summer afternoon at my grandmother’s, I’d play football with my cousin in the empty field next to her house. Many a summer afternoon was spent imitating Roger Staubach or Johnny Unitas or Bart Starr. But that empty field had grass burrs, and grass burrs hurt. You can’t play football without falling, and you couldn’t fall in my grandmother’s field without getting stuck. A few times I pulled myself out of a sticker patch so hopelessly covered that I had to have help. Kids don’t rely on other kids to pull out grass burrs. You need someone with skill. So, I’d call time out and limp to the house so my grandmother could pluck out the stickers — one by painful one. I wasn’t too bright, but I knew this: if I wanted to get back into the game, I needed to get rid of those stickers. 

And every mistake in life is like a grass burr. You can’t live without falling, and you can’t fall without getting stuck. But guess what? We aren’t always as smart as young ballplayers. We sometimes try to get back into the game without dealing with the stickers. It’s as if we don’t want anyone to know we fell, so we pretend we never did. Consequently, we live in pain. We can’t walk well, sleep well, or rest well. We’re touchy.

Does God want us to live like that? No. Listen to his promise: “This is my commitment to my people: removal of their sins.” (Rom. 11:27) God does more than forgive our mistakes; he removes them. We simply have to take them to him. He not only wants the mistakes we’ve made, but he wants the ones we’re making. Are you cheating at work or cheating at marriage? Are you mismanaging money? Are you mismanaging your life? If so, don’t pretend nothing’s wrong. Don’t pretend you don’t fall. Don’t try to get back in the game. First go to God. The first step after a stumble has to be in the direction of the cross. “If we confess our sins to God, he can always be trusted to forgive us and take our sins away.” (1 John 1:9) So, what can you leave at the cross? Start with your bad moments. And while you are there, give God your mad ones, too.

Remember the story about the man who was bitten by the dog? When he learned the dog had rabies, he began making a list. The doctor told him there was no need to make a will because the rabies could be cured. “Oh, I’m not making a will,” he replied. “I’m making a list of all the people I want to bite.” Couldn’t we all make such a list? We’ve already learned that friends aren’t always friendly, and neighbors aren’t always neighborly. We’ve already learned that some workers never work, and some bosses are always bossy. We’ve learned that a promise made is not always a promise kept. We’ve already learned that we tend to fight back. To bite back. To keep lists and snarl lips and growl at people we don’t like.

God wants that list. He inspired one servant to write, “Love does not keep a record of wrongs.” (1 Cor. 13:5) He wants us to leave the list at the cross. Not easy. “Just look what they did to me!” as we point to our hurts. “Just look what I did for you,” he reminds us and points to the cross. Paul said it this way: “If someone does wrong to you, forgive that person because the Lord forgave you.” (Col. 3:13) You and I are commanded — not urged, commanded — to keep no list of wrongs.

Besides, do we really want to keep one? Do we really want to catalog all our mistreatments? Do we really want to growl and snap our way through life? God doesn’t want us to either. We need to give up our sins before they infect us, and our bitterness before it incites us, and give God our anxieties before it inhibits us. And, since we’re there, let’s give God our anxious moments, too.

A man told his psychologist that his anxieties were disturbing his dreams. Some nights he dreamed he was a pup tent; other nights he dreamed he was a tepee. The doctor quickly analyzed the situation and replied, “I know your problem. You’re too tense.” Most of us are. So next time, try taking those anxieties to the cross. Next time you’re worried about your health or house or finances or flights, take a mental trip up the hill. Spend a few moments looking again at the pieces of the passion. Run your thumb over the tip of the spear. Balance a spike in the palm of your hand. Read the wooden sign written in your own language.

He did all of this for you and me. And knowing this, knowing all he did for us there, don’t you think he’ll look out for us here? Or as Paul wrote, “God did not keep back his own Son, but he gave him for us. If God did this, won’t he freely give us everything else?” (Rom. 8:32) We could do ourselves a favor by taking our anxious moments to the cross. Leave them there with your bad moments, your mad moments, and your anxious moments. Oh, and your final moment.

Frankly, barring the return of Christ first, we’ll have one. A final moment. A final breath. A final widening of the eyes and beating of the heart. In a split second we’ll leave what we know and enter what we don’t. And that’s what bothers us. Death is the great unknown. We’re always a bit skittish about the unknown. God promises to come at an unexpected hour and take us from the gray world we know to a golden world we don’t. But since we don’t, we aren’t sure we want to go. We even get upset at the thought of his coming. For that reason God wants us to trust him. “Don’t let your hearts be troubled,” he urged. “I will come back and take you to be with me so that you may be where I am.” (John 14:1,3)

Troubled about your final moments? Leave them at the foot of the cross. Leave them there with your bad moments, mad moments and anxious moments. And about this time maybe you’re thinking, “You know, if I leave all those moments at the cross, I won’t have any moments left but good ones.”

I guess you won’t.

Grace,

Randy

Saturday

Saturday

Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. She ran and found Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved. She said, “They have taken the Lord’s body out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!”

Peter and the other disciple started out for the tomb. They were both running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He stooped and looked in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he didn’t go in. Then Simon Peter arrived and went inside. He also noticed the linen wrappings lying there, while the cloth that had covered Jesus’ head was folded up and lying apart from the other wrappings. Then the disciple who had reached the tomb first also went in, and he saw and believed — for until then they still hadn’t understood the Scriptures that said Jesus must rise from the dead. Then they went home. (John 20:1-10)

Let’s talk about grave clothes for a minute. Fun stuff, huh? Hardly. Make a list of depressing subjects, and burial garments would be somewhere between an Internal Revenue Service audit and long-term dental care. No one likes grave clothes. No one discusses grave clothes. For instance, have you ever tried to spice up the conversation at the dinner table with, “So, what are you planning to wear to your funeral?” Probably not. Or, have you ever seen a store specializing in burial garments, like “Clothes to Die For”? Most people don’t talk about grave clothes much.

The apostle John, apparently, was an exception to this rule. Ask him, and he’ll tell you how he came to see burial garments as a symbol of triumph. Mind you, he didn’t always see them that way. A tangible reminder of the death of his best friend, Jesus, they used to seem like a symbol of tragedy. But on that first Easter Sunday, God took the clothing of death and made it a symbol of life. So, could God do the same for you?

We all face tragedy. What’s more, we’ve all received the symbols of tragedy. Yours might be an ID bracelet from the hospital, a scar, or a summons from the Superior Court. For a few at my church, it’s an ash heap that was once called home. We don’t like these symbols, nor do we want these symbols. Like wrecked cars in a junkyard, they clutter up our hearts with memories of bad days. But could God use these things for something good? I mean, how far can we really go with verses like, “In everything God works for the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28)

But does “everything” include tumors and tests and tempers and terminations? John would say, “Yep.” John would tell you that God can turn any tragedy into a triumph, if only you will wait and watch. And, to prove his point, he would tell you about one Friday in particular:

Later, Joseph from Arimathea asked Pilate if he could take the body of Jesus. (Joseph was a secret follower of Jesus, because he was afraid of some of the leaders.) Pilate gave his permission, so Joseph came and took Jesus’ body away. Nicodemus, who earlier had come to Jesus at night, went with Joseph. He brought about seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. These two men took Jesus’ body and wrapped it with the spices in pieces of linen cloth, which is how they bury the dead. (John 19:38–40)

Reluctant during Christ’s life, but courageous at his death, Joseph and Nicodemus came to serve Jesus. They came to bury him. They ascended the hill bearing the burial clothing. Pilate had given his permission. Joseph of Arimathea had given a tomb. Nicodemus had brought the spices and linens. In fact, John states that Nicodemus brought seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. The amount is worth noting, because a quantity like that was typically used only for a king. John also comments on the linens because, to him at least, they were a picture of a Friday tragedy. As long as there were no grave clothes, as long as there was no tomb, as long as there was no coroner, there was hope. But the arrival of the hearse triggered hope’s exit. And to this apostle, the grave clothes symbolized tragedy.

And could there have been a greater tragedy for John than a dead Jesus? Because three years earlier John had turned his back on his career and threw his lot in with the Nazarene carpenter. Earlier in the week John had enjoyed a ticker-tape parade as Jesus and the disciples entered Jerusalem. But how quickly things had turned. The people who had called Jesus king on Sunday were calling for his torture and death the following Friday. These linens were a tangible reminder that his friend and his future were wrapped in cloth and sealed behind a rock.

Of course, John didn’t know on that Friday what you and I know now. He didn’t know that Friday’s tragedy would be Sunday’s triumph. John would later confess that he “did not yet understand from the Scriptures that Jesus must rise from the dead.” (John 20:9) That’s why what he did on Saturday is so important. But the truth is that we don’t know anything about that particular Saturday; we don’t have a verse to read, or even a little bit of knowledge to share. All we know is that when Sunday came, John was there because when Mary Magdalene came looking for him, she found him.

But Jesus was dead. The Master’s body was lifeless. John’s friend and future were buried. But John hadn’t left. Why? Was he waiting for the resurrection? No. As far as he knew, the lips were forever silent and the hands forever still. He wasn’t expecting a Sunday surprise.

Then why was he there, because you’d think he would have left. Who was to say that the men who crucified Christ wouldn’t come after him as well? The crowds were pleased with one crucifixion, so maybe the religious leaders would call for more. So why didn’t John get out of town? Perhaps the answer was pragmatic: maybe he was taking care of Jesus’ mother. Or, perhaps he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or, maybe he didn’t have any money or energy or direction … or all of the above. Or, maybe he lingered because he loved Jesus.

To some, Jesus was a miracle worker. To others, Jesus was a master teacher. And to the masses, Jesus was the hope of Israel. But to John, he was all of these and much more. To John, Jesus was a friend. And you don’t abandon a friend — even when that friend is dead. John stayed close to Jesus.

He had a habit of doing that, too. For instance, he was close to Jesus in the upper room. He was close to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He was at the foot of the cross at the crucifixion, and he was a quick sprint from the tomb at the burial. Did he understand Jesus? No. Was he glad Jesus did what he did? No. But did he leave Jesus? No.

What about you? When you’re in John’s position, what do you do? When it’s Saturday in your life, how do you react? When you are somewhere between yesterday’s tragedy and tomorrow’s triumph, what do you do? Do you leave God, or do you linger near him? John chose to linger. And because he lingered on Saturday, he was around on Sunday to see the miracle.

Mary said, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him.” So Peter and the other follower started for the tomb. They were both running, but the other follower ran faster than Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down and looked in and saw the strips of linen cloth lying there, but he did not go in. Then following him, Simon Peter arrived and went into the tomb and saw the strips of linen lying there. He also saw the cloth that had been around Jesus’ head, which was folded up and laid in a different place from the strips of linen. Then the other follower, who had reached the tomb first, also went in. He saw and believed. (John 20:2–8)

As we learn from the narrative, Peter and John were given the news very early on Sunday morning: “Jesus’ body is missing!” And you get the distinct impression that Mary was urgent, both with her announcement and her opinion. She thought Jesus’ enemies had taken his body away. So, being typical guys, the two disciples take off for the hewn-rock sepulcher, John outrunning Peter and arriving first. What he saw, however, so stunned him that he froze at the entrance. But what was so stunning? “Strips of linen cloth,” apparently. He saw “the cloth that had been around Jesus’ head … folded up and laid in a different place from the strips of linen.” He saw “cloth lying.” So?

Well, the original Greek provides some insight. John employs a term that means “rolled up,” or “still in their folds.” In other words, these burial wraps had not been ripped off and thrown on the ground. They were, instead, still in their original state, i.e., the linens were undisturbed. The grave clothes were still rolled and folded. But how could that be? Because if friends had removed the body, wouldn’t they have taken the clothes too? But if enemies had taken the body, wouldn’t they have done the same? And if not, if for some reason friends or enemies had unwrapped the body, would they have been so careful to dispose of the clothing in such a neat and tidy fashion? Not likely. But if neither friend nor foe took the body, who did?

That was John’s question, and that question led to John’s discovery. “He saw and believed.” (John 20:8) Through the rags of death, John saw the power of life. Odd, don’t you think, that God would use something as sad as a burial wrap to change a life? But God’s like that. In his hand a bunch of empty wine jugs at a wedding become a symbol of power; the coin of a widow becomes a symbol of generosity; a crude manger in Bethlehem becomes a symbol of devotion; and a tool of death becomes a symbol of love. So, should we be so surprised that he takes the wrappings of death and makes them the picture of life?

Which takes us back to my question. Could God do something similar in your life? Could he take what today is a token of your tragedy and turn it into a symbol of triumph? Yes, He can. And all you have to do is what John did – don’t leave; hang around and remember the second half of that Romans passage: “God works for the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28) That’s how John felt about Jesus. He loved him. He didn’t understand him or even always agree with him, but he loved him. And because he loved him, he stayed near him.

The Bible says that “in everything God works for the good of those who love him.” But if you’re having a hard time believing his word, try this. Remove the word everything, and replace it with the symbol of your own tragedy. For instance, for John, the verse would read: “In burial clothing God works for the good of those who love him.” So, how would Romans 8:28 read in your life?

In hospital stays God works for the good. In divorce papers God works for the good. In a prison term God works for the good. If God can change John’s life through a tragedy, could he use a tragedy to change your own?

As hard as it may be to believe, you could be only a Saturday away from a resurrection.

Grace,

Randy