He could still see the empty tomb

"Sunrise," 5 by 7ish, watercolor

The old man was the last of his kind.

As a young buck, his back and chest and arms bulged with hard, tanned muscle, hands callused from hard work.

He had been fluently profane, enjoying the sound of words as he directed his hair-trigger temper at whoever or whatever disagreed with him. A fisherman by trade, he’d spend most of his life outdoors on long days and nights in a boat, stooped over, pulling in nets heavy with the catch. He smelled of sweat and fish.

But he enjoyed good food, wine and conversation. He also liked to fight, to get even, especially if someone crossed his brother, with whom he worked. His loyalty to family was legend in his hometown and among fishing crews. Put him together with his brother against outsiders and the brawl made townspeople wince, and smile too. Pick a fight and you’d find double trouble. Back to back, they could whip a crowd.

Their Daddy had taught them well--how to work, how to fight, how to have fun--be brave, face trouble head on, always stick together. It’s a rough world out there--love and take care family and friends. Be strong and don’t let anyone push you around.

My kind of guy.

But then something happened 60 years ago, something the old man, now almost 90, could still see as fresh as yesterday.

He remembered the first time he met the man who would become his best friend--a tanned working man with calluses on his hands himself. A builder, with ideas and a different kind of power. In three years, his friend changed him forever.

He’d spent the rest of his live trying to change others--with words, not his fists.

The son of Thunder became the Apostle of Love.

Sixty years after the friendship, he was old and alone, but no less gutsy. His hair was gray, his skin wrinkled, his hands arthritic, but his eyes and his grip and his voice still grabbed people.

Every day he could still see his friend, his brother, his comrades--all long gone. He could still see the old fishing boat, smell the fish, feel his friend’s hand on his shoulder, taste the last meal and wine, remember the tender touch of holding the arm of his friend’s mother the day he helped bury him.

Life had not been easy. His brother had been beheaded, his comrades jailed and burned and executed.

But the old man fought back a different way. Instead of profanity, he’d used his talent with words to stir people with his writing and speaking.

Even though he was stooped, he still stood up against crowds. He wasn’t afraid to be loyal and to say what was on his mind. He was so old that he referred to almost everyone as his children. The authorities still feared him, and rather than risk his followers’ numbers, just sent him off to a lonely island to get him away from the people.

He could still see that empty tomb, as though it had been yesterday. 

He had outrun the others to be the first there. He went in. He walked and talked and ate and fished with his friend one more precious time. Then as the years passed, the letters the old man scrawled burst with the flavor of his friend’s life. He would never forget and made sure nobody else would either.

Have you ever wanted to tell your Mom or Dad or a loved one something after they’re gone? If you could tell them just one thing, it would be simple, wouldn’t it? Just “I love you.”

He spent the rest of his life--the guy who cursed and fought and sought revenge--he spent the rest of his life saying, “I love you.”

The old man knew the power of words because his friend’s words and life changed him. And his words about his friend, written for all to read, help keep his friend alive.

John The Apostle.

Remember him, but especially his Friend, as you read John 1:1, and John 20, when the sun comes up behind the lilies this Easter Sunday.

An adaptation of several of my newspaper columns and radio programs about my favorite New Testament writer.

Remember the man who loved lilies

"Easter Sunrise," 5 x 7 cold press

When it was springtime in rocky Galilee, the young carpenter loved working outdoors in the warm sun.

He worked hard, alongside his father, building strong muscles in his back and arms and legs, the tools wearing  calluses on his firm hands. His tanned skin glistened with sweat as he worked bareback at midday, but the breeze that swept up the hills from the little blue sea below cooled him. He could see the fishing boats down there, with their sails furled as the crews cast their nets.

He treasured the outdoors, noticing everything…the rocky soil, the fertile fields, the sparrows singing after the long winter.

And the blooming lilies.

When he and his father would take a break, he’d sit down, take a swig of water from a pottery jug, and enjoy the moment, the scenery, wiping his brow. Then he’d bend down and  pick one of the lilies blooming near his feet, bringing it close, smelling its sweet odor under his long Jewish nose.

It was so good to be outdoors after being cooped up all winter. Spring was his favorite season. It lifted his spirits, made him glad to be alive…the season of rebirth, of life, of birdsong…of hope…of lilies blooming in the fields.

For 30 springtimes he soaked up the sun and countryside, and scenery and sounds and smells. The tastes of wine and weddings, the laughter and tears of hardworking people, poor people. You can’t live in such rugged country with rugged people and not love beauty, not forgive, not be compassionate, not be inspired. To be reminded every springtime about what is really important.

He relied on that practical experience to become an excellent teacher, a master of imagery and practical, yet inspirational, teaching. He once told his students:    

“And why do you worry about clothing?

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

     But one spring day, just three springtimes later, only 80 miles south of his beloved Galilean hills, the birds ceased singing and the warm sun turned dark with the smell, not of lilies, but of cruelty.

He must have thought about the Galilean rocks and the fields, and the boats and the sparrows. I know he missed the beauty of the blooming lilies as his blood trickled down his arms and back and feet. No wonder he felt forsaken.

But the sparrows sang again, and his friends fished again, and ate and drank wine, and found rebirth and hope all over again…and the lilies bloomed. Still do.

Because of him…one spring morning not far from Galilee.

Remember him, the man who loved lilies and life…

When the sun comes up behind the lilies Easter morning tomorrow.
         --Matthew 6:28,29
(Revised newspaper column and blog post from years ago.)

Lilies, and an old man--3

The old man was the last of his kind.

As a young buck, his back and chest and arms bulged with hard, tanned muscle, hands callused from hard work.

He had been fluently profane, enjoying the sound of words as he directed his hair-trigger temper at whoever or whatever disagreed with him. A fisherman by trade, he’d spend most of his life outdoors on long days and nights in a boat, stooped over, pulling in nets heavy with the catch. He smelled of sweat and fish.

But he enjoyed good food, wine and conversation. He also liked to fight, to get even, especially if someone crossed his brother, with whom he worked. His loyalty to family was legend in his hometown and among fishing crews. Put him together with his brother against outsiders and the brawl made townspeople wince, and smile too. Pick a fight and you’d find double trouble. Back to back, they could whip a crowd.

Their Daddy had taught them well--how to work, how to fight, how to have fun--be brave, face trouble head on, always stick together. It’s a rough world out there--love and take care family and friends. Be strong and don’t let anyone push you around.

My kind of guy.

But then something happened 60 years ago, something the old man, now almost 90, could still see as fresh as yesterday.

He remembered the first time he met the man who would become his best friend--a tanned working man with calluses on his hands himself. A builder, with ideas and a different kind of power. In three years, his friend changed him forever.

He’d spent the rest of his live trying to change others--with words, not his fists.

The son of Thunder became the Apostle of Love.

Sixty years after the friendship, he was old and alone, but no less gutsy. His hair was gray, his skin wrinkled, his hands arthritic, but his eyes and his grip and his voice still grabbed people.

Every day he could still see his friend, his brother, his comrades--all long gone. He could still see the old fishing boat, smell the fish, feel his friend’s hand on his shoulder, taste the last meal and wine, remember the tender touch of holding the arm of his friend’s mother the day he helped bury him.

Life had not been easy. His brother had been beheaded, his comrades jailed and burned and executed.

But the old man fought back a different way. Instead of profanity, he’d used his talent with words to stir people with his writing and speaking.

Even though he was stooped, he still stood up against crowds. He wasn’t afraid to be loyal and to say what was on his mind. He was so old that he referred to almost everyone as his children. The authorities still feared him, and rather than risk his followers’ numbers, just sent him off to a lonely island to get him away from the people.

But he could still see that empty tomb, as though it had been yesterday. He had outrun the others to be the first there. He went in. He walked and talked and ate and fished with his friend one more precious time. Then as the years passed, the letters the old man scrawled burst with the flavor of his friend’s life. He would never forget and made sure nobody else would either.

Have you ever wanted to tell your Mom or Dad or a loved one something after they’re gone? If you could tell them just one thing, it would be simple, wouldn’t it? Just “I love you.”

He spent the rest of his life--the guy who cursed and fought and sought revenge--he spent the rest of his life saying, “I love you.”

The old man knew the power of words because his friend’s words and life changed him. And his words about his friend, written for all to read, help keep his friend alive.

John The Apostle.

Remember him, but especially his Friend, as you read John 1:1, and John 20, when the sun comes up behind the lilies this Easter Sunday.

An adaptation of several of my newspaper columns and radio programs about my favorite New Testament writer.

Lilies--2

He hated not seeing the stars, feeling the desert breeze, smelling the wood smoke, drinking spring water, hearing the birds, touching the flowers.

Instead, he was in a dark prison cell, always wondering if the next steps he heard would bring some foul food, or an executioner’s axe.

All because he opened his mouth.

When he knew something was wrong, he said so. And if you speak your mind to the wrong people, you pay the price. Even when you’re right, things just don’t always turn out right.

He was a long-haired fanatic, living on little food, preaching a fiery-tongued message as rough-edged and unbending as the craggy desert of his homeland.

His elder cousin preached differently, tenderly. But they both loved the outdoors and the poor people of their country. They were both tanned and muscular. They both had dusty feet and loved the outdoors. They loved each other too.

But his cousin’s eyes, his words, his deeds, his caring drew crowds that he’d never seen. The cousin was special. The prisoner had learned that in the river one day long ago.

But in that prison cell, he had second thoughts as depression set in. Maybe his life had been wasted. Maybe he had been wrong.  His cousin was still outside enjoying the free air. He was cooped up, wasting away.

The prisoner got a message out to his cousin, questioning, and his cousin was quick to reassure.

The prisoner didn’t hear what else his cousin told his followers, about the prisoner being the greatest preacher the world had known. But if he had, it would have helped in that prison cell.

Then one day, the steps the prisoner heard approaching his cell seemed different. The iron and wood door opened, and silhouetted in the light was not someone with a food bowl, but with an axe.

They drug him into a room, pushed him onto his knees, put his head face down on a piece of stone, and raised the axe.

His cousin heard what happened. He had the power to have stopped it. He didn’t. He had the power to bring him back to life. He didn’t.

I don’t know why.

Maybe he knew the prisoner had earned something better than the dungeon, better than the stars, better than the wind, better than the wood smoke, better than the birds, better than the flowers.

Maybe he knew that he would soon join the prisoner in violent death, and in renewed life, free from all prisons.

Think about John the Baptizer and his cousin, when the sun comes up behind the lilies this Easter morning.