Made Your Bed Yet?

I remember my parents faithfully making their bed every single morning. They had one of those white counterpanes with small cloth knots that shaped a beautiful design, and every morning, Dad would stand on one side of the bed and Mom on the other. They'd pull up the sheets, then the counterpane, tuck in the pillows, smooth the bedspread. It always looked pristine by the time they were finished.

And then I would flop onto the inviting new expanse and roll around, wrinkling up their faultless job. Inspector Tamara, here to make sure the bed really is made. I'm sure they appreciated my efforts to check their work.

My bed, on the other hand, was a study in contrast. I was told to make it every morning, and when I remembered to do so, it looked very nice. I was a slow-mover, though, and by the time I got the essentials done before school, I usually had no time to touch my bed. So I'd run off to school while my sheets hung on the carpet, trailing the floor, and my duvet lay crumpled up and flopped over the end of the bed.

Moment of transparency, I still don't always make my bed. I like a made bed; I like the feeling of pulling back the covers to crawl under them when they're neatly spread over me. But it has always been a struggle to make time for it. 

There's something about a made bed that puts a period on the end of the night's sentence. It's a way of saying: The time of dreams is over. Reality awaits. It's a way of saying: Arise, shine. The light has come. It's a way of putting the dark to sleep and welcoming the new day. 

I know I just went way deep with a household task. I'll start in on cleaning bathrooms next. What spiritual applications can we find in a toilet brush? ;)

Easter is my favorite, favorite day of the entire year. I love Christmas. I love the lights and the carols, the tree, the presents, the cider and the cookies, and of course, the story of the Baby in the manger. But Easter brings a period to a long, dark night where -- early in the morning, just before the light outlines that horizon -- Mary Magdalene and some other ladies go to the tomb with the intent of arranging more spices in Jesus' burial shroud.

And when they get there... He's GONE!

Don't let two-thousand-plus years of telling this story make it stale in your mind. Put yourself in the sandals of these ladies who have not yet experienced a lifetime of Easters where the preacher tells them He is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!

Jesus' body is gone! "Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance" (John 20:1). She stops short, turns to the other ladies with her (the other Gospels name Mary the mother of James the younger, Salome, and a lady named Joanna as accompanying Mary Magdalene). Where is He?

The snap decision: Someone must have stolen the body. How else would His tomb be empty? 

John's account focuses on his own story -- the moment when he and Peter run to the tomb. I'll get there in a second. Matthew gives a bit more to the initial discovery. "There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven, and going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men" (Matthew 28:1-4).

You know, there's a lot on the line for those guards posted at Jesus' tomb. The Pharisees begin circulating the rumor later that the disciples have somehow sneaked past these guards and stolen the body, that Jesus hasn't really resurrected. But Roman guards are put to death if they fail their post. Not that I blame them for their reaction; I have never seen an angel with an appearance like lightning, and if I ever do, I might faint, too. But they do not intentionally allow that stone to be rolled back -- the consequences mean death for them, according to Roman law. Whether this is followed through, I don't know, but it's likely that those guards don't survive for much longer.

Mary and the other ladies don't stick around the tomb entrance. They race back to tell the disciples what they've seen. "So Peter and 'the other disciple' (a.k.a. John) started for the tomb. Both were running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first" (John 20:3-4). In other words, don't enter a footrace with John; he'll win. :)

John stops at the entrance. "He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there, but did not go in. Then Simon Peter, who was behind him, arrived and went into the tomb." It's details like this that make me fall in love with Peter all over again. Blowing right by hesitancy, tossing fear and trepidation out on its ear, he charges right by John and catapults into the tomb itself. Headlong. Impulsive. Passionate. No holds barred. "Upon this rock, I will build my church, and all the powers of hell will not conquer it!" (Matthew 16:18) I love it!

"He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the burial cloth that had been around Jesus' head. The cloth was folded up by itself, separate from the linen."

Jesus makes His bed. That bed is a bed He chooses to lie in. It's a bed of death, pain, and agony... for us, to redeem us from the death we very much deserve. He chooses to lie in that bed. He chooses to finish the night in it, and then -- THEN! -- He rises up out of the darkness, puts death to sleep permanently, and punctuates his action by making. His. bed.

He folds the burial cloth. Night is no more! He places it neatly on the ground. Day is here! He separates the shroud, the cloth that pronounces death, separate from the linen strips. Death is defeated! The chains of sin now have a big ol' hole blown right through them, and we are no longer prisoners of darkness!

"Arise, shine, for your Light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you" (Isaiah 60:1). The Son is shining. Time to end your night, get up, and make your bed.