I Found Jesus

On this Easter Sunday I must confess that I found Jesus.  I didn’t mean to.  I just sort of stumbled upon him at the post office.  He was on the ledge of the window . . . just standing there . . . smiling.  So, I picked him up, shoved him into my pocket, and thought to myself, “I found Jesus!”  I thought it was funny.

“I found Jesus.”

 

The understanding is that when a person finds Jesus that person is “saved”.  They got salvation.  They’ve punched their heavenly ticket.  They’ve got the golden insurance policy.  They are “saved”.  In the mind of the “saved” they have won this spiritual version of Where’s Waldo.

 

This being Easter Sunday the story of finding Jesus is being heard once again.  After his crucifixion Jesus is hurriedly placed in a tomb as the Sabbath begins.  The tomb is sealed until the Sabbath is over and then the body can be dealt with.  Of course that is women’s work.  Returning to the tomb at the end of Sabbath the women discover the tomb is empty except for a pile of burial cloths and a couple of angels hanging around shooting the breeze.  The angels tell the women that Jesus is not there.

 

The women ask, “Where have they taken Jesus?  Where is he?”

 

 Thus begins the spiritual version of hide and seek with Jesus—where’s Jesus?  Been looking ever since.

 

But we know that there is an encounter with the risen Jesus.  He even tells the women to go and tell the men.  At least that is one version of the story.

 

Lots of irony in that story.  For starters it is the women that are chosen to reveal the news about Jesus.  Women!  Of course, the men don’t believe them.  Imagine that!  They wouldn’t take the women’s word for it.  Nope, Peter and another disciple had to run to the tomb and see for themselves.  I think they were from Missouri.  Mary, being a person of grace, should have stuck her tongue out and given Peter the old “Na, na, na, na! I told ya!”  Mary was better than that and didn’t lower herself to masculine standards.

 

Where would we be on Easter morning if it weren’t for the women?  Despite their major role in the story, we—the so-called “faithful”—have relegated the women to a secondary and minor role.  Sadly, they have been fighting that battle ever since.  Without the women we’d all be wandering around uttering and muttering, “Where’s Jesus?  Where’d he go?”

 

The other ironic part of the story is that Jesus never left us.  You would think we’d believe Jesus and take him at his word when he tells us this.  After all, its in the King James version of the Bible in bold red letters.  Didn’t he say to his disciples: “And behold, I am always with you, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20) Plus, take his name.  In Matthew’s version of the “birth” story we are told that his name is going to be “Immanuel” or “God with us”.  Of course, Jesus is the Latin form of his Hebrew name of Joshua.  It means “God is salvation” or “God saves”.

 

I believe that whatever you want to call the spiritual being, higher power, God, holy, or creator . . . well, it is with us.  Always with us.  On the Christian side of things that is what the scriptures say.  God is with us.  Always with us.  Through thick and thin . . . good or bad.  The Holy is always with us.  So, how in the world did we lose Jesus?

 

Thankfully I found him last week.  He is standing on our dining room table, hiding behind a candle.  He will probably be there until one of the grandkids finds him while they are visiting.  Then we’ll have to haul that kid off for a baptism . . . after all, that is what you do when one “finds Jesus”.  Or he could disappear off the table and end up in one of the junk drawers.  The wife doesn’t like clutter on the table—even Jesus.

 

Easter should not be a celebration of “finding Jesus”.  It shouldn’t be a gathering of surprised faithful who exclaim that they have “found” Jesus—again.  After all the years you’d think we would remember that he is with us.  What has it been now?  Well over 2,000 Easters?  You’d think the surprise would have worn off by now.  Jesus isn’t lost.

 

We are the ones who are lost . . . or are forgetful.  Jesus is with us.  Always with us.  We are the ones who seem to forget . . . his witness, his words, his actions, his presence, his life.  We are the ones who forget where we have placed him—especially in our lives.

 

Jesus is here.  Open your eyes.  More importantly . . . open your hearts.  Then you will see.

 

In the smile of a loved one.  In the cry of a baby.  In tears of grief.  In a broken promise that crushes the soul.  In the laughter of children and friends.  In cries of fear as the bombs rain down.  In the persecution of the innocent.  In the lost who have no homes.  Those who have been ostracized and pushed to the fringes.  Those who are seeking justice . . . seeking peace.  The lonely, confused, and searching.  Those who welcome the stranger.  Those who feed the hungry . . . clothe the naked . . . free the captives . . . who sooth the pain.  Who sits and listens. In a hug.  In life.  Jesus is everywhere.

 

There was one Easter.  It was more than enough.  All the others have been re-runs of that story.  Each year it is told one more time . . . one more time in the hope that it might finally be accepted and lived.  That we might get it.  That we might live it.  Then there would be a new story.

 

Maybe that it the “real hope” of Easter!

 

Yup, I found Jesus.  He was never really lost . . . we were.

 

Celebrating the Easter Peep

Being a pastor I probably should have some sacred symbols for Easter Sunday and the season of Easter.  Symbols like . . . an empty cross . . . lilies . . . Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus . . . white stoles and paraments . . . a butterfly . . . or maybe even the flowers of the Dogwood tree—all good and sound symbols of that most important day of faith, but the one I cherish the most.  No, despite my religious leanings, none of those symbols mean Easter to me as much as my Peeps.

Everyone should know about Peeps . . . small marshmallow candy covered in colored sugar and shaped like little chickadees . . . typically making their appearance around Easter as they migrate to countless baskets marking the arrival of Jesus’ main competition—the Easter bunny.  Surely everyone has had the opportunity to experience the culinary (stretching the truth here) delight of Peeps.  It is the cornerstone of my Easter celebration . . . and, this year more than ever, it is a milestone as Peeps celebrate their 60^th anniversary.

It was in 1953 that a Russian immigrant named Sam Born began creating Peeps at his candy factory in Bethlehem (how’s that for biblical symbolism), Pennsylvania called Just Born.  Actually, Born did not create Peeps—he bought out the Rodda Candy Company and its marshmallow chick line, and replaced the painstaking process of hand-forming the chick with mass production.  Since then there have been billions of Peeps born and eaten throughout the world.  In fact, 5.5 million Peeps are born each day! 

Since I was a child, Peeps have always been a part of my observance of Easter.  They have graced my Easter basket since I was old enough to gnaw on my first Peep . . . and, it hasn’t stopped since.  Each year I have ripped into my Easter basket looking for those Peeps . . . not the bunny shaped ones, but the chick-shaped ones . . . not the bring green or orange or pink or whatever color of the rainbow they are using to make the Peeps, but the yellow ones . . . after all, I am a traditionalist.  Only yellow Peeps for me . . . it was on the tablets Moses left up on Mount Sinai . . . “thou shall only consume the yellow Peeps and keep all yellow Peeps sacred!”  Easter begins with the yellow Peep!

It just isn’t Easter without the Peeps . . . ask my daughter . . . my adult daughter.  She will tell you.  She will tell you because she is a chip off the ol’ Peep . . . I have raised her well.  Like her father, she believes in the power and sacredness of the Peep . . . and, like her father, they had better be yellow Peeps.  It does not matter what her Easter basket was filled with . . . the finest chocolates . . . a ten pound solid Easter bunny with ears . . . malted milk balls . . . Jelly Belly jelly beans . . . she ripped through the basket until she found the lost—the yellow Peeps!  Rumor has it that she has already begun inducting the granddaughter—even at seven months old—into the faith of the yellow Peep of Easter.  It doesn’t hurt that there is probably a pound of sugar in a Peep, and what baby doesn’t like a little sugar!

Actually, Peeps are made from marshmallow (sugar), corn syrup, gelatin, and carnauba wax.  I imagine that most of that stuff is not good for human consumption, but . . . oh, well!  They sure taste good . . . not the fresh squishy ones right out of the package, but the ones that have been ripped from the package and left out to grow stale and hard like beef jerky . . . those are the ones that I like.  Peeps are indestructible. 

Really, they are.  Apparently scientists and countless children have tried to destroy Peeps for generations . . . and, guess what . . . the Peeps are still here.  They have attempted to dissolve them in every known liquid . . . to no avail.  They have tried to burn them . . . smoldering, but still here.  Nothing gets rid of a Peep . . . indestructible . . . they can never die.  How much more of an Easter message do you want?

There is only one Peep for a Peep traditionalist . . . that is the Easter Peep, original yellow color.  All the rest are cultist off-shoots . . . fly-by-night wannabes . . . heretical off-casts that pollute the true meaning of Peeps at Easter.  The sacred Easter Peep should be revered and given its rightful place in the observance of Easter.  Didn’t Jesus come out of the tomb, look at Mary, and ask, “Where are my peeps?”

Blessed are those who have the Peeps . . . for they shall never be hungry . . . they shall never be bored . . . they shall never . . . well, you get the picture.  Peeps are a symbol of Easter . . . they never die . . . they are always with us . . . and, they make us feel good.  May you be blessed with Peeps—yellow chickadee Peeps—this holy season of Easter.  Let us celebrate the Peep: