Thoughts on the First Easter Morning - Lorilee Guenter

The Tomb is Empty

Each year I look forward to Easter Sunday. We pull out songs just for this service to celebrate our Risen Lord. We celebrate victory, hope and promises fulfilled. In Sunday school the celebration begins early since there is no Sunday school on this special day. In the weeks leading up to Passion Week we tell the story of Jesus sacrifice, of His resurrection and his appearances to His followers. This year as I prepared to tell the story of that day I reflected on how different it must have been.

The ladies in their grief and shock begged to know where Jesus body was moved to. Why would someone take the body? I imagine their heartbreak turned to anger. First their hopes died on the cross. Jesus could not be the Messiah they waited for, not now that he was dead. Now they could not even anoint his body with the spices they had. It was their custom. It was part of grieving and honouring their dead. Someone had taken even that from them. Oh what relief it must have been to hear the words of the angels and remember Jesus words: He would be raised on the third day. Maybe their hope was not dead. Maybe.

Unfortunately the men did not believe the story told by the women. Why should they? They were all still grieving and everyone knew the testimony of women held no influence, not then. Perhaps they brushed it off as false hope of those who refused to give up hope of a long awaited Messiah. Perhaps they brushed it off as grief filled denial of the truth. In any case, it sounded like fictitious nonsense. But  then there is Peter. At least one person did not dismiss the ramblings of the women. Grief filled, guilt ridden Peter. Could it be true? But the denial, the fear, even if this far fetched story was true, how could he face Jesus? Still he had to know, had to see for himself even though he knew the story told by the women was impossible.

Then the scene changes. The story moves from the tomb and the gathered mourners. The rod. The dusty road home. A part of the story I knew but did not think much about. Two men on a road is all I remembered even after reading this story many times. This time I lingered longer because instead of rushing ahead to Jesus appearing to His disciples our story this year paused to look at these two men. With centuries of church history and theologians studying the Scriptures, picking apart the nuances, the signs that could have been obvious it seems incredulous that the men did not recognise Jesus. Oh they might have the thought they had seen him at a distance in the crowd. They had no other context to aid their recognition and no expectation of meeting Jesus on the road even if the story of the women was true.

Cleopas, a name to match a downcast face, accused Jesus of being out of touch. How could anyone not know about the crucifixion? This was headline news. Crowds lined the route, as if watching a parade,  to that horrible hill. The crosses still stood as a reminder of the terrible event. Then he summarised the events as if reporting for a newspaper but he included the quieter, hope crushing morning with the missing body.

But we would know better, wouldn't we. We would recognise Jesus from the first time we saw Him. How easy to claim those on the road, those who walked with Jesus should have understood. How arrogant to judge from our position of having Scripture explained from Moses and the prophets through Paul's letters and the Revelation of Jesus. This season I am celebrating the empty tomb, the victory over sin and death. I am also considering how different our perspective is than those who found the tomb. How fortunate for us they believed as they encountered Jesus and began to understand. How fortunate for us Jesus had the patience to explain again to His followers why this had to happen. Now we can celebrate: He is alive!

Christmas-My Childhood Memories - Sulo Moorthy

“There is nothing sadder in the world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.” ~ Erma Bombeck

I grew up in a neighborhood where Christians were in the minority. Yet Christmas brought so much joy not only to us Christians but also to those who lived around us.
 
Christmas preparation started early in October at our home, when my mother along with my two older sisters and I went shopping for clothing and cake ingredients. Exchanging gifts at Christmas time was not a custom for us then. However, wearing pretty new clothes to church on Christmas morning, making the traditional Christmas fruit cake, and having a feast-like Christmas lunch with family and neighbors were part of the celebration.

The dark and moist fruit cake my mom made at Christmas was called Rich Cake, because almost all the ingredients that went into the cake were imported from either Britain or Australia and that surely cost a lot of money. At that time, we didn't have a cake mixer to beat the batter, or a food processor to chop the large amount of dried fruits or even an oven to bake the cake. Yet that didn't stop my mom from making the cake.

Along with my two older sisters, she spent long hours chopping the fruits and soaking them for days in brandy and golden syrup and beating the cake batter in a huge enamel basin with a wooden spoon. She then poured the batter into large baking trays and sent them to the bakery to be baked a month ahead. Once the cake was brought back from the bakery, no one was allowed to see, touch or taste the cake until the Christmas morning. It was stored securely in barrel-like steel containers away from ants and the family’s sight. As a child, I wasn’t fond of the fruit cake, and so it didn’t bother me much. My favorite was my mom's fluffy raisin and cashew nut cake.

We didn't have Christmas lights blinking on our rooftops or a decorated Christmas tree in our living room. Instead red, yellow and green ribbons of crepe paper hung across our front porch and living room with clusters of huge colorful balloons pinned at every corner. From the middle of December, Christmas carolers from our home church and nearby churches would start marching down our lane at night with lighted candle in one hand and tambourines in the other and making a joyful sound to wake up any dozing soul. Our Hindu neighbors neither complained nor showed any displeasure on hearing the carol singing even on late nights. Respect for each other's faith gave no ground to feud over such matters.

On Christmas morning, we would wake up to the sound of firecrackers blasting in our backyard and far across our streets. My ears, in the mean time would be perked up to hear another kind of sound-the jingling of keys on my father’s wardrobe in the next room. No sooner I heard my father calling out my name, I’d jump out of bed and run towards his room wondering what toy Dad would be holding in his hand this time. As always Dad would be waiting for me with a huge smile and a gift in his hand. A beautiful doll with blue eyes and golden locks, a winding toy-monkey beating a drum or a shaggy dog barking , a toy- train or tea set were some of the Christmas gifts I received at that age. My mom and older siblings got mostly clothing from my dad. Being the youngest, I was privileged to receive a toy as well as a frilly taffeta or an organdy dress.

Until we returned from church that morning, we were not allowed to eat anything. But when we returned, we would find all kinds of Christmas goodies and cakes laid out neatly on plates on the table with bunches of a variety of bananas.

Kaakka, an old Muslim man, who worked at my father’s office usually came in to help my mom prepare the Christmas lunch. Kaakka resembled the genie popped out of the Aladdin’s lamp. His broad toothless smile and gentle manners charmed anyone who came across him. In no time, he’d get ready to prepare his famous ghee rice and goat curry in two huge barrel like containers over open hearth in at our backyard The aroma of cloves, cinnamon, cardamoms and other spices in the curry and rice wafting in the air would soon bring the neighbors around to celebrate the Christmas meal with us. Invitation was not needed for anyone to drop in, and whoever came never left without eating on that day.

Apart from our neighbors, those who usually worked in our yard- fixing fences, plucking coconuts, sweeping the yard or chopping firewood would also come with their children to enjoy the Christmas meal and to take some food back home. As my parents presented new clothing and money to the workers after the meal, I enjoyed giving out candies, balloons and firecrackers to their children.

I may have born in a Buddhist country and grew up in a Hindu neighborhood, but the joy of Christmas experienced during my childhood was truly extraordinary. I didn't have the pleasure of sitting on Santa's lap to take a photo or have a pile of wrapped up gifts under the Christmas tree as my children did, but I had everything what Christmas is all about- love, laughter and sharing.


Posted last year in my personal blog-Precious Moments

Love Defined Discipleship - Sulo Moorthy

"By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." John 14:35

Recently, I witnessed something that truly portrayed the love Jesus talked about. My friend Meera and her husband Raj host a prayer meeting at their house every month. They invite an Indian pastor from out of town to give the sermon, and invite friends who could speak or understand Tamil (my native tongue) so that all could get the opportunity to sing, pray and listen to a sermon in their native tongue and enjoy the home-cooked Indian food Meera has prepared.

When my husband and I went there last month, I noticed that Meera, instead of her casual dress of long skirt and blouse, had dressed up in a lovely blue and gold silk sari and put her long black hair up in a neat bun. Only after the sermon did I learn that it was Meera and Raj's 31st wedding anniversary the next day. To celebrate the evening, the young men and women gathered at the meeting brought a chocolate frosted cake, handed the couple a lovely bouquet of red roses, sang a song dedicated to them and spoke a few words of appreciation.

Even though non-Christians are also invited to the prayer meetings , I've never seen Meera nor Raj enforcing their faith on them or debating with them on faith matters. Meera, herself being a Hindu in the past, knows too well that it's not her words, but her love in action that has the power to draw anyone towards Christ. Even though she holds a high position in her medical profession, she's one of the most humble persons I've known. Her smile and calm composure even under trying condition reflects her strong faith and perspective on life.

As I sat there and watched those 20- to 30-year-old men and women come forward and say how much Meera and Raj had blessed their lives, I wondered how a busy person like Meera who works long hours as a doctor could find the time to spend with these people whenever they needed her help.

A young woman who had a baby an year ago and a surgery a few months later, said that no sooner Meera heard about her pregnancy, she showed up at their door with home cooked food to last for two weeks. Because of Meera, the girl said, she rarely misses her mother in India. A newly married couple who had moved to US recently, nodded their head in agreement to convey how quickly Meera and Raj had won them also by their friendliness.

If any advice or help was needed to purchase a car or an expensive item, Raj was the person they approached. One girl told that once she was talked into buying a not so good car, and when Raj found out about it, he went along with her to the dealer to return the car, get her money back and saw that she drove back home fully satisfied in a better car.

The young man who spoke next said that when his parents were struggling to find work in US and put him and his sister through college, Meera and Raj were there to help them out financially as well as to give the love and support they needed during the time. Recently when  he found out that Meera was going through CT scans and other procedure to find out the cause for the pain in her back and head, he had told his mother that if Meera ever needed a kidney or a lung, he wouldn't think twice to give her one of his own. My eyes welled up when I heard the story. I don't think anyone could put a price tag on such love.

According to Christ's view in John 14:35, it is not by the bumper sticker on our cars or the "I Love Jesus" coffee mugs we carry, the words we write or our stand on certain social issues that are going to portray us as true disciples of Him. To the onlookers, they may help to some extent to reveal our identity, but on closer examination nothing could beat the real thing -- the genuine love for others.