Thoughts from here and there…It’s not too late.
It’s too late. He is being dragged down into hell by demons. He has one hand over one eye and in the other is a look of ominous recognition. He understands, but it is now too late. This is a scene from Michelangelo’s painting of the Last Judgement.
On an Easter Sunday morning it is too late for the guards that blocked access to the tomb. It is too late for those who sought to falsify the story with a tale that has lived even to this day. It is too late for a Roman ruler who washed his hands of the whole mess and gave the man to a mob hungry for death.
It is not too late for those who were called friends and disciples. Oh, they fled the scene. On an earlier occasion he was denied three times before the cock crowed. In despair, with heads lowered from heavy hearts, they gave up and returned to hide it out in an upper room. The anguish of apparent loss hangs heavy like thick fog in the valley of hopelessness. It only appears to be too late.
Its not too late because there is a flash of light like lightening and the stone is rolled away. Its not too late because the beautiful voice of the representatives of a gracious God reveal that he is truly risen indeed. It took a while, but eventually the disciples realized that it was not too late. They accepted and incorporated his resurrection into the very core of their lives and teachings. This is true even of Paul, who claimed to be a disciple like one born out of wedlock. He was determined to know nothing accept Jesus Christ.
I read this story as told by Ann Weems and how it relates to Easter and worship and life shared together.
“Hearing a southern accent, Ann Weems was reminded of the time she was in Wisconsin leading a worship service at an Interim Ministers’ Conference. Before supper that first night, a man with a southern accent came up to her and asked, ‘Where are you from?’ When she responded, ‘Nashville,’ he smiled and said he had known it.
“‘Who are your people?’ he asked.
Ann recalls the surge of memories which swept over her. She saw faces and names and even smelled some of the sweet aromas associated with home. She had answered the question before: when she went to college in Memphis and when she had married and her name changed.
I knew what it meant: To whom do you belong? Ann writes. It is an ancient question. It’s a means of identification, a claiming of ties. It can instantly open doors or shut them in your face.
“‘My father is Tom Barr,’ Ann replied.
“His face lit up with a look of recognition. He told the people with him, ‘She’s one of us! She’s Tom Barr’s daughter.’ They gathered around and led her to their table, talking about people they knew twenty-five years ago in Nashville.
“We dashed back in time and it felt right, Ann recalled. I belonged. I was accepted. I know who my people are.”
We are the people of God. It is never too late. There is always time to join the resurrection throng and shout loud hosannas of praise for what God has done in Jesus Christ.