Out of Death and Back to Life

     “Everyone will come; everyone will come to my funeral to make sure that I stay dead.”  I recently heard this song lyric rumbling through a TV commercial for a video game.  Hearing it, I absently filtered out the video game and focused on the song.  In just 30 seconds, it drew me in, an intriguing image, compelling me to Google the commercial to find out what the song was.  The song was “Four Rusted Horses,” by the ever-controversial Marilyn Manson. 

I could picture the funeral mentioned in the song: The grass, mowed short and straight by a meticulous groundskeeper, would look bright green beneath the dark, crisp black suits and dresses of the men and women standing around the coffin.  The coffin, shimmering, glinting in the sunshine, would be at the center of the gathering.  To a casual observer, the funeral would look like any other.  A crowd of people, dressed formally, would be standing around, watching the pallbearers step in slow, precise steps towards the rectangular hole in the ground.  But a closer look would reveal something quite different.  There would be a crowd of people standing at a distance, casting anxious glances in the direction of the casket.  They would be fidgety with faces full of nervous tension.  Even those in the funeral procession, those closest to the coffin, closest to the dead man inside, would not be able to mask their unease, sweat dripping down their foreheads.

Instead of tears and mourning, there would be a mixture of wide-eyed confusion, jaw-clenching anxiety, and looks of stoic determination.  As the casket would be lowered into the ground, a few of those watching would breathe a sigh of relief, and hurry away as quickly as they had come.  Others, refusing to leave their vigil, would continue to stand by, watching, while their feet would gradually make imprints in the soft ground.  They would not leave their watch until the last scoop of dirt was in its place six feet above the coffin.  Even then, they would leave with caution, silently stepping away, trying not to look back at the grave as they left.

“Everyone will come; everyone will come to my funeral to make sure that I stay dead.”

In much the same way, I can imagine Satan looking on at Jesus’ death with the same sense of cautious unease.  When Jesus was on the cross, Satan had stood by, anxiously watching the outcome, until finally Jesus’ side was pierced and he was entombed behind a giant stone.  Satan could hardly believe it.  He had actually done it.  He had killed the Son of God.  And the Son of God had stayed dead.

For three days.

But on the third day, long after Satan had left his vigil to go throw his celebration party, Jesus Christ arose.  And walked.  Out of the tomb.  Alive.

Out of death, and back to life.

He is the resurrection.  He is life.  Those who believe in him will live, even though they die.

“Everyone will come; everyone will come to my funeral to make sure that I stay dead.”  But I will not stay dead.  Will you?

(John 11:25)

Wash and Be Healed

     He was known throughout the region as the commander of the Aram army.  But he was not just any commander.  As a soldier, he had fought valiantly, risking his life over and over for the sake of his men.  As a leader, he was just as valiant but showed wisdom also: he would lead the army towards some battles and away from others; he would protect his men as much with his decision-making as with his sword.  No clear-thinking leader would stand in the way of his army—if an army tried to come up against the army of Naaman of Aram, they would suffer for it.  He was the commander who had brought victory after victory to the nation.  Aram owed its wealth and even its survival to his skill in battle. 

     Naaman had the full respect and trust of the king, who knew that with this man leading his army, the country of Aram would prosper.  Ranked second only to the king, Naaman had wealth and prestige like no other.  His house was lavish, with gold trim on the doorposts and plundered treasure hanging on the wall.  His robes were fine silk, each worth more than the entire farms of his neighbors.  When he walked down the dusty streets, as he often did in the evenings, people would murmur his praises: “That’s Naaman, the one who defeated those rebels to the east,” or, “He’s the one who saved my brother when he was struck in battle,” or “He’s the one that the stories are about.  Remember when he defeated four men with just a broken spear shaft?”  Everyone knew of his great achievements.
     But they always followed their comments with other whispered gossip: “It’s too bad about his skin,” or, “Don’t get too close—it might be contagious,” or, “You’d think with all his money, he’d be able to find a doctor to help him.”
     Naaman had more wealth than anyone he knew and more friends than even the king, but he was miserable.  He would throw a party with the best musicians in town and the most expensive wine.  Everyone he knew would be invited, and even more would show up.  But when he would notice someone staring awkwardly at his diseased skin, the party would be over, music halting mid-note, and everyone would be sent home.
     He would spend the remainder of those evenings rubbing oils into the painful sores on his skin, wishing he hadn’t ended the party, which he was only using to distract him from thoughts of his own frailty.  When he was in one of these sour moods, his wife would keep her distance, preferring the conversation of her servant girls to the grumbling complaints of her husband.
     One of these servant girls was a captive from Israel, captured in one of Aram’s many triumphal battles in the nearby areas.  This Israelite was surprised that a skin disease could cause so much frustration.  “Why doesn’t he just go to a doctor?” she once asked.
     “Oh, he has seen many doctors, every doctor from here to the Mediterranean, and each one tries a different cream or oil or herb. . . . But none of them work,” said Naaman’s wife.
     “He should go to Israel, to Samaria!  There is a man there.  A prophet!”  Her eyes gleamed.  “He would cure him.”
     When word reached Naaman that there was a prophet in Israel who could heal his skin, he hurried towards the king’s palace to beg the king to let him go to Israel.  He didn’t have to beg. “Of course you can go,” said the king, knowing that to keep Naaman happy was to keep the whole army of Aram happy.  “I’ll even write a letter to the king of Israel for you to bring with you.”

     Within hours, Naaman began his journey, along with horses, chariots, his most impressive-looking servants, and as much gold, silver, and fine clothing as he could pack.  Traveling with purpose, he soon arrived at the gates of the palace in Israel, stopping only to wipe the dust off his clothing before entering.  The king, always ready to accept a visitor carrying so much gold, invited Naaman in, and readily accepted the letter from the king of Aram.  But his pleasantness faded as the letter was read in his presence:
          Dear King of Israel,
          With this letter I am sending my servant Naaman to you so that you may cure him of his leprosy.
          Sincerely,
          The King of Aram
     The king’s stunned silence was finally broken when he asked himself, “Is this some sort of joke?”  Still processing the possibilities, he wondered, “Who does he think I am, sending me someone for me to cure of leprosy?  Am I God?”  His face reddening with the thought, he shouted, “This is some sort of trick.  He’s trying to pick a fight with me!”  And he tore his robes in frustration, sending Naaman away until he could figure out what to do with him.
     Naaman’s entrance into the city had not gone unnoticed—he had made such an entrance with the chariots and wealth that the whole area was attentive to his consult with their king.  However, just as quickly as they had seen Naaman enter the palace, they now saw him impatiently standing outside, and heard rumors of the king tearing his robes.  What was going on?
     When the rumors of the meeting reached Elisha, he sent word to the king, “Send him to me, and he will know that there is a prophet in Israel.”  The king was more than happy to comply.
     Naaman, climbing into a chariot, directed the whole caravan to the house of Elisha.  This would be the day that he would be healed.  This was his chance.  He assembled his men, his horses, and chariots.  He changed into a shimmering clean robe.  He unpacked as much of the gold and silver as he could to make his arrival to Elisha’s house one that would not be ignored.  All the time Naaman had spent building up his wealth and stature would finally be worth it, as he would use it to gain the attention of the prophet, and be healed.
     But when he arrived at the Elisha’s door, a messenger greeted him.  Naaman was ready to impress Elisha with the company and wealth he brought with, but Elisha wouldn’t even come to the door.  The messenger passed along instructions to Naaman: “Go, wash seven times in the Jordan, and your skin will be healed.”
     Walking away without having even met Elisha, Naaman was furious.  He kicked at the gravel and at his men, and directed them to load the horses to go back home.  This had been a big waste of his time.  “I expected him to at least come out and meet me,” he growled.  “I thought he would come outside, and wave his hand over my skin here and here.  He would call out to his God, say a prayer or incantation, and then cure me.  Instead, some stranger tells me to go wash in the Jordan.  The Jordan!  The gross, muddy waters of the Jordan River are going to heal me?  Those waters are so dirty, I’ll probably get more diseased by dipping one toe in that river.  Why not the Abana River, or any other river in Damascus?  They’re at least clean.  That Elisha is no prophet.  Let’s go home.”
     But just as Naaman was about to mount his horse, one of his servants questioned him.  “Master,” he said, “If Elisha had asked you to go climb a mountain and come back with the oils of a rare plant, weren’t you prepared to devote your life to finding that plant?  If he had asked you to give up food for weeks, wouldn’t you have done it?  If he had suggested that you must find a lion in the wilderness, and defeat it without your sword, would you not have tried?  If he had asked for all your gold, you surely would have given it.  And now, all he has asked you to do is ‘wash.’  Why not try it?  What is there to lose?”
     So they trekked to the Jordan, and Naaman washed.
     And he was healed.  No grand sacrifice required.  No lightning bolts.  No ultimatums.  Just simple, small obedience.
     (2 Kings 5:1-14)