Nobody went into that Sunday expecting miracles. The apostles stayed home while Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and perhaps others went to the tomb with spices. They had intended to provide one last act of kindness and respect to a dead teacher who could not possibly return the favor.
They were the first to witness the miracle. Angles flat out told them about the miracle, but they still could not see it until The Miracle spoke their names. “Mary,” Jesus said, and in that moment, she knew what angles themselves had been unable to convey.
I don’t think we’re that different today. We are surrounded by miracles that we are unable to see, even when they are described to us. Yet, when one of those miracles speaks to us directly, we learn something as if we have known it all our lives.
On this day, I would have been in the crowd, watching the procession. Had I the wisdom to know what was going on, I would not have had the courage to stand in the way. I would have watched him climb the final hill, and I would not have helped.
Even so, regardless of the part I played on Friday, on Sunday, the Good News would be given to me, for me. There is not a thing I could do to change that. There is not a thing anyone can do that puts them beyond the Good News, and that’s the part that Christians need to keep reminding each other.
We do not have the authority, nor should we ever have the desire, to place limits on Grace. God’s love is given to everyone; we can not presume to declare otherwise.
I’ve been gone from the house for 3 hours. My cats, who spend the entire night downloading Youtube videos of wild animal calls and playing Jenga with anvils and wind chimes, have not moved.