The Reality of Transformation

The Empty Tomb and Resurrection

‘“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.

He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”’

When I was a child, we had a little white rabbit called Poppy. She lived inside our warm home and was very much one of the cats. She might even have believed that she was a cat. It’s difficult to tell, except for the fact she used their cat flap, and shared many of their freedoms. Unfortunately, rabbits are not the same as cats - and although we very much loved our rabbit and our cats in equal measure (I probably loved Poppy more to be honest) we may have wrongly conflated love with liberty, equality with equity, and fairness with inclusivity. And, of course, the inevitable happened. One evening we forgot to switch the mode on the cat flap, and Poppy popped out for an evening hop, and cunning Mr. Fox had his fun.

My bedroom window faced the garden, so I had a very clear view of the still white corpse laid out at the back fence in the fading evening light of Southwest London. It was horrendous. There were screams and there were cries. I got down on my knees and prayed for a miracle in my little room. Nothing is impossible with God. And I called out with everything I had within me. My faith was far larger than a mustard seed. I could have moved a multitude of mountains with my cry of sheer belief. And when I rose to look out the window in the much darker dusk, I saw Poppy move. I cried and screamed throughout the house about the miraculous news that Poppy was alive. She was moving frantically at the back of the garden, a glowing white figure in the darkest of hours! She had risen!! In fact, Mr Fox had just returned to get her. My family downstairs banged hard on the kitchen windows to shoo the fox away from her innocent body. It was awful.

I do believe in the resurrection of the dead, just not the replication of the dead.

Transformation not trickery

Power not proof-of-power

Change not clones

Perhaps, like with the Risen Christ, resurrection life appears in unfamiliar forms. And we, like Mary Magdalene by the empty tomb, do not recognise the new life, despite the intimacy, influence, and importance of our connection. We may even, like those on the road to Emmaus, spend a day walking and talking with the risen one, without realising the reality of resurrection life.

Death is change. Death is transformation.

Resurrection is real. It’s just not replication.

Maybe the risen life will visit us in a sound, a story, a ritual, a thought, a feeling, a view, a walk, a talk, a calling, a warning, a motivation, a connection, a dream, a meal, a child, a stranger, a gardener, a prisoner, a wanderer, a poem, a voice, a whisper, a storm, a song, a prayer, or a profound sense of connection to everything.

The risen life will probably meet us in those surreal states and in-between-spaces of liminality – empty tombs, long roads, waiting rooms, forests, moorlands, silences, sleepless nights, bouts of illness, and pilgrimage. Perhaps these psychological and physical cross-roads are the places we must seek out in order to encounter resurrection life. But I’m not sure such places are neatly signposted, plotted with post codes, or printed on maps. Sat Nav and Google Maps cannot guide us. Such pathways defy the First Commandment of our precious religion of Consumerism (including Spiritual Consumerism): Thou Shall Not Be Empty!

But perhaps, like Christ in the desert, we must try and resist the temptation to fill the void with distractions, denials, and dominations. We must surrender to the void. We must dare to visit the empty tomb.

I have some very sad news to share. Our beloved Yorkshire Terrier, Bru, died this Holy Week. He was a magical being and divine presence in our life, and the lives of many others. He was a tiny little Teacup Yorkie with an abundance of charisma, charm, style, humour, generosity, grace, love, spirit, and soul. He lived an incredibly rich, full, and fun life, and nearly made it to his sixteenth birthday. We’ve sobbed, cried, laughed, and reminisced in waves of strange surrealness. We’ve scrolled through photos, watched videos, and carried on talking in his iconic voice. On Good Friday, we strolled to a stone cross on the deserted Yorkshire Moors, and scattered his ashes in a few of his favourite spots. But where is He? I’m not talking about the tiny particles of grey dust blowing in the wind, or fertilising some Yorkshire soils, but rather, where is his divine spark, spirit, and soul! Where is the risen life? Where is that power, love, and strength? Where is that beauty, wisdom, and peace? - all the non-physical (spiritual) aspects of Bru that aren’t to be found in ashes and dust. Something can’t become nothing, in the same way that nothing can become something. Something comes from something. Something leads to something. He has risen, which is to say, he has transformed - and certainly in ways I will never comprehend. And yet, there have been encounters in the emptiness of our cries, silences, laughs, aimlessness, talks, and walks. I have felt his presence and power in a few surprising and significant ways.

I have a confession to make: I am a bit of a control freak. I may look, sound, and seem like something of a calm hippie, but I have secret control issues. One of them involves literally holding two remote controls for our TV in both of my hands (there are photos of me as a toddler doing something similar with large Duracell batteries). I sometimes remember, in an act of willpower, to ‘put the controls down’, as I am trying to ‘grow’, you know, as they say - and this was so much easier to do when Bru was curled up on my lap, snoozing, snuggling, and cutely sighing. But I still needed to have the controls neatly lined up next to me, ritualistically placed like Rafael Nadal’s various water bottles. I would even ask my children for the remote controls even if they were navigating them wonderfully. Insane. (I also have a controlling tendency concerning the car parking spaces outside our row of terraced houses. I will spare you the crazy details!) Anyway, on Good Friday after a day of rituals, pilgrimages, celebrating, and mourning, we sat down to watch a family-favourite perennial televisual feast, Lark Rise to Candleford – which is basically English Spirituality, Jungian Therapy, and Period Drama Magic all rolled into one genius journey of genuine healing. Do it. It’s amazing! But what was more amazing was, as I sat down to watch the opening episode, and faced my empty lap, I didn’t feel the need for the remote controls to be in my hands, or even to be lined up next to me! And it wasn’t willpower. I felt the risen Bru snuggle, sigh, and soften me, from within. I let my hands be held in my lap in the same sort of way that Bru allowed his whole being to flop and be held. ‘Welax’, I felt him say (he couldn’t say his ‘r’s).

He is risen. And I believe he will continue to teach, heal, connect, soften, lighten, relax, lead, inspire, and integrate so much more in his resurrection life. And I know that such encounters will involve me returning to lonely, empty, and lost times, spaces, and places, as well as joyful, mythical, and meaningful moments of remembrance, celebration, and connection. I believe in the resurrection of the dead, just not the replication.

Resurrection is not a trump card, a proof of purchase, a possession, a certificate, a badge, a medal, a guarantee, a receipt, a hurdle, a qualification, a password, a stick, a carrot, or Exhibit ‘A’ in a legal trial. Resurrection is real life.

He is risen

He is risen indeed

Hallelujah