Did the women at the tomb smell anything....unpleasant?
Don't give me that "Jesus was perfect so he didn't smell" crap.
I went to a house on Saturday.
It was a home before Harvey. Now it is tomb that stinks of mold and death.
And yet a man lives there.
Is dying there.
Is fighting the toxins, and cancer, and poverty there.
We wore long sleeve shirts, long pants, closed-toe shoes, gloves and a mask
when we entered the tomb this warm spring day.
I helped pack his treasures. Under his frail and weary watchful eye.
I helped bag his other stuff for the trash. I did it while he was not looking.
I didn't want him clinging to the stuff that was already gone to rust and poison.
We herded bugs from one drawer to the next.
The younger ones among us ripped out drywall that gave itself quickly to shreds
yearning to be relieved of clinging by rusted nails to decades-old lumber.
The house will not know Easter in 3 days or 3 weeks or 3 months.
What we did on Saturday was deal with the stink and the death.
We are not holy magicians. Poof! Christ is Risen. He is Risen Indeed!
We have to deal with the stink first. The smell of death.
The noxious odor of our indifference to the poor.
On Saturday, I went back to my home.
Stripped out of my stinky clothes.
Washed them separately from my other clothes.
Took a shower. Scrubbed old hurricane flood water from my fingernails.
And then I planted seeds in a garden.
I planted dry seeds in the soil made of dead plants.
I worked for the man in the tomb-house so that he would be one day closer to Easter.
I worked for my garden to be one day closer to Easter.
I wait for the stink of my own humanity to be one day closer to Easter.