Barneyisfat

I preached once about the time that I was part of the search team for little Jackson.  I remember telling a very generalized story, rather generic in my memory, to summarize the point - that he had been lost and found.  I remember writing out the whole story, and realizing that I didn't want to cry in public, so I summarized the story instead.

It was Holy Saturday, and they told the large crowd of volunteers that we would make one final sweep.  It was no longer a search and rescue mission, it had become a body recovery operation.  He had been missing for too long, and he was assumed dead.  He was five or six.  His mother was a very large woman.  She sat at the church with her head down as my friend Pastor Marty tried to comfort her.

We took a wide sweep, and returned just before dark.  They called off the search for the night because it would be too dangerous to keep volunteers in the woods in the dark.  It was too dangerous just for recovering a body.  They had dragged the lake without any success.

I looked at Marty and this devastated little town, and I wondered what they would do for Easter.  We started a prayer service, but the boys parents started walking home.  That seemed like what I would do.

It started as a whisper.  I heard the news whispered on either side of me.  They found him.  He is alive.  He is alive.  He IS alive.

A truck driver picked him up on the highway a long way from home and the police brought him home.

I remember being struck by how small the boy was between his mothers massive legs - and I remember being struck by the look on the boys face.  It was this look of, "Why are you surprised?"  It seemed as though he hadn't even realized he was lost.

And I just remember this sense that Jesus probably had the same face.  That "why are you surprised" face.

And I remember this large redneck man, standing behind me as the little boy walked toward us, and this large man's jaw dropped open and his cigarette rolled to the ground and the words "Holy fuck" escaped from his mouth in utter disbelief - and I'm sure that that man still tells this story just like I still tell this story.  When you see the dead brought back to life, you don't keep silent about it.

And we rang the church bells for hours and we sang hymns and the next morning the whole town came out to hear the best Easter sermon ever.

And I think about this story every year.  When I hear about Mary Magdalene at the tomb, too smart to fall for a gardener's trick - in too much pain to see the reality of the risen Lord in front of her.  Mary who didn't bother with whispering the good news.  Mary who ran to tell the others.  Mary who wasn't believed for one second.  Mary, who might have just dropped her cigarette when her jaw dropped open.  Mary who might have let some other words slip before proclaiming the best words ever heard.  Mary who was the first to take the good news to the others.