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In the gospel lesson on this Easter Day, the women at the empty tomb are confronted with a profound lesson in perception and remembrance. As they seek the body of Jesus in the tomb, they are met by two messengers who challenge their understanding: "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen." This question serves as the first lesson—where one looks determines what one finds. The women were searching for Jesus in the wrong place, not because they were misguided, but because they had not yet grasped the reality of resurrection. If Jesus were dead, then the tomb would be the logical place to find him. But if he was alive, then he must be sought elsewhere. This lesson challenges us to examine where we search for connection, hope, purpose, and meaning in life. Are we looking under the lamp where we can see, or where what we seek truly is?
The second lesson follows naturally from the first. The angels not only correct the women’s search but also direct them to where the risen Christ can be found: "Remember how he told you…" It is significant that they do not say, "Remember what he told you," but rather, "how he told you." This distinction draws our attention not only to the content of Jesus’ message but to the manner in which he spoke it. The content is clear: "The Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day rise again." Yet the angels call the women to recall not only these words but the breath with which they were spoken. Plato once said, "What you teach is not as important as how you teach it." Jesus did not merely impart knowledge; he communicated life itself. His breath, his very way of speaking, carried the essence of his teaching. To grasp this point fully, we must consider two pivotal moments in the Gospel narrative: Jesus’ final breath on the cross and his first breath as the risen Christ. In Luke 23, at the moment of his death, Jesus cries out, "Father, into your hands, I commit my breath." This is not merely an exhalation of life but his practice of committing his breath to the Breath of God within. Then, in John 20, when the risen Christ appears to his disciples, he breathes on them and says, "Receive the Holy Spirit"—or, put another way, "Receive the Breath of God." Here we see that the breath Jesus entrusted to the Father at his death is returned as the breath of resurrection. The "how" of Jesus’ message is revealed in this breath—a breath that carries the words of resurrection and transforms those who receive it. The women at the tomb are invited into this living breath, as are all who hear the Easter proclamation. This breath is not confined to the past but is carried forward, blown across generations, sustaining the breath of Easter in every time and place. Thus, the resurrection is not merely an event to be remembered but a reality to be breathed in. The message of the angels calls us to seek the risen Christ not in the tombs of our assumptions but in the living breath of his presence through our own breath. It invites us to inhale the breath of resurrection and exhale it into the world, carrying forth the breath that still speaks life today. The question remains: where are we looking for the living, and how are we breathing in the spirit of resurrection? On this Easter Day, I share the beautiful poem by Malcolm Guite titled “God’s breath in man returning to his birth”: Breathe in and in that breathing be created, Wake from the dust, be conscious, and inhale, Fresh from the Word and Light of God, delighted, You find you have become a living soul. But soon you must breathe out. What’s to be done? Who will be with you then? And will you dare To trust the breath of life back to the one Who breathed it into you? Christ comes to share Your letting go; you hear him sigh and say Father into your hands receive my spirit And find that he has opened up the way For you as well. He takes your breath to bear it Deep into heaven with him in his death, That you might be reborn with every breath. The gospel lesson presents a scene of immense turbulence, where the world around Jesus is stirred up—by fear, by anger, by confusion. He is captured, put on trial, and executed, yet in the midst of this upheaval, he remains unwaveringly serene. This contrast between the chaos surrounding him and his internal stillness invites us to reflect on the source of his equanimity and the profound message embedded in his final words: "Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit." Or it can be translated as: “Father, into your hands, I commit my breath.”
From the beginning of this passage, we see Jesus accused by the religious authorities. Their charge against him is not merely legal but existential—he is stirring up the people, unsettling the status quo. His message has always centered on the inner presence of God, the kingdom not confined to a temple or an institution, but living and breathing within everyone. This radical inclusivity threatens the authorities, who see their divine privilege slipping away. The very breath of God, the very spirit they claim to control, is already present in the hearts of the people. Jesus does not need to stir up rebellion; his mere presence, his truth, is enough to upend the order of things. Pilate, too, is stirred up. He hesitates, reluctant to condemn Jesus. But the religious leaders push harder, their anger boiling over into an unrelenting demand for crucifixion. Herod, who had been at odds with Pilate, is drawn into the drama, and hostility between the two is stirred up so much that they become friends. The crowd, once jubilant in their praise of Jesus as he entered Jerusalem, is stirred up to the point that they turn against him. "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord" shifts into "Crucify him!"—a chilling reality that reveals how easily the masses can be swayed. Even individuals caught on the margins of this event are shaken. Simon of Cyrene, suddenly pressed into service, carries the cross of Jesus—a moment that irrevocably stirs up his life. The two criminals crucified alongside Jesus experience their own reckoning. One remains defiant, unrepentant, refusing to acknowledge his guilt. The other, stirred to honesty, sees the truth of his condition and the innocence of Jesus. The fabric of the temple itself is shaken, the curtain torn in two, symbolizing a rupture in the religious order. And in the final moment, a Roman centurion, a representative of the empire that put Jesus to death, is moved to recognize something profound: "Truly, this man was innocent." Through all this, Jesus remains composed, his spirit unshaken. He does not lash out, does not defend himself, does not resist. What allows him to sustain such serenity? The answer is found in his final words: "Father, into your hands, I commit my breath." In the act of surrendering his breath, he unites himself completely with the breath of God. His last breath is not a loss but a return, a communion with the divine presence that has always been within him. T. S. Eliot captures this mystery of surrender in Four Quartets: "I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting." Jesus' stillness is not resignation but a trust deeper than circumstance. His surrender is not despair but a profound waiting in God—faith beyond hope, love beyond control. In his breath, given over to God, he reveals that peace is not found in avoiding suffering but in meeting it with a heart utterly open to the divine. This paradox—the strength of surrender—is echoed in Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours: "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don’t let yourself lose me.” Jesus does not resist the suffering that befalls him, yet in that seeming passivity, he demonstrates the deepest form of strength. His stillness is an openness, a refusal to turn away from the pain of the world, and in that act, he transforms suffering into redemption. Our own lives are often stirred up—by personal trials, by the shifting tides of society, by the unpredictability of human relationships. Fear and anxiety can rise swiftly, threatening our sense of peace. In these moments, we are invited to follow the way of Jesus, to breathe deeply and surrender: "Into your hands, I commit my spirit." To entrust our breath, our very being, to the very Breath that sustains us. In doing so, we find not passivity, but the deepest kind of strength—the strength that allows us to remain still amid the storm, to become peace in a world desperate for it. Remember the breath. Remember the breath of Jesus. It will lead us to the breath of the resurrected Christ: “…he breathed on them [disciples] and said, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” Remember the Breath of God. In the world of contemporary art, Maurizio Cattelan’s Comedian—a banana duct-taped to a wall—sold for $120,000. Decades earlier, Piero Manzoni’s Artist’s Shit was sold for over $50,000. Both artists intended their works as satire, exposing the absurdity of the art market, where value is often assigned not by intrinsic worth but by the Artworld’s recognition. Yet, paradoxically, the very market they critiqued absorbed and legitimized their works, turning their statements into high-priced commodities.
This paradox invites a deeper reflection on how value is contextualized. Arthur Danto, in his philosophy of art, argued that what makes something art is not its physical form but the ideas and context surrounding it. A Brillo box in a supermarket is just packaging, but Warhol’s Brillo Box in a gallery is art—not because of what it is, but because of what it means within the Artworld’s framework. Likewise, Cattelan’s banana is not valuable in itself, but because of its place in conceptual art discourse. This tension between material worth and contextual meaning appears in the Gospel story of Mary of Bethany anointing Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume. When Judas Iscariot criticizes her, arguing that the perfume could have been sold to help the poor, his logic makes sense—if value is measured purely by price and utility. But just as a Warhol Brillo box cannot be judged solely as cardboard and ink, Mary’s act cannot be reduced to an economic calculation. Her gesture operates in a different framework of value. Mary’s action is radical in two ways. Firstly, she values the person over the product. The perfume, worth a year’s wages, was not used for trade, status, or even charity—it was poured out in an extravagant act of love. The worth of the material fades in light of the worth of the person. And this person, Jesus, is not a family member. He is not someone she is socially obligated to honor. He was once a stranger, yet she now recognizes him as a teacher and a friend. In a world where kinship often dictated loyalty, her devotion is not bound by blood but by recognition of something beyond herself. Here’s the second point that is radical in Mary’s action. She expresses gratitude through extravagant, uncalculated love. Her action is not measured or practical; it is excessive, reckless even. Yet love, when it is genuine, does not function by calculation. She gives not for future returns but because gratitude compels her to do so. Her love is not abstract—it takes shape in a material, sensory form. The fragrance fills the house, just as true generosity has a way of leaving an imprint beyond the moment. Danto’s insight helps us see why Mary’s act is more than just an economic decision. Just as art cannot be judged solely by its material composition, neither can human actions be measured purely by cost. The true value of something—whether a conceptual artwork or an act of love—depends on its context and meaning. In a society where material wealth often dictates worth, price is often prioritized over value, making Mary’s action countercultural. It reminds us that the most valuable things in life are often those that cannot be priced—love, gratitude, human connection. So where do we smell that fragrance today? Where do we see people offering extravagant love, not out of obligation, but out of recognition? Where do we encounter a generosity that transcends calculation? Perhaps the real challenge is not just to admire Mary’s act, but to live it—to give not because it makes sense, but because love, in its purest form, is always a gift beyond measure. *COST, PRICE, VALUE AND WORTH – WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE AND WHY SHOULD YOU CARE? |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
April 2025
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