EcstasyChapter 10: The Medicinal Garden
Grantly Morris
When consciousness caressed my senses I found myself immersed in beauty. I was just beginning to realize the extravagant beauty of my surroundings when, to my bewilderment, I burst into tears. Not even being alone stopped me from feeling ashamed and deeply embarrassed by my emotions.What is happening to me? How freakish! I’ve been in worlds of astounding peace and beauty and in each of them I shed more tears than in my entire previous adult life!
I recalled the book of Revelation speaking of God wiping away all tears and yet, incomprehensibly, here was I blubbering like a baby.
Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason there seemed to be something cleansing about those tears. Somehow I felt more whole than ever before, as if at last I was reunited with a long-lost part of me. In fact, it was even more dramatic: it was as if a dead part of me had sprung to life. I could hardly have been more surprised or relieved if, after having resigned myself to going through life dragging a paralyzed limb, the nerve endings had suddenly reconnected and I was restored. I felt a peculiar kinship with the man crippled from birth “walking and jumping, and praising God.”
I presumed my bawling was some sort of reaction to the horror of the crucifixion scene but what confounded me further was that I was not now even consciously focused on those events. I was so perplexed by my tears that as I continued sobbing, the wheels of my mind spun on a different track: trying to figure out why I, or any grown man, would surrender his masculinity to tears.
I was acutely aware that Jesus had cried. As a kid grappling with memory verses and wanting an easy way out, I knew full well that the shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” Since my teens I had never managed to reconcile Jesus’ tears with my conviction that he is the perfect man. I guess if I were to ruthlessly rip through all my attempts to suppress it, the unsettling truth is that I have always worried that Jesus was a bit effeminate. Until I found myself blubbering in this garden, I do not think I had ever dared admit this to myself. Cringing at this near-blasphemous admission, I desperately tried to grasp at anything that might reassure me of Jesus’ masculinity.
Jesus certainly managed to inspire real men, I told myself lamely. I imagined Peter and the other fishermen with bulging muscles as they braved storms, rowed against contrary winds and hauled in nets. Hey! Peter wept after denying Jesus! This was the first time I had ever linked Peter’s tears and his physical strength. In my frantic search for tough men among Jesus’ followers, I zeroed in on the “Sons of Thunder.” I felt assured of their masculinity, then questioned why I should associate being a hothead with manhood. Isn’t anger an emotion? Isn’t it ironical – even hypocritical – for men who can’t control their anger but don’t cry to pride themselves in controlling their emotions? Suddenly, I found that sickening.
Thinking of hypocrisy while still anxious to see Jesus as masculine triggered the thought of Jesus repeatedly blasting pharisaical hypocrisy and courageously standing up to religious authorities. And they had real authority back then. After all, they were the ones behind Jesus’ execution. I recalled them on the brink of stoning the woman caught in adultery, and actually completing the act with Stephen. I thought of Jews flaying the apostle Paul’s back. Then I pictured Jesus riling the authorities by single-handedly hauling the moneychangers out of the temple. Not only was he contending with several men whose livelihoods were at stake, he was violating an officially-sanctioned practice and creating a near riot in the most sacred place in the world to the Jews – a place that was sure to have been protected by zealous armed guards.
Still bucketing tears myself, I kept trying to counter my doubts about Jesus by endeavoring to impress his bravery upon my consciousness. I recalled Jesus – despite knowing the torturous fate awaiting him and knowing that at any moment he could turn back, or call down battalions of supernaturally fierce angels – courageously setting his “face like flint” as he headed for Jerusalem, with his disciples dragging their heels behind him.
That reference to flint brought Jeremiah to mind. At this prophet’s very calling, God declared he had made this man “a fortified city, an iron pillar and a bronze wall.” And yet Jeremiah shed so many tears that he is known as “the weeping prophet.” A hard-as-iron, weeping man? Never before had I laid next to each other such two ridiculously incompatible facets of a man of God. I found the thought as head spinning as a lion and lamb lying together. At this, my mind bolted to Jesus being called the Lion and the Lamb. Could anyone be hard and soft at the same time? Is this what it means to be fully human – even gloriously human? Is deadening one’s emotions akin to deadening part of one’s brain?
With these confusing thoughts utterly unresolved, my mind fled to King David. If ever there were a man’s man, it was this giant-killer. I recalled the biblical record of David and his men crying until they had no strength left to cry. His home had been burnt to the ground and he not only lost everything he owned, but a huge, ruthless army had abducted his own wives and children – along with the loved ones of his best friends – presumably to rape and enslave them all. Then he found his once-loyal men so embittered by the loss that they were plotting to murder him. Next, when we might be tempted to think him a crying shame, he stuns us all by strengthening himself in God, and in an endurance feat so incredible that many of his battle-hardened men were quite unable to keep up the pace and gave up, he chased down the army. Then, when he was not only ridiculously outnumbered but should have been too exhausted to move, he utterly defeated and plundered the foreign army.
My mind leapt to that angelic lecturer calling it cowardly to try to bury emotionally charged issues. Was that relevant? Had I, for all those years, been cowering in fear of my emotions, as if scared of my own shadow? Had what I arrogantly regarded as being manly, actually been cowardly, and had I robbed myself in the process? For me, such thoughts were almost as shocking as heresy.
Didn’t Paul mention tears somewhere? How many references to crying are there in the Bible? Emotionally, how far below the norm has the average Western Christian slipped? I made an urgent mental note to make this a Bible study priority, if ever again I had access to the Bible.
When the tears stopped sufficiently for my eyes to focus, I scanned my surroundings. I was in a place of indescribable magnificence. My full wastepaper bin testifies to my inability to convey the splendor. “Garden” is far too bland a word for what I beheld. In fact, “beheld” is also inadequate. Even “experienced” does not quite cut it. It was as though the warm, delightfully invasive essence of paradisiacal surroundings seeped into me until absorbed into the deepest part of my being. If beauty can heal, this must have been the most powerful medicine in the universe.
Words in the bin include “living architecture,” “a stupendous, otherworldly plant sculpture,” “a celestial floral extravaganza,” “a botanical wonderland,” and “the quintessence of beauty.” In utter defeat, I will simply call it an exquisite garden that seemed to stretch forever, and move on before straining after nonexistent words fuses my few remaining brain cells. All I will say is that I no longer smile at Kokbiel for being stunned by the beauty of a single flower.
The garden was too huge for me to have any idea of its full dimensions. Not only did I not know where it ended, I even wondered if it ended. It might, for example, have covered the entire planet, in which case, had I been able to walk for enough years in any direction, I would end up where I started.
I can only speak for the fraction that I saw, but the first thing that staggered me – and nothing I saw later changed this observation – was how densely planted everything was. Even individual plants were so dense as to make most earthly plants seem spindly and wasteful of space. I presumed the plants were rooted in dirt but it had to remain a presumption because nowhere was there any space between plants for a speck of earth to show. Earth’s gardens now strike me as so sparsely planted as to almost be deserts. As my eyes drank in the scene, the words “concentrated beauty” came to mind. Wherever I looked, plants were packed so tightly and each blended with such harmony with all its surrounding plants that it was as though the entire garden were a single organism, just as my body consists of different cells and organs and yet is one organism.
At first I felt hemmed in, with no place to walk. What I eventually came to regard as walkways seemed too delicate and precious to tread on. They were slightly like extravagantly lush, manicured lawns, but more like colorful, though not garish, elaborately patterned carpets. The exquisite patterns were formed by the arrangement of various species of flowering plants. The designs were not repetitive. Each part was unique, but there was nothing random nor robotic about the patterns. They had been so skillfully done that were I so emotionally charged as to abandon all objectivity, I would almost be tempted to say they were lovingly planned.
I recoiled from walking on these living carpets, lest I trample on a work of art and crush any of the tiny flowers that formed them. But there seemed no alternative. I squatted to examine them more closely, then brushed my hand over them. Though silky, they seemed surprisingly hardy. I pressed down and the moment I released the pressure the plants sprang back. Gaining confidence, I slowly slipped to my knees to examine the plants even more closely, and found them beautifully soft to kneel on. Finally, having nowhere else to go, I somewhat guiltily took a couple of steps on this immaculate masterpiece. It was delightfully spongy to walk on. I looked behind and, to my relief, I was leaving not even the faintest of footprints. I marveled at the resilience of flowers I would have expected to be delicate.
Once I learned to regard these densely packed bed of miniature flowers as gorgeous silken lawns, rather than no-go zones, the place suddenly felt spacious.
Whereas individual flowers on the walkway were minuscule, flowers elsewhere ranged up to twelve or more inches. In fact, I was later to find species with flowers several feet across, each with intricate colorings and structure.
The entire atmosphere seemed to raise the word “tranquility” to heights I had never before conceived. I breathed deeply, savoring the scents greeting my strangely awakened senses. Despite knowing nothing about aromatherapy besides the name, I have always been dubious about it. And that’s putting it mildly. Nevertheless, if there could be any possible remedial value in scents, I felt that this was the place for it.
Delicate birdcalls graced the air. Their song was not only spectacular, I don’t think I have ever heard anything so gentle and calming. Their music seemed empowered to drift cares away, as if, after staggering under a hundred pound load of wood, I had slipped into a refreshing stream that floated the burden off my back, as if it were nothing.
As the sights, scents and sounds of this wondrous place permeated my being, they seemed to have a much-needed healing effect, after the horror of what I had witnessed at the crucifixion.
Was this the most beautiful path in the universe? If not, I was at a loss to imagine what could surpass it. I rounded the first bend and stopped dead. One of the plants was glowing. Careful examination confirmed that the leaves were not reflecting light but emitting it. I would love to cite an intelligent reason for being unconcerned, but my embarrassing admission is that I was feeling too cozy to worry over whether the glowing plants were radioactive. Before long, I discovered other plants with flowers glowing various colors. Gazing upon them felt strangely comforting.
Everything was spectacular, and yet there was almost a reverent subtlety about the colors. Nothing was even slightly somber, but the entire place seemed to emit an aura of hushed serenity, rather than jubilant celebration. It seemed a place for quiet reflection. The further I walked, however, the more the mood of the place seemed to brighten, like the dawning of a new day.
I might have been alone, but loneliness was worlds away. In fact, though I squirm to admit it and can provide no explanation for it, I felt cherished. Feelings are feelings. They do not have to be the slightest rational. So I will confess that I could not have felt more pampered and special if each leaf were in love with me and each flower were smiling at me, beaming with delight just to see me, and greeting me as if I were royalty.
In places, the walkways felt less like paths than spacious hallways walled by towering, flowering, hedge-like plants that glowed beautifully. Some even twinkled. Sometimes there were flowering canopies over the walkway.
As I meandered along the path, drawn first to one side and then to some new attraction on the other, I found myself puzzling over what it means to be a man. Things have got very blurred in a technologically advanced society in which physical strength means less that it ever did and where women act more like men than ever before. I wondered if dividing manhood into its basic components might help. A man is a mature male human. To be mature is to be smarter and wiser than children. To be human is to be more intelligent than animals. Hey! A significant part of being a man is intellect! If my thinking ability separates me from animals and children, what could possibly be manly about refusing to think about unpleasant things? If a real man is not a coward, wouldn’t it be more manly to face one’s past fears and resolve them by thinking about them, rather than fleeing them?
I was lazily watching butterflies float by, when it dawned that, like the butterflies in that special forest, their colors were not only spectacular, they somehow seemed to display their colors more freely than earth’s butterflies. They spent more time gliding than earth’s varieties and seemed tamer but I sensed there was more to it than that. I puzzled over this until my mood suddenly changed to chiding myself for having missed the obvious earlier. In my experience of earth’s moths and butterflies, moths spread out their dull-colored wings upon landing, whereas brightly colored butterflies usually close their wings upon landing. The behavior of each has the effect of maximizing their camouflage. These beauties, however, seemed unconcerned about camouflage and freely allowed observers to enjoy their splendor whenever they landed.
As I let the path woo me further, I began to hear water. I rounded a bend and stared in astonishment. What had captivated my senses was too delicate and intricate to be called a waterfall, but despite its unique features there was something about it that looked natural. The term water feature reeks too much of artificiality to seem appropriate. It trickled, dripped and dribbled in a manner that sounded almost musical. Its smooth, predominately black rocks were marble. They glistened almost playfully as the water moved over them. As I gazed enthralled, the combined effect of sight and sound seemed both to massage and mesmerize my senses to the point where I almost felt as if gravity had slipped away and I were floating weightless.
Facing this aquatic marvel was a flower-laden bush that looked so much as if it had been sculptured into a garden bench, that I could not resist trying to sit in it. I expected it to be a little prickly, as bushes usually are, but as I gingerly lowered myself into it, the surprisingly strong, yet sumptuously soft and springy plant somehow wrapped itself around me as if it were cuddling me. I wonder if there could be a seat anywhere in the universe that feels more luxurious.
As I sank deep into the seat, my mind slid back to when I sobbed upon first being stunned by the beauty of this place. At the mere reminder of having cried, shame swamped me and I caught myself trying to push the memory away. The irony is that I had been feeling a little smug over having progressed in my understanding of masculinity and emotion. As I pondered the contradiction, I concluded that my lingering shame over tears was a little like my fear of handling snakes. My excuse for the fear is that I have spent most of my life in a region renowned for several species of deadly snakes. When given the opportunity to hold a non-venomous snake, however, my heart thumped despite knowing that that the snake was harmless. As I had stubbornly refused to cave in to my irrational fear of a harmless snake, so I should refuse to be dominated by an irrational feeling that tears imply weakness.
I was just beginning to congratulate myself over my ability to analyze such things when a realization punched me in the stomach. I’ve done it again! I reeled in amazement that yet again I had resorted to my timeworn way of coping. Am I so addicted to avoiding unpleasant memories that I am seldom even conscious that I am doing it? Rather than face all the unpleasantness and come to terms with my glimpse of the crucifixion, I had reverted to my preferred method of escapism. Instead of dealing with emotions, I had plunged into an intellectual examination of emotions and masculinity. It was as if I had subconsciously hoped – and it had almost worked – that by these mental gymnastics I would fool myself into not realizing I had run from the emotional and personal issues.
It seems that I, who had prided myself in not being one to use drugs or drink, was as much into escapism as anyone who resorts to substance abuse.
No matter how much I longed to erase the memory of that ghastly crucifixion, I did not have to be Einstein to know that God had obviously given me the experience for a purpose and that the suppression of the memory would render that divine revelation a waste.
My mind leapfrogged to other life experiences that I had tried hard to forget. There was no way I could say those experiences were from God. They had the fingerprints of evil smudged all over them. Was it acceptable to keep pushing the memories out of my mind and leave them unresolved, or would, like this experience, I somehow be wasting an invaluable learning opportunity by suppressing them? But what was there to learn? I thought of people using punishment to “teach people a lesson,” but that was not applicable to my four-year-old brother dying, nor to my other unpleasant memories.
I recalled the beginning of 2 Corinthians where God is called “the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” This makes our ability to minister to others dependent upon us receiving God’s comfort.
I keep expecting God to meet all my needs without me articulating them, despite this being at odds with Jesus’ teaching. He kept pleading with us to ask in order to receive. I thought of all the times Jesus asked sick people what they wanted before he healed them. It was apparently important that they confess their need. If God will not heal until we admit our need for healing, could living in denial of inner pain keep God from comforting us? And could this, in turn, keep God from using us to help other people? If receiving divine comfort is the key to us ministering to others who are hurt, what are the full implications of trying to act macho by refusing to admit even to ourselves – let alone to God – the extent of our inner pain? Could it not only keep us messed up and cause other people to miss out, but keep us from our life’s mission?
I recalled in the Epistle of James where it links healing and powerful prayer to confessing our sins to each other. In contrast, I tend to be too big a coward to confess in private to myself and God, weaknesses that are not even sins. I thought of Jesus saying that what has been whispered in secret shall be shouted from the housetops and recalled the Scripture that affirms that all things are naked and exposed before the One to whom we must give account. Just as it is better to repent this side of Judgment Day, wouldn’t it be better to get hidden things over and done with by being open about everything now?
I revisited Jesus’ famous statement in which he said he is the Truth, and another occasion when he said the truth shall set us free. I concluded that since God is a God of truth, he must surely want us to live in truth, not in denial. Further confirmation flashed into my mind in the form of Jesus’ statement that God must be worshipped in spirit and in truth.
Another famous Scripture began bobbing on the surface of my consciousness, about God weaving all things together for good in the lives of those who love him. That reminded me of Joseph in the Old Testament telling his brothers something like, “You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good.” There is no way that God could have approved of the evil in his brothers’ hearts but if God is so powerful as to be able to bring good out of such evil schemes, God can surely bring good out of evil things I have suffered and would rather forget. Could I, by suppressing unpleasant memories, miss at least some of the good God would otherwise have brought out of a regrettable event?
That thought opened so many possibilities as to keep me intellectually entertained for weeks, but then I realized what was happening. I’m doing it again! Is there no limit to how far I’ll go to avoid unpleasant memories.
So I quickly prayed, then dragged my reluctant mind by the scuff of its neck back to the memory of the crucifixion. There could hardly be anything more traumatic than witnessing one’s loved one being tortured to death. And yet I sensed that not even that could fully account for the violent intensity of my emotional reaction to what I had witnessed.
With the same reluctance I had felt as a little child trudging my way to the torturer who called himself a dentist, I dredged up the memories of the angels recoiling at the sight their beloved Lord on the cross. Their reactions had been so explosive as to somehow send shockwaves through my entire being. The sickening blow to my senses made me feel there was something appallingly wrong and of cataclysmic significance for the Holy Creator of the cosmos to be naked on a cross, pinned out like a bug specimen on public display to titillate curious spectators. The feeling was so strong that it was as if truth had been speared into me, entering my heart without passing through my mind. It seemed I knew mysteries that even now continued to elude my intellectual understanding.
My thoughts skidded to the angel’s blood-curdling shriek, “This is no ordinary man!” Something about the eerie, stomach-churning sensation that tore through me as he had expelled those words made it feel as if the words were of special significance. So, hoping that God would guide my thoughts, I determined to explore the implications of those words.
I don’t think any of us can truly comprehend the mind-boggling importance and value and eternal potential of just one “ordinary” human. Even so, the Eternal Son is infinitely greater. No matter how dirty and tattered a child’s beloved teddy bear is, for those who deeply love and understand the little child, it would be like a knife in the stomach to see that stuffed toy ripped to shreds. Nevertheless, it would be an incomparably greater tragedy for the child himself to be tortured to death. No matter how excruciatingly tragic the death of a loved one is, it is infinitely more appalling to contemplate the death of the One through whom all things are made and sustained. Any other regrettable death is like the loss of a mediocre reproduction of a masterpiece, compared to the master artist himself being struck down in the prime of his creativity.
I remembered the time I gasped as I read, in the book of Acts, Peter saying, “You killed the author of life.” I thought of the beginning of Hebrews that speaks of the mighty Son of God holding the entire cosmos together by his word. It is in him that “we live and move and have our being.” He is the one who gives life and all things to all. Killing the Origin and Sustaining Power behind all life is as terrifying as accidentally detonating a chain reaction that could implode the entire universe.
As it says in Colossians, the Son of God is the one by whom and for whom, all things were created. Truly, I had witnessed the total humiliation of the most exalted person in the entire cosmos.
I recalled being told as a child that the Son of God becoming human is like us becoming an ant. Not even that, however, adequately embraces the enormity of the gulf between the Creator and the created. In comparison, the difference between an amoeba and a mighty, sinless angel who has lived in splendor for eons is nothing. Our Lord is not merely a different and vastly superior species; he had no beginning. He is not just from a different world; he made every world. He has no limitation. Whereas he is dependent upon nothing, we are dependent not only upon the God who holds our very atoms together but utterly dependent upon food, water, oxygen, light, a narrow temperature range, and so on. We cannot even keep sane for long in solitary confinement. We live for a few years: he is Life. We sometimes manage to discover a fragment of truth; he is Truth.
And on that cross I had seen the ultimate violation of Innocence. No one in the universe has been more violated, and no human has had such innocence. Morally, we are shades of gray, whereas his purity is so blindingly brilliant white as to burn our eyes out. The moral gap between the lowest criminal and the greatest saint, or the most defiled rapist and the most chaste virgin, is nothing compared with the gulf between any of us and the Sinless One. Trace anyone’s family tree back far enough and there will be a conception based on rape, adultery, or lust. So there is a real sense in which all of us owe our very existence to sin. But the Man in torment on the cross was eternally pure. A newborn human will grow up to sin, but the Man on the cross remained pure.
No wonder witnessing Jesus’ death and burial had such a devastating effect on me. As much as I despised those awful feelings, they had dragged me kicking and screaming to an understanding I had sorely needed, even though I still believe my intellectual grasp of the full ramifications is, at best, fragmentary and superficial.
Sitting in that seat was so special that I felt like savoring it for hours, but there were too many other wonders to explore.
I began to notice that whenever I passed a particular species of shrub I felt strange but pleasant sensations. As usual, I cannot describe the feeling. Think of it as a cross between heartwarming and an emotional thrill, mixed with a delightful serenity. Shrubs of this species were scattered throughout the garden. Their large, furry leaves were pleasant, but the truth is that all the other plants looked far more spectacular. And yet I felt strangely drawn to this species.
As I continued exploring, I found myself paying more and more attention to these plain-looking plants. It was ever so slight, but the leaves seemed to reach out to me, point in my direction, and follow me as I moved past. Obviously an illusion, I concluded. I became curious enough to pause and examine one such bush. As I stood looking at it, I noticed its leaves moving so slowly as to be barely discernable. In a minute or so, all the leaves seemed to be facing me. I took three steps to the other side of the bush so that the leaves were now facing away from me. Sure enough, within about ninety seconds, all the leaves were facing me again.
As earth’s plants benefit from sunlight, was this plant able to tap into the lower end of the light spectrum and derive some benefit from my body heat? But why did it make me feel so good after having had experienced the trauma of witnessing the crucifixion?
A vague recollection surfaced of having read that grief and trauma release chemicals into the body that can have an adverse effect on one’s mind and body. It was the wildest of theories and probably way off track but I wondered whether this plant was radiating something that breaks down those chemicals.
The Scripture popped into my mind from the book of Revelation, “And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.” As I continued walking I was puzzling over whether that Scripture had even the slightest relevance to what I was experiencing when another intricate water feature came into view. Though very different to the first, this one, too, seemed almost hypnotic and musical. As I let the intriguing effect captivate me for a few seconds, it swept over my senses like a skilled pianist over ivory and ebony; like the fingers of a masseuse; like the sweet caresses of a lover.
I let the water trickle over my fingers and to my surprise it was delightfully warm. After adjusting to this surprise, I gradually grew aware that it felt unusually oily. I rubbed some between my fingers. In comparison, water feels disappointingly thin, almost rough. It was then that I noticed under the water – or whatever it was – a cozy hollow covered with a thick, moss-like water plant. A quick double check confirmed that I was alone. Almost before I knew it, I slipped off my clothes and slid into the inviting water. As I had hoped, the underwater moss was silky soft without being worryingly slippery. The water was just the right depth for me to reline and be covered up to my chin.
I drifted into a dreamy contentment. A normal person might have luxuriated there for hours, but there is nothing normal about me. Some people have a type A personality that keeps them restless. I think mine must be triple A. Some might say that’s just the tiny size of the battery that would keep my brain powered for centuries. Anyhow, for me there was far too much to explore to squander time in an out-of-this-world spa. Then I began to contemplate a minor problem. I had plunged in so impulsively, I had not considered emerging with a wet body, and dry clothing awaiting me. I climbed out and immediately what I can only call a warm whirlwind sprang up. Problem solved. But a new one beckoned: had I triggered some automated process or was this a direct act of God? A cursory hunt for pressure pads or light beams left my question unanswered.
I was wondering how long that oily substance would take to dry and whether it would leave a greasy residue, when the exhilarating wind stopped quicker than I had wished and I found myself snugly dry. My skin felt so fresh that I began to wonder if the oil, instead of being a disadvantage in the drying process, might counter any tendency of repeated wind treatments to give me dry skin.
While pondering how the whirlwind had ceased right on the cue, an unsettling thought hit: had the wind somehow been switched on and off by someone spying on me? I anxiously scanned my surroundings. It revealed no peering eyes, but plenty of opportunities for paranoia. As I dressed I tried to comfort myself with the thought that anyone caring enough to dry me at the appropriate time must be pretty benevolent, although I could not entirely dismiss the possibility of such an incident happening in a horror movie featuring a psycho-killer.
I decided it wouldn’t hurt to pray for protection. Then it dawned that once again I had been ignoring God. I was a bit disgusted with myself to realize that here I was in idyllic surroundings with my every need being met and I still had not thought to thank God and appreciate his loving kindness. I thought for a moment and concluded that no one has ever been so much taken for granted as God; no one has ever had his love and patience so exploited and abused. Like self-centered brats, we keep demeaning the high and lofty King of kings, expecting him to bow to our every demand, and throwing a hissy fit if his infinite wisdom does not line up with our puny thinking. We call him Lord, meaning master, and then treat him as our slave. “Lord, do this. Lord do that.”
As I kept wandering through the garden, I pondered this role reversal many of us play with God. Surely God does not want cold formality. My mind flashed back to the King of kings playing with those child parts of emotionally wounded people. And it seems wrong to ration ourselves as to the requests we make of God. I recalled how in his teaching, Jesus kept pleading with us to ask God for everything. There is no question that as the greatest lover in the universe, God longs to bless us.
While drinking in the beauty of my surrounds, I kept trying to crystallize in my mind why taking God for granted feels so wrong. It cannot be that I should slavishly, or even superstitiously, thank God lest he stop blessing me. Then it hit me: what makes a lack of gratefulness so tragic is that it stunts us as people and diminishes our capacity to see God’s love and greatness.
This awareness struck me with such force that I began to wonder if, this side of eternity, I could ever grasp how much I have damaged myself, shriveling my capacity to perceive God, by failing to foster a spirit of gratefulness. I thought of psalms that speak about magnifying God. While praise cannot enlarge God, I concluded that praise magnifies my ability to behold his glory. It sensitizes us to the supernatural.
I looked around me, noting that the further I walked the brighter the flower colors and the more exuberant the tone of the garden. Praise and thanksgiving transports me and transforms me, I told myself. It lifts my thoughts from the gutter. Through it, not just my thoughts, but my very life, soars from the trivial to the eternal. It not only lifts my spirits, it lifts my spirit; it not only makes me feel better, it makes me a better person. I felt I needed to think and pray more about these things but they seemed right.
Wow! Where are these thoughts coming from? Why hadn’t I seen things with such clarity when on earth? I began to worry about whether I would ever get back to my previous planet and era but I tried to dismiss that and focus on loftier matters.
Even more than forgetting to thank God, I was disappointed that for much of my time in this garden I had hardly thought of God. I recalled from a well-loved psalm how, unlike the way I treat him, God knows my every thought and is always thinking about me. Suddenly, I saw an obvious link I had never noticed before. God knows my every thought because he is always thinking about me. Maybe, being eternal and infinite, he could play catch-up, had he human limitations, whenever his mind was elsewhere he would miss what I was thinking at that time. Does that mean that the more my thoughts are on God, the more I’m likely to know his thoughts? And since God’s thoughts are unsurpassably profound, important and wise, how can I even conceive of how much I am robbing myself, to say nothing of robbing God?
Then another question queued up for attention. If I think of earthly things ten times more often than heavenly things, will that make the mundane seem ten times more real to me than the supernatural?
I was just beginning to puzzle over these possibilities when a noise in a flowering tree startled me. I looked up in time to see an animal hop down, then stop motionless, staring at me quizzically. I had never imagined a creature could look so comical. Its big, floppy, sort of unkempt ears were enough to set me laughing. It had the cheekiest-looking face I’ve ever seen. Suddenly it took a flying leap at me, landed on my chest, and began tickling me! Before I knew it I was sprawled out on the floral carpet, thrashing around, laughing and laughing. If the plant with leaves that followed me, and so much else in this place, had somehow drained me of the negative, this cheeky ball of fur was filling me with the positive.
Finally, I found my feet again. With my new friend cuddling me, I took a few paces, intending to explore more of that matchless garden. Then a bubble drifted by. It was so unexpected that I stared in astonishment; even more so when the gentle air currents caused it to almost dance. Where did it come from? As I proceeded along the walkway, my furry comedian playfully clinging to my chest, more and more bubbles of varying sizes greeted me, arousing my curiosity still further.
As far as I could determine, a species of plant was producing the bubbles. That raised more questions than answers.
I marveled at how in this world, like in many of the others I had ended up in, I was a child again, bristling with questions and wide-eyed wonder. A simple stroll was the adventure of a lifetime. I felt rejuvenated; my once-jaded senses awakened from the sleepy haze of sameness by the crispness of a pristine new world.
There was something peculiarly special about the solitude but, with so many unanswered questions, I wished I had a knowledgeable guide. Or would that have spoilt the childlike wonder I felt?
Even without answers, however, I found the bubbles rather fascinating and enjoyable, especially as they gently spiraled, plunged, soared and wobbled in the delicate air currents.
I continued exploring until I became aware of a voice. I wrenched my eyes off the enticing beauty of a flower to look in the direction of the voice.
To my surprise, it was the very angel I had been thinking about not long before – the one who had been distracted by the beauty of a flower. Kokbiel had what seemed like a piece of paper in his hand. He glanced at it, then said in a bold, dignified voice, “He’s not here.” He had another go, “He’s not here. He is not here. He is risen.”
I put down my fury friend, feeling the need to focus intently on what was being said. While Kokbiel was speaking I noticed three angels walking towards him. They stopped abruptly and looked quizzically at each other.
Kokbiel, with his back to them, seemed unaware of their presence. Using different intonation and gestures he repeated, “He’s not here. He is risen.” After a pause he had yet another attempt. This time in a grand gesture he swept his hand around, followed by the rest of his body. “He is not –” Suddenly he was far enough around to see the other angels. I’m not too familiar with angelic body language, but I got the impression he was a little embarrassed. “Oh – ah – didn’t notice you.”
“What in Heaven are you doing, Kokbiel?” asked Meurel.
“Oh – um – just practicing my lines.”
“Fair enough,” said Gabriel, laughing, “that’s the greatest announcement the universe will ever hear.”
Kokbiel seemed taken aback. “Yes, I guess it is. I never thought of it like – Oh, dear! I’d better practice some more!” He moved on slightly, gesturing and silently mouthing the words again.
“That empty grave will knock them dead!” said Meurel, excitedly.
“What do you mean?” asked Gabriel, in his usual dignified manner.
“Everyone will have to believe when Jesus rises from the dead.”
“No one ever has to believe,” replied Gabriel rather soberly.
“They can’t deny the facts.”
“They’ll find a way.”
Meurel sounded mystified. “How?”
“They’ll dismiss it as an hallucination.”
“No way!” protested Kairel, “ . . . spread over forty days with five hundred witnesses?”
That caught Kokbiel’s ear. “Five hundred?” he asked.
“That’s how many the risen Lord will appear to” replied Kairel, “And his disciples will touch him and eat with him. Some hallucination!” They all laughed.
“And that still doesn’t explain the empty grave,” added Meurel.
“They’ll say the disciples stole the body,” said Gabriel.
Meurel laughed. “The religion with the highest conceivable morals, based on the biggest swindle in human history? You’re joking! Simple fishermen putting one over a hundred generations?” Meurel, who had earlier fooled me when he acted as if hurt by the boomerang, began walking on his toes in a delightfully comical way. “Tiptoed past blind guards I suppose!” I burst into laughter.
“Oiled the stone so it wouldn’t be heard!” added Kairel, rolling on the ground in hysterical laughter. The others laughed even harder.
“Who could believe that not one of the five hundred, even when dying a martyr’s death, would let it slip that it was all a hoax?” said Meurel. They sobered a little.
“In it for the fame I suppose!” jested Kairel. “They’ll be in big demand all right. The Jews will be demanding their lives. The Romans will be demanding their heads. Christ’s yellow-livered deserters taking on the Jewish leadership and the entire Roman Empire – and all for a sham!”
“Maybe they’re in it for the money,” sniggered Meurel. “They could make a fortune teaching people how to win popularity contests!”
Kairel added, “Or they could write a best seller: How I earned My First Million Bruises.”
“With books like that they could earn enough to keep them in bandages for weeks!” replied Meurel, laughing, then quickly turning serious.
“Cash is cold comfort when you’re looking death in the face,” added Kokbiel, gravely.
“If they want money they’ve got a much easier option. Christianity is set to explode. If the Jews think they’ve killed their problem they’re in for a shock. They’ll soon be running scared. They’d pay big money for someone to prove it’s a hoax,” said Meurel. “No, Gabriel, no one could believe they’re in it for fame or fortune. And if they’re into fraud, the first thing they’ll change is their own account of their actions. Those dull-minded disciples would be so wise and holy in the gospel tradition they leave posterity. If truth’s not important to them then the denying, deserting disciples would in their gospels be loyally supporting Jesus when he’s sentenced to death. The Sons of Thunder would portray themselves as calmly in control. Loudmouth Peter would ensure he’s the epitome of diplomacy in the revised version. Self-seeking liars don’t paint themselves as bumbling idiots!”
“Gabriel, no one could deny that those scatter-brains are sincere.”
“They’ll say Jesus was merely unconscious when they took him down from the cross,” said Gabriel.
All except Gabriel burst into fits of laughter.
“So he survives an horrific flogging, followed not only by crucifixion, but a spear driven from below his ribcage into his heart,” replied Meurel. “He convinces experienced Roman executioners that he’s dead. Then he fools his mother and followers who’d give anything to find a sign of life as they prepare his body for burial. No breath. No bleeding from his open wounds. Then, without them noticing, he manages to breathe through nearly a hundred pounds of spices and tightly bound grave clothes. Next, he somehow bursts through his bonds, and with nail-crushed hands single-handedly rolls back a stone so massive that several women pushing in unison couldn’t budge it.”
“And Jesus was on the inside,” added Kairel.
“Hey, that’s right!” exclaimed Meurel, “This gets better by the minute!”
“I don’t get it,” said Kokbiel, a slightly puzzled look on his face.
“A gravestone is like a solid wheel chiseled out of rock, designed to roll downhill at right angles to the grave,” explained Kairel, “and, of course, its purpose is to fully seal off the entrance. You don’t want odors escaping. From the outside, people trying to move it, push against the rim. From the inside there’s nothing to grip.”
“That settles it! Escape was humanly impossible!” Kokbiel looked triumphant.
“Skeptics will say that by some miracle . . .” Gabriel managed to say no more.
“Skeptics who believe in miracles?” declared Meurel.
They erupted into hysterical laughter. Meurel was bent over, holding his tummy. Kairel was rolling on the ground. Kokbiel was on his back kicking this legs in the air. Finally they began to calm down.
“Okay,” said Meurel, trying to be serious, “by some inexplicable means, what must have been the world’s strongest man and greatest escape artist staggers out of the grave . . . “
“Not bad for someone so mutilated before his crucifixion that he couldn’t drag his cross even to avoid another beating,” interrupted Kairel.
Meurel continued, “Then he eludes armed guards, somehow hobbles out on nail-pierced feet, gaping wound in his side, back flayed, bruises and lacerations from head to foot, blood dripping everywhere –”
“If you could imagine blood left in that tortured frame,” said Kairel.
“Looking the most pathetic human wreck, he staggers all the way back to the upper room, breaks through a bolted door and in his emaciated condition manages to convince even the most skeptical of the disciples that he’s conquered death!”
They were all in fits of laughter.
“Finally,” continued Meurel, “he gives his followers the slip and manages to die in such a way that his body is never found. The world’s greatest moral Teacher becomes the world’s greatest con artist? I think not!”
“They’ll say it was simply someone who looked like Jesus,” replied Gabriel.
“Oh no! It’s getting worse!” protested Meurel, “Not only Jesus’ closest earthly friends, but his very mother was just inches from him when he died. Then they prepared his body. Soon they’ll be handling the risen Lord, examining the nail holes, speaking with him and eating with him over a period of forty days. And his own brothers – brought up with him from infancy – who didn’t believe him before his death, will suddenly become believers after his resurrection appearances. That’s not mistaken identity, that’s insanity!”
He had them in fits of laughter.
“You’re right, of course,” said Gabriel, “but many will still refuse to believe.”
“Why?” asked Kokbiel and Meurel almost simultaneously.
“I know you’ve never visited earth, Meurel, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the reports of Jesus’ teaching,” replied Gabriel. “Jesus told the people, ‘If anyone desires to do God’s will, he will know whether my teaching is from God . . . .’ You remember that don’t you?” They all indicated that they did, then Gabriel explained. “Spiritual truths are hidden from everyone unwilling to obey God. It’s insane, but these people close their minds to reality because they would rather be enslaved by their favorite sins than enjoy intimacy with their loving Creator. They prefer ignorance to truth.”
“Even though that truth would fill them with never-ending joy and eternal fulfillment?” quizzed Kokbiel.
“Yes, Kokbiel, even though it’s the most exciting truth in the universe.”
“Like Jesus said, ‘Men love darkness rather than light for their deeds are evil,’ ” said Meurel.
“Exactly.”
“Then why is Jesus doing all of this, Gabe?” asked Meurel.
“Because some will be willing to face reality – to admit their need of God and to let go of selfishness long enough to discover the matchless joy of knowing God – to exchange a life of shame and mediocrity for eternal glory and divine excellence.”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be redeemed . . . !” said Meurel wistfully.
Gabriel looked at him. “There are indeed so many wonders awaiting them. They are destined to rule over us, but to be redeemed you’d first have to be deceived . . .”
“Oh!” interrupted Meurel with a shocked look on his face.
“And you’d have to sin . . .”
Meurel uttered a peculiar groan and seemed almost to shudder in disgust.
“ . . . and be alienated from the Holy Lord until forgiven,” finished Gabriel.
“Of course!” groaned Meurel, “How could I have overlooked that? Nothing in all of Heaven would be worth doing that to our glorious Lord!”
There was a pause, then Gabriel said, “Hey, Kokbiel, it’s almost time for your announcement!”
Kokbiel, looking flustered, vanished.
Then everything vanished.
A voice boomed. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. It sounded highly authoritative and charged with excitement. Slowly I became aware of my surroundings. I seemed to be back in that endless “palace,” except that the sky was no longer like a rainbow. I guess the closest earthly equivalent of the sky would be dawn.“What’s this?” asked the voice.
“The tomb is vacant.
The vanquished has vanished.
The corpse walks.”Myriads of angels erupted in thunderous cheers. Eventually they quieted sufficiently for the voice to continue. It paused after almost every line and, as impossible as it seemed, at each pause the angels raised their jubilation to yet another level.
The cross has lost.
The nails have failed.
The One impaled has prevailed.
The crucified has defied.
The tomb is doomed.
Seals break. Demons quake.
Death has fled.
Justice is done.
Right has won!Holiness has crushed depravity.
Defeat flees his majesty.
Innocence bled; now demons see red.
They railed but failed. So hail
The Lamb who slammed
His foes and rose
From horrendous strife to endless life.
The scourged to death
Has surged through death.
The One brought down
Now wears the crown.
Hell’s plaything now ruler of everything.From Victim to Victor;
From judged to Judge;
From cursed to first,
From death he’s burst
From grave of stone,
To Great White Throne.The Lamb has roared.
From Hell he’s soared;
Jesus is L-O-R-D!As that final word rang out, the angels exploded in a cheer louder than anything I have ever experienced. I want to call it deafening or earsplitting but despite the outrageous volume it neither deafened me, nor hurt my ears. Instead, it somehow energized me, as though the energy from that explosive sound entered my body and became my new power source.
The angels turned cartwheels; flipping and gyrating like only angels can. Their feverish excitement was so infectious that within seconds my emotions were on overload. The sky erupted in a burst of color. I know it sounds almost incomprehensible, but my best attempt to describe what I experienced is that the very air seemed charged with rapturous emotion. I recall thinking it was surely beyond human endurance to remain conscious. In fact, that's the last I remember of the celebration.