It’s Thursday morning and I don’t know if I put it out last night; that blue bin the town provides for recycling. I know it’s a good idea to conserve, and we don’t want to overfill the dump, but I’m not a morning person and the thought of trudging out through the early drizzle in my fluffy slippers has no appeal. Besides the mismatched T-shirt and shorts, there is the problem of bad hair and general bedraggle that morning always seems to bestow. I therefore wish to avoid the contemptuous stares of the proud parade of early risers and walkers that infest the neighborhood. All of them having dutifully placed their blue bins by the curb the previous evening, no doubt.
There it is. Still in the garage and full to overflowing. We are at least diligent in filling it up with the wreckage of the week. Bottles and cans, plastic and paper. Enough for two families and certainly enough for two bins. I wonder if those early walkers notice what repasts are replaced with the wrappings, or if they might think that our inventory of soft drinks is too high. Life is often defined by discards. Ask any archeologist, and they’ll tell you there is nothing like an ancient dump to define civilization. But not for the town of Ayden!
No! They will never find just what vast quantities of soft drinks or other beverages were consumed, nor how we preserved our food, nor how many newspapers we read. Why? Because the containers will be disguised as something else. That jelly jar will be someone’s windshield. That two-liter bottle will become packing material for a computer. Who knows? Maybe that aluminum foil will end up in geosynchronous orbit, defending us from hostile missiles. So I guess it’s worth a trip to the curb in all my morning glory, just so some refuse can fulfill its destiny.
In ancient Jerusalem, the remains of the executed were thrown in the town dump with the rest of the trash. But this one was different. He had friends, apparently, and they found a tomb for him at the last minute. The burial was hasty, given the limited time they were allowed. There were rumors that his followers would try to make something up and pretend that he survived. So they set a guard and put the emperor’s seal on the stone. No mourners allowed.
One might suppose that recycling day in heaven comes on a Sunday. I fear that angels are morning people, because their job was done by first light. Evidently they don’t appreciate any interference with their route. The soldiers beat feet as soon as they could find their legs. When the women showed up to try and prepare the body, it was already gone. One more desecration, they feared. The problem was that they were looking for a corps, but the body had already been recycled. Not so much that it couldn’t be recognized, but different none-the-less.
The fact that God would find a way to restore his Son is not surprising. After all, who wouldn’t do that if they could? No, the real surprise is that it was done to impress on the rest of us that God will also do that for us. That means that we also have infinite worth. We are not merely created in God’s image, we are God’s children. We are not thrown away and buried. We are recycled.
Unlike other religions which preach there is nothing after this life, or that we are recycled as something or someone else, Christianity proposes that God loves us for who we are. Our lives and personalities, our relationships with God and with others are all maintained. In fact, they are improved, even perfected. All those imperfections and quirks are transformed. Even our bodies get a workover, certainly mine needs one already. When God recycles, he does it all. The only catch is that your heart needs to be in the right place. In the recycling and not in the trash.
So let us celebrate Easter! A story, a hope, and a promise. Next time you walk that blue bin to the curb, think about it…and smile.
Rev. Dennis P. Levin