The Morning(s) After
Smell, Remember, Believe
Of the five senses, smell is the most closely connected to memory.
I remember being 5 or 6 years old. Sitting in a hard pew of an old Catholic church for a great-uncle’s funeral. The priest walked around the casket swinging a metal container filled with strong burning incense. That memory shaped my understanding of death. I still associate death and spicy incense. For me death smells like frankincense and myrrh.
Jesus received gifts of frankincense and myrrh from the Wise Ones after his birth. And at his death, Wise Women come to the tomb with spices, probably a mixture of myrrh and aloe. The act of anointing Jesus’ body had deep spiritual meaning. It was also quite practical. Early Jewish culture didn’t typically practice embalming. Anointing dead bodies was a way to stop the stench and tame the decay of death.
Luke’s Gospel tells us that the women arrive at the tomb early with spices in hand, only to find the stone is rolled away. That there is no body. The women are perplexed. And even more so, when two guys in sparkling robes appear asking,
“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of God must be handed over and crucified and on the third day rise again.” (Luke 24. 5-7)
As I inhaled this story, my question wasn’t who are these men, but rather what do they smell like? Their presence, their words, their invitation—like the sense of smell—evokes memories for the women. The women remember and so they believe. They believe in Jesus’ resurrection because they remember what Jesus said about his death.
Oscar Wilde said, “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.”
Memories are powerful. Painful and beautiful. When we navigate the death of a loved one, memories stir our grief and bring us comfort. One photo, one whisper, one song, one smell brings that person back to us.
Death doesn’t only come for people.
This Lent I participated in creating a worship series for a local church. It was wonderful and rewarding. And stirred memories of the ministry I walked away from in order to walk away from shame and walk into my authentic self.
After the women remember, what do they do? They don’t walk. They run. They run to share the story. When the apostles first hear of the resurrection they think it’s just an idle tale. Told by emotional and dramatic women. But Peter, being even a little bit curious, runs to the tomb to check it out for himself. He too finds there is no body. Just a pile of linen scraps. Peter is so amazed he goes home.
That pile of linen scraps hit me like a fresh pot of potpourri. I didn’t anticipate the memories of my clergy robe coming back to me. Even though that linen garment was unraveled thread by thread and buried in its own graveyard of broken dreams, the memories it held still smell.
Today, three mornings after Easter, I remember that robe. I remember the scents of communion and baptisms. Sermons and prayers. Community and isolation. Belonging and rejection. Weddings and funerals. Birth and death. Living and dying.
Today, three mornings after the unexpected, I remember that one year ago I published Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together. I remember these poems born from the memories of my experience of coming out as lesbian and choosing to leave ministry rather than staying and carving out expanded tombs for hiding.
It is hard to believe it has been a whole year since my story came into the light. I remember opening the box of books delivered to my door. The rush of excitement. The jolt of fear. The calculations of risk. The cautions of vulnerability. The pulse of hope.
Today, three mornings after the impossible and twelve months since holding my book for the first time, I remember resurrection.
There is no resurrection without remembering. There is no Good News unless and until we share our stories of death and coming back to life. I remember the voices telling me I was being ridiculous for choosing authenticity over ordination. And even more ridiculous for asking for space to tell my story. Actually, the most ridiculous thing was believing I needed their permission.
Resurrection is ridiculous. It’s wild. It’s audacious to run around telling others that death doesn’t get the final say. That the way things are isn’t how they have to always be. That political and religious systems don’t get to demand our loyalty at the expense of our humanity. Our faithfulness at the cost of our calling. In this world that reeks of death, we need more people willing to risk being ridiculous.
Powers and principalities would prefer that we run home like Peter rather than running to tell others our stories like the women. Easter is an invitation to show up at the tombs of this world with spices and curiosity. Easter calls our attention to a new scent rising. Take a deep breath. Do you smell it?
Those linen scraps on the floor of the tomb don’t have to reek of death forever. They can be laundered, pressed, and repurposed. Sown into something new. They can be unraveled and pieced back together. The memories they hold don’t have to bury us or weigh us down. They can be a source of warmth, inspiration, and creativity. They can guide us to our true calling and empower us to live it with authenticity and boldness we never imagined.
Resurrection is more than a moment. It is a movement. A movement that begins when we refuse to be silenced. A movement that grows when we won’t allow ourselves to be pacified by sweet perfumes of individual approval and reward. A movement that builds when we decline the offer to betray our neighbors for our own position and protection. A movement that rises when we remember.
What does resurrection smell like for you?
How will you tell your story of resurrection and new life?
Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
Thank you for being part of Wednesdays at the Well and following along this Lent.
Thank you for all the ways you support me and the growing work of 10 Camels. Here are a few ways you can continue supporting Unraveling on our 1-year-publishing-a-versary.
Order a copy.
Leave a review on Amazon. Just a few words make a big impact for authors like me.
Invite me to share poems and poetic preaching with your community.
Watch the Unraveling video to get ready for more of the story.
We do not have to live our lives by someone’s else’s standard as to what is acceptable. We do not have to “ go along, to get a long. Our oath is ours. Do our best to be true. To be loving, giving, forgiving. To forgive is to free ourselves. No need to be weighed down. Fly our own. Ourse. XO. Heryl W