Easter has arrived and we have celebrated the resurrection. I have small bits of foil all over my house as evidence. The stone has been rolled away and Jesus is not there. The empty cross proclaims the good news and ushers me into a 50-day season for practising resurrection. And I’m staring at the pile of candy wrappings realizing that I do not know how to rise.
It isn’t as if I am particularly good at lenten discipline, but at least I know what I ought to do and how frequently I fail. That is easy enough to confess. But, over this last Holy Week, God met me and repeatedly asked to let him do the heavy lifting. Let me wash your feet. Give me the cross you’re carrying. Allow me to kiss your wounds. Let me wrap you and bless you. And let me roll away the stones. I do not know how to let God because I cling to the suffering and the dying.
I keep dropping the sadness I am trying to carry, and then tripping in it and falling. I’m making backup plans for the backup plans, just in case. I know nagging my kids isn’t working, but I am afraid the silence will leave their shoes and backpacks on the floor for all of eternity. I am exhausted, but what if, in my absence, someone discovers my irrelevance?
In reading and remembering the resurrection stories, mostly in desperation, I discover I am in good company. It turns out that many early disciples had trouble with resurrection.
Like Mary and the disciples on the road to Emmaus, I do not recognize the risen Jesus. My eyes have been so imprinted with the destruction that I cannot see what is new. I know the pain will have some meaning when it is over, but I cling to it in the present because I’m afraid of having nothing instead. Because the story is not yet over, I do not know how to talk about what is happening. Until Jesus rises.
Like Thomas, I refuse to believe. Even though Jesus has carried me before, I am afraid he won’t be able to lift me again. I am heavier than last time. The mess is less manageable. What if I hope and he does not show up when I think he should? It would be easier not to hope at all than deal with my disappointment. I do not know how to wait long enough. It hurts too much. Until Jesus rises.
Like Peter, I’m so stunned by the risen Jesus that I put my clothes (back) on to jump into the sea. I am ashamed about what I have done and what I have failed to do. Part of me does not even want the resurrection to be real, so I can at least have the self-righteous satisfaction of being right about my unbelief. I have only my old practices to makes sense of a new reality, so I do ridiculous things. Until Jesus rises.
He rises. And he shows up to teach them, to open their eyes, to let them touch him. He makes breakfast and gives them the chance to say again how much they love him after they have failed him.
Maybe I am not supposed to know how to rise because it is Jesus’ work. Could it be that I need to stop doing and let him work resurrection in and around me? The dividing line between the crucifixion and the resurrection is a tiny sliver of passing over the burdens. Maybe this effort it takes to let Jesus work in me is how his burden is lighter than carrying it myself? Maybe this is the work of the resurrection that stretches me over 50 days and a lifetime?
I am blind and doubtful. Ashamed and afraid of being the kind of ridiculous I already am, I don’t know how to rise. Come, Jesus, and find me here. Open my eyes and let me feel your touch. Ask me again if I love you, and help me to tell you that I do. Work your resurrection in me, and let me rise, again. Amen.
Perrault is a wife and mom, a grateful employee of Emmanuel Care, and a speaker, writer and consultant at www.leahperrault.com