Like Those Who Have No Hope

It was an odd Easter. And while, for many people, the cries of, "He is risen! He is risen indeed!" are fading from memory at approximately the same rate that the remnants of the Easter feast are disappearing, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it this year. Thinking about what it really means. Thinking about what difference it makes - outside of the Easter weekend.

A lot of what I heard this Easter weekend hurt this year.

"Christ is risen from the dead
Trampling over death by death.
Come awake, come awake!
Come and rise up from the grave!

 "Oh death! Where is your sting?
Oh hell! Where is your victory?
Oh Church! Come stand in the light!
Our God is not dead, he's alive! He's alive!"

-Matt Maher, Christ is Risen

True words, all of them. Amazing, affirming, victorious words. They capture the joy of the Resurrection, and normally, I would rejoice to sing them. But this past weekend, I sang them through tears of sadness.

Because the day before Good Friday, I attended the funeral of someone I love dearly. I would love for her to come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave, for her to call me up and say, "Let's meet for coffee." But it is now several days after Resurrection Sunday, and she lies in the grave. I can feel the sting of death in the sting of the tears in my eyes, in the ache in my heart, in the way my breath catches when I have to remind myself yet again that she is gone.

It strikes me that we are very quick to rush to Resurrection Sunday. We bypass the pain of Friday and Saturday, keeping ourselves busy with preparations for the big dinner and the Easter egg hunt. We anticipate the choir and the new Easter dresses and the family gatherings. We can hardly wait to shout the victory cry.  He is risen! He is risen indeed! We read Paul's words in 1 Thessalonians 4: " But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep." It is a stunning word of hope. Because Jesus died and rose again, we also will rise again. But I wonder if we read the words, ". . . that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope . . . " and act like they mean, ". . . that you may not grieve."  Period.  I wonder sometimes if, in our attempt to express our hope, we do not allow ourselves or others to grieve.

But the disciples grieved. They ran from the horror of that day. They sat in stunned silence, huddled together, every fibre of heart and soul aching from the loss. Perhaps it was disbelief. They knew Jesus would rise again, just as we know our loved ones will rise again.  He had told them he would. Perhaps they truly had forgotten what Jesus had said, or doubted him. Or perhaps it was the agony of watching someone they loved so dearly being torn apart, suffocating on a cross, being laid in a grave. But perhaps it was disbelief.

Except that Jesus grieved, too. He wept at the tomb of Lazarus. He wept, knowing full well that in mere moments, he would call Lazarus back from the dead. He wept, not because he doubted Lazarus would rise again, but because at that moment, Lazarus was dead.

At this moment, my loved one remains in the grave. It is the Saturday between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. I know she will rise again. I know there is hope. I know that Jesus has risen as the first-fruits. The truth is, my God is not dead.  He is alive. He has trampled over death by death. I know that. I embrace it, perhaps this Resurrection weekend more than ever. I know it is my hope. And someday, my dear friend will come awake and rise up from the grave. But not today. Today I miss her. And I find myself sitting in the sadness of the Saturday in a world that insists on rushing through the celebration of Resurrection Sunday.  It is the already-but-not-yet reality of the Kingdom of God -- already inaugurated but not yet consummated. I have hope but still grieve. The sting of death may not be unto death, but it still smarts.

The calendar tells me that Resurrection Sunday has passed, but my heart is still in Saturday. I know the Resurrection is coming. I know it with all that is in me. But this is my Saturday, and I'm not going to rush through it. When I allow myself to feel the pain of the loss, it makes the wonder of the reunion all the sweeter. Sitting shiva on Saturday makes the wonder of Resurrection Sunday even greater.