The reality of your resurrection does not seem as relevant as rising rent and cost of living. The power of your eternal life does not blot out the fear of poverty, homelessness; for those who have consistently painful and isolated lives, the only thing scarier than dying is not dying. Your promise of purpose and not letting anything go to waste is both so hard to wait for and terrifying to believe in at all. That you are truer than hunger, anxiety, loneliness – oh, I want to know you better than I know my experience!
I listened to a sermon yesterday on how your resurrection means we are not alone. But I can’t count on both hands anymore the people who have not followed up, who have made promises and broken them (the exception is when someone keeps their word). I reach out, like our culture demands that people who are already suffering do if they want any help, and my efforts largely come back void. None of the empty tombs scattered around my life feel like precursors to resurrection; it feels more like I don’t even have evidence for why I grieve and should therefore be expected to be farther along, use my “resources,” carry on as if nothing is wrong.
I know the names of my roadblocks, the rocks that cry out to you – one of them is my heart. Am I useful? Do I matter? Will I go to hell if I do what I love? Am I loved? Will I survive? These heartweights persist, Brother, Father, Friend. Would you turn these vipers into fish? I cannot find an easter in any of my thoughts, no rise above my queasy fear.
How long, O Lord, those three days must have felt to those who loved you in your first flesh. What were they like for you? Did you know of your indestructibility? What would I do if I knew I would rise again? How far would I risk going if I knew I could always find Easter again?