“Startled and terrified” is an apt description of how we are responding to much of life these days. We are startled by world events and our lack of control over them, terrified of one another, of all we do not condone or understand. Jesus comes to his friends as they hide out behind locked doors, entering the tomb of their fear. He comes bringing an assurance of peace, and even this generosity, this unexpected return, startles and terrifies them. Is this really him, or are they seeing a ghost? Even lockdown cannot protect them from the terror that holds them captive.
What about us? Even with regular practices of prayer and communal support, we friends of Jesus tend to be as prone as anyone else to harboring a constant low-grade anxiety, spiking to a fever pitch whenever we are confronted by the perils of the day. We are egged on by official reports telling us the terror alert is at orange, the weather alert is yellow, the economic forecast is red. We become a colorful array of worry and foreboding. And why not? Jobs are in jeopardy, poverty abounds, our health suddenly declines, violence surges, children are lost, addiction grips us, our days are limited. It is no surprise that we lose our grounding and fall into complaint and even despair.
Look at me, Jesus says, touch me. Don’t just huddle together, lost in longing for how you prefer things to be. Open your circle. Let me in. Feel my skin and my bones, acquaint yourself with my grief. Don’t let fear rob you of your life, of being fully awake, fully here now, in the suffering as well as the joy. Nothing that happens—and no imaginary threat of what “might” happen—should be allowed to steal from you what matters most. And what matters most? Simply this: to turn toward what scares you, to turn and walk my way. This is where your peace lies—not in lofty ideas about it all, but in this plain old living-right-now life. This eating, drinking, forgiving, turning and returning life. Right here, together, a new understanding of me is being given.
