As I write this, it is still Lent, and in the locked room of my imagination Jesus is still headed towards the cross, and not yet walking through walls to join the cowering disciples who watched their hopes die along with him on the cross.* Instead of replying “He is risen, indeed” to the victorious cry of “Christ is risen,” I am spending too much time trembling in fear and frustration as war still rages in Ukraine, the climate is hurtling ever faster towards disaster, the forces of racism and misogyny continue to grow, and the US is more divided than it has ever been since the Civil War. Even on a day when the brilliant blue of the sky reaches unbroken from horizon to horizon, the clouds of doubt turn into monsters, blocking me from any hope for better future.
Even so, I’m making plane reservations as if I believe that I will really be going to see my family in England and Los Angeles this summer. I’ve tried to get to England twice before, and each time had to cancel the trip because a new pandemic surge arose just as I was packing. It’s hard to trust that the third time will be the charm. Even as I talk with my grandson and my daughters about various plans, a voice in my head keeps saying “What’s the use? It will never happen.” The harder I push against the fear that I will never see my children again, that the world is headed for catastrophe tomorrow (or the next day at the latest), the more doubt pushes back, telling me to give up, crawl into some lightless cave of despair, and lock the door.
And yet, Jesus is somehow there, with me in the shadows, reminding me that love is stronger than death. As he opens his arms to embrace me, holding out his wounded hands and showing me the wound in his side, I remember that I am not alone in my pain and fear. As he beckons to me from the other side of the cross and the grave, I begin to trust that this is not the end of the story—not for me, not for those I love, and not for the world that somehow keeps on pushing bright yellow tulips up out of the sodden earth and unfurling tender green leaves on branches that have been bare since November. As Jesus breaths out peace, I start to trust in the goodness and love that surround me. Today and every day, I can trust that Christ is always risen, because I am a member of Christ’s holy, risen body, and so are you. Alleluia.
–Deborah Sokolove, Seekers Church
Reflection
- What do you doubt right now?
- What is your hope for today?
- What or whom do you trust in this moment?
