I’ve been wondering: What does it mean to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection while wars are raging and the powers that be are unleashing what looks like hell on earth? How have things come to this? How are we supposed to celebrate resurrection amid death and ruin?
It’s hard to rejoice over the one who conquered the grave after seeing rows upon rows of graves being dug for children who died in a school bombing. So many families’ worlds undone. Sometimes it feels like everything is broken and there’s no going back.
God has felt so absent to me. It’s not just the big tragedies on the global stage. It’s the challenges at home, the unanswered prayers, the suffering of dear friends, the anxiety of getting older.
I often wish that people would be more cautious about sharing what God told them and more open about the pain of not hearing from God, of feeling God’s absence. We don’t make much space for that in our churches.
When I was younger, I didn’t have language for a Christianity that wasn’t exclusively victorious and cheery, or for a life of faith that involves dwelling more in the shadows than in the sunshine.
In my childhood evangelical Protestant church, we just had Christmas and Easter, without the rest of the liturgical calendar and the in-between seasons like Advent and Lent. In adulthood I’ve been drawn to more contemplative and monastic rhythms. I’ve been grateful to discover that the church calendar makes time and space for more of life; not just celebratory moments but all that is ordinary and filled with everyday ache.
As we approach Easter, I’ve been reflecting on theologian Shelley Rambo’s profound insights on the complex intertwinement of death and life after resurrection Sunday. In her book “Spirit and Trauma,” Rambo invites us to pause and ponder the abyss of Holy Saturday.
I appreciate the way she calls attention to the traces of death that endure even after we encounter the risen Christ. Rambo suggests that in life after the crucifixion, after the trauma of the descent into the abyss, there is “something of death remaining and extending into the territory of life,” a “persistence of the storm even after the literal storm has ended.”
Rambo names this shadowy, uncertain space, to the benefit of those of us who feel the ongoing weight of our wounds and griefs. With all the horrors we’re facing, within and outside of war zones, it’s helpful to have someone acknowledge the persistent inner storms, even among Easter people.
There is hope in the aftermath and the Spirit’s creative “way-making,” as Rambo puts it. But Easter doesn’t come with a clean, easy birth into a shiny new life. We’re still in shadowy terrain with all our soul-deep aches.
I’ve been really struggling to hold on to faith these days. With the state of the world and my melancholy, fearful constitution, it feels almost impossible.
Everything around me seems to cry out,“Where is your God?”
I think, “Seriously, right? God, where are you? How could you let this happen? Children are dying!”
And: “Lord, help my unbelief.”
I’m trying to keep trusting the One who shares in our sorrows, trying to trust that Christ is with us amid the ruins and that this is not the end. I’m leaning on the faith of friends whose hope muscles are stronger than mine.
I’m straining to hear the gentler voice of love under my fear. It’s not easy. My inner wiring seems set to amplify fear and doom. I know I’m not alone in this.
Still, I notice the unfolding of spring. On our doorstep, plants that I thought were dead have sprouted out of pots that I left neglected for months. Tiny green leaves are budding on the bare branches of the trees in the neighborhood. Formerly brown hills and mountainsides in our region are nearly unrecognizable in their fresh, lush-green, as we emerge from over two decades of constant drought.
And a recent visit to some local gardens reminded me that earth is still charged with God’s grandeur. The glorious tulips in soft pinks and yellows and blood orange, the clusters of spotted foxgloves, the magnolia trees — all seem to blaze in defiance of death.
Life just keeps bursting forth. I see beauty and goodness in dear souls who love big and are out there making plenty of “good trouble.” And I see people not only surviving but healing, growing and thriving after traumas that strike me as just too much for a soul to bear.
Maybe celebrating Easter while the world is on fire means that we keep sowing good and love and beauty even in the heartache. Maybe it means that as we mourn together, we keep hoping in the risen, loving One who mourns with us and will restore all things.
Easter doesn’t mean that all is suddenly turned to sunshine and rainbows. It means that even in the abyss, we’re never alone.
