But We’re Part of This World!
“Trust God.” “Have faith.” “We are God’s creation.” “We are precious to God.” “We are in God’s hands.”
I’ve seen these messages countless times on social media this past month. While I know they are meant to be encouraging, these phrases bothered me. I’m sure those well-intentioned souls on my Facebook feed mean to remind their followers that, in Christ, we need not fear death. And I take great encouragement in the reality of the Resurrection of Jesus. But I also live in this world. This world is suffering in a way I have never seen in my lifetime. To shrug off this universal fear by saying, ‘just trust God,’ felt tone deaf. It seemed to make light of the anxiety that has gripped the heart of everyone I know. At worst, I’ve found these messages judgemental - am I a worse Christian for being anxious about the future? Surely not. But then where does my fear fit into my Christian belief in resurrection?
I feel not unlike the character Merry in the film adaptation of The Two Towers. He and his cousin Pippin try to recruit the Ent, Treebeard, to fight in the war against evil. The long-suffering Treebeard simply says “This is not our war.” Merry responds indignantly — “But you’re a part of this world!” The Ents view the struggle as irrelevant to them; its effects are not yet felt in their forest, and in their great age, this is a mere blip in time. That’s not good enough for Merry, who understands that the Ents are not as separate from the world as they may think. Like Merry, I feel a loyalty to this world, and keenly feel it’s suffering. When I see these inspirational quotes on my newsfeed, I want to yell, like Merry, “But you’re a part of this world!” You should care about what’s happening here and now!
A couple weeks ago, Austin and I were struck by the poignancy of the Sunday readings. In the Episcopal Church, we follow a lectionary, which is a list of scripture readings that guide us through the year. The readings for the 5th Sunday of Lent point ahead to the Resurrection. The power of the readings struck us as we faced this pandemic. Austin particularly liked the biblical explanation of the promise and reality of Resurrection - and if you want to explore those thoughts (which I highly recommend), check out his blog! For me, they offered insight into how I can balance fear with my hope in resurrection - particularly in this Easter season.
The Gospel reading in particular stood out to me. It speaks of the death of Jesus’ friend Lazarus, from John’s Gospel. This passage is one that has provided a lot of comfort in the past, and hearing it was like hearing from an old friend. As familiar as it was, this time I found something new, something I hadn’t paid attention to before.
In the passage, Jesus gets word that his friend Lazarus is dying, but by the time he arrives, Lazarus has already died. Martha, one of Lazarus’ sisters, rebukes Jesus, crying out that if he had come sooner, her brother wouldn’t have died. Martha is one of my personal heroes because she seems so real. Her feelings are just relatable. When Jesus comforts her, saying that her brother will rise again, she says “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Whenever I see these messages of ‘just trust God,’ I feel a lot like Martha. Of course I know we all will rise on the last day, but how does that help me now? Don’t you care that there is suffering now? Jesus then goes on to explain to Martha just what it means that her brother will rise again:
“Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.” ”
A couple years back, this passage was constantly in my mind. My uncle, a beloved childhood mentor, and a friend all passed away, all tragically, all untimely, and all in the span of 18 months. At that time, I found deep relief in the hope of Resurrection, a hope that is still the foundation for my faith. This time, as the entire world is suffering and sorrowful, something else jumped out at me. Jesus next speaks to Mary, Lazarus’ other sister, and then commands the dead Lazarus out of the tomb - a precursor to the resurrection that awaits all of creation. But between those two actions is a small, key detail, and it changes everything.
“When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled. And he said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus wept.”
Jesus knows his own power, and he fully intends to raise Lazarus from the dead. There is no reason for his grief. When we grieve, we grieve because we know we have lost something, something we can never get back. Jesus knows that his friend will be alive as soon as he commands it. Yet, first Jesus weeps. He weeps because Mary weeps. More importantly, he weeps because he is truly human. While in his divinity, Jesus has authority to end Mary and Martha’s grief and raise their brother to life; in his humanity, Jesus truly grieves the loss of his friend.
But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay.
Matthew 28:5-6
Things were hard last month when the reality of COVID19 hit me. I felt the weight of the world ending as universities, coffeeshops, and churches all closed their doors. All my future plans seemed as if they were being snuffed out of existence. One night in particular, I felt like all joy had left this world. I wept. The next days were still difficult, but I picked myself up, and started to find God in the bleakness. It was the small things at first - a line in my devotional, a message from a friend. Then bigger and bigger things, and I began to hope again. Earlier this week, I wept again, but not from despair. As Austin and I listened to fivethirtyeight’s Monday podcast about tracking the statistics of Coronavirus, I looked over to Austin and was overcome simply with love. I thought about all the ways I loved him, and then I thought about all the things and people I love in life, all that I feared losing: spending time with our families, the coffeeshop where we go on Sunday mornings, reading together in the evening. I was consumed with emotion, but not despair. It reminded me of Christ weeping for Lazarus - he grieves because he loves.
The promise of the Gospel is not that we will be spared the sufferings of this world. Nor does it make them obsolete. Rather, the life and the death of Christ, who lived as we live - who felt deep sorrow and anxiety - show us that when we face tribulation, we do not do it alone. The resurrection of Christ promises us that the sorrows of this earth, though painful, are not the end. And that is the miracle of Easter: in his divinity, Christ’s death and resurrection promise the same for us, and in his humanity, he is a part of this world, and cares deeply about our daily sufferings and joys. On Easter Sunday we celebrate this duality of Christ. As human he makes Earth’s sorrows bearable. As divine he gives us promise of a real, physical resurrection of the world, where death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain, but life everlasting. That doesn't mean that living in a pandemic isn’t hard or frightening. We can still feel sadness and concern. What it means is that we can bear it, as Christ bears it alongside us.
