It’s been weeks since Easter. As everyone else seems to be moving on from the empty tomb, I can’t stop thinking about his resurrection.
I think about the disciples after his crucifixion. Three days to process the inconceivable loss of their leader, teacher, mentor, friend, brother. Did they try to comfort themselves with the same platitudes we often resort to? You know, the phrases that start with the cringe-worthy at least his suffering is over; he’s in heaven; he’s with so-and-so in heaven; we have good memories of him. You know, it could have been worse.
Or, were they able to look at this bewildering situation, and like the wandering Israelites, ask of the manna, “What is it?” Could they own their disappointment, heartbreak, incredulity, the very real sense that maybe God got this ending wrong? Call it what it was instead of airbrushing it with some silver-lining pseudo-gospel? Give up the fool’s gold as they wrestled with this harrowing plot twist?
My friend Kimberly recently wrote about embodiment. How Jesus inhabited a body. He drank. Ate. Pooped. He was God in our likeness, in substance human. And in his humanness, how did….to read the rest, hop on over to The Glorious Table.