The Broken Duality of Easter (and every day after)

 

“Resurrection” by Father John Giuliani

 

On Easter Sunday, I struggled.

I struggled to know the power of communion as I watched the woman across the room wearing a shirt with dream catchers and feathers all over it. I struggled with the reality of erasure, of oppression.

I struggled to understand the joy of the Easter story when a dear friend is in the hospital fighting for her life. We sing out “He is risen,” and my blood boils with cries of let her rise, too.

I know I must not be the only one who struggled to say, “Happy Easter” with a smile and a nod. I know I’m not the only doubter, the only one who is angry and overwhelmed with the stories of Jesus that just haven’t added up throughout the centuries.

For many of us, church holidays including Easter are confusing days.

For those of us who attend church, we enter in with people proclaiming, “He is risen!”

It’s as if then and there, we are supposed to say that there will not be pain on the earth ever again, because He is risen.

 

And yet, we know this not to be true.

Pain, oppression and hate walk among us and live in us. Those of us who carry intergenerational trauma know this well.

Indigenous peoples whose ancestors have been abused by people using power and greed to play God know this too well.

 

What if Easter isn’t just a celebration of joy and deep peace, but a reminder once again that things are not as they should be?

 

I imagine hope to have two lenses:

The lens of the daily, the lens of right now,

and the long-lasting lens of hope that keeps us going.

 

It’s like we are stretching our arms out to hold a rope that pulls from both ends, stretching our arms out praying for miracles. We hold the tension that surely Jesus held every day of his life.

Can we say that hope is here but there is still more hope to come?

Can we say shalom is here but isn’t fully arrived yet?

Can doubters gather with those who are sure?

Can mourners gather with those who have joy?

It must be so, or we do not participate fully in our humanity.

As my dear friend Tuhina has reminded me, multiple truths exist at once, and in order to destroy toxic duality, we sit in the tension.

We cook Easter meals and have Easter egg hunts and grieve that faith isn’t simple.

We see life and death intertwined and we cannot escape their realities.

Perhaps that’s as it should be.

Perhaps that’s the only way to practice our faith.

Perhaps honesty is the best, most painful journey.

 

Following Easter is Earth Day, a time to see and acknowledge, to remember that Segmekwe, Mother Earth, guides us, holds us, shows us the way to God.

We say Mno Waben, good morning. It is our promise that the sun will shine each day. It is a return to what we know, to sit with the earth, to listen.

Maybe the most simple thing is that seeds will become seedlings, and those seedlings will feed our souls and bellies.

Maybe the most simple thing is the actual gospel, and we are just longing for a Jesus that hasn’t been fed to us by empire, but the one who stood against it with his life, death, and resurrection.

Perhaps our always-longing and always-questioning will lead us to those seeds and that rest, and perhaps, today, that’s all we need.

 

 

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

 –Frederick Buechner  

 

 

Grief Has a Voice (Are You Listening?)

Untitled design-12.png

 

At the worst of times, in the worst of places, we hear the whisper.

“There’s something more to this,” it says.

“Lean in,” it implores.

We aren’t often told that the Holy Spirit and Grief are partners.

Mostly, we’re taught a narrative that they oppose one another, that we should trust the Spirit but keep the words of Grief far, far from our hearts, because she will surely tell us something we don’t want to hear. She will surely break us and we won’t know how to put it back together again.

But if we imagine Grief and the Spirit as partners, the voice of God takes on human flesh all over again, for Jesus's life was full of grieving.

He grieved as he left home, when his days of carpentry were over.

He grieved when he moved through the wilderness and into his calling.

He grieved from Gethsemane.

It taught him who he was.

And every season of shedding a piece of his identity only to take on a purer one required the work of Grief– holy work, indeed.

We are people who numb, fix, and manipulate pain.

But Grief has something important to say, whether we want to hear it or not.

I suggest we try.

Because when we realize that we are not the only ones who are grieving– that all of humanity grieves, individually and collectively– we understand how the Spirit works.

The Spirit, birthed from Jesus himself as a gift to us, leads us out of isolation and toward one another.

And when we get there, it doesn’t mean that Grief’s work is done, that we’ve arrived at a place of joy, with no more sadness or sorrow.

It means that we continue listening to what Grief has to say, and we do it together.

She teaches us to care for our enemies.

She teaches us to forgive.

She teaches us to let God mend our hearts.

She leads us out of racism, sexism, greed, bigotry, and idolatry.

She calls us toward wholeness, if we only let her do the work.

And the Spirit holds her hand along the way.

So my friend, next time you hear Grief whispering for you, pay attention.

She is a gift in a form we don’t always understand.

But her voice is universal.

We are a nation grieving.

We live on an earth that grieves.

We go to church and synagogue and temple with grieving people.

We share sidewalks and cubicles and turning lanes with others who grieve.

That’s why Shalom’s work is not yet done.

And for all the distortions of peace that come with our bodies and souls, Grief and Shalom are partners, too, teaching us that community always works alongside the moving parts of everyone.

And we’ve got to work through the pain to get to the other side.

“First the pain, then the rising.”

–Glennon Doyle Melton

So may we lean in.

May we listen.

May we grieve.

And may we journey toward Shalom together.

 

Amen.