I should have Advent on my mind, but instead, I find
myself thinking about resurrection
It is Easter morning, and Jesus stands there in the
garden
Not glowing
Not an angel without wings
But a scruffy dude with dirt under his nails
Who looks more like a migrant worker than the King of
Kings
It is later, in the upper room,
and Jesus enters, not with magnificent wholeness
but will pierced hands a feet
and hole in his side so big you could stick your hand in
it.
Later still there he is
Trudging down a dusty road
And later still, smelling like smoke and fish
Cooking breakfast
What does it mean to be raised to new life?
That is the question that lingers as we move from
The vibrant energy of summer into fall
And creep our way toward the cold death of winter
I would like to think it means we
emerge from the tombs of our own making
without spot or wrinkle,
whiter than snow,
new
fresh
but I suspect that when we are born from above
we emerge from the tomb (like Lazarus)
slightly wrinkled
with our resurrected selves in rough shape
Jesus was raised with his scars
and the dirt of the garden (or tomb) under his
fingernails
we are raised to newness
but the old clings to the fabric of our beings
this does not mean
that we are not new
it does not mean Love has not claimed us and transformed
it
It means that the Sacred (God)
does not remove us from our messy lives
but joins us in those lives
and loves us through them
even as we stumble forward
carrying, sometimes, ugly pasts
carrying our wounds
even as we put one foot in front of another
awkwardly
still making mistakes
sometimes tripping
sometimes falling flat on our faces
sometimes doubting
sometimes wondering
sometimes being stunned into the silence
by the wonder of it all
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