The story of one life spanning 33 years culminated over a 3-day period. A life’s work came down to one weekend — what Christians now celebrate as Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. Death, burial and resurrection. It’s the ultimate redemption story.
I love redemption stories. I love when life springs forth after death. I love a good story of renewal and restoration. I love the Sunday miracle.
But what if Sunday never comes?
What if there are those of us who never get the redemption, the restoration? What if some situations are just too screwed up to ever be made right? What if we’re treading among the burial grounds and there’s no Sunday sunrise?
For some of us, a life’s work and purpose never make it past the court of accusation and condemnation.
For some of us, death has prevailed, the tomb is sealed, and the guards are standing firm. Our hearts are beating, but we look and feel like we’ve flatlined.
For some of us, Saturday is a lifetime, and holiness is hard to find.
For some of us, Sunday never comes, and there are no choirs singing Hallelujah. There’s only the monotonous sound of silence.
There are those of us whose redemption stories may only be found on the other side of life.
Meanwhile, we wait with fading hope for a glimmer of morning light amidst our mourning. We wait for the one who makes all things new to make an appearance and perform a miracle. We wait for a Sunday that may never rise again.
I know it’s been a while since I’ve commented on your blog–the busyness of life too often distracts from the important. This is a hauntingly good blog, Rebekah. Sometimes I, too, have felt like Mary Mandala whose tears burned her cheeks but, unlike her, never heard my name. Sometimes we do linger in the graveyard with no resolution. As usual, I have no neat answers. Somehow the voiced uncertainty and unresolved tension of life’s hurts begin to move the sealed stone. Maybe there’s only a whisper of hope that is so fragile you dare not acknowledge it lest it disappears. On those occasions, the voice of God is flung against the wind and, like the disciples, it’s too hard to believe. Yet, deep within, we know we’ve heard something beyond the howling winds and crashing waves. Thank you again, Rebekah, for your honesty, your probing questions, your poetry. Shalom, my sister.
“Yet, deep within, we know we’ve heard something beyond the howling winds and crashing waves.” I don’t know, Garry. I seriously wonder sometimes if it’s just psychosis. I wonder if I simply heard what I wanted to hear…because those promises I believed are dead as a doornail with no hope of resurrection.
Yes, Rebekah. I do know what you mean. The voice might simply be an echo of our primal, unanswered cries for help. I’ve gotten out of the business of neat, tidy, Christian platitudes. I’m grateful for those oft neglected cries from honest, confused folks who only can ask: “How long, O Lord, will you forget me forever?” I fear evangelical theology has leached the power from the testimony of scripture–life’s just not as neat, tidy, and easily resolved by claiming promises. Shalom, my sister.