I’ll admit to treading in deep waters, into matters way over my head. To be quite honest, that usually occurs for me before I reach the edge of the four-foot section of the pool. But this Easter Season has me pondering this matter of Christ Risen.
Having grown up in the Bible Belt and having consumed the Word of God on a daily basis for much of my life, I am unashamedly a Believer. I can’t explain the Virgin Birth, the Crucifixion or the Transfiguration but I believe in it all with my whole heart, mind and soul.
I can’t explain how it is I know my dog loves me either, but I know he does. I can see it in his eyes in much the same fashion as I see God’s love in the vibrant stroke of the redbud blooming or the dogwood bursting. I see evidence of a seductive God in the plop of a tangerine sun into the lavender waters of Mobile Bay, Alabama and the shadowed light streaking across the red clay monuments of Sedona, Arizona.
If there isn’t a Creator behind all the awe-struck wonder of this world then I’m content to be the damned fool who believes there is one, anyway. All the cynics among you are welcome to leave me to my ignorant ways and let me utter praise to a God who I happen to believe just might be responsible for all the glories of this good earth.
If death proves me wrong, well, what has that cost me? A life lived in gratitude and a belief that the world doesn’t rotate routinely for my benefit alone? A theology that compels me to think first of others and their welfare and admonishes me to try and live in harmony, even with people I don’t like very much?
That said I’ve got a bone to pick over the Resurrection. Death would be a lot more palpable, I think, if going into it we knew going into it we only had to spend three days in lock-down. I can manage just about any project as long as I know in advance what the deadline will be. It’s the not knowing that bugs the tar out of me.
I tried to explain this to my husband the other day but Tim’s only response was, “It won’t matter to you then, anyway. You’ll be dead.”
How does he know that? Maybe it’ll matter more then. After all, I won’t have a dadblasted thing to occupy me until my own Resurrection Day.
Oh. Yes. I know. There are those who say our souls go to heaven the minute we die. But I’ve grown rather fond of this shell of a body I’ve inhabited. I don’t like the idea of this home of mine going to rot.
Three days I can handle. Three years? Ask any inmate – that’s long time to spend in lock-down.
Don’t get me wrong. Come Easter Sunday I’ll be on that front row, singing “He Lives” right along with the rest of the sinners gussied up as saints-for-a-day. But somewhere deep inside me, where the shallow waters pool, I’ll be wishing with all my might that I could be more like the Risen Christ.