This week rushes by in a flurry of deadlines and bills due and late-for-appointments and long shopping lists that I never quite complete. I rush from bed to mothering, from mothering to studying, from studying to planning and back to mothering again. My brain whirls and my heart aches. It is Holy Week and I am so busy with the work of celebrating and making room for this holiday that I have left no time for the Holy One it’s all about.
I ache. I miss Him.
How can I say this the way I want to? That He is not a memory; He is my best friend. And this is not a holiday but a Holy Day to let my heart be wrecked again by His love for me.
I eat the chocolate eggs as we stuff plastic shells and the sweetness is His gift to me. He loves the laughter of my children and their joy, abundant joy, when blessed. This Holy Day is not about what we do, or do not do. It is about inhaling his love all the way through everything.
But this is the truth, my friends. I celebrate Passover and I am shocked sick. The death of the firstborn, it terrifies me. I look at my shining first-born daughter and I feel fear cave my heart. How was it ever right, God, for you to kill the firstborn of Egypt? I do not know. So many questions that do not have answers. So many unhappy surprises in this Bible of ours.
And yet, I do not know much, but I do know this. I know that my heart was made to carry the grieving. I know that I long to feed the hungry. I know that I want to live simply so that others may simply live. I know that life is far too short to be taken up in consuming and acquiring. I know that I long for justice in the best sense of the word – for everything to be made “just” as it was in God’s imagination, in the first reality of this world. I long for Love to make all things right.
And this Christ, this Anointed One who lives in me, who descended from heaven that warm summer night of my ninth year, in the Day’s living room, and suddenly made me aware of the spiritual realm? He is Love, and because of him I am filled to overflowing, heart pierced-through with love. I run milky-sweet with love for my children and the world’s children. I am all mother. And I want to mother this hurting world.
The pain of the Easter season, it overwhelms me. The images of the bruised and bleeding Jesus, the sounds of the awful story of his torturous death. It overwhelms me just like acid-attacks in India do and the rape culture all around us and child-abuse and starvation and the North Korean captivity. When confronted by the reality of evil, my heart is usually unable to cope with the pain of it’s strength.
So my eyes are on Jesus.
Not the crucified Jesus, no. The Jesus who is Risen. The Jesus who is alive. Who is well. Who is making and will make, all things right. I don’t understand your ways, God. But I proclaim that you are good. You are ever-so-much-better than the false images we have made of you, a God who is angry, full of revenge, and demands a sacrifice. You embody and personify Love in a way that I am desperate to get my mind a little more around. Because I am thirsty, and you are so good to drink. In a world that debates the reality of love between two people of the same gender. You simply love those people with a love so encompassing that it changes everything. May I be that love to each person around me, God. I am so desperate to live love.