Weeping, Waiting, or Hoping on Easter Morning

As Easter has approached I have been thinking more and more about this story that I know so well: Good Friday, the Last Supper, praying in the Garden, the arrest, the trial, the brutality my Christ endured, His sacrifice and death, and His resurrection and salvation offered to me. But this year I have been wrestling with this story in a whole new perspective: from the point of view of grief and hopelessness. 

I've been thinking about Jesus pouring out His life and love on these people, doing his best to show them and teach them all they needed to know. Building relationships. Calming their fears. Meeting their needs. And then in his biggest time of need, they fell asleep. I think about this and cry because we each know what that feels like: to feel alone; abandoned; forgotten about in the midst of our deepest trials and grief by those who say they love us most. And Jesus knows what that feels like, too. Even when I feel most alone, I know I am not because he knows. So I think about Jesus kneeling in that garden in the dark, in the night- much like how my own grief feels, so dark and hardest at night- and how he wrestled with the task before him and how he begged his friends to pray with him and yet they all fell asleep. Jesus knew what was being asked of him. He knew the pain and hardship- the impossible task- that was before him. It felt so overwhelming that he asked God to please let there be another way if it was possible. But the answer was still clear. It had to be him. And as he wrestled with that unimaginable fact, his friends slept. 

And then I think about those friends. The ones who promised to follow him, to serve him- even those who promised to stay awake and pray with him. So many people gave everything to follow Jesus. They hung onto his every word. They served him and those he asked them to serve. They believed he was the long promised Messiah. They had such hope for the salvation he would bring. The new life he promised them. But suddenly, on that Easter weekend, all their beliefs and hopes- everything they had given and given up- was thrown into turmoil. What did His death mean to each of them?

I am filled with questions as I examine this story. Here in 2016 I know the end of the story. On that Friday night, God knew the end of the story. But Jesus's followers didn't. And they were left to weep, to wait, or to hope. I wonder on that Friday night how they each dealt with their grief. I think of how deep and painful that must have felt. Not only did they watch him- their best friend, a family member, a son- brutally tortured and killed, but they also watched the death of their hopes and dreams. The One who was supposed to save them and make things new was gone. Their hope was dead. 

I wonder if some of them snuck away to solitude and wept all night in anguish and confusion. I wonder if some of them were physically ill as images of the day assaulted their minds. I wonder if they cried out angrily to God. I wonder if they ran through every moment- every experience from years past- in their mind, and questioned what they missed, asked where they went wrong, sought after what were they missing. I wonder if they sat together and discussed all these things. I wonder if some of them couldn't stand the pain and tried to distract themselves in ways that numbed their bodies. Today we treat our grief the same way: we cry, we question, we try to run from it, we try to numb it. But sometimes we also try to face it. We decide to walk through it. To still cling to that little bit of hope. To still trust that even though we don't see the end- we don't see that Easter Sunday morning- God has a plan in place. I wonder, did any of Jesus's disciples try to face it? Did they all get lost in their grief or did some of them still cling to hope? 

I think about how long that weekend must have felt. The waiting to see if Jesus would suddenly overcome those who tortured him. Wondering when the skies would open and God would reach down and stop the affliction. And then burying Jesus instead and simply waiting....what would happen now, would someone else come to save them, would Jesus somehow still overcome? How long and dark and heavy and crushing that weekend must have felt. But then came Sunday morning.

Mary, the diligent one, came to Jesus’ tomb. We know the story of how she found it empty and then was told to go tell the disciples he had indeed risen. But I think about who Mary was. Mark tells us she was a woman whom Jesus had driven seven demons out of and she then devoted her life to him. John tells us that this woman, whom we know was rescued by Jesus and one of the closest women to him, encountered him at his grave but didn't recognize him… until he called her by name. Again, tears come to my eyes as I think of what that moment must have been like for her. So lost in her grief, so devastated by her loss of her hope, but still so determined to serve and honor him, suddenly had her hope ignited again as she heard her precious Lord say her name. As he called to her. I wonder if it was a command or a whisper of endearment. I think on how her heart must have leapt. The smile that must have overcome her face. Sometimes in our grief and hopelessness, all we need to is to hear His soft whisper to sustain us, ignite us, and send us on our mission. 

So this year on Easter I am not challenged by wether or not I believe the story- indeed I do- but I am challenged by the lives of those who lived it. My heart is softened to the grief they must have endured that weekend and how that deep grief allowed them to experience even greater joy on Sunday morning. Hebrews 6 tells us God is the hope and anchor for our soul because of what Jesus did that Easter morning. So when the grief becomes too much and the hopelessness tries to take over, remember we are not alone in those feelings…indeed Jesus and those who knew him best struggled through those same feelings…but those feelings are not the truth. The truth is that Sunday morning always comes.