t’s a crazy story, really. The story of the death and resurrection of the one called Jesus. He was executed for speaking truth to power, and refusing to bend to the will of the rulers of the day. Hanging on a cross, between two criminals, he spoke only words of hope and grace and forgiveness and faith. After he died, his body was taken away and hastily placed in a cave, a stone rolled in front of the cave opening. His dead body lay in the darkness of that tomb for two days. On the morning of the third day, he was gone. His dead body was nowhere to be found, the linen cloths that had been wrapped around his body were all that were all that remained. On that same day he appeared, first to a woman (of course), and later to others.
He was alive. Death had given way to new life. Love had the final say, as it always does.
For some, that story makes no sense. It’s too hard to believe. But is it, really?
Every night we go to sleep with no guarantee of waking up the next morning. And yet, we do.
Every winter the plants go dormant with no guarantee of new growth emerging. And yet, it does.
Every winter there are species of frogs that freeze solid, their hearts ceasing to beat, with no guarantee of coming to life again. And yet, they do.
We all experience the passing away of things throughout our lives. People who were once part of our world, no longer are. Dreams end without fulfillment. Youth grows ever more distant in our rear view mirror. And yet. Even as every day is a death, every new day is a new life.
It is as if resurrection is hardwired into creation, surrounding us and reminding us that new life is just around death’s bend.
And that is a story worth believing.
