I worry. More than I should. I try not, too, of course – telling Jesus I trust in Him, and I do. But some days it’s hard. Real hard.
I can imagine the apostles were feeling the same thing in the days after the Crucifixion. What do they do now? How do they move forward in this space of an unknown future? And how do they process the fact that some of their friends are claiming to have seen Jesus risen from the dead?
I mean, truly: how would you react if I said to you right now: “Christ has appeared to me; I just saw him in the parking lot.” Would you laugh? Pause and listen for detail? Call the bishop and let him know I have finally cracked?
What would you do if someone you care about is claiming to have encountered the Risen Lord?
Whatever these resurrection moments were, one thing is crystal clear: Christ broke into a room filled with worry and fear and changed lives and hearts forever.
The one thing that strikes me powerfully about every one of these post-Crucifixion encounters is that Christ shows up whenever and wherever he wants – especially into places of worry and grief and struggle:
On roads when disciples are ready to throw in the towel: Christ appears. Into rooms where a struggling Thomas needs to touch resurrected wounds: Christ is there. In places where disciples hide in fear: There is Christ offering His peace.
Peace: not the absence or removal of the Cross, but the reassurance that God is with us in the suffering, the fear and the unknown future, and He will never let us go.
I can’t help but think of the countless ways Resurrection moments of peace have come amidst the struggle and heartache:
When natural disasters strike and the hatred of men’s hearts are put on full-display, who comes running but the helpers – the police, firefighters, medical professionals and the Church. Isn’t that the sign of Resurrection’s peace and God’s healing presence?
When our best friend or loved one is preparing to transition to the next life, and a hospice nurse or family member is there to hold a hand and whisper prayers, isn’t that an experience of Resurrection’s reality?
And when we are tempted to keep ourselves locked away from the world – hidden from the very things that worry us – and instead allow others to sit in the space with us, isn’t that a Christ-moment of peace?
Perhaps the point of this very Gospel is to remind us that the Resurrected Christ is in the very places where we think He would never come.
For so many of us on the faith journey – myself included – we tell ourselves that God is only there when we are good; when we come to Church; when we celebrate a Sacrament. He is there, of course, and these are often very tangible: Eucharist; the words of absolution; the oil of anointing. Christ’s presence among us.
But do we ever stop to consider that Resurrection also comes to us in ways and times we least expect? Are we open to those moments?
Many years ago, as a seminarian, I was assigned to visit patients at Mercy Hospital in downtown Baltimore each Wednesday. In one room, an older gentleman sat at the bedside of his aging wife, spooning applesauce into her mouth and wiping-up the excess with a wash cloth. That sight alone moved me deeply – the dedication of married love in the midst of the Cross.
But then, the husband shared with me from that depths of that place where only God lovingly treads: “She doesn’t recognize me anymore,” he said. “When she’s alert, she tells me she’s not married. She mentions the name of another man sometimes. She forgets we have children and grandchildren.” He sighs deeply, spooning more applesauce. “I think she thinks I am her nurse,” he said.
Looking up at me from his bedside chair, he offered this: “But I come every day. I am grateful she lets me feed her – especially after the decades in which she fed me in so many ways. Love is greater than Alzheimer’s.”
Love is greater than … (fill-in-the-blank) –
Isn’t that the definition of Resurrection peace? Isn’t that the entire reason why the Father sent His Son to redeem us?
Every Resurrection story in the Gospels – and there are many – point to the reality that Jesus Christ conquered sin and death. The accounts we proclaim Easter after Easter remind us that we are sacred, both in body and soul, and that both will be made perfect in Paradise. We won’t just be floating spirits one day: our bodies will be made whole and holy, too.
And perhaps – for I don’t know – perhaps the crosses we have been asked to carry and the scars that have come from them will be, like Christ’s own, these beautiful reflections of light and peace that remain upon our glorified bodies without the chains of pain or sadness attached to them. We will see these marks as signs of God’s Presence along the journey and the real power of resurrection:
That love is always greater than … Hatred. Division. Sickness. Name-calling. Fear. Worry. Sin. Death.
And for those who allow that Love in, what power it gives us to light the way for others. Look how Peter – the coward and the denier of Jesus – is now proclaiming Resurrected Love to a people who walk in darkness. Resurrection love won out over fear.
Look how St. John calls out in his letter to the world that true love is perfected in us when we keep God’s Word.
And what is that Word? Peace.
Not the absence or removal of the Cross, but the understanding that the Risen Christ is with us in every moment of confusion, doubt, worry and fear. He is with us in the moments when we want to lock doors and hide. He is with us when we allow those doors to be blown wide-open by the Spirit and we step out in faith and trust.
His Resurrected Love is even there when husbands wiping applesauce remnants from the mouths of their dying wives need the reminder that love is stronger than Alzheimer’s and death. Always.