The End Is Not Near
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It was Mary Magdalene and Joanna and Mary the mother of James and the other women who told the disciples [of the resurrection], but these words appeared to the disciples as nonsense, and they would not believe them. Bending over, [Peter] saw the strips of linen lying by themselves and he went away, wondering to himself what had happened. [Luke 24]
Remember: their world has been turned upside-down. In disbelief, in anguish, perhaps in rage, they watched the State humiliate their beloved teacher. He was stripped bare, given a cross to carry through the streets as the crowds jeered. They watched, some of them, as he was put to death painfully, slowly, brutally; and then they received his broken body and wrapped it tenderly in linen, arranging oils and scent to prepare him for burial. And now, the women find his body… gone. In its place is a messenger, telling them that Jesus is not there; that his presence is and will be alive in the world.
You can’t blame the disciples for thinking that the women were speaking nonsense. You can’t blame any of them for feeling bewildered. They’d seen his body; they’d touched it, held it. End of story. What’s more irrevocable than death? The story ends there.
In fact, it doesn’t. I hope it’s not a spoiler to say this: the story’s not over. It’s taken a wild, unexpected turn—a swift, sudden reversal: not even Death has the last word. I don’t believe that the dead can come back to life, but death is always part of a larger story that continues. Even when we think that “the end is near,” it may be just the beginning.
I know this because last winter I was felled by an unexpected personal crisis. Some of my boldest choices were rigorously tested, their consequences made manifest. The choices were mine; they were brave and right for me; they weren’t mistakes. None of this is to complain or ask for pity, but for longer than was comfortable, I walked through a fairly thick forest, discerning my way into the light.
That fall before the snow arrived, I went running in the Maine woods at dusk and got lost. For real. Trying to find my way to safety, I remember squinting through the dim twilight to find the next blue blaze of the trail marking. Once my panic settled, I realized that I didn’t have to find the whole trail or deduce the topography of the mountain; all I had to do was stand under the tree with that small blue hatch of paint and then look for the next one. It worked. I found my way out—exceptionally cold and frustrated, in the dark and feeling fragile, but safely. And wiser.
During those painful, haunting months that forced me to sift through the pieces of some choices gone wrong , the story that I imagined for myself took an unexpected turn. My “good news” is twofold: the story wasn’t over; it just changed direction, and it’s still unfolding. I’m grateful to have soaked up all kinds of love from people who have known me and supported me for years. Being known is one of the most powerful forms of love we humans are capable of—that’s the other good news—and that love brings me to my knees. That love holds me steady when I’d rather sit down, spent and defeated, on my wandering in the wilderness.
When my linear friends ask me about my “plan,” I dodge the question with a more important answer: I have faith in awaiting further instructions.
I know what this swath of the trail looks like, but that’s the only trail-marking visible right now. I don’t need to know more than I know right now. When I need to know more, I’ll know more: there will be another tree with its blue blaze, signaling me in.
Often, we don’t need to know more than we know right now. We know what we know now, and we can choose how to respond to feeling “lost.” When we’re caught up in challenges that we didn’t enter voluntarily, I believe that we can still ask:
What do I choose? Am I choosing to let this struggle define me? Do I choose to be faithfully curious about how this struggle might end, or do I choose to allow my heart to shut? Am I choosing to give up my convictions and my truth, or do I choose my integrity?
Where is this struggle leading me? Am I being drawn towards people and values that I care about? Might I be led into the vulnerability of being seen and held by people I trust? Or is this struggle taking me into isolation, or estrangement, or rupture with those I care about?
I can’t really answer those questions for myself, let alone for you. All I can offer is this prayer, in the spirit of declaring that The End is Not Near:
Guide of the Ages, at times we find ourselves in a wilderness of not-knowing. Like a hiker lost in the woods, filled with rising fears, we lose the ability to take in the beauty around us. We search for the “right” path out of the wilderness, for signs that will help us recognize where we are. All our lives we live in mystery. We are always journeying, seeking direction, awaiting instructions. Help us remember, Gentlest of Ways, that there is no “lost.” We may feel confused, fearful, overwhelmed, paralyzed… but we are not lost. When the trail disappears and darkness presses in, you abide nonetheless. Guide our feet, Sweet Mystery, even as we find home in ourselves and in you.
- Secret-Keeping - January 1, 2016
- The End Is Not Near - April 1, 2014
- The Impossible and the Laughable - April 1, 2011
