Last year after Easter, I traveled to Paris and was captured by a painting in the Musée D’Orsay of Peter and John racing toward the empty tomb after hearing the strange story from the women who were there first. I’m still thinking about it a year later. I’ve also been thinking a lot about how we comprehend knowledge and wisdom as light, represented beautifully in the painting. In response, I wrote this little piece tracking the Good Friday to Easter story with all its surprising twist and turns for those experiencing it. It’s too long to be a poem, too choppy to be a short story, so it’s just become my prayer.
They didn’t understand. The disciples might have been walking with the light of the world but still they couldn’t see by it. They might have eaten the bread he offered but still they walked away hungry. They might have been washed by his hands, but their hearts were still tainted by doubt. They might have heard the warning to stay awake, but still they fell asleep when it mattered the most.
He didn’t understand when Jesus looked him in the eyes and said, even you, you who I renamed and repurposed, will deny me. Three times, three questions that should have been so easy to answer with a resounding yes that is my Lord and I will follow him because he penned the Words of Life! Where else will I go? But three chances came and three times Peter shrank back. He wept, not knowing yet that love waited for him on the shore of the sea.
They didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend that he came to forgive, that he could pray for their forgiveness even as in ignorance they crushed his spirit and broke his body. The ones looking on never imagined that forgiveness wasn’t just for the thief hanging next to him – it was freely offered to all, as he opened his arms of love upon the cross. Turns out, sin was the jailer and we were the prisoners he came to set free. We all were the sick who needed a doctor, we all were the lost sheep bleating for a shepherd, we all were the unclean and unholy outcasts desperate for a way into the innermost part of the temple.
We can’t understand, not completely, how the weight of every broken heart, every wrong and warring will, every failure and fear, could sit upon two pieces of wood. Even more astounding is how all the love of the universe could be contained in the heart of a hazelnut. And yet it is so, for those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. Hallelujah for the cross.
They didn’t understand. When they saw him beaten, bloodied, berated, they turned away. The sight was too incongruous to bear, too empty of glory, too vulnerable and naked. The cup was too full for them to drink, even if they wanted to. So in denial and detached, they scattered. Death took the reins, and the world held its breath, unable to cry out for its creator.
They didn’t understand that when he said “It is finished” with his last aching breath, it wasn’t in lament of the end of all things. No, these words proclaimed the completion of salvation, the big finale boss battle between life and death. These words were his rallying cry of victory, once and for all, and we take up the cry with all the saints who’ve run before us, all the hosts of heaven. And the darkness trembles when we declare the light will not be overcome.
They may not have understood, but they began to catch glimpses of the truth, when with a great ripping of the heavy curtain, the Holy of Holies spilled out to the earth. Creation was suddenly filled with so much life that the dead began to wake and walk and the silent rocks split with praise, just as he said they would. The judgement of night that had fallen over them broke, as love illuminated the earth anew, like the sun bathes the horizon in a golden glow with its last strength of the day.
A soldier, of all men, saw. Surely, beyond doubt, beyond questioning, beyond powers that be, beyond human reason, just on the other side of the thin veil, surely this man was the Son of God. Only he could rescue, only he could make dry bones come awake, only he could take our fearful, trembling prayers and make them weapons that drive away evil. And we crucified him. How we should weep.
They didn’t understand the women who brought this story from beyond the grave. Unable to wait a moment longer, Peter and John raced in desperate hope to see for themselves, not daring to believe but clinging to frail hope. Maybe they finally understood what he meant when he said they only need a seed-sized faith, but the white linens folded unused only hinted at the full truth.
Mary must have run back with them after delivering her tale, looking to understand this strange person who sat in the place of her Lord, early that morning. Her task of herbal anointing useless without a body, she wandered out of the tomb in grieving wonder. She couldn’t hear him the first time he said her name, this man she had followed and loved, so ever patient he said it again until her whole being turned anew. Then, she understood. Here, in front of her, her Lord. No wonder she wept and clung to him, wouldn’t you?
Thomas didn’t understand. Their stories didn’t line up. It goes life then death then grave. Walking and talking never come after. How on earth could the story end otherwise? Then the risen one appeared, and doubt melted in the hands that bore the marks of mockery.
They didn’t understand. Though Cleopas and his companion walked with the one everyone was talking about, they nearly missed the moment. The Word was now speaking of himself. They were hungry for more and begged him to stay, so he broke bread with them, and as he offered it, they realized they were being fed by the bread of life. And their hearts were burnig, burning with what? Unexplainable joy, uncontainable faith, unrelenting adoration? Whatever it was, it must be shared.
Now another early morning dawns behind a blanket of grey. Light may not have come in a brilliant flash today, but still I can see more than I did before. Still have more glimpses of the new world dawning. The Word reveals itself afresh, and my soul cries out, he is risen indeed, help my unbelief!
Hopeful Wanderer 