A Beautiful, Terrible, Not-So-Very-Good Friday
Outside, the sun is shining. Oh, yes, it's much cooler than yesterday's seventies, and there is a persistent wind blowing, but the sky is blue and everything is in full bloom. All around me is green, green, green, in every imaginable hue, complemented by bright pinks and yellows and brilliant oranges. Nature at her most ostentatious, glorious best.
Inside, however, in spite of the colorful art on the walls...in spite of stacks of to-be-read books...in spite of a countless variety of offerings on Hulu and Netflix and Amazon Prime, a gray cloud seems to hang over everything...the cloud called Grief. Grief for the loss of what has been...grief for the church services and family gatherings which will not happen...grief for not being able to dye Easter eggs together...grief for not being able to plan a family meal with a Honey-Baked ham at center stage...grief for the hours and days and weeks which are slipping away, never to be recaptured...grief for the helplessness of being able to do nothing to change the way things are. Grief, too, for the countless friends and neighbors and strangers who are putting themselves at risk for the rest of us, that we might continue to live and eat and stay healthy. Grief for those who have lost their jobs and may face losing their homes or apartments. Grief for those who have been living at the edge financially and now despair at how they will put food on the table. Grief for women and children sheltering in place at home with their abusers. Grief for the awareness that so many of our elected leaders seem unable or unwilling to face this humanitarian crisis compassionately.
Here i sit, a religious leader, a pastor, someone to whom others turn for wisdom and comfort, and my own heart is breaking. I have no words on this beautiful, terrible Good Friday except these - which I say as much for myself as for anyone else: as dreadful as this all seems, as much as it seems the death of life as we've known it has had the last word, this too shall pass. New life will come from the death of the old, sometimes in ways we never dreamed. The stone will be rolled away from the tomb of our fears and anxieties, and the hope-filled light of resurrection will shine brilliantly into every dark and lonely and broken and hopeless place.
But for now, I...we...sit in the darkness with tears in our eyes, for Easter dawn has not yet come.
Inside, however, in spite of the colorful art on the walls...in spite of stacks of to-be-read books...in spite of a countless variety of offerings on Hulu and Netflix and Amazon Prime, a gray cloud seems to hang over everything...the cloud called Grief. Grief for the loss of what has been...grief for the church services and family gatherings which will not happen...grief for not being able to dye Easter eggs together...grief for not being able to plan a family meal with a Honey-Baked ham at center stage...grief for the hours and days and weeks which are slipping away, never to be recaptured...grief for the helplessness of being able to do nothing to change the way things are. Grief, too, for the countless friends and neighbors and strangers who are putting themselves at risk for the rest of us, that we might continue to live and eat and stay healthy. Grief for those who have lost their jobs and may face losing their homes or apartments. Grief for those who have been living at the edge financially and now despair at how they will put food on the table. Grief for women and children sheltering in place at home with their abusers. Grief for the awareness that so many of our elected leaders seem unable or unwilling to face this humanitarian crisis compassionately.
Here i sit, a religious leader, a pastor, someone to whom others turn for wisdom and comfort, and my own heart is breaking. I have no words on this beautiful, terrible Good Friday except these - which I say as much for myself as for anyone else: as dreadful as this all seems, as much as it seems the death of life as we've known it has had the last word, this too shall pass. New life will come from the death of the old, sometimes in ways we never dreamed. The stone will be rolled away from the tomb of our fears and anxieties, and the hope-filled light of resurrection will shine brilliantly into every dark and lonely and broken and hopeless place.
But for now, I...we...sit in the darkness with tears in our eyes, for Easter dawn has not yet come.
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