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| He is risen. He is risen indeed. Hallelujah! |
I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand on the earth.
And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God;
I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another.
How my heart yearns within me!
Job 19:25-27
The Old Testament reading for today, Easter Sunday, was the well-known passage from the nineteenth chapter of Job. Job recounts his losses and the unjust rebukes from his friends. He then declares his yearning hope of seeing God in his flesh, even after his skin was destroyed.
The twelfth anniversary of my mother's death is in two days. My mind returned to the memory of her box of ashes sitting on her kitchen counter before we took them to the cemetery. Dad was not happy with the inscription on the container, so my niece penned an additional tribute on the urn with a marker. I know Mom truly believed she would see God after death.
The message of Easter is one of hope, rebirth, reconciliation and life beyond the grave. The Apostle Paul writes beautifully in 2 Corinthians 4, describing our bodies as jars of clay that contain Christ's glory. Writing further, he says,
"We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus,
so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body...
Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away,
yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.
For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us
an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.
So we fix our eyes not on what is seen,
but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal.
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| Mom and I, Brighton Beach, Durban, SA 1955 |
We can have hope for a specific situation. Even better is to live each day with hope, to be in hope in the same way we can be in love. Despite the news cycle, despite our health or economic situation, despite difficult relationships and family conflicts, despite any momentary trouble, hope renews us day by day.
I Worried
Mary Oliver
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
"I Worried" by Mary Oliver, from Swan: Poems and Prose Poems. © Beacon Press, 2010.
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