A Christian colleague of mine texted me at 8:45am this morning about the death of Pope Francis:
Did you see the news about the Pope? she wrote. Just hours after Easter… What do you think?
I sat for a long time before texting back. I knew the question she was asking, which was not “What do you think about the death of the Pope?” so much as “What do you think this means for the future of the Catholic church in America and elsewhere, and what will his legacy be, and what does that mean for American Christianity and Christianity in general?”
There was perhaps another question lingering there, too, about timing and mystery and signs of the times, as this friend is particularly apt to map prophetic revelation onto modern-day events. She watches political news with the fervor of a literature scholar, trying to figure out the who what and where of Revelation.
In the end, I opted not to answer the questions behind the question.
What I wrote instead was this: Can’t help but be sad – he seemed such a gentle, Christlike man. But what a blessing for him to come into the company of the Lord…appropriate timing. I’m praying for our Catholic brothers and sisters, as I am sure this and the future weigh heavy on their hearts today.
She seemed disappointed by my lack of a deeper response. I know she wanted more from me. There was a time when I would have been ready to give it. As Christians in the church (and I include myself in this group), we often feel our business is the church: we analyze it, we critique it, we predict the future, we call for reform, we praise what we feel to be right and condemn what we feel to be wrong.
Now, at this current political and cultural moment, that urge seems stronger than ever. Yet this Eastertide, I am trying to do something different.
Comprised of fifty days up to Pentecost, Eastertide comprises a significant span of time on the liturgical calendar. Fifty days of feasting, joy, and celebration. Fifty days of sheer delight and relief in the Risen Christ. Fifty days of pure joy. But we tend to dump the celebrations after Easter itself, moving back into the ordinary rhythms of our life as blandly as though the Resurrection had never occurred. We skip over the good part to get back to the grind.
I don’t want to do that this year.
I don’t mean that we should ignore reality. Indeed, paying attention to what is matters if we are to celebrate Eastertide meaningfully at all. Many, many believers are struggling right now. Perhaps you aren’t; perhaps you feel that politically and culturally all is as it should be and the Kingdom of God is being made anew on earth by men. But you should know that some of your brothers and sisters in faith don’t feel this way, and they are facing great challenges. Right now, many Christians witness grave suffering as a consequence of political choices and grieve it in the depths of their hearts; they struggle with the evolution of a church in America that many of then no longer recognize as Scriptural or adhering to the words and way of Jesus Christ.
Many of us have done a lot of grieving, thinking, and praying over Lent (and indeed for longer than that).
But maybe you’re not paying attention to culture or politics at all and you’re just worn out. You’ve been a caregiver, or you’ve been suffering sickness or illness yourself. You’re struggling to pay the bills. You’re grieving a child or family member lost to addiction. You’ve been stumbling through the wilderness with no sense of where or how it will end.
If Eastertide does not speak in the middle of this darkness, it does not speak at all.
So my question becomes: what does it mean that the kingdom is already here? What does it mean that the victory has already been accomplished? The great work is complete; the Great Three Days, spent; Christ’s total triumph, assured. What am I do to in the face of this flood of sunshine and delirious joy into a world gone dark indeed?
Part of the answer, for me, is this: to follow Christ, and hold the outcomes lightly.
We know what we are to do. Scripture tells us. We serve others. We care for the poor. We live with humility, peace, and grace. We embrace mercy and justice. We proclaim the work of Christ not as a mere set of affirmations but with our lives, bearing fruit that testifies to His nature. We pray. We mourn with those who mourn. We celebrate with those who celebrate. We steward the work and the lives in our small circle. We speak the truth. We do not allow lies to become the truth. We hold our brothers and sisters in faith, and the greater church, to account.
Sometimes this means resisting great darkness to offer succor, comfort, and mercy to those who are afraid, hurting, grieving, and overwhelmed. Sometimes this means the small and simple work of grace in charity, kindness, and service. Sometimes this means relentless prayer, or relentless encouragement, or time spent in Scripture. Sometimes this means ministries granted to us. Sometimes this means speaking the truth at uncomfortable moments, or saying things that people in power and authority may not want to hear.
But the outcomes of these things belong to God.
That is what frees me from the darkness this Easter season. I know what I am to do; the rest is for Him to address. I know the choices I must make; others must make their own. There is a joy in this form of freedom. I must do as God will have me do; the rest I leave to his attention. How will it all go? What will happen? I don’t know. Nor do I need to know. God will tend to it; I must tend to what I am given.
During a recent difficult period, I found myself asking a simple question: what is the next thing? Don’t worry about the day, the week, the month; the year. Look ahead to whatever the “next thing” is that God gives you, and do that. Then the next thing. Then the next thing. Progressing in this way, with our eyes on God, the days and weeks and months and years take care of themselves.
The freedom of Easter is that we need only look to the next thing our hands find to do. God has taken care of everything else; the kingdom is here, and His redemptive work accomplished. Let’s not trade that remarkable truth for a return to how things always are, to the ordinary life where we try to control everything beyond our control, predict all that will happen, and exert our sovereignty over the territories that belong to God.
It is enough to be where we are; to do what we can; to give what we may.
Samaritan's Song 