Looking Ahead

A few years ago, I attended an Eastern Orthodox Easter celebration. I joined the congregation at 11:30pm on Saturday night; the ritual and holy things were already well under way. As the minutes inched toward midnight, the crucifixion and Jesus’ last breath at the forefront of our collective mind, we settled into silence as the sanctuary lights slowly dimmed and all disappeared into darkness. We filed out of the pews, through the front doors, and began a slow, rhythmic journey around the entire building. We circled three full times, recalling the three days Jesus spent in the tomb. After the third rotation, we gathered on the front steps, energy humming. Then, with a pageantry like precision, at exactly midnight, the front doors of the church burst open, and we entered a brilliantly lit sanctuary—golden walls and vibrant colors reverberating as bells rang and rich incense greeted the news that Jesus, he is alive.

Naturally, I’ve thought about that experience a lot over the past two weeks. Especially as held in contrast to our somewhat lackluster quarantined Easter celebrations. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was that long, silent trip around the church building. As we had revolved, I counted—once, twice, three times—'til we got to return to the warmth, and the symbol had served out its purpose. The waiting was finished because we knew the end.

I’ve never marked the passing of time by the rise and fall of the sun so much as I have in this quarantine. I normally mark my life in events, counting days around big happenings and pivotal moments. But, as may sound familiar, there really are none of those anymore. And it’s been hard. This time of waiting with no end promised, has made it hard to want things, to get out of bed facing sameness. I’ve realized how much I rely on anticipation to feel motivated and fulfilled.

My inner narrative response to this realization has also been consistent, my first thoughts sounding like, “Well, Tessa, this is revealing that you are bad at living in the present and just run from pain by looking forward.” Even my prayers have been hijacked by Eeyore-sounding moans, “God, I guess you want me to stop relying on the future…Thanks for the quarantine…” The old version of “You had it coming.” (How does grace slip so easily out the window?)

But, Jordan’s sermon a few weeks ago about Jesus entering our sorrow and our lament, started my wheels turning and my heart opening. He wants to be with me in sorrow--righteous, deserved, whatever--these categories are useless. He wants to be in them all. What if I could invite Jesus into my sorrow of not having anything to look forward to? Rather than immediately conclude that looking ahead is somehow a character deficit, what happens when I let God tell me how he observes this quality? 

This got me thinking about the disciples after Jesus died—they didn’t know the end. It was not a “three tidy laps around a church” experience. For all they knew, it was already over. A truly relatable experience now that our worlds are stuck in limbo. It’s interesting how Jesus meets them after the resurrection with compassion, saying that this taste of his absence was laying the groundwork for what was to come. He brings grace into their despair and gently turns their chins to regard the future: the coming of the Spirit, unity with God, known love, overcoming the world, his return. Jesus establishes his people to live in the present with eyes fixed on the future. The realest realities are now unseen. The hope of glory. 

Recalling this about my own identity as a follower of Jesus has been reorienting my understanding of my future focused tendencies. I’m naturally good at hoping for the future--what a gift! Now, as my eyes open into a seemingly mundane day, and my brain naturally searches for something to anticipate, I praise God that he has created me with the ability to hope. And that, during this time, I get to practice hoping in the assured promises of his goodness--actually, physically, motivated by Jesus’ resurrection. Because he lives, I can literally give myself to the monotony of this day. 

May we learn a new way of hope, and lean into Christ’s gentleness this Eastertide. 

- Tessa (Robertson) Thompson