Occasional thoughts from a young adult reveling in the messiness of life.
It’s Easter. I put on my best dress this morning and headed off to church. The sanctuary was adorned with bright flowers, and the joyful spirit was palpable. The bells rung, the trumpets resounded, the timpani thundered.
Christ is risen, indeed. Alleluia.
But what I love the most about Easter is not the music or getting dressed up for Jesus, or even the return of the “alleluias” in our service (though I must admit that I have missed them so). What I love the most is a small detail in the story of the resurrection:
When Jesus came back to walk among us, he still bore the marks of his crucifixion. He was not cleaned up and made perfect in the resurrection; he still had the holes in his hands and feet and side.
I love this because it is a reminder that his body was broken and bled once, too. And if that’s the case, we can come together as a community with the understanding that the dark holes in our own selves don’t have to cause us to pull away from others—instead, they can enable us to draw closer.
So often, we are reluctant to be public with our pain and reach out to others because we feel like the dark spots along our journeys mean that we are doing something wrong. Even worse, there are times where we feel utterly unworthy of being in community with others or even being inside a church. But church should be the one place we do go in our times of trial. It should be the one place where we are reminded that we are loved, holes and all.
If Jesus can come back to walk among us with the holes in his hands and his feet and his side, then we can come together and come before the Lord’s table with the wounds and scars that we bear as well.
The dark holes in our lives don’t prevent us from being Holy.