Photo Credit: Wandering Angel from Makati City, Philippines - Flickr Like many of you I grew up hearing the very wise words of elders saying, “A promise is comfort to a fool”. In the wisdom of the marketplace we must not take comfort in the promise of another’s word. Their word means nothing unless it is written down, witnessed, and in some cases bears the seal of the courts. In this marketplace the events of Holy Week and the promise of Jesus, “I will never leave you” is foolishness. Friday night gave me an opportunity to think about this in the light of the events of Holy Week.
The events of this last week of Jesus' earthly life, Holy Week, took us on a roller coaster of emotion. We began with jubilant triumph, continued through ominous predictions at a celebratory meal, a beautiful expression of love and devotion, to the barbaric execution of a human being, to that final day of the week – that day of quiet waiting. Waiting to perform the final acts of love for one that was gone too soon.
Over the years in the Christian church Holy Week has concentrated for us the capstone of our faith and liturgical life. In one week we encapsulate the ministry of Jesus, and if we follow closely we are exposed to a wide range of conflicting emotions. This week I focused on what happened after the crucifixion. On Friday night, as I sat in church and reflected on my own path I wondered about those times when I find myself unsure of what’s next, waiting, but unsure about what I’m waiting for. I thought about the disciples on that Friday night after Jesus is laid in the tomb. They are scattered throughout the city alone, and afraid, wondering if they had made the right choice to follow Jesus, wondering if they would be next to be crucified, wondering….and worried!
In our post-modern life we wonder and worry a lot. We wonder what will become of us tomorrow, next week, and next year. We wonder if we would be able to achieve all that we dream of, we wonder if children will do well in school we worry about the economy, we worry about whether or not we will be able to keep our jobs, we worry about whether we will be safe, we worry about worrying too much. Just like the disciples in Jesus’s time we often worry too about the present crisis we face and the choices we have. Like the disciples, we too wonder about the impact of Jesus’s death and what it means for us and the circumstances we face. We walk like the disciples on the road to Emmaus with their hopes dashed and their dreams crushed. We walk in a liminal space of transformation, a place of endings, a place of new beginnings, a place of uncertainty and a place of unknowing.
On Friday night as I left church in total silence, simply getting into my car and driving away, I began to think that this is a space that is holy, a space that required silence, to once again experience the foolishness of God. In the silent space I can hear and see myself in a way that often I don’t. It is a place that I fear because I’ve become so busy and distracted from myself that when I am forced into this quiet space, I’m not sure who I am or what “to do".
In this liminal space I begin to develop a radical hope that is birthed through a sensible doubt
The events of this last week of Jesus' earthly life, Holy Week, took us on a roller coaster of emotion. We began with jubilant triumph, continued through ominous predictions at a celebratory meal, a beautiful expression of love and devotion, to the barbaric execution of a human being, to that final day of the week – that day of quiet waiting. Waiting to perform the final acts of love for one that was gone too soon.
Over the years in the Christian church Holy Week has concentrated for us the capstone of our faith and liturgical life. In one week we encapsulate the ministry of Jesus, and if we follow closely we are exposed to a wide range of conflicting emotions. This week I focused on what happened after the crucifixion. On Friday night, as I sat in church and reflected on my own path I wondered about those times when I find myself unsure of what’s next, waiting, but unsure about what I’m waiting for. I thought about the disciples on that Friday night after Jesus is laid in the tomb. They are scattered throughout the city alone, and afraid, wondering if they had made the right choice to follow Jesus, wondering if they would be next to be crucified, wondering….and worried!
In our post-modern life we wonder and worry a lot. We wonder what will become of us tomorrow, next week, and next year. We wonder if we would be able to achieve all that we dream of, we wonder if children will do well in school we worry about the economy, we worry about whether or not we will be able to keep our jobs, we worry about whether we will be safe, we worry about worrying too much. Just like the disciples in Jesus’s time we often worry too about the present crisis we face and the choices we have. Like the disciples, we too wonder about the impact of Jesus’s death and what it means for us and the circumstances we face. We walk like the disciples on the road to Emmaus with their hopes dashed and their dreams crushed. We walk in a liminal space of transformation, a place of endings, a place of new beginnings, a place of uncertainty and a place of unknowing.
On Friday night as I left church in total silence, simply getting into my car and driving away, I began to think that this is a space that is holy, a space that required silence, to once again experience the foolishness of God. In the silent space I can hear and see myself in a way that often I don’t. It is a place that I fear because I’ve become so busy and distracted from myself that when I am forced into this quiet space, I’m not sure who I am or what “to do".
In this liminal space I begin to develop a radical hope that is birthed through a sensible doubt
In this liminal space I begin to develop a radical hope that is birthed through a sensible doubt.
It is only when I embrace this liminal space and allow myself the freedom to doubt, to experience fear, to give up the 21st century mindset of knowing what’s next, of knowing where I am, what I’m doing, and how I’m doing it, only when I allow myself the luxury of the liminal space, that I am able to transform that sensible doubt to a radical hope.
I am often tempted to move quickly from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, to move from the cross to the resurrection, from death to life everlasting, simply because it feels good. Because the liminal space is uncomfortable, I don’t allow myself that space to journey inward, to look and to experience the rawness of my fear and vulnerability, to experience the rawness of the unknowing and in that act, to begin to know myself in new and life-giving ways.
I think about Cynthia Cheroitich hiding in that wardrobe for two days, fearing death, in the darkness and loneliness of a wooden box. I wonder what I would say to her, to give her hope, to offer her comfort. What could I say to reassure her that all will be well? What could I have done to make the passage out of that wooden box easier for her – so that when she heard the voices of her rescuers she would be able to trust the voice calling out to her, and step out of that liminal space - the wooden box - into the bright light of the rest of her life?
Today we come to Easter Sunday celebrating the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. Tomorrow we will continue our lives in the certainty of the resurrection. The challenge of living in the post-resurrection period is that so often we miss the opportunities to reflect on our fears and doubts, to experience in real time the fears and doubts the disciples experienced, and in so doing, miss the opportunity to birth a radical hope that is based on little else than a promise.
How do we as pastors and chaplains accompany those who are struggling to learn the lessons of their liminal spaces and move forward?