Christendom has had a series of revolutions and in each one of them Christianity has died. Christianity has died many times and risen again; for it had a God who knew the way out of the grave.
– G.K. Chesterton
Good Friday is in one week.
The day on which we remember the death of Christ.
In the Good Friday services I’ve attended, people try to preserve this sense of mourning, but it always ends with the hope and the promise that “Sunday is coming.” This is all well and good, but I can’t help but think about the disciples, the crowds that followed Jesus, his brothers, his mother. They didn’t look forward to Sunday. They really believed that Jesus was dead. Gone. There was no hope.
Christians are told to die to themselves, to die to the sinful nature, to die with Christ. I’ve been thinking about what I want to die to this year. It’s a frightening thought. Death seems so permanent. I’ve been spiritually exhausted for a long time, tired of being questioned, tired of watching the American church fracture more and more deeply, tired of waiting for apologies from those who have hurt me, tired of being angry. I just want my struggling faith to roll over and die.
Maybe it’s time. Time to let it die. Time to wait for a resurrection.
After all, my God is one who breathed back life into corpses with a single word, who can make dry bones in the desert transform back into an army.
Little girl, I say to you, get up!