Easter 2021

I’ve taken a certain hiatus from writing.

I last published something on February 27th, and before that it was the 6th.

I fell into a depressive episode for a dozen reasons.

I started a third class, we began looking for a house, things piled up at work, several side projects began taking up more of my time, and suddenly I was feeling like I wasn’t doing anything well, and I didn’t want to do anything at all.

It’s a feeling I know well, unfortunately.

I began to focus strictly on the things I have to do: namely sleeping and eating enough, being as present as possible for my wife and kids, fulfilling my work requirements, and then keeping to any other “outside” commitments.

Those commitments began to be less and less, as well, because I couldn’t keep up with them, either.

And nothing I do feels like it’s good enough.

The things happening in my life were—and are—great. Pursuing my Master of Divinity, pursuing ordination, buying a house are all things that I want to do, things my wife and I have worked for the now-six years that we’ve been married.

As a result, Holy Week has been… interesting, to say the least.

I’ve been coming out of this episode for a couple of weeks now, more so now that my third class is over (it was a six-week course).

But Holy Week has always been held in a sort of suspense for me. Between the duties I have at church—the actual, physical work that goes into the celebrations behind Good Friday, Easter, and whatever other celebrations we want to throw into the mix—and actually trying to celebrate and commemorate the final week of Christ’s life, I live in this balance of throwing myself into my work, and enjoying the time I have.

We live in this balance between the hope we find in death of Christ and the things we must do.

We live in this balance between remembering that terrible Friday and celebrating the resurrection on Sunday.

I can’t imagine what the chosen Apostles felt 2000 years ago when they heard Jesus was dead. When the women and the various followers of Jesus told them the news, they were crushed.

There were things they needed to do—they had lives and families, after all—but there was mourning to be done, also.

We have the benefit of seeing the end of the story: Jesus rises, victorious and triumphant, because despite our best efforts, no grave could keep Him.

But the disciples didn’t have the end of the story. All they could see was the darkness of where they were.

And a month ago, all I could see was the darkness of where I was.

But the disciples kept going. When the Apostles wanted to stay hidden, the women went out to prepare His body. When the Apostles wanted to stay in darkness, the followers went to secure a tomb for Jesus.

We have the privilege of knowing the end of the story, just like I have the privilege of knowing that no matter how long a depressive episode lasts, it’s not forever.

This Easter, I encourage you to not look to the Apostles. This Easter, I encourage you to not stay in darkness, no matter where you find yourself. This Easter, I encourage you to not hide away, no matter how hard things seem.

This Easter, let’s instead look to the women who went back out into the sunlight.

Let’s look to the people who chose to follow Jesus—as we have chosen to follow Jesus—who went before the religious elite and petitioned for His body.

The people who chose to step out in their own privilege to do something dangerous and brave. Who put their own safety in the way to be with this man who was being lynched—who was being murdered—before their very eyes.

This Easter, let’s use the privilege we have to do something brave.

This Easter, let’s use the hope we have to truly love people the way Jesus taught us to love people.

This Easter, let’s look at the hope of Christ, and not the sorrow of the world around.

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