The build up to Easter is over.
His death. His resurrection. His leaving the tomb.
The empty tomb. The reason for rejoicing.
And yet, we still deal with empty. Don’t we?
We’re constantly running around trying to fill ourselves up.
Power. Acceptance. Comfort. Control.
We all know EMPTY, don’t we?
Alive but dead.
No one will enter our tomb, we say. Roll the stone across! No one will know, will see, will smell, the ROT. We fear.
But we can pretend, can’t we?
Smile while crying. On the inside.
So we keep on keeping pretense.
And so it goes . . .
When we play our assumed part, when we perform our assumed role, when we look good on the outside and we receive all our applause . . .
We can easily lie to ourselves.
And the ENEMY of our soul APPLAUDS, loudest of all!
Bravo! Bravo! (You fool!)
The deadly voice rings loud . . .
Encore! Encore! (You slave of mine!)
And we walk out again and again on the stage of our suffering, whip whipping . . .
The planked wood stage of life where we try to find all Christ has given us already.
And we tell ourselves, in the midst of all hands clapping . . .
All is OK.
I am OK.
All will be well.
But it’s not. Not with our soul. Not on the inside. You know . . .
We’ll sacrifice our soul to feel whole—for a moment—just to see the smile, the nod, to hear the compliment, the applause, the approval.
But deep down?
LIE. . . LIE . . . LIE.
So we keep on keeping on.
We play our same old game.
We tell ourselves, in the cold and dark and alone of our tombs . . .
Because maybe . . .
Just maybe . . .
He or she won’t notice.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll stay blind . . .
So we won’t see either, in the dark of our tombs.
No one knows the deepest, darkest tomb of you like the One who created you.
He’s been there. For us.
But we run. We still run wild from the One who can heal.
If only we’d get REAL!
But no . . .
The voice from the grave keeps taunting.
Keep on keeping on!
Keep on serving the dead!
Keep on wearing yourself thin, hiding behind walls you have built for protection.
And live lonely.
But keep trying to convince yourself you’re happy.
Because you have this and that, because you’ve achieved this and that.
Because, surely, this and that must fill you full. Someday.
So, keep on keeping on . . .
Until one day, you stop. Tired. Worn. Broken.
Until one day, you turn.
Why have I lived so much of my life serving the dead?
Trying to prove?
Trying to disprove?
Trying to earn?
What if you could believe you are loved perfectly, no matter what any other thinks?
What if you could believe no other opinion of you counted—not more than God’s?
What if you could believe in the One you don’t see, who went into the dark and cold tomb to save you from yours?
So we’ll never be separate from LOVE again?
Well then, we would become children of God.
Well then, we might just walk with Jesus straight out of our dark and cold, stone rolled away.
Well then, we might just see the Light, let our grave clothes fall, walk away free.
Just one step at a time.
And that’s enough . . .
To make all our empty . . .