“They fled from the tomb; because, they had been seized by trembling and terror. And neither said anything to anyone; because, they were afraid” (Mark 16.8).
I don’t blame them, I’d have run off too.
Don’t misunderstand me, the message and hope of that morning is one to which I cling: that love can overcome all the brokenness of this world. But the sight, in that dim, morning light of that yawning, empty darkness inside that tomb would have sent me running. Even two-thousand years away from it, I’m afraid of confronting it.
On one hand the Resurrection is a testament, a declaration that there is hope even in the darkest of moments. That the Divine can take the absolute worst of humanity and its hubris and turn it into something so new that we never dared imagine it.
But it also means that even the best laid plans can change. I’m sure those two women had an idea what their day would be like after visiting the tomb—chores and errands and meals. And, in a moment, the Holy changed all of it. They were thrust into a day where they couldn’t imagine doing any of those things. The ground had literally and figuratively shifted beneath their feet.
I get it. It’s joyful, yes, but it’s terrifying. Because this moment altered lives. No one who came in contact with it remained unchanged. All of them found themselves on new and unexpected roads. And we could find ourselves on a journey that we’d never imagined. In daring to approach the unknown that lay in that open tomb, we might find ourselves living a life very different than we’ve known.
It’s enough to make you tremble.
Risen One, to encounter you is to be changed. Let me brave enough to let your resurrection upset my well-laid plans, and walk along the new paths a trembling earth has revealed.