Surprised by Resurrection
You are not what you have done
Or what has been done to you
You are something like the rising sun
Can't you see that you are new?
—The Porter’s Gate, “New Every Morning”
The night before I lead a restorative writing workshop last week, I had a dream:
I was in a small wooden motorboat with my family, speeding across a wide and glassy lake. We were heading towards the side of the lake that narrowed into a creek. I began feeling worried that our boat would not fit through the narrow passageway.
I went to kneel towards the back of the boat and peered over the edge, watching the silky water pass by.
My sister knelt beside me and asked, “What are we looking for?”
“Resurrection,” I said.
At that moment, a mother and baby whale surfaced side by side with a fountain of spray that caught the light, turning water droplets into diamonds. I watched in delighted surprise as they came a bit further out of the water, revealing their white fins before slowly descending into the watery depths.
The next morning when I woke, I wrote in my journal: Lord, I seek resurrection—not of the old, but of the new. Let today be a day we experience the resurrection of buried hopes and dreams, of truth and longing.
* * *
Here’s the thing about resurrection: you never see it coming. If you could anticipate the shape and size and circumstance and color of resurrection, it wouldn’t be resurrection. Mary did not recognize the resurrected Christ in the garden, but she was in the garden before anyone else was. Even when we do not know where to look, faith compels us to search for resurrection anyways with eyes hungry for evidence of new life. Especially now—in February, when there is no guarantee of the miracle of spring—we go to the garden and watch the soil. Right now, in a world that is full of bloodshed, injustice, and pain we can scarcely comprehend, we go to the garden looking for God knows what (and He does). Resurrection is our only hope.
In my dream, I didn’t quite know what I was looking for. All I had was the loose outline of longing. I knew I was looking for resurrection, but I did not know how it would appear. I never could have fathomed that a mother whale and her young would rise from deep below the surface of a freshwater lake, surprising us with glory and a baptism of joy. But I fixed my eyes on the water, looking for something akin to resurrection anyways. Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for until it finds you.
Maybe this is what the author of Hebrews meant when they wrote, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1)
Does faith have substance, like water or whales?
Do unseen things leave a shimmering trail of evidence for us to follow, like the wake of a boat?
If we believe that Jesus is real—our “great high priest whose name is Love, who ever lives and pleads for us,” as the song goes—then the answer is yes. Resurrection hope has substance and has left a clear path for us to follow. It looks like Thomas touching the resurrected flesh-and-blood wounds of Christ and a dove descending with tongues of fire. It looks like Mary going to the garden before sunrise, her heart full of love and longing. If we are to cling to resurrection hope with all of our heart, soul, mind, and strength, then we too must draw near to Christ’s wounds and become people of holy fire who tend the garden. This is our earthy substance, the elements of our faith: fire and blood, water and wound, soil and seed.
And so we wait expectantly with Mary in the garden before dawn, wrestling with angels for blessing and an answer to our soul’s most pressing question: “Have you seen the One my heart loves?”
I will get up now and go about the city, through its streets and squares;
I will search for the one my heart loves. So I looked for him but did not find him.
The watchmen found me as they made their rounds in the city.
“Have you seen the one my heart loves?”—Song of Solomon 3:2-3
Perhaps resurrection is difficult to detect in our day to day lives because our imaginations have not been baptized into a living hope. Or perhaps we don’t know how to recognize resurrection because inevitably, resurrection always surpasses the life which preceded it. When resurrection does tap us on the shoulder and dare us to be made new, it is unfathomable in its goodness, containing an otherness that is strangely familiar like the perfect word on the tip of the tongue, unknown and unguessed until you speak it aloud. Think of it—at the sound of Jesus’ voice in the garden, Mary knew who Jesus was and her broken heart was resurrected with just one word: Mary. Her very own name made new because of the One who spoke it.
What one word has the power to resurrect you? Would you know it if you heard it?
Are your ears awake? Listen. Listen to the Wind Words, the Spirit blowing through the churches.
–Revelation 3:6
We cannot manufacture resurrection. But we can watch the water expectantly, daring to dream of whales. We can go to the garden before sunrise—to the places of beauty that restore our soul—following the trail of resurrection that leaves hints in the sound of a baby’s laughter, a warm smile, the last fiery streaks of sunset, an unexpected connection, the way your heart beats a little faster when you dare to take your buried dreams off the shelf, dust them off, and wonder What if? Even when renewal and restoration seem like an an unfathomable dream, may we be a people who look for resurrection anyways with a faith that can see in the dark—ever prepared to be surprised.
May what dwells deep within you be brought to the surface, surprising you with glory like whale spray.
May the hopes you have exiled in the name of safety be welcomed home with deep lovingkindness.
May the life you hardly dare to dream of embrace you and resurrect you, changing all that has been lost to pain or despair into a healing garden ripe with the miracle of Spring.
Amen.
Our fingers trace the water
As we glide over fathoms deep
Looking for resurrection
Glimmering just beneath the surface
Like whales about to emerge
In fountains of surprise
A sudden spray, an exhalation
We lean in and catch Your breath.
Going Deeper: Listen to “New Every Morning” by The Porter’s Gate.
There's new life flowing through your veins
Leave some room to be surprised
You are new every morning
You are new every morning
Each day a resurrection waiting to break through. . .