Can you imagine the absurdity of several panicked women reporting to you that after several days your dead friend had come back to life? For much of my life I responded as the disciples did to these women: I dismissed them. “They are telling idle tales.” After all, dead stuff stays dead.
Or at least it does most of the time.
The more I contemplate it, the more I can’t help but feel deeply compelled to share it—just like the women in Luke’s gospel. If Jesus is alive, then nothing can stay the same. Our universe is turned upside down, because dead stuff comes back to life.
Since the gospel gripped me, it has changed me in ways I never thought possible, has taken me to cities and places I never thought I would go, has led me to do things I never thought I would do, and has given me a profound hope that God will reconcile absolutely everything to himself.
Jesus is alive, pass it on.
And God said, “If I was with you in the darkness, how much more am I with you in the light?”
Write even more.
Write even more than that.
Write when you don’t want to.
Write when you do.
Write when you have something to say.
Write when you don’t.
Write every day.
“I hear songs, everywhere. I can’t escape them nor can I write them. I have words that I do not know but are desperate to be said. They bubble up from time to time but never pass my lips. I ache with unsung possibility and the shortcoming of mediocrity. I squirm with dissatisfaction in all that I do” he continued, presuming that I had been listening to his misplaced confession.
“Maybe you shouldn’t take yourself so seriously?” I said with a tone that was more condescending than intended but he continued anyways without wincing, “I just, well, I just wish I could say something worth saying. But the thing is, the moment I try to say it I lose it because I filter it through my expectations. I set my sights on greatness and become crippled by it. I can’t seem to come to terms with the beauty of insignificance. Is it possible to see the worth of unspoken, unexpressed greatness and beauty?” “It seems to be contrary to nature” I said, “Our senses are not gratuitous. Who can revel in the inexpressible but yourself? Narcissism turned inward, what a scary thought.”
“I’m exhausted. I want to say something, anything, and yet I end up saying nothing at all.” “You’re like a pregnant woman who gives birth to wind” I feigned, hoping my biblical allusion would make me sound insightful.
“We live in an age of everything.”
“No, we live in an age of nothing.” It was the only sincere thing I said, and while he didn’t realize it, it was the only thing we had actually agreed upon in years.
“The problem is, of course, that with all that is available to us—everything we could really want—we have conceded to nothing at all. We suddenly lack substance, we lack acuteness, our senses have been dulled by excess. We can hardly appreciate anything by taking in everything and so we live in an age of vast nothingness,” I confessed, “It’s a funny thing, longing for significance but having nothing of substance to warrant such longings. I am by and large an uncultured, ignorant person who has feigned civility for most of my life. Like you, I want to say something but have no idea what.”
Our eulogies will probably read, “Although they said many things, they said nothing worth repeating.”