On Good Friday I posted a plea for prayers for friend Sarah, whose kidneys seemed to be shutting down.
A few hours later, everything seemed to turn around. Sarah writes: “It seems to me a very large coincidence, yet, I hesitate to call it a miracle. Who am I God would do even a small miracle for?”
Who are any of us? Who were Peter and Andrew that Christ should call them? Who was the adulterous woman that Christ should defend her? Who was the nameless leper to be made clean? Who was the hemorrhagic woman to be so promptly served?
We are all as loved into being as any another, and very likely as sinful as any other, too. We deserve nothing, and yet salvation, deliverance, and restoration are ours for the taking — for the cost of our merest consent. Depending on how seriously we take them, how closely we grasp them to our bosoms, they become all of a piece, and more precious than gold, more alive than our breath, more genuine than our closest reality.
Since we deserve nothing and yet are given so much, there is really no reason to wonder “why me”, for whether in easy circumstances or difficult ones, the answer is always the same: why not you?
If we recall the Icon of the Resurrection, Christ is raising the patriarchs; he is raising all of us to something new, and something more, and something mysterious — the unsounded depths of God’s love.
The Third Day
The immovable stone tossed aside,
The collapsed linens,
The blinding angel and the chalky guards:All today like an old wood-cut.
The earthquake on the third day,
The awakened sleeper,
The ubiquitous stranger, gardener, fisherman:
Faded frescoes from a buried world.
Retell, renew the event
In these planetary years,
For we were there and he is here:
It is always the third day.
Our world-prison is split;
An elder charity
Breaks through these modern fates.
Publish it by Telstar,
Diffuse it by mundovision.
He passes through the shattered concrete slabs,
The vaporized vanadium vaults,
The twisted barbed-wire trestles.
A charity coeval with the suns
Dispels the deep obsessions of the age
And opens heart-room in our sterile dream:
A new space within space to celebrate
With mobiles and new choreographies,
A new time within time to set to music.
— Amos Niven Wilder
(NT Scholar and brother of Thornton Wilder)