#yunmen

I have a complicated relationship with Easter, with Jesus, with Christianity, and even the institution of religion as a whole. From time to time it seems as though my public commentary (which most frequently takes on the form of criticism) tends toward deconstruction with little reconstruction. And yet, I continue to assert time and time again that there is immense value, and a wealth of wisdom to be found in religion, and the various scriptures, and practices associated with it.

It is no secret that religion, as a human institution, has been and is prone to being abused toward gross, divisive, and destructive outcomes. The scriptures of the “religions of the book” are particularly effective at being wielded destructively through their interpretation, which ranges from simple literal readings (both within and outside of context), and creative, systematic constructions of dogma, inferred and overt. A cursory perusal of the holy writ from most any tradition is likely to reveal a rather accurate portrait of humanity itself, over time. Self-sacrificial love, all transcending forgiveness, and calls toward limitless charity often appear alongside seemingly divinely sanctioned (when not overtly mandated) violence, hatred, anger, and fear.

When it comes down to it, I suspect that the struggles that our increasingly spiritual-when-but-not-religious society has with organized spirituality (either as participants or onlookers), amount to religion’s reality as a microcosm of what we struggle with within ourselves, collectively and individually. That is to say, our internal contradictions, our inconsistencies, and our capacities for boundless love that emerge right alongside our capacities (and even predilections) for atrocity. As a microcosm, though, religion can help us move beyond our typical all-or-nothing quandaries and process the gestalt that is the fullness of our being through intentional contemplation and action.

This contemplation does not demand any sort of adherence to any particular rubric of interpretation or framing, but it does demand intention and attention, as do most any fruitful human activities. For instance, the Jesus that I read about and contemplate when I engage the Christian tradition is rarely preached about from the pulpits of churches, but this Jesus does lead me to meaningful engagement with the difficulties of life.

When I read the story of Jesus, I read the story of a child born of uncertain paternity, who could only be called a child of God, into the margins of society. I read the story of an adolescent whose early experiences of life inspired in him a fervent search for the sacred, and the belonging and meaning that can be derived from its encounter. I read the story of a man whose search for that encounter led him to the margins of faith, where he was initiated at the hands of an itinerant mystic, into a relatively common fate. I read the story of a by-chance prophet whose spiritual rebirth charged him with challenging the religious, social, and political powers and structures of his day, in both word and deed. I read the story of a countercultural icon whose shocking and bold presence inspired faith, wonder, unsettled questioning, and contempt all at once.

When I read the story of Jesus, I read the story of a savior and a charlatan (depending on which side of the narrative I read him through), who himself wavered between certainty and doubt in his own calling and resolve therein. In this, I read the story of a model human, who despite his wavering persisted in responding to the charge of his encounters with the sacred, and subsequently forever altered the course of human history. Indeed, I read the story of a man whose martyrdom raised him into Godhood, and whose power and influence only grew in the passing of his physical body.

Jesus is one of those rare beings whose presence has persisted strong enough to not simply shake the collective psyche of his followers in the immediate wake of his passing, but too, those of followers-and-critics-to-be, who knew him not during his physical lifetime.

The reading of the story of Jesus assigned to this day (John 20:1-9) reveals to us a portrait of an empty tomb, where Jesus’ martyred body had just recently been laid to rest. If we ponder just there for a moment, without assuming anything dictated by tradition or subsequent reading of scripture, many questions may arise. Was Jesus’ body tactically moved for religious or political reasons? Was it stolen and/or desecrated? Was it indeed physically resurrected before ascending into the heavens in an event unique to history? Interestingly, Mark’s Gospel ends with no more than that image of an empty tomb, which is met with nothing but “trembling, bewilderment, silence, and fear” (Mark 16:8). Sobering.

This year, I find myself particularly taken with the emptiness of Jesus’ tomb. Emptiness of some sort or another seems to be a common experience in light of the recent events pertaining to the global pandemic we are still very much in the midst of. Most of us are quarantined from our wider families and communities, many of us are out of work, and the degrees of separation between ourselves and the millions directly affected by the coronavirus, be it by infection, recovery, or even death continue to lessen. Beyond this, early studies from Asia are painting a portrait of a virus that itself may be capable of defying death to the convention of immunity, be it by reactivation or reinfection. For many of us, the future might seem empty and bleak. We don’t know when, or even if, we will be able to return to any approximation of “normal.” Understandably, this emptiness born of uncertainty is too eliciting much “trembling, bewilderment, silence, and fear.”

Obviously, I was not a direct witness to the events surrounding the life, death, or seeming resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. If I am honest with myself, I note that neither I, nor anyone living today can claim any amount of certainty in describing or interpreting those events. What I have, however, is my rational mind, informed by much study of religious experience and praxis both within and beyond the scope of the Abrahamic traditions.

My rational mind tells me that it is quite unlikely that a corpse walked out of a cave, communed with friends shortly thereafter, and was subsequently lifted into the heavens. My rational mind does, however, find it completely plausible and likely that Jesus’ most beloved followers and empathetic onlookers eventually found meaning and purpose that defied even their wildest expectations in the uncertainty of the events that culminated in the emptiness of Jesus’ tomb.

That same rational mind tells me, then, that resurrection can transcend the seeming necessity of a wounded corpse returning to life on two legs. Indeed, resurrection doesn’t need to be a return to things as they were, to “normal” if you will. That’s a powerful message, that’s a hopeful message, and, perhaps most importantly, it’s a message and a hope validated by observation and experience, time and time again throughout history.

Right now, we’re living in the emptiness of the tomb- in the silence and fear, in the bewilderment and trembling of its unknowns. Our wildest hopes and expectations may be for a return to things as they have been, but I (and I suspect many of us) doubt that possibility as a probable one, especially within a timeframe of weeks or even months. I wonder, though, what will be the new normal that proceeds beyond this tomb?

I wonder what new and unexpected forms of meaning and purpose might arise within us as we continue seek (if even through mourning) the sacred, not just in the ways and places where it has traditionally been found, but where it may be, overlooked and unrecognized. Lest we forget, most all of the disciples and followers of Jesus failed to see him as he was following his physical disappearance (as they knew him to be), be it at the tomb, on the road to Emmaus, or in the home where the disciples had gathered and locked their doors in fear of the events going on in the world outside. That latter image, taken from John 20:19, seems particularly relevant to our current circumstances.

The tomb is empty friends, substantial change is afoot, and what once passed for normal and expected is no more. And yet, as observation and experience has shown to be true, time and time again, this too “is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad.”

Indeed, outside of the Judeo-Christian tradition, the Zen sage Yunmen has also offered that “everyday is a good day,” we can be with it as it is and see, or poke and prod like Thomas. The end result is inescapable, and almost always beyond our current conceptions of what is possible, endurable, and meaningful.