I’ve been thinking about the empty tomb.
I’ve been thinking about the fact that none of the gospels actually describe the Resurrection. We’re always outside, looking in. At a gap. An opening. He is not here, the angels keep saying.
I’ve been thinking about the fact that even the friends of Jesus don’t recognize him at first. Mary Magdalene mistakes him for the gardener, until he calls her by name, and then her joy is mixed with confusion and even, I think, sadness. She can’t hold on to him. He won’t let her.
At Emmaus, when the disciples recognize him in the breaking of the bread—at just that moment—he vanishes. He disappears. Then they run to tell the others, and what they’ve seen and what they’ve felt becomes a story. A narrative.
I’ve been thinking about the great hymn in Colossians, that all things were created through Christ from the beginning of time and are still being created—that all things “continue in being in him.” So what is the Incarnation? Did it happen just once, in a stable in Bethlehem, or has it always been happening? What is the Resurrection? Did it happen just once, on a hill outside Jerusalem, or is it part of the very fabric of things, their motive force, their reason?
I’ve been thinking about the clouds as I look out at the valley, from Arboretum Road. They’ve closed the forest now and I have to walk on the asphalt. I have to keep Bumble on his leash. But there are clouds over the valley, huge white clouds in a blue spring sky, and now I can see them.
I can see the farms. The fields. Nothing is blocking my way.