Rest

Lately I feel like my existence has been characterized less by 'seizing the day' than by clutching on to it for dear life. Maybe this is a bit melodramatic, but the truth is, the injunction "carpe diem" seems like a moot point when crippling stress overcomes me and seemingly everyone around me. To be honest, I'm not really enjoying life right now, at a time when I know there is quite a lot to enjoy. This isn't out of any ungratefulness or loss of perspective so much as out of sheer exhaustion.

Sitting in a pew in a Good Friday service yesterday, I had such a hard time focusing that I began to wonder if my brain had short-circuited. I was gripped by anxiety, a sense of panic. I looked up at the stain glass almost desperately. This church is a peaceful place, I thought. A place of solace, a sanctuary. 

"Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest." And… "my yoke is easy and my burden is light" The words -- those familiar verses -- floated unbidden across my thoughts half an hour before the pastor said them. Both times, my eyes filled with tears, because I knew it to be profoundly true, a truth I'd lost sight of.

I'd felt burdened by everything -- including 'faith' (Am I a sub-par Christian? Should I be more conspicuously involved in 'ministry'? Am I using my gifts for kingdom purposes? Am I honoring God with my time and resources? Do my actions and attitudes portray something counter-cultural, something beautiful? Was I doing enough, being enough, in my relationships and before God?). I'd forgotten, as of late, that God and his gospel to us aren't intended only to challenge us and (often painfully) transform and remold us, but also to give us rest. Faith and its application in and through our lives is not a burden -- it's freedom, support, strength, happiness, fortitude, resoluteness. It can't be reduced to a self-improvement project or a to-do list, because has the potential to bring us radical peace in the knowledge that we're not plowing through all our crap alone. 

As the choir sang its way through John's account of the Passion, I began to reflect on how remarkable it all was -- that this story of Golgotha was being told here, after centuries and across the world, in Southern California in the 21st century….that this evening of remembrance has been kept for so long, in so many places, with such continuity…that ours was one of thousands of churches across the world observing Good Friday and dwelling on the horror of the crucifixion, the power of fulfilled scripture, the magnitude of Christ's sacrifice… and anticipating the inimitable joy that is resurrection, salvation, redemption, new life, continued discipleship. 

I've been so preoccupied with tedious tasks as of late that I've forgotten to remember where I was this time last year. And sitting in church yesterday, I actually thought about it. 

Last year I was in Jerusalem on Good Friday. It was also the last day of Jewish passover, and the day of the week when Muslims usually go to mosque for a Friday sermon, for something more than daily prayers... anyways, the Old City was packed with tourists and pilgrims and average folk going about their daily lives of devotion. Most of Jerusalem was blocked off, but we found a side street from which we were ably to slip into the procession that wound its way along the Via Dolorosa, the "Way of Grief" along which Jesus supposedly carried his cross on the way to his crucifixion.

We were pushed along the famous route by Greek Orthodox pilgrims wielding wooden crosses as they sang softly and elbowed one another along with silent force towards the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I saw an old woman lose her shoe and almost get trampled as she tried to retrieve it. She gave up the attempt and continued on her way, buffeted by her fellows. 

The church was thick with incense, candle smoke, chanting, prayers, and the shouts of IDF soldiers to "keep moving." My impressions were a blur: don't get trampled...don't get separated from the group...bearded priests half blind with age...towering arching ceilings...gargantuan boxy sepulcher of Christ surrounded by colossal candles and shrines of flowers and icons. There were so many throngs of people pushing along that we wound our way through quickly and ended up back outside in the blinding sunlight before much of anything could sink in. After getting caught in the throng of foot traffic leaving from al-Aqsa mosque, we eventually made it out through Herod's gate and climbed the road up to the Mount of Olives, surrounded by Jewish cemeteries. 

We heard a gong, sounded three times, from within the Old City that signaled the end of Jesus' hours on the cross. 

Christ had died.

Nearby was the Garden of Gethsemane, with its old, old gnarled olive trees. I remember thinking how peaceful it was there, at the place where Jesus and his disciples had prayed the day before his death. 

Arguably one of the most 'stressful' days in history. 

We entered Gethsemane Church, weary from a long day of walking in crowds and the hot sun. As we went into the church, a sadness came over me, a heaviness. 

The church was exquisitely beautiful. And then I was profoundly moved by a sense of peace, calm, and God's unfaltering and unconditional love. I remember looking up at the blue mosaic ceiling dotted with stars high over my head. I recalled how, once, God had told me that all my hopes and dreams and things to be achieved were numerous as the stars, and that He held all of them in His hand, stretched out like the glittering tapestry of the night sky in his palm. The beauty of this encouragement affects me as deeply now as it did then. 

This Easter season I am here in the United States -- stressed, tired. Always moving. Pushed along from behind. Afraid of getting trampled. Seeking sanctuary and peace of some kind. Forgetting what my hopes and dreams even are, let alone how to achieve them. Not having time to let anything sink in. Feeling like one in a crowd. But one who wants to stay faithful and one who wants to remember what happened on Calvary. One who wants to carry my cross and follow Him. 

Come to Him, you who are weary, and He will give you rest. His yoke is easy and His burden is light.