The narrator sits in a cell, facing death, and comes to faith.

“I was about to spiral away when I decided I needed to claim something that I knew was true, something I could hold on to when the morning came. And there it was. I knew that whatever was factual in my memory, I loved. I loved Jesus no matter what was real. I loved Acco and our time together. I loved James, Matthew, and all the others. I loved my brother, I loved Julia and her mother, I loved the life I had known since I met Jesus, and I loved enough that, yes, I forgave Marcus. He really was lost; there was nothing to be mad at. Love. It had to come from somewhere. Whether that water had actually turned to wine or not, I loved more than I would have ever thought possible because I had known Jesus. I had something to hold on to. I was going to be alright. I guess love is stronger than death.” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 110)

As I write this, I am surrounded by miracles. Within and without.

Outside, seen through my window, there is a three hundred million year old stone that lay quietly, covered by a Blue Ridge Mountain for eons. Twenty years ago, a tiny piece of a fraction in the blinks of time, a backhoe moved it to its current resting place.

Feeling a bit like a voyeur, I have watched lizards holding spring dances on it. Perhaps on some level they are hoping they’ve met the right gal or fellow, and maybe a little family of lizard kids will come along. Lizard kids, green anoles actually, that can change from brown to green when they sun themselves on a bright new leaf. A leaf, like the ones that are budding on the limbs of the poplar tree, growing next to the ancient stone.

Inside, aside from the biological wonder of functioning systems that are keeping me on this side of the veil, I am. I’m thinking. I’m processing. Creating. Remembering. Living.

God within and all around. God in every thing and contained by no thing.

All of this is wondrous, and proof that Elizabeth Barrett Browning was absolutely correct when she said, “Earth’s crammed with heaven.” It’s all sacred, and holds a spark of the divine. It’s even sacramental, transforming our way of living when we join its song.

Creation, God’s first language, sings the glory of God to those with ears to hear. Still, that doesn’t tell the whole story. It doesn’t completely cover what we mean when we proclaim in the Easter season that, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”

We aren’t simply proclaiming biological and geological wonder. We proclaim love. We proclaim that love is alive and love is stronger than death.

Julian of Norwich didn’t find the ability to give us, “All will be well, and all manner of things will be well,” because the dogwoods were blooming. Her strong word of hope, that was born in the midst of plague and suffering, came to her because she had experienced the love of The Designer of All Miracles. She knew the love of the One That Creates, looks at it, and says, “I love it!” (My paraphrase). She knew the love of the Christ that has died, is risen, and will come again. She had experienced Christ with us.

How can we, like Julian, and like the narrator in The Samaritan’s Friend when he was facing a cruel death, know that Christ is with us?Well, chances are we won’t have the opportunity that Thomas had when he came to faith as he inspected Jesus’s wounded hands and side. But we know love. We love our family, friends, and life. We find ourselves able to love those who are strange to us; those who are a little scary at first. We even find ourselves, perhaps surprisingly, able to forgive. Where does this come from? Love comes from God. That, my friends, is Christ with us.

Join me: Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed.

Jesus is crucified.

“Everyone was quiet, wanting to hear if Jesus did indeed have anything he wanted to say. Jesus slowly raised his head and looked right at Simon. He held his gaze for a minute in a way that I had seen many times. He actually looked like himself for a moment. He pulled himself up, took in a long breath of air, and slowly said, “I want you to know that I forgive you. You’re lost. You have no idea what you are doing.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked away from that hill, away from the holy city, and headed north. I felt like I was the one that was lost, and I certainly had no idea what I was doing. (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 68)

I stepped out of the psych ward and into the hall after visiting, we’ll call her Suzy. She was a preteen, basketball playing, honest yet sneaky, beautiful, and hilarious little girl. When she laughed, her crystal blue eyes sparkled like sun on a dew drop.

She hadn’t been laughing lately. On this day, her eyes were dull, and the self inflicted wounds on her arm were fresh.

When the door clicked shut, she began to wail. It was loud. It was feral. It was heart rending. She cried from a hurt that was going to require a good deal more than a trip to the ice cream shop for a cone.

I couldn’t walk. I had to find a chair. I sat listening, unwilling to walk away while she wailed. I wanted to wail with her. I wanted to wail loudly. I wanted to paint the air blue with curse words. I wanted to beat on heaven’s door and demand an answer to my boiling “why?” Instead, I sat and silently cried with her until I couldn’t hear her anymore.

The day after tomorrow is Good Friday, and I can’t remember why they call it “good.” A beautiful human was crucified. He wasn’t assassinated like Abraham, John, Malcolm, Martin, and Bobby. He was legally arrested, tortured, and nailed to some erected lumber while religious folks stood around and waited for him to die. It’s hard to look, but if we are brave enough to truly look, we see the truth. Terrible happens. A magical rabbit leaving us a basket full of candy won’t make this right.

Like the narrator in The Samaritan’s Friend, I want to walk away, but I intend to sit.

I intend to sit because walking off, and saying, “I’ll see you Sunday” seems disrespectful. It feels like I’d be making it less than what it is. Sure, Sunday’s coming, but it ain’t here yet.

Right now, children are crying, innocents are suffering, and the powerful are legally treating folks like they are a commodity.

Of course we ask why, and it feels like we get no answer. But I do know that somehow the one on the cross does speak, and is saying something to us in all this. I am not entirely sure what it is. I just know it’s something like, “I hear you. I know what it feels like, but this is not the end. Stay with me. I am certainly going to stay with you.”