This was the first message from the risen Jesus to his disciples. It was given to the women, who were the first to hear the earth-shattering news of the resurrection:

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”

Matthew 28:5-7

Why Galilee? This was home for most if not all of the disciples. “Go home. And stay home. And wait.” It strikes me today that this might have seemed rather like a step backward for the disciples, or at least mundane.

It just has to be. It doesn’t have to strategize and schedule and strain to bear its fruit. It just has to sit. Soak in the light of the sun, absorb the water and nutrients of the soil, and settle into the rhythm of the seasons.

For a tree to begin to do otherwise would mean the end of the tree. It would mean attempting to be something other than it was created to be.

So it is with us humans. 

The Resurrection doesn’t need us to defend it. Jesus doesn’t need us to stick up for him. Other people—unbelievers, doubters, skeptics, whoever—don’t need us to convince them.

There is inherent power in simply telling the story of Jesus. In being witnesses rather than lawyers. In saying “Here’s what I know…” rather than “Here’s why you should believe me…”

That’s Holy Saturday. It’s perhaps the most non-anything day on the Christian Calendar. A day when all we can really do is join the crucified and buried Jesus in the silence, stillness, and darkness of his tomb.

On Friday we can mourn. On Sunday we can rejoice. But today, on Saturday, all we can do is wait.

Sometimes looks like losing, but it’s not.

Admittedly, this is not a sexy sales pitch. And yet for us as Christians, this is our bread and butter. Because it’s the simple m.o. that Jesus built his mission on.

One person’s simple is another person’s complicated.

One person’s clarity is another person’s fog.

One person’s assurance is another person’s shakiness.

One person’s certainty is another person’s doubt.

This is a strange Spring. Certainly the strangest in my lifetime. Outside life is blooming and blossoming; inside, most days feel like the lonely cold of winter.

It’s times like this that we need songs like this.

In Winter I believe You

In Springtime I see You

It’s so good to be with You

My Hope has come

Lord, You make all things new

Your love is my breakthrough

Now I sing hallelujah

My hope has come

Andy Squyers, “Cherry Blossoms”

Who do you long to see? Who do you wish that you could see face to face? Whose conversations are you hungry for? Whose heart do you desire to encourage, and who would in return encourage yours?

The apostle Paul knew the dull ache of missing someone dear:

God, whom I serve in my spirit in preaching the gospel of his Son, is my witness how constantly I remember you in my prayers at all times; and I pray that now at last by God’s will the way may be opened for me to come to you. I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong—that is, that you and I may be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith.

(Romans 1:11‭-‬12)

Is also one of the most formational worship songs in my life. The stone-cold-classic “I Lift My Eyes Up” by Brian Doerksen. It shaped me for years. It still resonates with me today. Which is fitting, because the Psalms were meant to be sung.

Music is a powerful force. It influences our moods. It makes our bodies move. It stimulates our brains in deep ways—educators know this, which is why, (especially at younger ages, but it ought to be more common at older ages), so much is taught through song.

Case in point: How did you learn the alphabet?

I will listen to what God the Lord says;

he promises peace to his people, his faithful servants—

but let them not turn to folly.

(Psalm 85:8)

What is God saying to you today?

Through the Scriptures. Through creation. Through those that you live with. Through the Wise of years past. Through unexpected circumstances. Through the mundane ordinariness of daily chores.

In the bustle of life. In the chaos of quarantine. In the chatter of children. In the quiet places of your own spirit. In the seemingly random musings of your mind. In the flicker of a candle. In the subtle in and out of your own breath.