Reflections
Wait and see!

He did not come. I was dying. I think he knew this before the messenger arrived. He had a knack of knowing such things. So why didn’t he come? He was our friend, a constant visitor to our home. We loved him and we thought he loved us. At the onset of my last illness Mary had sent him a message. We knew it would be difficult. He was miles away and had to come on foot. We knew as well that there was a price on his head. If he were discovered near Jerusalem he would be arrested and that there was a watch on our home. Yet we had never known him refuse a plea for help. And he had power. We’d witnessed some of his miracles. Blind men seeing, the lame walking, lepers cleansed! We’d even heard of the dead being raised, but then again folk exaggerate and stories grow in the telling. So we waited, impatiently yet expectantly. Surely he would come. The messenger returned. I was growing very weak, still no Jesus. The last thing I remember was seeing the fear, hurt and disappointment in my sisters’ eyes as they watched me slipping away. Then their piercing shrieks as I took my last breath. He had not come.

I had a dream. I cannot describe what I heard or saw, but it was beautiful. I was safe; I was loved; I was bathed in light. And the music, - I had never heard such music. My body was wrapped in a shroud, laid on a cold stone slab in the family vault. The stone was rolled into place and my corpse enveloped in darkness. But I was not there.

Then there was a violent tug a surge of vast power and light and I was back in my body; strength, warmth and life flowing through my limbs. Next I heard his voice, his summons. Stumbling as one aroused out of deep sleep, I got up and walked towards the now open entrance to my sepulchre. Someone removed the cloth from my face and I blinked mesmerised by the sunlight streaming into the tomb. Then I saw his face. It was so full of pity, tenderness and pain. And in that moment I knew that he saw in me his own approaching death. He was entering in as I was going out. He’d given me back his life in exchange for his own. Then I knew why he hadn’t come until now.  

That was two weeks ago. Since then I have lived through so many emotions; from the ecstasy of joy to the black pit of despair. I recall the expectation of that Sunday when he rode into Jerusalem. I laid down my cloak as part of that carpet for the king. He deserved this and more for all he had done for me. At the feast in Bethany I laughed in delight as my sister broke the precious flask poured the perfume over his feet. It was so right, so fitting despite objections of Judas. But then a chill went through my heart when Jesus spoke of burial. He had given me life so how could he die? In my perplexity I had forgotten that moment at the tomb. Of the terror and fear of Good Friday when the sky turned black, of the moment when God was silent, deaf to the cry of the Son, I will not speak, though I can never erase it from my memory. God did not come; he let him die. He seemed not to care. How could I believe in the goodness of God seeing him in such agony? Yet part of me whispered. “Didn’t you travel that path? Didn’t you taste the bitterness of despair before the glory? Wait and see! Give it four days for that was given you, be patient, be still, be at peace.” And on the third day! Though I was not a witness when the tidings came I knew they were true. I had experienced a rehearsal, a foretaste of that greater truth, that indeed he was the resurrection and the life. Death had no power over him. Though I must die a second time, I have no fear of dying for he will be there again to raise me up.

Don Dowling, April 2001