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Emptiness
When entering a church on Easter morning, there are many things on which we can focus: colorful flowers, festive attire, beloved hymns. Listening to the Gospel story, many characters wait to greet us: loyal women, baffled soldiers and frightened disciples. Of course, there’s the risen Lord, but sometimes the brightness of the morning makes it difficult to see Him clearly.
This year, the eyes of my heart are drawn to an often-missed feature of Easter morning: emptiness. Like wind, emptiness is hard to see, but it surrounds us. It’s everywhere you look on Easter.
It’s in Peter’s heart as he recalls his three denials. It’s in the hearts of Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus as they take Jesus away and prepare His body with spices for burial. It’s in Mary’s heart as she thinks of her son. It overwhelms all who followed Him, all who were healed by Him. It blows down the alleys and swirls into rooms … anywhere the disciples try to hide.
Emptiness is in the pews as well. It’s in the widow sitting alone for the first time in 40 years. It’s in the couple trying not to show their marriage is falling apart. It’s the high school girl worrying what her friends are texting about her. It’s in the man whose bank account is full but whose heart echoes. It’s in the one who fears she works too much, just as it’s in the one who longs for a job.
But there’s another emptiness on Easter morning: the emptiness of a tomb. Once filled with darkness and the stench of death, it now holds the light and breeze of resurrected life.
“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here but has risen.” The words ring out across the centuries and the two types of emptiness meet, nothing remains the same. Suddenly the widow and the couple no longer sit alone. The anxious girl and the over-worked woman are filled and people of all shapes and sizes find the peace that passes all understanding.
That’s the miracle of Easter. That’s the blessing of emptiness.
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