*Written in March 2021*
Holy Mystery
At the time of this writing, I’m four days away from the one-year mark of pandemic life. We all have slightly different markers for when things shifted, but for me, March 13, 2020 was when everything changed. And as is our tendency whenever there’s a moment to mark, I’ve already seen a number of posts on Instagram (the only place I tend to hang out online these days) declaring what people have learned and gained in a wildly challenging, wholly unexpected year.
I’ve seen a lot of “It was a hard year, but we had a baby, we moved, we got married, I left my job and started a new business. Yes, even in the middle of the pandemic!” That’s one of the astounding feats of life itself — it cannot be stopped, not even in a pandemic. It’s a miracle and a blessing, and I’m grateful many people can make those claims in a year of historic loss and shaking loose. What I haven’t seen a lot of, though, is anything along the lines of “I’m not exactly sure what happened this year or how it’s changed me. Really, I don’t even think I held the ground I had a year ago. I honestly don’t know what to think. All I know is I’m here and, for now, that’s all I’ve got.” That’s pretty much exactly how I feel as I edge toward the one-year mark, which makes me wonder: Did I do the pandemic wrong?
Early in 2020, in the BP (before pandemic) days, I stumbled upon a story in the Bible I’d never seen before. No, really, thanks to the combined factors of growing up in church and being an incredibly enthusiastic learner as a kid means I have not encountered surprises like this hardly ever. At least, that’s what I thought until this story seemingly sprang from out of nowhere. It’s about Jesus and a widow who lives in a town called Nain. It goes like this:
Not long after that, Jesus went to the village Nain. His disciples were with him, along with quite a large crowd. As they approached the village gate, they met a funeral procession — a woman’s only son was being carried out for burial. And the mother was a widow. When Jesus saw her, his heart broke. He said to her, “Don’t cry.” Then he went over and touched the coffin. The pallbearers stopped. He said, “Young man, I tell you: Get up.” The dead son sat up and began talking. Jesus presented him to his mother. They all realized they were in a place of holy mystery, that God was at work among them. They were quietly worshipful — and then noisily grateful, calling out among themselves, “God is back, looking to the needs of his people!” – Luke 7:11-17
Finding this story felt like a bearhug from the heavens because it felt so personal, Jesus raising a son back to life. My nephew, Rhett, was born with a rare genetic condition six and a half years ago that kept his genes from fully forming. He passed away when he was six and a half months old and the loss devastated me. Honestly, it decimated me on the inside. I’m still adjusting to the ways grief turned my faith turned inside out, learning to see the world again through a new set of lenses. The story did a lot to make me feel seen and known by Jesus, but in truth, it’s one phrase that I can’t let go of: holy mystery.
They all realized they were in a place of holy mystery, that God was at work among them.
“God, what are you doing?” is a question I’ve asked over and over this past year. I’ve turned it over like a quarter between my fingers a million times and, along with it, a sneaking suspicion that I’m doing the pandemic wrong. Every time I do, though, I remember holy mystery. This past year, this world, this life — it’s a holy mystery from beginning to end.
It reminds me of a picture that popped into my head a few years ago. I won’t call it a vision because, I don’t know, visions sound scary and full of blinding lights, but a few years ago, I was driving home when all of a sudden this picture was alive in my head.
Imagine outer space — the darkness dotted with brilliant light. Now imagine you could lasso it all so that you’re standing at one of its edges. You don’t really realize it because, again, you’re standing in an unbelievable, heart-dropping, poem-level beautiful galaxy, but your face is actually staring at the galaxy’s wall. Your back is turned to most of the world around you. What I felt God telling me in that moment with the galaxy behind me, was that this galaxy was His wildness waiting for me. And, what if I just turn and take a step or two forward?
Last week as I walked with a friend among winter’s last days, we talked all about how this past year we’ve been okay — jobs that pay for homes. Family that is healthy and strong. Hearts and minds that are full enough to manage a year of disappointment and loss and sitting still. Between the two of us, though, there were no moves, no babies, no new jobs, no marriage. No outward progression. We are both right where the pandemic found us one year later.
When I said this to my counselor, she reminded me that those big, outward progressions happen so few times in life, really just now and again in the span of decades and decades. It’s the unseen, quiet work of life pushing up through the dirt of the earth that carries us to those rare moments. Anything that suggests I must rate my worthiness compared to others after a year of challenges is shame wrapped in a disguise.
So, one year in and I have no way of telling you what I have learned or even gained as perspective, and yet, the one phrase I cannot detach myself from is holy mystery, that God is at work even if I do not feel the work creeping up.
To me, the holy mystery the crowd in Nain experienced is one and the same as my wild galaxy. God is at work — I cannot explain it, but I can turn around and face it. What are you feeling now that we are one year into this pandemic life? If you have no boxed-up answers, but maybe we can stand at the edge together. The beauty, do you see it? They mystery, do you feel it? There’s a galaxy waiting for us, a holy mystery around us. Stretch your arms out and take a step forward with me.
