I was sitting with him in his tomb nursing his wounds. He had just been beaten, crucified, and stabbed. He finally let go of his life and was laid there to rest in peace. As the story goes, I knew that he would choose to resurrect at some point and I wanted to know how. How after everything he had been through: put to death by his own people, abandoned by his dearest friends, required to carry a cross up a hill after being whipped, nailed to it, then murdered by suffocation; how did he do it? How did he rise? He looked at me lovingly, but earnestly and gently responded, "Annie, anything is better than this."
Ignatian Spirituality, a form of spiritual exercises developed by St. Ignatius of Loyola in the 16th century, encourages the faithful to utilize their imagination in order to speak with God face to face. The Bible, as a collection of stories, can serve as a great resource: Ignatius asked the participant to imagine herself in a biblical scene and observe how God communicates to her through the scene that unfolds. The prayer above occurred on Good Friday, the day that Christians mourn the crucifixion of Jesus. I was feeling awfully vulnerable and depressed about my life circumstances. I was in college, was suffering from paralyzing anxiety and depression, but didn't yet know why. I deeply believed in the resurrection, but had no idea how to do it. So I used the tool Ignatius developed so long ago to speak with God and imagined myself in the scene of the tomb with Jesus after his death.
It took Jesus 3 days to resurrect. There are various theological theories to why, but my belief is that he just needed some time: some time to rest, some time to recover, some time to believe again in the miracle of life after death. Eventually he chose to rise and fulfill his life's purpose. Today, Christians celebrate the day of his rising on Easter.
Lately, I have again been looking for a reason to rise. As a sexual abuse survivor, so much of me died as a child: my innocence, my childhood, my health, my spirit. As I have recovered, I have had to sacrifice a decade of my life to making these parts of me whole. I have worked so hard to heal from the violence and pain that I was victim to. In the past few months, I have felt a bit like Jesus lying in the tomb: I too have needed a few days to rest, to make sense of all that happened, and to find a reason to resurrect and really fulfill my life's purpose.
I wanted life to be perfect after I recovered. This obsessive perfectionism motivated me to work so deliberately to heal so quickly. But as I have recovered, I have also discovered that life is just life. It will continue to bring me new and different challenges, sometimes it will feel deeply meaningful and other times so utterly purposeless and awfully boring. In my 3 days of resting in the tomb, I have felt despairing, and depressed, and disappointed with the life that I have achieved after such a rigorous recovery process. Life didn't seem worth resurrection. I didn't really want to rise.
Then, I received a surprising call from a dear and old friend inviting me to go to El Salvador. The program that I studied abroad with and worked for had gotten its funding cut due to the violence in El Salvador and they had invited all of us to attend a closing celebration. I found my passport, packed my bags, and accompanied him to El Salvador a few days later.
El Salvador is a place of constant resurrection. As one of the most dangerous peace-time countries in the world, the homicide rates are incredulously high. As with all violence, the Salvadoran people have the choice to submit to the anger, rage, depression, and despair or to rise again and live for something more. The constant hope in the Salvadoran people reminded me why I must rise.
I remembered my prayer back in college with Jesus in the tomb. The prayer that began my healing process in the first place. At the time, I didn't know how to recover, but that moment with Jesus taught me to begin: anything was indeed better than the pain, the depression, and the emptiness that I felt in that moment of time.
Additionally, I remembered my time with the Salvadoran people. I remembered their hope for a better tomorrow even when tomorrows often weren't that much better. I remembered the intimacy shared between confidants while singing songs, and sharing meals, and telling stories. I remembered my reason to rise.
I healed for me, but I rise for you. I rise because my recovery process is so much bigger than myself, than the limitations of my being, than how I imagine my future will be. I rise to share with my community the hope in healing, the truth that love will defeat violence, and the reality that life exists after death. Let us never forget the atrocities that made us fall, but let us always remember to rise again. Because anything is indeed better than violence. It deserves to die, while love, healing, and hope deserve to live eternally.