For many years my favorite TV show was the political drama The West Wing. Fans of the show will remember that whenever some big issue would crop up, some crisis the administration had to handle, however well or badly it was resolved, President Bartlet would invariably turn to his trusted advisors and ask, “What’s next?”
In The West Wing, “What’s next” wasn’t so much a question as a declaration of resolve. It was a way for a great leader to say to his people, “No preening or resting on our laurels if we did well; no fretting or licking our wounds if we didn’t. We’ve got work to do. Let’s look ahead and keep moving forward.” The phrase “what’s next” held a kind of implicit promise—a promise that tomorrow was another day, that something good and meaningful was still in our collective future.
Today, the question “What’s next?” might strike a very different note. It could be a question asked out of fear and frustration—haven’t we suffered enough already? What’s next? Locusts? Frogs? Rivers of blood? Or it could be a question asked out of a tentative hope: What is next? Will things return to normal soon? Will we be able to gather with friends, go to church, shake hands and hug without getting sick?
On that first Easter Day more than 2,000 years ago, it would have been hard for the disciples to answer the question, “What’s next?” Yes, they had heard the prophecies from Scripture and they had heard Jesus talk about his role in fulfilling them. But could they really have imagined what exactly that would mean? And if even they could, sort of, imagine it, could they really believe that this impossible thing was coming to pass? It seems clear from the Gospel accounts of the Resurrection and the fifty days following it, that even his closest friends weren’t really sure what to believe. This doesn’t mean they were lacking in faith. They were stunned and reeling from the violent death of someone they loved. They were wondering if it was even worth hoping that things would ever be right with the world again. They were experiencing the very real emotions of shock, heartbreak, and despair.
My friends, we too know these emotions. Likely we are feeling some of them ourselves. We are not sure we can believe what we have been told to believe all our lives to believe—that resurrection is real, that new life is coming, that today is a day for celebration. And that’s okay. Liturgical seasons are not straight-jackets. If Holy Week hasn’t felt especially holy, or if Easter doesn’t feel especially joyful, don’t worry about it. The time will come. Whatever you are feeling today is what it is.
As a matter of fact, for some of us today might not be the best day to ask what’s next. Maybe it’s the day to learn to sit with what is, to live fully into this time, this experience, with its sorrow and its uncertainty, as well as its moments of comfort, pleasure, and delight. One of my favorite passages of Scripture is from the Gospel of Matthew, when Jesus says, “Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.” Yes, today’s trouble, and today’s joys, too.
Priest and author Henri Nouwen wrote something that resonates with me this Easter more than ever before. He said, “Being patient is difficult. It is not just waiting until something happens over which we have no control: the arrival of the bus, the end of the rain, the return of a friend, the resolution of a conflict. Patience is not waiting passively until someone else does something. Patience asks us to live the moment to the fullest, to be completely present to the moment, to taste the here and now, to be where we are. When we are impatient, we try to get away from where we are. We behave as if the real thing will happen tomorrow, later, and somewhere else. Be patient and trust that the treasure you are looking for is hidden in the ground on which you stand.” The great philosopher Buckaroo Bonzai said something similar in fewer words: “No matter where you go, there you are.”
Here we are. We don’t know what’s next. Our impatience, our anxiety, our control needs, are doing nothing to change the situation, to get us somewhere else, because there really is nowhere else to go. So, what to do? If there is one story that always gives me hope, it is the second half of today’s Gospel story, when Mary Magdalene is alone in a garden, weeping. She is so vulnerable, so confused and lost. God has to reach out to her first through the empty tomb, then through angels, and finally through Jesus himself, who shows up and speaks to her, making this his first post-Resurrection appearance to anyone. Even then, she mistakes him for a gardener!
In a move that feels eerily familiar right now, Jesus speaks to Mary but will not let her touch him or cling to him. She has to be reassured by his voice and his presence. When he finally says her name, all of her anxious planning for what to do next falls away. The only thing she has to do now is share with others the good news she has experienced for herself—and really, what else could she do?
Mary’s experience at the empty tomb reinforces the wisdom of Nouwen’s words: “The treasure you are looking for is in the ground on which you stand.” When we center ourselves, plant our feet on the ground, and breathe, we don’t have to look anywhere else for our treasure, for our sustenance, for our daily bread. The ground of being, the Creator of everything that is, the God who broke the power of sin and death and rose again from the grave, is right here with us—walking with us, crying with us, laughing with us, and calling our names.
Regardless of what comes next this week or this month or this year, we can hold tight to what is next in God’s time and for all eternity: Love wins. Life, not death, will have the final say. Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
By the Rev. Dr. Pamela Dolan
