Emptiness

When entering a church on Easter morning, there are many things on which we can focus: colorful flowers, festive attire, and beloved hymns. Listening to the 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 thinks of his denial. It’s in Mary’s heart as she thinks of her son. It’s blows down the alleys and swirls into rooms . . .  anywhere the disciples tried to hide.

Emptiness is in the pews as well. It’s in the widow sitting alone for the first time in 38 years. It’s in the couple trying not to show their marriage is falling apart. It’s in the high school girl worrying what her friends will say of her dress. 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 the darkness and stench of death, it now holds the light and breeze of resurrected life.

“He’s not here!” The words ring out across the centuries, and when the two types of emptiness meet nothing remains the same. Suddenly the widow and the couple no longer sit alone, the anxious girl and wealthy man 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.