‘I am the resurrection and the life.’
David’s words boomed down the church.
David’s words? Jesus’ words?
‘I am the resurrection and the life.’
His powerful voice seemed to fill every corner of the building, rising to the medieval doom painting above us, echoing round the massive stone pillars, projecting up to the towering spire and forward to the far east window, where a stained glass Jesus hung on a stained glass cross. The author of those words hanging, lifeless before us.
He only said the words once, and yet they reverberated round and round, floating over the heads of the motionless, shimmering blur of people who filled the pews; drumming through me so that I didn’t hear the other words that followed as we followed David down the aisle.
‘I am the resurrection and the life.’
I had heard those words so many times before. As a child in Sunday School, hearing the wonderful tale of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Sitting in so many services as the words of the gospel were read. ‘This is the gospel of Christ.’ ‘Thanks be to God.’ Even at funerals – of friends and family members. But never like this. As a teenager I had sung those words, thoughtlessly clapping an inane beat after each line of one of our favourite youth group songs: ‘I am the resurrection’ (clap) ‘I am the life’ (clap-clap, clap-clap) ‘he who believes in me shall never-er die’ (clap, clap-clap). Oh how we’d loved those Saturday evenings, full of fun, untouched by the reality of this world’s pain. Joining in, keen to be part of the crowd, inspired with the youthful enthusiasm of a shared faith that would carry us through thick and thin. Oblivious to the real impact of those seven words.
‘I am the resurrection and the life.’
Words of hope. Words of immense, grave-shattering power.
Words of utter despair.
~
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