Seeking God’s Ways: From Certainty to Wonder
Scriptures: Isaiah 65:17-25, John 20:1-18
I’ve heard that the only certainties in life are death and taxes, a saying that proves surprisingly relevant every spring as Easter finds itself someplace in the height of tax season. It’s a small comfort indeed if this is all that we can count on, all that we can hold on to. Paying taxes until I die doesn’t sound like a particularly happy way of describing the core realities of my life. We might want to counter with a few other certainties that also seem a pretty safe bet in our time: that the sun will set at the end of this day, that someone you know has Covid right now, that this weekend Manitobans are struggling beneath their crush of snow to understand why they live where they do, that the Maple Leafs will make the playoffs and that this year the Blue Jays actually will too. Though in the case of the Leafs, experience teaches that all certainties melt away the minute the puck drops on the post-season…
Some of us know as a core certainty that parents or friends or other loved ones will be there for us no matter what. Others know just as certainly that the people we love will disappoint us. Surely we can be certain that we won’t get through life unscathed, that we will know pain and loss and grief along the way. But here in our worship as Christians we also proclaim the enduring and unfailing love of God that is from everlasting to everlasting, that formed the world and sustains it still, that overcomes even the power of death, that is our solid ground when all else dissolves into shifting sand.
Certainty is nice to have – even when it’s bad news we’re talking about. If we could just know what’s ahead and what we have to deal with, maybe we could make our peace with it and figure out what to do. Often the hardest thing is the uncertainty of waiting for news or adjusting to constant change. Something we’ve discovered over and over in the past couple of years. And certainty is especially nice to have when it comes with assurances that all will be well. That someone will take care of it. That the treatment is proven. That the good guys will win. That the flowers of spring will bloom. That this, too, shall pass. That life will emerge victorious once more.
But the truth is that most of our certainties have their margin for error. And life has a way of finding the smallest loopholes to upset our best-laid plans. The quest for certainty is easily frustrated. But maybe it’s not a quest we need to be on.
As people of faith, we often make a virtue of conviction – being sure of what we believe. Standing firm and certain against whatever tides threaten to pull us back into the weeds. And in this mode we can be tempted to stand on soap-boxes, thump Bibles and win arguments. Or we can be tempted to hunker down, build up walls and protect our corner of truth. We counter a changing and unpredictable world with the certainty of the gospel.
But I have a sneaky feeling that faith is closer to something like wonder than it is to certainty. Wonder can’t make a whole lot of promises. It’s not a particularly solid ground to stand on. By definition, wonder marvels at things it does not know or understand. It lets the ground move beneath it and open up new vistas of delight and possibility. Wonder is full of mystery and surprise, even in the presence of what is very familiar.
As tempting as it is, I suspect that striving for certainty leaves us poorer. Unable to tap into the depths of the gospel and the richness of faith. Unable to enter this Easter miracle with its good news of resurrection. Mary made her way to Jesus’ tomb in the certainty of death. Knowing for a fact that he had suffered and died, and now lay lifeless and cold in a cave of stone. And indeed, this is what we can be certain about. That we are mortal creatures. That our bodies can be wounded and pierced, that they can falter and fail. That we are like the grass of the field which soon withers and passes away. This is true. There is no cure for being human. And even God’s own life among us took the path that we have seen time and again among people we have known and loved.
The only things we can be certain about are death and taxes. It’s true in at least two ways: we can be certain about death, yes. And in a culture that prefers to ignore or deny the reality of death, we have to work extra hard to come to terms with this. But it’s also true that death is as far as certainty will take us. Certainty goes no farther than the tomb, than the realities we have known to be true. But here faith moves on. Not because of any other competing certainties, but because in the dew and the mists of an early-morning garden – we hear a voice that softly calls our name. Mary. And what once was solid melts. What once was stone is rolled away. And what once was certain has been released to so much more.
Mary turns towards the voice that calls her with wonder. How can this be? It cannot be, and yet it is. Wonder is the space of resurrection. It is the space of delight. It is the space where the bucket overflows and pours down over the sides. Where all you can do is laugh, because it’s too much. Wonder may not be able to understand fully or explain exactly, but it turns with awe and openness to what stands there before us.
But here’s the really important part. Faith moves beyond our certainty that pain and loss and death are all that we can count on in this life. But it doesn’t give us a different certainty in return. Mary reaches out to this gardener whom she now recognizes as Jesus, and he says: “Do not hold onto me.” The wonder that interrupts the certainty of death and loss is a gift. We can trust it, but we cannot hold onto it. It comes as a beautiful surprise every time, though not always when or where we want it.
I like to imagine that in a very real way, creation hangs in the balance every year on Holy Saturday as Jesus lies in that tomb. The loss is just as deep, the stakes just as high, the end just as certain. And then every year resurrection happens again and we are stunned. The gift is given once more. Year after year, day after day, moment after moment. Never ceasing to be a source of wonder.
God’s grace is not something we can claim or hold onto. It’s not something we can plan for or work around. It’s not something to be certain about. It’s something to receive with joy and delight time and again, as our fragile imaginations burst at the seams. As we’ve heard God remind us throughout our journey of Lent: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are my ways your ways.”
It can be disconcerting to give up our certainties – not only about our problems and needs, but about God’s help and salvation too. And yet it is good news. I, for one, am glad that God is not limited to what I can see or accomplish or explain or imagine. Because wherever I turn, I am out of my depth. I have no answer to the certainties of illness or hunger or isolation or grief or violence or injustice or greed that I see around me and within me. I might sometimes wish for more control, more certainty, as I make plans and plant seeds. But in the end, I don’t want to reap only what I sow. Because that will never be enough.
When I plant seeds in my garden, as I will again in a few weeks, I know that not everything will come up where I planted it. Some seeds will fail to sprout and break down back into the earth. Some will start coming up but then get crushed or plucked or starved. And some will grow well, but for whatever reason just won’t produce much fruit. But some – some seeds will grow into healthy, beautiful plants heavy with fruit. Multiplying that single seed uncountable times, more than I could have hoped or imagined, and filling me with wonder and delight.
On Easter Sunday, we turn and find ourselves in a world as drenched in wonder as the early-morning dew under Mary’s feet. A world sparkling with grace, beautiful exactly as much as it is uncertain and uncontrollable. A world still bearing wounds and marked by the terrible certainties of our violence to each other and to creation. But also a world alive to possibility, a world that thrills to the voice of its creator whispered on the wind. A world filled with wonder for those with eyes to see.
And so today we sing and we praise. We lift our glad voices in a triumph not ours to own. Jesus lives, creation breathes, certainties release and hope ricochets from the rafters. Thanks be to God.
Amen.