My mother-in-law is of an evangelical flavor and, for her recent milestone birthday, asked us to attend services with her on Easter Sunday.
“Sure,” I told my wife. “Why not? If I explode into flames, it’ll make all the papers.”
“Uh,” my wife said, “We’re not going to a regular church.”
“What do you mean,‘Not a regular church?’”
“It’s the Jews for Jesus.”
Chuckling, I could almost hear thousands of Catholic saints rolling in their reliquaries. ‘‘For your mom, honey,” I said, “No problem. At least it’ll be interesting.”
Arriving at the temple that holiday morning, we were greeted by several ushers chorusing, “Happy Resurrection Day!” Since I’d never heard it put quite that way, I replied, “And a happy Easter to you as well!” Taking seats in the back, my daughter looked at a banner over the stage and asked, “Who is Yeshua?”
“That’s what Jesus was actually called,” I said. “It’s a different way of saying ‘Joshua.’”
“That was his real name?”
“Yep. But when the scriptures were written in Greek, they translated Yeshua to Iēsous – Jesus.”
The service started with the blowing of the shofar followed by lots of singing, dancing and prayers before the Rabbi ran onto the stage and launched into his sermon. Energetic and joyful, he gave a detailed talk on how the resurrection of Jesus couldn’t have been some kind of put up job, crying, “The apostles weren’t that smart!” which elicited a laugh from me. Then as he listed more examples – many of which I knew, and some I didn’t – from extant Roman writers, The Talmud, The Acts of the Apostles and then ended with something that made my ears perk up. “And we know The Resurrection was real because we are all here today!” Then the service ended, and my family and in-laws took the birthday girl to a Mexican restaurant for lunch – but the rabbi’s words still echoed in my years.
The Resurrection is tough to wrap our heads around because when people die, they tend to stay dead. None of us have seen a person return from the grave. Not once. Not ever. The notion’s so far from our lived existence that you could forgive people for thinking it’s all a fairy tale. That hasn’t stopped billions of people from believing in it, however, but is it all wishful thinking? A way to assuage our own anxiety over death and enable us to persevere through life’s numerous heartaches? Even people who’ve gone to church all their lives sometimes question if the resurrection is just a bunch of malarkey. After my dad died, my grief stricken mother told me, “I don’t know if I believe in any of that stuff anymore.” You’d think with my background I’d have an answer for her, but I didn’t. But when you realize you’ll eventually lose everyone you’ve ever loved – or they will lose you – that can do a number on you.
I’d also be feeling death’s sting quite a bit lately. Within roughly a year our Boston Terrier Felix died, followed by my dad, and then my friend committed suicide.To say those events took wind out of my sails would be an understatement. There had been too much loss. Too much illness and death and, when this winter seemed reluctant to give way to spring, I wondered if warmth and life would ever return again. Then a few weeks ago, my wife emailed me a picture of a dog. “What do you think about this girl?” she wrote.
My wife was broken up by Felix’ death but that didn’t stop my daughter from asking when we’d get another dog, “You have to give mommy time,” was my constant refrain but, truth be told I was getting antsy myself; playing with relatives’ dogs, petting those of strangers, and feeling that tug whenever I saw Felix’s old leash hanging by the door. After being a dogless home for over a year, Annie contacted the breeder who sold her Felix in 2009 to see if they had any puppies for sale. They didn’t, but had a four year old female Boston who’d “retired” from having babies and would we be interested? “Already housebroken,” I wrote back. “Let’s go see what we’ll see.” So, two weeks after Easter, I threw my family in the car and drove two hours to see a man about a dog.
“Rosie” was not Felix. Where he’d been svelte, Rosie was chunky and, after nursing fifteen healthy puppies, her udders swung prodigiously from her underside. But she was healthy, had good teeth, all her shots, gentle, loved playing with a ball, and very well behaved. “If you hang a bell by the back door,” the breeder said, “She’ll ring it to let you know when she has to go out.”
“Does she like to cuddle?” my daughter asked.
“She won’t go on your bed or the couch unless you put her there,” the breeder said. “She just likes hanging out on the floor.”
“We’ll see, Natalie,” I said. “Rosie isn’t Felix. She’s something new.”
After paying up and gathering all the requisite paperwork, we took Rosie home sleeping the whole way in my wife’s lap. When we finally arrived, she pranced through the house, nosily sniffing through every room before having something to eat, chasing a ball, and then dropping several large poops in my backyard. “Picking that up is gonna be your job, Natalie,” I said. Because it was now late, I sent Natalie up to bed and Rosie went right up with her. When it was time to tuck my daughter in, I found Rosie in the bed with her, snoring soundly. “So much for not wanting to get into bed,” I told my wife. “It’s almost like Felix never left.”
The next morning, I took Rosie to my job to get her licensed and all my co-workers came out to pet her and offer congratulations. Many of them knew the troubles I’d suffered over the years and were perhaps glad a bright spot had appeared in my life. Then I took Rosie home for a long session with her ball until she was exhausted. Feeling sleepy myself, I went upstairs to take a nap and Rosie, of course, demanded to sleep next to me. Listening to her snoring, I stroked her soft fur and remembered what a restaurant patron had once told me, “Life is a series of dogs,” not realizing what a hopeful statement that was until the moment.
When my dog Buster died in 2019, I was heartbroken but knew, one day, I’d get another one. The promise of that someday, that there was something to look forward to, was what sustained me. Humans are oriented towards the future’s promise; whether that’s looking forward to a new relationship, an upcoming wedding, dreaming of a vacation, better job or, as my daughter yearns, the day she can go to the mall by herself. Of course, the future we envision for ourselves isn’t always what it’s cracked up to but, when faced with disappointment, we just shift our hopes to something else. Life is filled with sorrow but our hope that good things and beautiful moments will keep occurring – and they do – is what keeps us going. How often do we hear about a seriously ill person trying to hang on so they can see a loved one get married or graduate high school? Hope is powerful.
Of course, lots of people dismiss exhortations to hope as a shopworn cliché, but it isn’t. When faced with sorrows, we often resignedly say, “Life goes on,” but that’s just the point – it does. Whether its spring following winter, a baby’s first cry, people falling in love, or sunflowers gloriously blooming on a shattered battlefield, beautiful, wonderous things always happen whether we’re able to see them or not. The unseen future always becomes the witnessed present. Therefore, our hope for more tomorrows isn’t delusional but, when you think about it, the very substance and direction of reality itself.
I’m big on looking for “signals of transcendence” in everyday life, little clues that reveal something of what God truly is. I think that hoping for the future, that life will go on, may be the biggest signal there is. Perhaps, our hopes for the future are a glimmer, an echo, of the Resurrection’s itself. The Church teaches that the Easter Moment happened within and beyond history which means it’s always been happening or, as St. Paul wrote, “Yesterday, today, and forever.” That life does go on, that a series of beautiful things keep happening no matter what is, for me, the sign the Resurrection is true and why “we are here today.” We are all here because two people, however imperfectly, believed in our tomorrows.
“Faith” as Pope Benedict wrote. “Is the substance of things hoped for; the proof of things not seen.” Lying in bed stroking Rosie’s fur, I knew my hope for an unseen dog had now become a witnessed present. She wasn’t Felix or Buster but something new yet strangely familiar. For me that was a “signal,” an assurance, that life will always be triumphant. The Resurrection’s promise revealed in a dog? I’m sure my theology professors are rolling in their graves, but that’s how I see it.
Yesterday,” I whispered, basking in Rosie’s warmth. “Today, and forever.”
