Always A Resurrection
Have you ever seen a resurrection story? Maybe a loved one started coming to church. Or maybe God saved one of your close friends from a drug addiction. Resurrection stories are out there but sometimes it doesn’t feel like a resurrection at all.
Let the Bones You Have Crushed Rejoice
I circled the parking lot once more. It was 6am on a Saturday morning and even then, the church parking lot was littered with cars everywhere. My short frustration was interrupted by a thought. “Yes. There’s one!” And I parked my car.
The church was overpopulated, yet comfortingly quiet. I walked in and sat on a hard chair, when a tallish woman perched herself at the pulpit. Now, it was customary for our church leaders to share anything at the front before our morning prayer sessions. Usually testimonies.
She stood tall, and she shared — you could guess, a testimony. I usually enjoy listening to testimonies. It’s awesome to see God working in the lives of people so close to you. But this one was different. This one was about her parents turning to Jesus.
I didn’t like those testimonies. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I felt uncomfortable with them. It’s nothing ill-hearted against anyone. I love that her parents came to faith. That’s a really great thing. But what about my parents?
Why God?
I remember, it was these exact morning prayer sessions. As zealous a new believer can be, I woke up in the middle of the night and drove myself everyday to countless prayer sessions. Each time I would slink myself, only half-awake, into a cushioned chair with my hands clasped together. Every morning, I would pray with tears streaming down my cheeks.
“God, what about my mum? Save my mum.”
A Persisting Prayer
I really did believe it. The Bible says that God would give us whatever we ask. Nothing that I could ask was more pure, sincere, and holy. Four years later, I have no exciting testimony to offer. In fact, my mum seems further away from belief than at first. Tireless prayer and family-facing service did nothing to soften the heart of my mum. It’s one thing to have unanswered prayers. It’s another to really believe in the power of prayer, only to face silence. So why was it that my mum didn’t believe by now?
Acts 12 tells the incredible story of Peter’s deliverance from prison. That’s the headline. But I’m not interested in the headline; I want to understand the subtext.
It was about this time that King Herod arrested some who belonged to the church, intending to persecute them. He had James, the brother of John, put to death with the sword. When he saw this met with approval among the Jews, he proceeded to seize Peter also.
— Acts 12:1-3 NIV
God miraculously freed Peter, but what about James? Why? Why did God respond to prayer for Peter, but silently to prayer for James? Surely the church prayed for both. So, why God?
I don’t know. That’s my only honest response.
But here’s what I do know. God works slowly out of compassion. Not apathy. Even through the silence for James, the church prayed persistently for Peter. Lost in the background of tragedy and miracles is a persistently praying kind of people. Even in the dark experience of God’s absence and silence, is the defiant and courageous confession of the saints saying: “I choose trust.”
I don’t know why my mum hasn’t placed her life in Jesus’ hands. I don’t know if she really will. But what I do know is this: The God who drew me into the story and led me to this point was the victorious Savior. Now I’m getting to know the suffering servant and the man of sorrows.
A God who’s willing to enter into the same darkness with me. A God weeping in the garden. A God hanging on a cross. A God who chooses His people in His own suffering.
His death invited His resurrection. Just like James and Peter, there is always a miracle after tragedy. A resurrection after every death. I might not know God’s plans for my mum. I don’t know if she’ll ever believe. But whatever happens until then, I’ll pray. I’ll trust. And I’ll wait for a resurrection.