“I have seen the Lord” (Mary Magdalene, John 20:18)
While Mary Magdalene was able to run and shout the good news, I have been a much quieter witness to the resurrection. It is not a secret that I am serious about my faith and spiritual life; but until I started writing for this blog, I only shared little snippets of how God had touched my life and with only a very few people.
As I prayed about what fears have prevented me from shouting out God’s good works, I remembered an incident from when I was a child of about eight.
A girl from across the street had come over to play. My mother was nearby and overheard our conversation. After my friend left, my mother admonished me never to share as my friend had done. I didn’t remember my friend sharing anything significant, so I was confused. I tried to get a clarification, but my mother would only repeat her admonition that I was not to talk about our family as my friend had talked about hers.
Still confused, I decided that the only way to avoid the possibility of inadvertently revealing something my mother would think was significant was to never talk about anything personal.
Years later, when I became active in church as an adult, I attended parish activities that invited sharing, but I instinctively followed the “no-sharing” rule from my childhood. I became an observer in these groups, not trusting myself to be able to sort out what was ok to share and what was not. Rules instilled in me as a child seem to be the most difficult to confront and change.
By the time I was in my thirties and had enough of my own life experiences that I could share if I wanted, not-sharing had become a well-established pattern. Whenever I came close to disclosing something personal, I would be filled with anxiety—my heartrate would increase and my stomach would get queasy. Self-disclosing was not worth the angst I felt, and after a while I just stopped going to church programs that involved faith-sharing.
Through all of this, though, God continued acting in my life, lifting me up, forgiving me and changing me. In the midst of some pretty dark days and horrible experiences, God reminded me that I was not alone; Jesus had paved the way through suffering and was always with me on the journey.
I felt unworthy to be so blessed, so cared about, so loved. I was convinced that if I told people how God had touched me, they would be incredulous. The voices of skeptics in Jesus’ time echoed in my head. “Isn’t he the carpenter’s son?” became “Isn’t she the…?” and I imagined the different negative things people could use to complete the question. I was a nobody. Why would God choose me? Why had God chosen me?
I admire people who share the good news about God and I desire to be so courageous.