Death and Resurrection
The goodness of the Divine flows through the gaps of the universe as a steady, unbroken current—without bias, without preference, without distinction. It is the breath between words, the silence between songs, the space where light and shadow meet. This presence, this spirit, is the 'Goodness Glue,' weaving together every fragment of existence with a tenderness that transcends the visible. The very fabric of life—the bright and the dark, the living and the dying—are stitched together by the invisible hand of grace. It is not something we can touch or hold; it is the wind that carries all things across the chasm of death and turns them back into life. This is the heart of the message: that God's love, God's grace, holds everything together, not as a gift to be received, but as the very nature of the Creator.
We speak of grace as though it were an offering, something handed to us, but in truth, grace is not an action—it is the very ground beneath our feet, the air in our lungs, the pulse of every living thing. To name this divine phenomenon "God" is only a way to point toward something beyond name. Perhaps the name gets in the way—so many have wrapped God in concepts and words, but grace, in its purest form, resists definition. We can feel it when we let go of the need to understand, when we fall silent and allow the deeper rhythm of life to carry us.
Death is not simply an event at the end of life; it is the unknown we encounter again and again, as we tumble into places where control slips from our grasp. It is the plunge into the depths, the dive into the vastness of what lies beneath us—far beyond our reach, far beyond our knowing. Death is not just our one physical dying, but it is going to the full depth, hitting the bottom, going the distance, beyond where we are in control, and always beyond where we are now. And yes, it is terrifying. The ancient words have names for this: "the descent into hell," "the dark night," "Sheol," "the pit." We all face it. No one can avoid it. But as we move through this world, we come to understand that death is not just the final breath, but the many small deaths we experience throughout our lives. We are, in a sense, dying constantly, shedding layers of ourselves in order to be reborn. It is here, in the depths of loss and surrender, that grace is most fully revealed—where everything seems to be lost, but in that very space, the seed of life takes root.
In these moments of dying, we find the grace that transforms. It is in the letting go that we learn to truly live. It is through the descent that we discover the greatest truth: the deadliest sin is not failing, but living only on the surface, where love and God seem distant and unreachable. The surface of things—perhaps even the surface of religion—can be the greatest barrier to true experience. So we must learn not to fear the descent, for it is there that we are invited into deeper waters, where the grace we need to rise again is waiting.
The depth of this spiritual journey, where the darkness of sin and struggle meets the transformative power of grace, always leads to resurrection. Something—perhaps something you cannot yet see or understand—holds out its hand to you, bridging the space between death and life. We may cross it, not with our strength or our purity, but with the grace that is beyond earning, beyond deserving. From kings to commoners, no one crosses this threshold alone. And when we stand on the far side, we find that the tomb is empty, the stone has been rolled away. There are no exceptions to death; there are no exceptions to grace; and, in the end, there are no exceptions to resurrection.
Death is not a singular event but as a recurring spiritual experience of transformation. Grace is not a gift but the very essence of existence, constantly carrying us through the depths of our struggles and sins. True spiritual growth happens when we embrace these depths, letting go of the surface and allowing the transformative power of grace to guide us into life after every form of death. Resurrection is not a distant promise but an ongoing, unearned gift that exists for all.
The cross was Jesus's voluntary acceptance of undeserved suffering as an act of total solidarity with the pain of the world. — Richard Rohr
Resurrection offers an unwavering invitation to hope, especially amid the chaos and sorrow that mark so much of human life. It does not deny suffering, injustice, or death—but instead declares that these do not have the final word. The mystery is not a once-and-done event, locked in the past, but an ongoing movement within the very fabric of reality. It insists that nothing is ultimately lost, that what seems broken beyond repair is not beyond redemption, and that love is always greater than death.
Resurrection is the pattern through which all true transformation unfolds. It is not about avoiding death but about surrendering to it so that something more whole might emerge. This surrender happens in daily choices—in letting go of control, in releasing anger, in stepping back from the ego’s demands. Each death-to-self becomes a path into deeper life. It is not theoretical or abstract; it is deeply practical, embodied, and visible in the rhythms of nature, in spiritual traditions across cultures, and in the intimate processes of healing and growth. The wisdom of this pattern is evident in every leaf, every heartbreak, every letting go, and every act of trust.
To be shaped by the resurrection is to carry fierce hope in a world of brutality and loss. It is the hope that holds space for those who will never see justice in their lifetimes, those who suffer invisibly, and those who die too young or too violently. It trusts that divine love extends beyond what we can repair, reaching into all that is forsaken and still calling it beloved. This hope is not passive—it is restless, resilient, and generative. It fuels action, lament, and the long work of solidarity because it knows that there is a promise deeper than what is visible.
The scars remain. Even resurrection does not erase wounds. Instead, it transfigures them. The wounds become part of the truth that is carried forward, not denied. The body that rises is the same body that was broken, and yet it is changed—alive, enduring, luminous. This paradox invites us into a life that honors both suffering and renewal without bypassing either.
Resurrection is not limited to human beings. It is embedded in the cycles of the cosmos, in caterpillars becoming butterflies, in the return of spring after winter. It is how the universe operates: through death into life. It is a teaching, not merely a doctrine—something to be lived, not only affirmed.
To live this mystery is to live with holy defiance against despair, to trust that even in the darkest moments, a deeper movement is at work. It is to see with eyes trained for newness, to live from a center that cannot be destroyed. In this light, the resurrection is not just hope for the end but a transformation of the present. It reveals that everything—every life, every loss, every ending—is held in something more enduring than death: love itself.
Death is the deep breath we take,
not an end but a threshold,
where we step beyond the known,
into the vastness of unspoken things.
It is not the silence we fear,
but the letting go,
the moment when control slips
and we are held by something unseen,
something unnamed,
something eternal.
In the descent, we are not alone—
a grace whispers through the dark,
guiding us with quiet strength,
reminding us that every death
is but the other side of resurrection,
and the journey,
always, always, leads us back to life.