The bodies

I always think that other people worry about where they left their keys, whereas I tend to worry more about where I left the bodies. I don’t mean literally, of course; having both surname and first name ending in ‘o’ doesn’t always predispose one to a Sicilian penchant for ending lives.

It is perhaps that misplaced guilt and a regret about sins, lost, forgotten, long forgiven. It is perhaps that failure to fully embrace and appreciate the depth of Christ’s mercy. It is the futile and foolish sense that one’s own evil somehow overwhelms the grace of God. I pray one day that I may see Him face to face and be awash with his mercy, to know, to see and to truly understand how much God may forgive us, how much he has forgiven us, how resolute and prodigious our redemption has been.

I know I needn’t fear, although I know I mustn’t rest. Fear isn’t always misplaced. A fear of God’s justice has a place in our lives. To fear our own sin and the repercussions of it is only right and good. But it must be balanced. We must recognise, above all things, the power of God to wash away our iniquity. Rather than be overwhelmed by terror, we should rather be consumed by a complete and utter, devastating gratitude.

Thank God for all He has granted us, for all he has forgiven us. And move forward, of course, with a resolution to sin no more. Perhaps when I worry where I left the bodies, I should remember that they were buried by a tomb that was hewn into stone. Did they overhear the gentle discourse of Mary Magdalene and the man she thought was the gardener, the man who was in truth, no less than our Lord and our God? This is where those bodies lie, and sing, and await with a hope that has already come, and been, and lived among us. Glory to God.