So they put all their eggs in one basket. They dropped their nets and followed wholeheartedly to do God’s work with God’s Son. Then in one instance, in His death on a cross, their baskets crashed to the gravely ground below and every single egg exploded. Everything they expected their Jesus to conquer, patch up, fix, fill —all the hopes, dreams, identities, wounds— crashed and burned. Or rather, hung from a tree.
But eggs break so easily, as do all our false selves. My basket has eggs titled Mother, Wife, Florist/Artist, Well-off, Educated, Californian, Swimmer, and many more. All things I think will make God (and others) love me more if I maintain them. If I keep them painted nicely and present their best angles in my ribboned, pastel, wicker basket then I’m Good. Bonus points if others see those pretty eggs in my pretty basket, too.
He obliterated it all—Stigma, Stereotype, Shame, Fear, Death. I’m not sure I agree with Paul that death is sting-less (see 1 Corinthians 15:55), complete destruction sucks, and hurts —a lot. Death to self and the Old Way is an arduous affair, a path riddled with pot holes and booby traps and dangers galore. So death stings, I disagree with St. Paul there; he is entitled to his opinion. Later on though, when he reminds us that death has no victory? That’s good shit. Death and Sin and Darkness and Hate and Revenge and Fear and Disunity and Walls and Shame, THEY DON’T WIN. THEY CAN’T.
And what happens when we die? When little pieces of us die? When we lose a dream job and have to sell the family home? When we finally decide to go to rehab? When we confess a deep, dark secret (or three)? When we finally decide to throw our desperate hands up and yell a few choice curse words at the God we know we need. Not the God we thought we needed. The God who actually IS. Well, friends, then we get to dance.
He spends such careful time flattening the supports and structures that held it all up. But as He removes and smashes each remaining brick, He looks over at us with a soft smile and gorgeously clear tears, and then He reminds us, “We’re building a dance floor, Sweeties. Just wait. When you’re reborn in that brilliant energetic moment, a New Life like you’ve never known will explode into existence. You’re going to need a Dance Floor. You’re going to need a place to put all that Love and Grace! That’s what we are building!”
I choose Grace. I choose Love. I choose to engage with the explosions that ignite a passionate Dance of Life. I want the Gospel and Resurrection, every day. I want to believe and to know that I can fearlessly step onto the floor with the best dance partners ever: God, my family and friends, myself. Oh the freedom in knowing that nobody is keeping track of my whirling dervishing or my eggs in my basket! The freedom of knowing that I can’t fuck it up, that I haven’t fucked it all up already, that NOBODY ELSE CAN FUCK IT UP (not even Donald Trump or Bernie Sanders). That simply dancing is all I was created to do.
When all the foundations we established out of fear and shame disappear it leaves an incredibly safe and fun surface to fluidly navigate life and each next loving step. We are loosed, no longer hinged to our own ideas of should and shouldn’t or good and bad. The bricked boundaries don’t exist there anymore, it’s just that gorgeous, inviting dance floor. Only now, after demo of the heart, mind, and body is complete are we fully able to accept the Love and Grace of our Good Creator (or Good Contractor in this case). And when the eggs drop and basket breaks? Well then we don’t have to gingerly move through life with a basket of eggs! Freedom! And then?
Well It turns out, Jesus doesn’t want our eggs, Jesus wants our hearts…
God doesn’t need our structures, just our humble surrender…
