Darth Vader Questions in the April Snow

It is April 20th, and snow is falling, layering inches upon inches on the lush lawn.
It blankets the tulips and daffodils, the grape hyacinth and the clematis buds.
It covers the bird feeders and the swings.
It falls on the blue broken bat in the backyard, once for t-ball now a Jedi light saber.

Over the past three Friday nights, we’ve watched the original Star Wars trilogy, and we’ve been nothing short of captivated. Its prompted light saber battles, Star Wars encyclopedia books, and some hard questions. One such question came up while looking at a picture of Darth Vader over breakfast. Benson, tracing the outline of the dark lord’s helmet, asked:

How can something half-dead be so powerful?

While this four-year-old was asking about the Force and a high-tech suit, I knew such a question was asking much, much more:
How can that which is already defeated still hold such a tight grip?
Why does the lingering presence of evil feel stronger at times than the real truth, the real life?
Why does it take so long for goodness to win?
How can something half-dead be so powerful?

It is a question that has come back to me time and time again over the past two weeks as the western Church celebrates Easter.

In this season, we rejoice in Jesus who has indeed defeated death and suffering and pain. He retell how He descended to the deepest depths and returned with the keys, trampling death by death. We trust His Kingdom is here, full of truth and love, justice and mercy. We believe that He is redeeming His world, restoring friends and neighbors and enemies and this very snow-covered ground.

And yet the flowers are frostbitten.
The fertile ground is still hard and frozen.

Even today I look out past drawings of Yoda and ewoks, only to see a white haze on the barren fields outside. The lingering presence of all that has been defeated could not be ignored this week, could it?

This past Friday, the first morning at our pastor’s retreat, we awoke to the shattering news of the Fed Ex shooting just an hour away in Indy. A building we drove by just the day before. There was no retreat from the violence.
Lord, have mercy.

During an after-dinner tickle fight, my daughter squeals, “Mama, I can’t breathe!” and I lose it right there.

Breathless cries for mamas.
Its become a rallying cry.

This past week at church, mothers asked for prayers for their children, their babies.
My eyes cloud over as I remember watching Duante Wright’s mama crying out this past week for her son:

“I just want my baby home.”

And some other children—I imagine the face of Adam Toledo— they, too, are gone far too soon.
Lord, have mercy.

All of this heartache with a courtroom as the backdrop. A video, and now a trial, has rattled our world for a year, and this week, today, it all comes to the forefront.

The Derek Chauvin verdict was released today. Guilty on all three accounts. In both lament and relief, pictures of George Floyd flood the web: holding his daughter, in a tux, staring bold at the camera, those final moments on the ground.
Lord, have mercy.

And while we rejoice that our judicial system provided accountability for injustice, I see even now that it is far less satisfying that some had hoped. No one becomes whole by hating the accused, jeering as his eyes dart back and forth above his mask while the verdict is read. No one comes back to life while each juror responds, “yes” and “yes” and “yes.” The lost father does not come home by the loss of another father— when Chauvin’s hands are cuffed and the camera lingers on the door shut slow, the clock ticking: 4:10.

Justice has been served.
Yes.
A life mattered in hashtags and now, finally, in the courts.
Yes.

But deep down we know, that if this is all we can hope for, it is only half-dead.
We know this if this is all that true justice is, no one has won. And no one will ever truly be free.

As Easter people we want more than this— we ache for real redemption.

We want George alive.
We want Derek redeemed.
We want young men and young women to walk home and drive home alive.
We want moms and dads to come home from work to their families.
We want truth to prevail and love to win out.

As Easter people, we look at this half-dead picture of hope and long for resurrection.

There is no easy answer to this Darth Vader question and the lingering ache in this in-between age.

Giving into the suffering of our world and losing faith in the reality of Christ’s life— that’s not an option.
Trusting in partisan politics or ignoring political issues — neither are real options.
Undermining pain and looking wistfully to a mansion in the clouds— this is not an option either.

These are far too easy, too neat, too safe.

Instead, the Church is called to hope: to love faithfully here-and-now while strengthened by what is to come.

We lean hard into the words of Jesus: “In this lifetime you will have trials and troubles, but take heart, I have overcome the world.”

We must hope for more.

Hope is a life of tension, of paradox.
It is both justice and mercy.
It is worship and mission
It looks like caring for the orphan, the widow, the foreigner, and praying for our enemies.
It is belief that resurrection is “already” and “not yet.”

It can be clumsy, like straddling two worlds, and we often don’t do it well or gracefully.
And yet we are called to this— to lives marked with hope.

Hope is being fully aware of the deep pain of the world, and clinging to the resurrection to come.
Hopeful people are audacious, risky, and truly alive.
They live in what was, is, and will be all at once.

Benson draws Darth Vader often still— especially after watching him save Luke at the end of Episode VI. He is lingering in his half-aliveness, his evil and that sliver of goodness. He tried to draw his face, with his mask off, and it was hard. All of thus is hard. There are no easy answers.

But as we walked around the flowers this afternoon, I am hopeful. We are all hopeful for more blooms, for more mercy and justice, for reconciliation now and in the age to come.