afraid yet filled with joy.

A few months ago, we were reading Matthew 28 in class, and I was just barely paying attention to the words I’d read a thousand times before. Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary” are going to Jesus’ tomb, it gets scary, they see an angel, they go off running to tell the disciples the news they will surely not believe. I even knew where we were going in class: the testimony of women wasn’t valid in court, the disciples would not have trusted their story, it’s truly incredible that God chose to make women the first bearers of the gospel. It’s a story I’ve heard so many times. This order of events was wildly counter-cultural: the women are commissioned to go off and share the gospel with the men. I love it, I’ve heard it, I know it.

But for maybe the first time ever, I read this line and it mademe catch my breath just a little: “So the women hurried away from the tomb,afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples” (v. 8).

Afraid yet filled with joy.

They are rightfully honored and uplifted, but maybe I’veturned these women into one-dimensional representations of Women Doing Things. Theyare told two separate times (by the angel and by Jesus) not to be afraid. Iimagine they were afraid because of the earthquake and the guards who became “likedead men” and Jesus who looked like “lightning” and a dead man who had comeback to life. But as they ran away from the tomb to tell the disciples I canalso imagine that they felt another kind of fear. The Jesus that had honoredthem, elevated them, healed them, taught them, and set them free was sendingthem on a mission to some men that would probably be unreceptive. The discipleshad watched Jesus’ ministry for years, but the Gospels make it clear that theydidn’t always pick up his lessons very quickly. I can’t help but think that atleast some of them didn’t exactly love the fact that their rabbi kept invitingwomen to tag along.

So they are afraid. Afraid because dead people usually staydead, afraid because their whole world is certainly changing, afraid becausethey know that they are spreading good news that will probably be ignored.

I don’t know what it’s like to see a dead man walk out ofhis tomb, but I do know what it’s like to have good news that no one willlisten to. I know what it’s like to have met a man who elevates your voice, believesin your worth, and fights for your dignity; only to discover that his followerswill leave you banging on their locked door. I know what it’s like to beafraid.

I’ve spent most of 2018 trying so hard to not be afraid—usuallyby steeling myself for rejection, building up cynicism as a protective shield, andusing all of my own strength to fight for myself. And then I discovered thisone little phrase, “afraid yet filled with joy.” Afraid of what bringing themessage will entail, but motivated by the joy of bearing it. Afraid of that doorbeing shut in your face, but overjoyed that it is never Jesus shutting it.Afraid of being misrepresented and dismissed, but full of joy because Jesus hasrisen from the grave.

And that’s why I’m choosing what might be the most clichéd “wordof the year” I could possibly choose: joy.

I’m very often afraid—of losing, failing, being wrong, notbeing believed. I’m afraid of not being taken seriously, getting doors shut inmy face, being dismissed or ignored—and I have enough experience to justify myfears.

While I’d love to be “brave” or “courageous,” sometimes I’mstill afraid. I want to listen to Jesus’ command and run to the discipleswithout fear, but too often I caveat my words, quiet my voice, and make myselfsmaller.

Instead of working so hard at squashing out my fear on myown, I’m going to run “afraid yet filled with joy.”