Easter! Easter! Easter!

 

Most everyone has a favorite story. Mine goes back to that time when my wife and I visited the Passion Play in Oberammergau  And I can stlll remember what I surprise I found there. The Passion play opened with Jesus riding into Jerusalem and a whole stage of people shouting the king has come. They yelled hallelujahs until they were hoarse. And then the story told of the last week Jesus spent marching, stumbling the way of the cross. We saw it all as Jesus  slowly made his way up that terrible hill. The crucifixion was gruesome as he was nailed to the central cross with two criminals on each side. And his mother and her friends stayed there until the end. And we saw those who loved him take him down from the cross and buried him. 

The lights on the stage darkened and almost went out. We sat mostly in darkness. But the thing I remembered most was happened next. Weeping women came on the stage and stood by the tomb hoping to get in. But the stone was too heavy. And suddenly an angel came and without saying a word, unrolled a long white aisle cloth from the stone doors down the steps to the where the audience sat. And as the grieving women beat on the great stone doors they began to slowly open. And light came from inside those doors. The light grew stronger and dazzling light slowly filled the stage and the whole theatre. The stone doors opened wide. And Jesus came through the streaming light. As he walked across the stage from everywhere a multitude of children came running forward, laughing and grabbing his legs. He had come back.

We didn’t say much as we left. Most of the crowd were quiet.But I could not get the scene of Jesus coming through the darkness into that blinding light. Or even more the laughter of all those children.

Dark Saturday--When You Have Nothing to Say

It was over. Jesus’ death. And tenderly they took down his broken blood-stained body. Joseph, a rich man asked for the body. Nicodemus was there numb but there. And there was a terrible silence. No one really knew what to do. Like us, they shuffled through that awful day. Grief paralyzed the best of them. No angels came that day. Silence. Just silence.

If we have lived very long we have been there. And it was too soon.  Trying to fathom our loss. Like those on that first Saturday we have little if anything to say.  

Once when my friend lost his little girl after a long battle with cancer.  I hugged my friend and the next day I wrote him a note. And a note came back from him. It read: “Thank you for what you did not say.” Looking back I remember had little I had to say to this friend on the hardest of days. And we grievers have stood in some line as friends came by. Hugging, whispering. Some with tears in their eyes. And some, God bless them, just wanting to say something that might help. “Aren’t you glad she does not have to suffer.” “He’s with his Mama and Papa and the child they lost years ago and they are all so happy.” Some just said: “God took him…this was God’s will.” Or maybe the worst said when a child dies, “God took her to his flower garden.” Well-meaning people hurt by their comments. In our desperation we have all talked, talked when we should have been quiet.

When they shuffled by to say something when I lost Mother or Father or brother or great friend words could not possibly help in this time. Afterwards I do remember the notes and cards they sent. Telling me they stood with me at this awful time. Many came at great risk unpacking their own grief they thought was behind them. Picking again some old scab that began to leak out what you thought was over.

All the accounts in the Gospels of that dark day are mostly silent. The writers had little to say. So this is why the Pieta has touched so many of us. The  wounded mother holds the body of her dead son. This says it all.

So like Ecclesiastes says there comes a time for silence. Prayers yes. Maybe some food sent to the grievers. Maybe a Memorial gift to honor this loved one.

But first we don’t need words. “Don’t tell—show…” So we pause from our work and projects and the business of every day to do what those early disciples did. “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” No sadder words.

We have all been there or will. The comfort of God will come. Jesus promised, “ I will not leave you as orphans.” “I send my Spirit.” And “In time I will heal your broken hearts.” But not yet. But maybe those words we find at the end of Revelation are true: ”I heard a great voice from the throne saying, ‘See the home of God is among us. He will dwell with us as our God’ we will be his peoples, and God himself will be with us; he will wipe away every tear from our eyes, Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.’”

But not on this day. But somewhere some time when we need it most and do not expect it at all. 

    

Good Friday--On a Hill Faraway

 

On A Hill Far Away - Good Friday

This Good Friday I remember a story I heard somewhere. A preacher chose slides for her Good Friday’s evening service. One of the slides of the crucifixion the minister was painted by Grunewald. It was painted for the Hermitage of DSt. Anthony in the fifteenth century during an outbreak of the black plague. The hermits had taken upon themselves the mission of nursing the sick and burying the dead from the plague.

Many of the victims suffered from the symptom called “St. Anthony’s Fire,” where the circulation stops and the lower limbs become gangrenous and putrefying even while the person lived. This was in the days before scientific medicine and the hermits could do very little for the victim but to cool their fevers and be with them in their agonizing deaths.

Over the altar Grunewald painted the figure of Christ on the cross—dead, twisted and repulsive, gray and green with corruption...His legs swollen with St. Anthony’s fire. He painted the Lord against a black sky and a dead sea. 

The hermits did what they could for the victims, and one thing they did was to leave each arriving patient alone on his pallet before that picture, many of them almost too sick to see it. But now and again one of them almost too ill to see it. But now and again one of them would look at it and say to himself, “In a few hours I must go t my death through foul and terrible pain. But so did He, and God turned that experience to the salvation of the whole world. If that is so, what, then, can He not do for me?”

And so this day let us grow quiet and remember that hill far away. And bring with us names and loved ones and people we do not know—and lift up this whole tattered world to the One with the nail-scarred hands.

“See from His head, His hands, His feet

Sorrow and love flow mingled down

Did e’re such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich  crown.”

Holy Week in a Not-so-Holy World

 

Palm Sunday is behind us. The crowds then and now have gone back to their business. Along the road are remnants of that day. Trampled grass. Withered palms. Crowded road with all their alleluias silent now. It is almost as if yesterday—or was it the day before—as if nothing special had happened. Before the week ends there will be a terrible hill and blood and gore and smugness and tears, too. Rome with all their soldiers were there. Always in charge. And scattered and fearful little knots of heart broken half-believers. There was gambling and laughter and cursing thieves and a middle cross where stretched there was a naked dying man and impalpable sorrow. 

This would be the setting that the church later would call Holy. Was this a bad joke? Holy? The whole long terrible week holy? And in that not-so-holy place the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world hung. And since that time people have clung to their own rugged crosses and hoped they would make it through their own sloughs of despond.

Amazingly amid everything wrong and unjust there was a kindly light that led them through their own flicking sputtering gloom. At first those closest to him were so bereft they hid in caves. Even after Easter they shuffled down roads muttering :”We had hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel.” How wrong they were in their not-so-holy world. 

And us just beginning our own way of the cross are we any different? Some of us still hunker down in churches and synagogues too—singing what we hope will be true, taking tiny remnants of bread and wine and whispering over and over: let it be. God, let it be.

But outside those stained glass windows the doors open to anything but holy. Fear stalks most of us. Look at any direction from cancers and mental illness to Alzheimers to kids on drugs to freshly dug graves. Not to mention Gaza and Israel and Ukraine and Russia and a red and white and blue tattered flag or all the ugliness and hatred that runs rampant. Remember back when he railed out in pain and delirium: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” Sound familiar.

And from that first Via Dolorosa—the Arabs call it the way of pain—we dare to walk this road station after station. Pilate…and Simon coming forward to help. Soldiers spitting and cursing. And a weeping mother. 

His falling not once but again and again. And then the nails and the terrible crown and the tearing of flesh as his splintered cross was put in place. 

So we come this week, like Bunyan’s Pilgrim with a burden on our backs. And we follow this week called holy like all those others along their way. We may even have our own crosses and sin and unfinishedness 

But we know the headlines and twisted power and whatever dark there may be at the top of all our stairs—we keep coming back. Hoping, hoping this lamb that they say takes away the sins of the world would stop on our street and stand by our door. They made it, not without scars and tears but moving through it all a centerpiece they believed was sound and sure.  Taking in his arms all those who were weary and heavy laden.

And despite the odds they would, like their Lord, give mercy and love and care and even peace in the midst of their raging wars. And we climb the hill with all those others and we find something that keeps us going.

And wonder of wonders it may be the truest thing that ever was.

Holy…Holy…Holy even here—especially here.