Easter. A time of death and life. A time for reflecting and looking forward. For those who follow the practice of Lent, it is a time of going without that ends in a feast of joy.
My favourite day of the year is Good Friday. I love the mourning mixed with anticipation (because we have the benefit of already knowing how the story ends). I love the Bible stories and the talent of Mike, the minister of the church I attend, in continually finding new ways of telling us about the layers of Jesus’s sacrifice. I love that, unlike Easter Sunday and Christmas, there is no commercial competition for the day. Sure, hot cross buns come out on Boxing Day, but there is only benefit in advertising Christ’s cross for three months before the event.
This year, I have felt creatively inspired by the lead up to Easter. On Palm Sunday, the weekend before Easter, I found myself listening to the minister and rewriting the words he was saying. He was reading from Luke and explaining how the author of that book found it important to detail the region’s geography and, in particular, that Jesus, His disciples and their followers were walking uphill. Then Mike talked about them singing while travelling and described the traditional practices of approaching Jerusalem, which they didn’t follow.
I always take notes, to ensure I pay attention. But this time, I couldn’t stop myself turning the sermon into a new story. I could relate to an uphill walk, to singing in delight and expectation, to breaking tradition for something bigger than the past.
JOURNEYING TO JERUSALEM
The song begins in ascent, singing with each step. Singing as You move toward both death and new life. Singing despite the increasingly steep terrain. Singing with others following the same path. Journeying forward, stones in sandals, dust coating the feet that stepped out in excitement and perhaps now want to slow, to delay the inevitable, to stay just that bit longer with loved ones. But still, You move forward, swept along in the anticipation of the surrounding crowds.
And now You crest the hill and the song changes. Not the expected chanting celebrating earlier freedom, but instead announcement of arrived Messiah. Against protests for tradition ignored, the song continues. Nothing can stop the singers. Indeed, if they cease to praise, the very rocks will cry out in their place.
But those who sing to announce Messiah change their tune as they stand in front of the cross. Here You hang – flogged and pierced, Kingship denied. The words of joy turn to mourning. The singers only descended into Jerusalem; You have descended into Hell.
But soon and very soon, their song will again burst forth. They will sing of triumph and overcoming. Of a risen Saviour and defeated death. Of a waiting eternity of praise, where the song never ends.
The week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday was huge. While my mind was focused on death followed by life, I was given the news that a friend had passed suddenly, only three days after giving birth to her second child. This was life followed by death – the wrong order for this time of year. I had only talked to her two days before and was struck afresh by the impermanence of life, by the audacity of death in claiming someone who had everything to celebrate.
While listening to reminders of the magnitude of Jesus’s death, I was trying to process that of my friend. After the Good Friday service, I bought hot cross buns at a local bakery and experienced fresh grief when the baker came out from the kitchen and into the serving area to give directions to a couple who were lost. I couldn’t continue on my journey to a friend’s house to share the fresh-from-the-oven buns without letting my thoughts out in words.
NOT SO GOOD FRIDAY
I saw a baker and felt sad, because my friend died five days ago. That may seem disconnected and random, but it isn’t. Because everything in life is connected somehow. The thread that binds these events is that her husband is a baker. Or was. He still is, but whether he can go back to work when he has to now raise a toddler daughter and a son who was less than four days old when his mother died remains to be seen. Their lives are not what they were only a week before. Neither is mine. And so I saw a baker and was sad.
Easter Sunday was spent in absolute delight and joy. I practically yelled ‘He is risen‘ at the first few people I encountered at church, forgetting this phrase isn’t a tradition in my denomination. A few brave souls replied with a questioning ‘Amen’ and ‘Hallelujah’ before I enlightened them to the response of ‘He is risen indeed’. I enjoyed a day of basking in the wonder of a risen Saviour, interspersed with bouts of sadness from knowing my friend would never return to her family.
There is no happy ending to that little family’s story of loss, only grief at a time that should be spent celebrating a new life. I cried, and I delighted, and I ate way too much chocolate while contemplating the juxtaposition of ‘death and life’ and ‘life and death’. By the end of the day, I had a flashing aural migraine, followed by a three day headache (hence the late blog post).
This year’s Easter celebrations have officially ended. But today, a post popped up in my Facebook feed from a writing page I follow. Writers Write uploads regular writing prompts, with creatives putting their literary attempts in the comments for everyone to read. Today’s words were, ‘They took his belongings first’. I read the prompt and then the five or six responses already in the comments section. Most people had a similar idea – to write about the loss of belongings through divorce or death or similar. But, having spent the last few weeks contemplating Jesus, His death and resurrection, the response that came to my mind was from a different direction.
THEY TOOK HIS BELONGINGS FIRST
They took his belongings first, meagre as they were. Divvied them up between themselves with a roll of the dice; gambling was rampant even back then.
They weren’t worth much – there was no eBay then, no Instagram to share one’s news of acquisition. All they had was the satisfaction of saying, “I won his robe”.
They took all he had – the clothes on his back, the band of followers. Nomadic, self-claimed kings don’t tend to own much, and mobs always scatter under pressure.
But who knows – maybe the soldiers needed those items. Perhaps security staff back then were paid as little as they are now. Height and muscle don’t need compensation for the cost of a degree; they only need to make some people feel safe and intimidate the rest.
Maybe the items scavenged on the side made the difference in surviving or supporting oneself or a family. Society has never really changed. There have always been rich and poor, mean and kind, leaders and workers. And sheep who get caught up in the frenzy of crucifixion, whether figurative or literal.
It’s fair to say it’s been a huge few weeks, delighting in what looks like a tragedy but is actually a blessing while working my way through processing a blessing followed shortly by a tragedy. I am glad all over again for the gift of creativity and the capacity to put words together in a way that helps me to understand what we encounter in this life. Easter is over, but its message lasts all year, encouraging me to live in hopeful anticipation for what lies beyond.
To whoever is reading this post, I truly hope you’re doing okay. If you’re not, please let someone know. Loss and grief and life changes and sadness are hard. I write out my feelings, but I talk about them to somebody, too.
NB: Next week, I promise I’ll update you on what happened with the four thousand word story I talked about in my last post.
A Glorious Mess 