A Joy that Blooms

We, the Church, have just experienced the multidimensional face of our own salvation in this past week. We have waved triumphant palm branches in vain anticipation of a different kind of reception…a reception that might part a Red Sea of fear and hatred…a liturgy that changes in the blink of an eye, the way every devastating human tragedy does, without any warning or any way to prepare ourselves. 

We have been humble witnesses to an act of self-abasement, where feet are washed so that we, too, might learn to wash feet. That in the washing we would be made recognizable to the world as His disciples. An act of humility that might replace our hearts of stone with hearts of flesh. (Ezekiel 36:26) We have marveled at how someone could love us so much that He might be willing to not only die for us, but to make Himself our bread (life) and wine (joy). 

We’ve sat before Him, real in every way, and felt the warmth of Him on our faces. Listened for His voice of consolation as we prepared ourselves for what was to come in mere hours. 

We have walked the steps of the dying Beloved, retracing each moment, words and looks exchanged, in the hopes of wringing out every drop of Him in the journey. 

We have watched as our clergy lie prostrate in front of the cross of their own salvation, reminding us that grace is the only thing inviting air into our lungs. We’ve lined up, as if patrons of a soup kitchen, to venerate that symbol of life for us all. We wept as we commemorated the death of the One who has loved and will love us most perfectly for eternity, to the end; a death that our hearts, out of compassion, can never fully comprehend, lest they explode from the magnitude of it. 

And then we sit in silence with the weight of it. 

In complete darkness we exult. We light a single sacred candle out of a faith which can only be sustained in community. We share that light with the stranger sitting next to us, knowing that while one flame is divided, there is no reason we must be. We listen to stories of how God has loved lavishly throughout time and space. We dig up our “Gloria” and “Alleluia” from under the thick layer of self-examination and reveal an astounding newness to them both. We invoke the saints who witness it all and must be thinking, “Oh just you wait and see….” We say, “Come to the water” and welcome new sisters and brothers. We seal them with seven gifts which are irrevocable, like tattoos on their souls. We are sprinkled with a blessed reminder of our own call and then we share a familiar meal that feeds us from heaven. 

On Easter morning, if we’ve participated fully, we must admit something to ourselves. We’re a little tired. We’re a little overwrought and weary. We’ve been on a spiritual roller coaster and while our “Alleluia, He is Risen” might be genuine, it is not yet fully embodied.  

Thanks be to God; our Church gives us the gift of this longest liturgical season to absorb the extravagance of it drop by drop. So, while the Easter chocolate might be long gone, we are called as a Church to a sustained joy. Perhaps a joy that blooms over fifty days so we might be slowly and radically transformed by Pentecost.