He is Risen
He is Risen!
He is risen, indeed. An ancient greeting from remote times. A greeting, a declaration, a courageous utterance. I sometime do not have the courage to have a political conversation, to listen deeply to opposing viewpoints, to disagree respectfully. Yet, in this example, when the entire world was holding its breath, courage is shouting. From the rooftop.
It has been a blessed Lent and holy Easter. When Lent ended on Maundy Thursday at sunset, after a beautiful last supper Mass and meditative Exposition in the side chapel, I returned home to a sleeping household and flipped open the social media account I had fore-sworn for 40 days. In ten minutes I knew that there was little I missed. The disrespect, unconsciousness, and lack of humanity shouted discord and I felt my heart recoil. And, that was FaceBook, I can’t imagine how wounding X might have felt. In place of mindless scrolling for the 40 days of Lent, I found time for prayers, meditation, silence, real thoughts, deep conversations. I will not return to Babylon, I have glimpsed Jerusalem. He is Risen, He is Risen, indeed.
I wondered whether I would even return to this blog. I have heard from some of you that this weekly chaplet of words, strung together as I journey toward meaning, has been missed. I wondered whether it was more courageous to return or more courageous to stay away. Clearly, I chose to return. I am working on the virture of courage. I chose again to let my words whisper what is moving in me and through me, in the culture as I perceive it. If it has any resonance for you, praise God.
It has been a long and cold and deep winter here in West Grey. Spring is stepping toward us like a fragile and reluctant maid. The old man of winter seems steadfast. He does not seem to know how to surrender. Sometimes it feels as if his grip is tightening. Maybe this is also true of our current zeitgeist. I catch glimpses of emergence only to have them marred in dogma or entrenched resistant attitudes. In others. In me. The icy grip of fear keeps many of us clinging to what is familiar even if what is familiar is dead, barren, atrophied.
I arrived for the Easter Vigil at my little stone church in the cold dark. To my surprise, outside, in front there was a fire burning. A bonfire! How beautifully pagan. How wildly Christain. The church was dark and the faces I have come to recognize and cherish were illuminated by the fire warming the still frozen ground. The unfolding ritual took me by surprise. It was such a visceral feeling of Holy Saturday. The waiting together for what had been promised, but had not yet been revealed. I thought of clumsy but ardent Peter warming himself at the fire while his teacher was being questioned and tortured inside the Roman palace. I thought of his personal terror when he was recognized. “I tell you the truth, Peter—this very night, before the rooster crows, you will deny three times that you even know me.”
Three times, before the crock crows. I breathed in the fear that is human, all too human. I thought of the women, cleaning up the remains of the unfinished Passover meal, waiting anxiously for word and then tumbling toward what would become know for centuries as the Via Dolorosa, the Sorrowful Way. I thought of the empty tomb. I thought of St. Thomas, putting his hand into the wound and finding life rather than death.
Standing around this Holy Saturday fire, beneath a canopy of tumbling stars, the Easter Vigil unfolded. The procession, The Collect, the gathering together the prayers of this tiny Parish began at the warming fire, and taper by taper, the light from the bonfire, to the Easter candle, was passed and the dark church slowing emerged into light. Each one of us holding it flickering beauty.
As I am writing this, my mom who is still visiting, gets up, pours herself a coffee, and opening her own social media, announces the sad news, Pope Francis has died.
I feel the instant stab of grief, the poignancy, the threshold between life and death open. Again. I have a trip planned to Italy in May. It includes a papal audience and a papal mass. I had hoped to celebrate my 66th birthday with a papal blessing on May 14. As his Holiness’ health declined and then seemed to rally in recent months, I felt hopeful that I would meet Pope Francis. Now, with this surprising and sad news, uncertainty reigns. In a world on the fragile threshold of emergence and devolution, the seat of one of our most recognized spiritual leaders is suddenly empty. I hold my breath.
Outside, the trees bend and twist in a morning wind. A sort of pathetic fallacy. This is a literary device used when weather reflects or mirrors a character's mood or the overall emotional atmosphere of a scene. I stop typing to watch the trees and offer a prayer for Pope Francis and the whole Catholic Church, for the world. "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”
Paschaltide this year will hold the eternal paradox of grief and joy. He is Risen, He is Risen, indeed.
