I hope to catch up with girlfriends, rescue the root-bound plants in my dismal garden, relocate them to better spots around the yard and give my elderly mouse catcher the attention he deserves. It'll be grand. Oh, and I get to sleep in! I can always catch up with the 5:50 a.m. editions of The Writer's Almanac another week.
Easter is my favorite "holiday." Not the pastel dresses on adorable little girls or nibbling the ears off chocolate bunnies, but the reason for the celebration. Good Friday is pretty rough, but Sunday morning is amazing.
Here's a story I wrote this year for Good Friday. I hope everyone has a wonderful Easter.
There is no rest for the weary soul
at the wonderful church my family attends. Babies are
squalling, toddlers are dancing in the aisles and teen guys
are sitting quietly, like adorable choirboys, all the while
stealth texting each other. Packs of girls frantically wave to
friends, then scoot over to make room for one more.
Once the sermon begins I close my eyes to help me
concentrate, and it usually works pretty well. Thanks
to the youngster sitting behind me who kicks the back of my
chair every so often, there's no danger of falling too fast
asleep. If I eliminate the visual riot going on amongst
the congregation during the sermon I can follow along much
better, and it's really worth it to follow along. Let
me hear a good sermon and I've got enough material to last
me through a whole week, with all the changes I need to make
in my heart and life.
There is one service during the year that is completely
different from all others--the Good Friday service. We
enter the sanctuary quietly, sing contemplative hymns,
listen to narratives from the Gospels, pray and leave in
silence.
Volunteers sit in a row in front of the rest of us, usually
about four people, and they take turns reading Bible
passages beginning with the Lord's Supper and ending with
Jesus' crucifixion. One person is the narrator and
the others take on parts. They probably have a quick
practice together before the service and they look a little
nervous; they're folks I scarcely recognize from Sunday
mornings and I'm interested in getting to know them by
listening to their voices.
One year the man reading the words of Judas did not look
"the part." When he began reading Judas' words from
the Lord's Supper narrative he seemed so humble and
honest. It didn't match my imagined snapshot of
Judas. As he read later passages his voice took on a
sinister tone and when he finally spoke the words of
betrayal, I was shivering.
The effect of hearing the exact text from the Gospels is
sobering, and saddening. It makes it easier to imagine
the emotions of Jesus, knowing that he would be betrayed and
have to undergo real death. Later in life I came to
understand that the worst part of His suffering was to be
separated from His Father while He voluntarily stayed on the
cross, for me.
We all left the service without talking and walked out of
the building into the warm, spring air. Once
outside, we could take a deep breath and say good-bye to
friends, ending with the familiar line, " See you Sunday."
The only way to bear the grief of Good Friday is to look for
the early light on Easter morning, shining on an empty
tomb.
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