Still close to the empty tomb, before the proclaiming begins, the women breathe in and out. Breath becomes the first method of processing what has happened. The story of Jesus has not ended the way that they assumed it had. Breath prepares them to greet the new, unexpected narrative.
This first week of Easter, I have practiced Surprise Relief through the simple act of breathing, pausing, and reminding myself – the story does not end the way that we are convinced that it will.
The simple act has had a profound impact as it has begun to raise my awareness to all the times when I have assumed the trajectory to be set. Continue reading
The truth is that the Lenten Journey comes naturally to me. The Lenten journey leads me to face what I already know is true. But the Easter Plot Twist is news. It is the good news which catches me off guard. It is the surprise which we cannot just innately know without hearing it proclaimed and lived. 1 John writes that it is a truth to be seen, heard, and touched. It is a truth to be revealed (not just known intuitively).
We march in the lillies and wear our Sunday best, but even the most extravagant of our “Allelulias” seem to be not enough after eight weeks leading to the cross. So I begin this year a new personal practice of an Easter Season. If Lent was a time for accepting the reckoning, then Easter is a time for expecting resurrection. Continue reading
It makes such sense that we resort to eggs filled with candy, bunny rabbits, elaborate lunches, and our finest clothes. How else would we function without a few simple rituals while we immerse ourselves in the violence of Good Friday and the absurdity of Easter morning.
I read the Easter story to the boys last night. In place of our regular bedtime books, I told them of bitter weeping and swords and clubs, the crowds and the single kiss, provocation and condemnation, pointed fingers and shouts of rage, denial and silence, isolation and public execution.
The boys’ eyes grew wide and little bodies so still. They were captivated, confused, and even a bit scared. They kept pushing for me to turn the page and read one more story as if that next page might resolve the tension or provide some absolution to the violence. But I knew this wasn’t possible. The next page merely added another layer to the complex mystery whose miracle exists with wounds still fresh. I knew that the story of our resurrected Lord is one of a breathing but punctured body at the hands of human atrocity.