Enemy of the Best: An Easter Reflection Something Good May Be the Enemy of the Best
C. 2014, Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON
Eggs-a-Plenty We have just come out of winter. Grounds are a drab brown from the cold sleep. Lawns covered with branches, deadfall and refuse are seriously in need of raking. Give us some colour, any colour. Please. And then one would hear the saucy clucking of the returned robin. Up there in those denuded branches. And yes the happy red-orange breast of the early-morning champion. At the creek running beside my workplace the accusative trill of the red-wing blackbird. On a neighbour's lawn the popping crowns of the crocus - purple, gold. On an eaves-trough the musical shout of the purple finch for territory and a mate. We are desperate for colour and signs of returning life. On Easter morning, and early, many a household will be turned upside-down in the search for hardshell coloured Easter candy, and of course the ever-popular chocolate rabbit. I can remember taken almost a sinister delight in hiding them at our house. Many will remind me of the idolatrous sources of the candy images. Fertility rites of spring. Perhaps even wicked sacrifices. Mother Earth. Mother Wicca. Queen of Heaven. “Don't come anywhere near it; no, not even for the smiles on the children's faces.� Ukrainian women in our Canadian prairie provinces spend weeks painting and glazing ornate Easter eggs. They say as much about that culture as the brilliant quilts sewn in my district by the Mennonite
women all dressed in black. Traditions of season. Traditions of visual or audio delight. But so far we have only gotten to the culture. We have not gotten to the faith. The faith paints a picture of a candle-lit supper, a dark prayer garden with audible moaning, a jail cell and guards laughing outside, the gathering clouds of a storm, terrifying blackness at mid-day, nailpierced suffering, a heavy tomb door being rolled shut. One might say that that is as far as the efforts and folly of natural men will go. But something is percolating and out of view. The earth imitates the process with new birth all around. Resurrection is coming. The incomparable sunlight of Easter Morn'. The return of the Dear Friend and the celebration of reunion. His promises all were true. The winter of our hearts is defeated. Death and loss have been vanquished. I remember preparing a message years ago for some young people at a YMCA Good Friday breakfast. It was intended that I take them to another room while the adults received a full-fledged sermon. I kept thinking about the mystery of the barnyard egg. Careful now, it may break into translucence and golden yolk. But in a few days, there will be transformation into that delightful fluffy chick, peeping merrily at the new day. Could the Resurrection be any more unreasonable than that, any more spectacular? God is all over the translation. God is in charge. The moment of realization in those kids, the “ping” was almost audible. If the eggs in their parabolic fashion add wonder and delight and insight to this wonderful season, then bring 'em on. The I. O. U. There is a very warm feeling at Easter. Families gather. Resurrection hymns are sung. Bright coloured wrapping and greeting cards. Colourful candy and chocolate. Perhaps the bells ring at that church around the block. Those bells measuring time, yet suggesting a timeless anchor of hope. Aunt Mary's rosy face presenting the ham and scalloped potatoes at supper. These are all childhood memories. But here it is Good Friday, the day that much of our society simply wishes to get through. Images of men's cruelty. The most shameful of deaths. And that suffered by a King of compassion, uplifting stories and peace possible between all. If the Holy Spirit is at work, and only if, there will come a sense of great indebtedness. The I. O. U. This blameless Prophet Jesus brought out the worst in men. In us. He spoke constantly of forgiveness, righteousness and giving. We thought that message so very “pie-in-the-sky”; and when the soldiers grappled him and applied the shackles and stinging crown, we smirked. We found suffering to be contemptible, all flesh does, and we wanted the Man out of sight. “Crucify Him. Crucify Him. His blood be upon us and upon our children”. Indeed most of my community looks away this day. Wishes that there didn't have to be this hiatus. Shop closings. Workplace closings. Inconvenience to the everyday. We see some church-goers, numbers dwindling, put on the ties and staight-jackets, and head with sour faces toward the steeple.
Again the Holy Spirit must enter in; must impress that this whole scene of Gethsemane's pleadings and Calvary's suffocation was a pre-planned rescue mission; was agreed upon by Father, Son and Holy Ghost before the foundation of the world. A Holy God had laid out the puzzle: “You folks are never going to obey my laws. Transgression requires a penalty, and in many instances a death penalty. But what if I through my precious Son pay that penalty, that all of you might go free into delightfull fellowship with Me and my Family? When I see the blood I will pass over you.” That truth applied with Holy Ghost conviction makes us lovers of Jesus; makes us pained with the enormity of indebtednes to One so mighty and yet so submissive to the Plan. As soon as the realization comes and the repentance is accomplished, we enter into Easter Morning. The sun shines brightly. The grave holds nothing but Good News. Life has come from a dying (to self, mis-deeds, neglect and the old agendas). We proclaim “He is risen. He is risen indeed.” And a Receipt is placed into our hands “Paid in Full”.
Wayward Child You have set the farthest star You have heard the hatchling’s cry You have timed the tides afar And designed each wondrous eye. There is not invention made That you have not forged the thought Neither nature’s hues portrayed Neither moving music wrought. You should have my constant praise And arrest my heart and mind But the press of common days Takes me off just like the wind. I might try to come in prayer To the Source of all things good But the words are seldom there To adore you as I should. Could your grace just tune my heart? Could your touch just bend my knee? I am yours and set apart Help this wayward child to see. Magdalene She comes at dawn No clear idea How to bless the Battered remains Of her Teacher. This was to be the day When death was bested. He had promised. They had hardly heard. The stress of things gone wrong Very wrong Had clouded all thinking
All hope. Mercy had been Made to appear Menacing. Haughty robed ones Desperate for His blood. Even the crowd Had parroted, “His blood be on us And on our children�. Sun is coming up. Mourning dove On that branch Sets the tone. The stone is rolled away. Probably more pain. Where gone the guards? And inside no seeming Disturbance Some gravesclothes neatly piled But where the Teacher's body? Outside He waits Suggestions of a Dawning smile. She had always been So eager for His clarity His comfort. Precious Mary Magdalene Now first witness exultant To the Son Rising. Psalm Sixteen 8. I have set the Lord always before me: because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved. 9. Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth: my flesh also shall rest in hope. 10. For thou wilt not leave my soul in hell: neither wilt thou suffer thy Holy One to see corruption. 11. Thou wilt show me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore. (Prophetic words recorded by King David hundreds of years before the resurrection of Messiah Jesus.)