Remembering Easter

It was the wedding of all weddings. At least to the bride and groom, that’s how it felt. Surrounded by their closest friends in a beautiful sacred space, the words, music, and vows seemed to take on enhanced meaning. As they drove away to begin their new life, the two hoped to remember their wedding day always.

Much to their delight, there were reminders of their wedding day often. Something would be said, a song would come on the radio, or they would run into someone who had been there. Each time they were reminded of their wedding. The reminders were whispers of the great day, God’s way of going “Psssst!” to awaken them from the daily slumber that besets us all.

A friend helped me see that Easter is much like such a wedding. Spectacular and moving, Easter is like no other day for Christians. It is the Sunday of Sundays, if you will.  It is the first Sunday, of which all the others are reminders. On those other Sundays, and the days in between, God sends reminders, goes “Pssssst!” to awaken us from the spiritual slumber that besets us all. Maybe its something said, a song, or an encounter with another, but the whispers surround us. They're not Easter, but fingers pointing to Easter, helping us remember the incredible day that offered us all new life.

Questions:

If you are married, how much of your wedding day do you remember? Have you found life sending you whispers to recall the day, or is it a distant memory? 

If you’re a Christian, does Easter stand out for you as the great day of your faith? Do you remember it throughout the year, or do you fall spiritually asleep? Do you hear whispers in other services, on other days? How could you reclaim the day and carry it with you throughout the year?

The complete picture.

“Smile!” said the photographer to the neatly arranged family. It was Easter, and, with a great deal of thought and effort, everyone in the family looked picture-perfect. The patriarch’s heart was filled with pride and gratitude to have five generations represented, and soon the “pure moment of happiness,” as she liked to say, would be placed prominently in her gallery of living room photographs.

Like other state-occasion photographs, however, there’s the picture, and there’s the picture-behind-the-picture. While all were neatly arranged with smiles that Easter morning, one child was reeling from the late night conversation with her parents about her drinking, a son-in-law was distracted by his failing business, a couple tried to hide the fact that their marriage was falling apart, and another wondered why they even bother taking such photos when they’re not that close as a family.

The picture-behind-the-picture was as real as the one being taken, and, instead of choosing, they both need to be seen if the family is to be known and fully understood. Just like with you and me, there’s what a camera sees, and what it can’t. Even in Christianity, there’s the obvious joy of Easter, but there’s also the less obvious things that are just as much a part of.

There’s the sunrise of Easter morning, but the ground is still soaked from the storm on Friday.

The linens are draped over the place where the body once lay, but there are blood stains if you look closely.

There are shouts of excitement, but they’re mingled with the echoes of denial and betrayal.

There are embraces of solidarity, but also questions of who will be in charge.

There’s the knowledge that everything has changed, but also the fear that nothing has changed at all.

To fully understand Easter, we need to look not only at the pretty picture, but the tragedy as well, at the light of morning and darkness before. This full view does not diminish the story, but completes it. Just as the picture-behind-the-picture completes the family, seeing Easter in light of all that led up to it completes its meaning. To shout, “He is risen,” is one thing, but to see the entire story is to say, “He is risen, indeed.”

Rest

In music theory class, I learned the importance of a rest, or pause. Sometimes as powerful as notes themselves, rests can shape a melody and significantly alter the impact of a composition. In much the same way, moments of silence can speak to us theologically just as much as the louder ones, of which today is one of the most vivid examples.

I can only imagine what it must have been like for the disciples sitting in the silence of this day long ago. Placed between the drama of Good Friday and before they knew what was to come, the silence must have been overwhelming. In such silence, they must have tried to piece together all that just happened and draw some understanding from it all.

We, too, have been given a day of silence to rest and reflect on all that happened long ago, just as we can try to understand what it means to us today. Before moving to the crescendo of the Christian symphony, we’re given the opportunity to pause and listen to the power of the silence. May we listen closely.