Easter Sunday April 9, 2023 by Phyllis Windle John 20: 1-18
Early on the first day named Easter, Mary Magdalene is crying in a garden, mourning for Jesus at his empty tomb. She sees someone nearby, “supposing him to be the gardener.” If Jesus wore what Rembrandt painted – wide-brimmed sunhat, sheathed knife in his belt, hand on a spade – Mary had proof. The man says, perhaps in a whisper, “Mary!” She answers, “Rabbouni!” Jesus spoke of hens, sheep, mustard seeds, and grapevines. He knew the Earth as a place of nourishment, beauty, new life, and toil.
Bless those who mourn as the Northern Hemisphere turns toward the Sun For grief has no season and Easter can be bluer than Christmas. Bless those who misunderstand their own Easter mornings For ambiguity and confusion are part of resurrection. When sad or bewildered, may we each know Someone who whispers our name.
I write on February 1st. In Maryland, the first shoots of wild grasses are emerging. The star magnolia’s buds are swelling. Forsythia is blooming. Each adds to the crescendo of new life, building toward summer. For several years, I preached at the middle-of-the-night Easter service in a nearby hospital. Patients’ souls can find new life in hospitals but the dead do not rise. So I distinguished between grand Sunday Easters and the humble, everyday ones that come with spring. My faith is in the latter. Bless our grand Easters, those with cathedral organs, family feasts, and White House eggs For majesty and lavishness can remind us of God. Bless our humble Easters, even those with just a hint of green or the opening of a single bud For sometimes that is all we can love. Whether majestic or humble, may the beauty of Easter on Earth sustain and nourish us all.
Phyllis Windle is a botanist and member of Rockville United Church. |
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