The Sower of Resurrection Seeds has arisen. Christ is alive! Easter hands are flinging new hope with wild and joyous abandon.
Though we may be scattered, we are planted in fertile Easter ground. God calls us today— everyday— to shoulder up through uncertain soil and become crocus blooms in desert places.
Though scattered, we are one in the love of Jesus. Forever held together in the heart and hands of the One who gives life. Who is life.
Even when evil does its strongest work to silence faith, Christian communities are often resilient and prophetic in their commitments to rise up singing. . .
God’s Acre at Old Salem, photo by Sheila Hunter.
Some Christian communities “bury the alleluia” on the last Sunday before Lent or on Ash Wednesday. The tradition originated in the 5th Century when Western churches began to omit the singing and speaking of “alleluia” during Lenten liturgies. Today, some churches still bid farewell to or physically hide or bury the alleluia during Lent and resurrect it during the Easter Vigil to announce with singing the joyous news that Jesus is alive.
Three historically black churches in southern Louisiana and Notre-Dame de Paris were destroyed or damaged by fires during this year’s Christian liturgical season of Lent. This weekend, many churches across the world will observe an Easter Vigil to conclude Lent, carrying the vigil flame into darkened sanctuaries. The violent and tragic church fires are the context for this year’s Easter Vigil fires. The prophetic message? Even when evil does its strongest work to silence faith, Christian communities are often resilient and prophetic in their commitments to rise up singing as they keep watch through Easter Eve for the morning sun to rise yet again.
unburied alleluias
a weary sister walks among the ruins sweeping cold ashes into a dustbin for next year’s lenten initiation she says bending again over the priceless residue
“remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return”
the preacher said just 40 days ago while pressing ashy imprints of mortality on furrowed foreheads
nobody saw it coming— unholy tongues of fire stripping altars bare
out of sync with high holy lenten processions where expectant worshipers catch sparks from an easter vigil flame and carry them into silent holy saturday sanctuaries
she puts a hand on her tired back and when she lifts her face toward the pinking sky a wayward bit of wind stirs the gathered ashes
and even with all other words smothered by smoke and tears she tastes alleluia on her dry lips
Salt 