Christ is risen! Shout Hosanna! Celebrate this day of days.
Christ is risen! Hush in wonder; all creation is amazed.
In the desert all surrounding, see, a spreading tree has grown.
Healing leaves of grace abounding bring a taste of love unknown.
Christ is risen! Raise your spirits from the caverns of despair.
Walk with gladness in the morning. See what love can do and dare.
Drink the wine of resurrection, not a servant, but a friend;
Jesus is our strong companion. Joy and peace shall never end.
Christ is risen! Earth and heaven never more shall be the same.
Break the bread of new creation where the world is still in pain.
Tell its grim, demonic chorus: “Christ is risen! Get you gone!”
God the First and Last is with us. Sing Hosanna every one!
Christ is Risen
Words: Brian Wren, 1984
Music: Polish carol; arr. by Edith M.G. Reed, 1926
May the loving spirit of the risen Christ urge us toward acts of mercy, kindness and grace, give us the courage to speak truth to power, and stand against evil and injustice.
“It is finished.” With that he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
–(John 19: 30)
Jesus’s final words on the cross were not a cry of defeat, but a declaration of victory. His earthly mission was completed. He had broken down the barrier between us and God.
With his help, our work as brothers and sisters in Christ, as God’s children, continues.
For more on Good Friday, see last year’s post here.
During his final meal with his disciples, Jesus knew his earthly life was nearing its end. He used those last hours with his followers to stress the heart of the gospel: love one another as he has loved them. As he washed their feet, he urged them toward an active, audacious mission of caring for others, just as he cares for them. Maundy Thursday marks the commemoration of this commandment, or mandate, to love one another. He knew he would soon be betrayed and executed, but he chose love.
Let’s try to do the same. Though the world may normalize violence, cruelty and retribution, let’s be radical. Let’s do the hard work of choosing love.
Last year’s post on Maundy Thursday remains as relevant as ever. See here.
Today is Palm Sunday, the first day of the holiest week in the Christian calendar. It’s a celebratory day, when we commemorate what is often referred to as Jesus’s “triumphal” entry into Jerusalem at the start of Passover. Jesus wasn’t the only notable person entering the city that day, to acclaim and fanfare, however. This was the topic of our minister’s sermon today.
The week-long Passover celebration brought thousands of the Jewish faithful from outlying areas to Jerusalem to worship in the Temple and make their annual sacrifices. The population of the city swelled to four our five times its usual size. Passover marks God’s deliverance of the Jews from slavery in Egypt. To remind the Jewish population that even (and perhaps especially), during this charged time, they remained subjects of Rome, the Governor of Judea would enter the city with a grand military parade. During Jesus’s day, the Roman Governor, of course, was Pontius Pilate. He ruled the area from his palace in the pleasant seaside town of Caesarea, some sixty miles away.
Pilate and his formidable entourage entered Jerusalem from the west, through the city’s largest, grandest gate. His procession would have been similar to those associated with an imperial military victory, as I discussed in an earlier post on Advent. There would have been warhorses festooned for battle, majestic chariots and legions of Roman soldiers. The message would have been clear: “We let you worship your own god, but never, never forget, that Caesar is truly in charge.”
Jesus and his disciples entered from the opposite and eastern end of the city, from the village of Bethany or Bethphage near the Mount of Olives. Jesus was often in Bethany, as it was the home of his close friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus. Not a place of prime real estate, it was a poor area, about two miles from Jerusalem. Jesus’s mode of entry was nothing if not intentional. At Bethany, he sent two of his disciples ahead to the next village, instructing them to return with a donkey and her colt, which they would find tethered in a certain spot (Matthew 21: 2-3).
Jesus rode into the city on the donkey, with the colt walking along beside them. By this time, after three years of ministry, Jesus had become a well-known, if perplexing figure. It was said that he’d been born to an ordinary family in the backwater village of Nazareth. While he lacked formal religious training, he clearly knew scripture. He spoke with the authority of a learned rabbi, yet he had an air of humility. Among his friends and followers were those that his righteous, upstanding fellow Jews tended to avoid, such as tax collectors, prostitutes and beggars. He traveled around with a ragtag inner circle that included rough uneducated fishermen, and even women. His teachings, which attracted huge crowds, were often controversial and counter-cultural: Blessed are the meek? Love your enemies? It seemed that he really had healed all manner of afflictions and diseases. He’d cast out demons. In addition to his friend Lazarus, it was said that he had brought two others back from the dead: a a widow’s only son, and a twelve-year old girl. He wasn’t especially concerned with Hebraic purity laws; he wasn’t afraid to touch the unclean as he healed them. He even claimed to forgive sins. Who was this Jesus, exactly? More than a prophet? An extremely talented fraud? If he was a fake, what did he seek to gain? Neither riches nor personal glory, it seemed. This Jesus was an enigma.
Our pastor urged us to imagine the two very different processions through Jerusalem on that first Palm Sunday. They approached from opposite ends of the city, and they were polar opposites in spirit. One represented imperial might and earthly power. Its intent was to subjugate through fear and awe. The other represented a kingdom not of this world, a peace beyond our understanding, and a release from bondage, both physical and spiritual. Jesus’s humble donkey (likely a nursing female, accompanied by her colt) was chosen not only to contrast with Pilate’s battle-ready military stallion, but also to fulfill the prophecy of Zechariah about the future Messiah:
Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey. (Zechariah 9: 9).
The crowds that cheered Jesus on probably included some of the marginalized individuals he had healed. They hailed him with these words:
Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest! (Matthew 21: 9)
The word “hosanna” means “save us.” It implies a fierce urgency: save us, and save us now! The exclamations of Jesus’s followers were a direct threat to Roman rule. The Emperor was considered a god-like and divinely appointed figure. He, and only he, could save the people. He, and only he, was the true King.
Which of these two processions, our pastor asked, do we choose to attend and support? He didn’t say this, specifically, but might we church folk pledge our allegiance on Sunday morning to Jesus’s path of loving our neighbors, of compassion and grace, while worshipping on weekdays at the altars of earthly prestige?
Sometimes even the best-intentioned of us can get the two paths muddled up. It’s especially easy to see where others have strayed while remaining blind to our own misguided meanderings.
Our minister encouraged us not to make the spiritual leap from the high point of Palm Sunday directly to Easter. If we want to keep on the disciple path, we must journey with Jesus through the dark valleys of this Holy Week. The only way to Easter is through the cross.
This week I’m asking myself what it means in my life to hail Jesus as savior on Palm Sunday, stick with him through the heartbreaking disappointment of betrayal on Maundy Thursday, and the terrible pain and sacrifice of Good Friday. I will never do enough, of course. No one of us mere humans can. But Jesus came to share with us the transforming power of God’s grace. May God bring us the courage we need, and the assurance that he walks with us through the lowest points of this week, as well as those we will encounter throughout our earthly lives.
John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg discuss the two Palm Sunday processions and their implications in their book The Last Week, published in 2006.
Spring may really be here. It seemed like it might not happen this year, that we could be stuck in never-ending winter. A forever winter. But on this vernal equinox, the first official day of the new season, spring is in the air, and all around.
The morning began chilly, but temperatures quickly climbed into the 50s. The DC area’s famous cherry trees are starting to bloom.
The golden, bell-like flower clusters of spiky mahonia are at their most fragrant right now. One deep sniff of their lemony perfume, and I’m transported to my childhood back yard by the old swing set.
The hearty miniature daffodils are the first in our yard to bloom. They should be followed soon by their taller counterparts.
Before long, spring will be working its brightest magic, turning winter’s grays and browns to vivid greens and glowing rainbow colors.
The transition is likely to continue at a fast pace. The 80-degree temperatures of summer will likely be here on Sunday.
Let’s enjoy the delights of this fresh new season while we can!
The Atlanta church I grew up in celebrates one hundred years of ministry this month. Haygood Memorial United Methodist Church is located in the heart of the historic Morningside neighborhood, immediately adjacent to the elementary school. When my parents and I moved to the area in 1968, we considered it a stroke of great fortune to find a home a little more than a block away from the church and school. We began attending Haygood that summer, when I was about to start second grade. Haygood served as my home church for the next several decades; it nourished me in many ways as I grew from child to adult. When my mother relocated to Virginia in 2017, following my father’s passing the year before, we’d seen twelve pastors come and go. Our Haygood connection had held strong for forty-nine years. Because the congregation is still filled with dear friends, the link remains vital today.
The impact of Haygood in our lives has recently become especially clear to me. Looking back, I see what a blessing it has been to be part of a dynamic, caring, multi-generational congregation. As the ideal faith community should, Haygood offered us ongoing opportunities to interact regularly with a wide variety of people of all ages, from infants to the very elderly. From the babies I first encountered when I helped with the nursery on Wednesday nights, to the spunky octo- and nonagenarian widows my father, as one of several Haygood van drivers, drove to and from Sunday services. There were the older adults who taught me in Sunday School. My parents, likewise, taught elementary Sunday School classes for years. For me, the church was filled with benevolent parental figures I could trust, people who looked upon me with genuine concern. And then there were our peers—the children who came of age with me, and the young parents who became grandparents alongside my parents. Such invaluable interactions accrue, with time, in a close-knit, friendly neighborhood; over the decades, strangers become family. A compassionate, welcoming church accelerates that process. At Haygood we found the key to an instant, but well-rooted and long-lived family.
Above, my parents with their first-grade Sunday School class, on the steps of Haygood in the summer of 1969. It shows my father with his mustache, which was, thankfully, not around for long.
The church was named after Georgia-born siblings Atticus and Laura Haygood. Atticus (1839–1896) began his career as a Methodist circuit rider. He later became president of Emory University and a bishop in the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. He was a strong advocate for education and rights of the formerly enslaved. In books and sermons, he pushed for freed Blacks’ integration into society. Laura (1845-1900) was a champion of women’s education, a teacher who founded girls’ schools in Georgia and China. After her Atlanta school merged with Girls’ High (the city’s first public school for girls) in 1877, she became its principal. She was a leader in mission work at Trinity Methodist Church, where she established practical programs for aiding the poor. At her death, she was serving as a missionary in China.
I think Atticus and Laura would be pleased to see that their namesake church is one that cares for its members not as an end in itself, as a country club does, but to better equip them to serve God by serving others. They’d approve of Haygood’s emphasis on Bible study not to store up an armory of “gotcha verses” for scoring big wins in theological disputes, but to promote greater insight and to fuel compassion. They’d be gratified to see a church that tackles the practical, often messy, civic-minded work of loving our neighbors. They’d approve of a church that generally tries to leave the judgment to God in order to be His hands and feet in the wider world. This is the Haygood I remember. And it’s the Haygood that flourishes to this day, serving a vibrant intown Atlanta community.
Our family in a Haygood directory photo, 1975.
My family and I were there for Haygood’s fiftieth and seventy-sixth birthday festivities. We won’t make it in person to the centennial, but Mama and I will certainly be there in spirit. Haygood will always be our family’s beloved home church.
My father and my daughter at Haygood’s front doors, July 2008.
My mother with her good friend Beverly after Daddy’s memorial service in August 2016.
Northern Virginia escaped the brunt of the “bomb cyclone” that brought blizzard conditions and historic snow totals to New York and New England beginning on Sunday evening. But we did get more snow. And I’d only just begun to adjust to stepping out our front door onto a squelchy lawn rather than a skating rink.
Unlike the steely “snowcrete” mixture that blanketed us in late January, this was a beautiful, fluffy-looking snow. It clung poetically (although heavily and adversely in spots) to trees and foliage. It’s actually possible to walk through this snow. And, much to the delight of the neighborhood kids, it has been perfect snowman-making snow.
Best of all, because the arctic blast of single-digit temperatures has subsided, it may not endure as long as the last one.
But we may not go snow-less into March. More of the white stuff could hit us next week.
On this Ash Wednesday, I look out on a muted, gray-scale world. Some patches of dull, brownish green are emerging on Northern Virginia lawns as late January’s formidable coating of snow-ice at last begins to melt. Snow boulders still line roads and cover big expanses of parking lots. The once pristine blanket of white is mottled with dirt and debris. The mid-day sky is whiter than the snowy ground.
Oh, for warm rains to usher in the hint of spring. To thaw the last of the dirty ice, to wash our surroundings clean, to refresh hardened hearts.
Oh, for a healing power to revitalize the messy ashes of our fragile, mortal lives. To offer the promise of new life, peace, and hope.
Eleven days ago, the first of this year’s much-anticipated winter storms reached Northern Virginia. We were already in a deep freeze, with temperatures rarely rising to double digits for days in a row. Snow began falling, as expected, in the pre-dawn hours that Sunday morning. It turned to sleet around mid-day and continued until late evening. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal; we measured about six inches of accumulation. But due to the biting cold, the effects of the storm have only intensified with time.
The sensation of walking through the white stuff that first day was decidedly odd. It was a snow without unity: its discrete frozen pellets seemed to be doing their best to remain separate from one another. I was reminded of the dry and quickly shifting sands that border the dunes by the Atlantic at the Cape Cod National Seashore in Provincetown. My daughter enjoys the challenge of running that hilly path toward the ocean. I do not.
The following day, the top layer of snow had hardened into an icy crust. Walking across the yard was especially awkward. A first step might remain atop the layer, while the next would plunge suddenly into the depths.
With consistently glacial temperatures for the past week, the icy top layer has hardened and thickened. The current challenge is to remain upright while crossing the yard, especially on sloping areas. On the bright side, neighborhood kids have enjoyed sliding speedily across the frozen expanses, no sled required.
Architectural-looking snow blocks, still with us, eleven days after the snowfall.
When my husband cleared the steps that lead from our back patio to our basement door, the snow broke into boulders and sharp edged, ledge-like pieces. Similar piles of snow rocks line the sides of local roads. It’s a good time not to be a dog-walker.
Our front yard looks beautiful, especially when the hard surface gleams in the sunlight with a polished, satiny sheen. In appearance and consistency, it resembles the royal icing with which I coated the roofs of gingerbread houses I’ve made in the past.
I find a year-round source of joy in observing our local wildlife. This has been especially true during previous snowy seasons, when my feathered and furry friends look so charming against a snowy backdrop. The sight of twelve brightly colored cardinals in a snow-frosted holly tree can hardly fail to lend the day some extra cheer.
But this year’s extended period of extreme cold has brought worries about the outdoor critters. Tiny bird bodies adapt to cold weather in remarkable ways: they fluff their feathers to create greater insulation, and their wiry, gnarled feet appear delicate, but they’re largely frost-resistant. Even the smallest birds are surprisingly resilient. But they have their limits, and this arctic chill was testing them. The ice shield keeps insect-eating birds from their usual food sources. That’s why we’re seeing bluebirds at our feeders for the first time ever. I’ve tried to do what I can to help, including putting out more seed and suet, and getting a de-icer for the bird bath.
Larger animals, as well, have been impacted. We’ve spotted exceptionally few deer during this cold spell. Nor have I observed many animal footprints of any kind in the snow. No doubt the icy surfaces have proven treacherous for our four-legged neighbors. Foxes have been largely absent. My favorite regular, Freddie, whom I successfully treated for mange two years ago, has had an injured front paw. He hasn’t visited since before the snow. I expect I’ve seen his patient, wise face, sharply pointed ears, clear amber eyes, and fabulously fluffy (mange-free) tail, for the last time.
Nature’s healing refuge is particularly potent when the buzz of humanity takes on a menacing, anxiety-making tenor. When the ravenous egos of the power-driven provoke victimization of the easiest prey: the most vulnerable and those labeled as other. When truth and good will seem to be no match for the counterfeit currency of lies and dirty money.
These days, though, I see in the frozen-over natural world a reflection of the barbarism of our human-made realm. I understand that nature is not all greeting card sweetness. I see the pair of enormous red-shouldered hawks monitoring my songbird sanctuary from afar. I’ve witnessed their successful attacks. I’ve seen a young fox prancing with jubilation, a squirrel in its jaws. Predators, I know, must win some of the time. And I regularly see the painful effects of the manufactured world: deer, raccoons, squirrels, and even box turtles taken down by fast-moving vehicles. The birds that meet with window glass. All too memorably, I’ve witnessed the ferocity of a spike-topped iron fence. The animals who live among us in our cities and suburbs were here first, and they’ve adapted to the perils we’ve brought. In a sense, they signed up for these risks, and the benefits outweigh the negatives.
The animals in my neighborhood, though, didn’t sign up for weeks of intense cold and a blanket of brutal ice. They aren’t arctic natives; they’re residents of the mid-Atlantic. But now it’s as though the very atmosphere, the air they breathe, has turned vicious.
In this respect, the frozen world of nature now mirrors American society. ICE roams our city streets and intrudes with a vengeance into vehicles, homes, schools, work places and community centers. Perhaps it’s only too fitting that a steely strait-jacket of ice currently threatens local wildlife. It makes me want to hide away and try to ignore it all, both the chaotic world we humans have built, and the beautiful but sometimes cruel realm of nature.
But I can’t hide. And I urge you not to, too.
What can we do?
First, we must stay informed; arm ourself with facts, and be a witness to the truth. Second, but even more important, we mustn’t give in to the urge to isolate. Like birds that survive the coldest winter nights by huddling together, never forget the power of community. When I most want to give up on humanity, I soon discover that I’m surrounded by great numbers of brothers and sisters actively working for good. Together, we can stand for and with those most in need. We can’t do it alone. And I believe that we can only do it with God’s help. We mustn’t take the bait thrown out by those whose goal is to incite violence and civil unrest. Even when our worst impulse tells us that those with whom we disagree deserve nothing but contempt, we must try to treat them with dignity.
We’re at a pivotal point in the history of our country. The most defenseless among us are being maliciously targeted. But as we’ve seen with the killings of Renée Good and Alex Pretti, it’s dangerous for everyone out there. Time-honored marks of privilege, including pale skin, U.S. citizenship, education, a command of English and a home-grown accent no longer offer any guarantee of protection. We face an administration that decrees and demonstrates, in words and actions, that disagreement with its ideology results in a total loss of Constitutional rights. It’s a position that goes against everything America represents. We’re past the time for keeping our heads down quietly on the sidelines and hoping for the best. It’s time to engage, to show up, to make use of our unique gifts as we take up figurative arms in this just fight. It’s time to follow the example of the brave and persistent John Lewis, who still urges us to make “good trouble.”
Snow mounds in the parking lot of our local shopping plaza.
When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them.The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. (Leviticus 19:33-34)
For I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. (Matthew 25: 35)
It was my privilege and pleasure last week to lead Chapel Time for our church’s preschoolers. Our daughter is a graduate of the preschool, and the program is near and dear to my heart. I can’t forget the date of her first day: September 10, 2001. Three years later, she was among the seven children who comprised the first Pre-K class. It was the preschool, in fact, that led us to our church.
During Chapel Time, teachers bring the children into the sanctuary to hear a Bible story, followed by a brief discussion. The text for the day was from Genesis 18, which recounts a visit by three strangers to Abraham and his wife Sarah. They bring the message that God will keep the promise he made to them years earlier: the couple will have a child, despite their advanced age, and one day, their descendants will be more numerous than the stars in the sky.
I doubted that the kids would find the story of much interest. How could they relate to an elderly couple longing for a baby?
Our daughter and some of her preschool buddies, March 19, 2003.
But the Spark Story Bible that we use begins by noting that Abraham was ninety-nine when the three visitors arrived. This got the children’s attention. Before I began reading, to assess my audience, I had asked the kids how old they were. They were eager to respond.
“I’m four!”
“I’m five!” “
I’m about to turn five.”
“I’ll be four tomorrow.”
“I’m three and three quarters!”
A few quiet ones held up the appropriate number of fingers. I also learned random bits of information: “When we move to our new house, we’re getting a trampoline!” “I have a loose tooth!”
A hot day on the preschool playground, June 5, 2002.
The children were amazed at someone being as old as ninety-nine. They remained attentive as I continued with the narrative.
I read that Abraham greets the three men and invites them to stay for a meal. While they eat, they tell him that Sarah will give birth within a year. The strangers are clearly intended to be messengers from God, or God himself. Various Biblical versions state that “The Lord” or “God” appeared to Abraham, before referring to three unknown men. The children’s Bible refers to God’s promise, but doesn’t identify the three strangers. The title of the story, though, was “Abraham and Sarah’s Visitors.”
When I looked for images of this subject, I found the famous early fifteenth century icon by the Russian artist Andrei Rublev. I like to show the kids a picture relating to the story, so I printed out a copy.
Icon of the Trinity, Andrei Rublev, c. 1410.
The painting shows three figures, winged and haloed, seated at a table, in the center of which is a gold cup. Neither Abraham nor Sarah are depicted, but a small structure at the top left represents their home, and a stylized tree toward the center indicates the oak grove in the shade of which Abraham was sitting when he first spotted the three unknown men approaching. The angels’ identical, mournful faces incline toward one another. Together, the outline of their bodies forms a circle. The two figures at left and right enclose a central space in the shape of a chalice, which echoes that of the gilded cup.
The icon is most often interpreted as the three persons of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The placement of the figures around the table calls to mind Christ’s Last Supper. The graceful interaction among the three suggests spiritual communion.
October 30, 2002 at the preschool.
I didn’t discuss these fine points with the children. The essential lesson, appropriate for all ages, and always timely, is twofold. First, God calls us to welcome the stranger. Abraham met the three unknown men with hospitality. And in so doing, he unknowingly met God Himself with honor and grace. As God’s children, we’re expected to treat our brothers and sisters as we ourselves would like to be treated. When we mistreat others, we mistreat God Himself. And second, God invites each and every one of us to His table. There a space for the viewer to join in the holy communion that is generated whenever and wherever we gather in loving kindness with our neighbors near and far. It materializes, and transforms, when we reach out with thoughtful consideration, even to those with whom we disagree, rather than push away with bitterness, disdain and violence.
I know there are those who are coming to believe, with much regret, that teaching compassion and humility has become a lost cause, a quaint relic of a naive and distant era. If we want our children to be successful in this cruel world, why bother encouraging them to act with goodness? Why not teach instead the tools of the bully: arrogance, intimidation, brutality, callousness, and the reverence for self alone?
Why not?
My own answer is simple: it goes against everything I learned as a child at home and at church. It goes against everything I’ve been taught from those who love me.
As I sat in the midst of those smiling, happy preschoolers, a diverse group, representative of our community’s many ethnicities, I couldn’t imagine trying to foster meanness in them. They were curious, eager to learn, and open-hearted. They showed a genuine interest in me. They were clearly inclined toward goodness.
It gives me hope and buoys my faith to know that our preschool is only one among many in houses of worship all across our country that continue to do as they’ve always done: emphasize the blessings that come when we walk the path of mercy and kindness. They assure our little ones that God accompanies them, even when the way is uphill, rocky, and perilous. Schools that affirm the importance of good citizenship are doing their part, as well.
As the day on which we honor the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rolls around again, I pray that we don’t give up on teaching our children that through their good works and acts of kindness, however small, they help bend the arc of the moral universe towards justice.
Our daughter on September 10, 2001, her first day of preschool.
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it! (Hebrews 13: 2)
I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me! (Matthew 25: 40)
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
