Its been about four years since I’ve really “done” Easter at home. Normally I’m of doing Spring Harvest which is great in and of itself, but this year, staying in parish has really brought a new depth and understanding of Easter.
On Maundy Thursday– we set up our act of worship for Friday. As I walked around our 11th century building, clambering round narrow winding staircases, I reflected on the disciples preparing an upper room. As dusk approached a strange sense of loneliness settled. Things were ready and yet the air seemed heavy.
On a beautiful Good Friday morning, we gathered outside the North porch to plant a cross. As the supporting pegs were driven into the ground their sound echoed across space and time, reminding us of the all too physical sacrifice of Christ.
Then a flood of people came into the building, taking time to reflect using the stations we had constructed. Families came, leaving covered in paint. Adults came, leaving reflective. Strangers came and found a welcome within. Friends came, and shared together the experience.
A silent communion.
A quiet Saturday: waiting.
Then bursting in came Sunday. Walking into church where people had been praying all night. A Zimbabwean choir singing praises. Hundreds of people flocking through the doors. And then in that most glorious of church traditions, we baptised on Easter Day. 6 people– all different.
A celebratory communion.
A lighted candle to each– welcoming them to the family of the church.
And finally on a weary but excited Sunday evening: the realisation, that we cannot live but in reaction to the events of Easter. The empty cross demands a response.
And so we live on. In pain, in sorrow, in tiredness and tears: but also in celebration, in freedom and in triumph. For He is risen indeed.