#14 TATWTD - AN EASTER HEARTBEAT

This v-e-r-y long blog entry is accompanied by a picture of an Easter egg, one of many mysteriously appearing in crannies and corridors of our apartment complex. Of Easter they are, of pagan origins they are, ancient symbols of rebirth, but few among us who enjoy Easter eggs, think about that. 

Yet some of us do. In this respect: Easter, like Christmas, is celebrated by Christians and non-Christians alike, by borrowing symbols and dates. From the Julian calendar, when Romans celebrated winter solstice, the day on which the sun was reborn, Christians celebrated the birth of Jesus. Emperor Constantine arranged that. He saw the sensibility of syncretizing pagan and Christian beliefs (he held both and the majority of those he governed were pagan, so, well, come on, this worked). Followers of the sun-god, Mithras, partied; followers of Jesus, the “true Son,” worshipped. Win-Win.

And Easter? First, we Christians borrowed and repurposed the symbols of Jewish Passover, then, when we evangelized Teutonic tribes north of Rome in the 2nd century, hoping not to interfere any more than necessary with established customs, we quietly joined in with celebrations of Spring but repurposed. While pagans participated in raucous rituals honoring Eastre, the Saxon goddess of spring and fertility; on that same day, Christian converts honored the springtime death and resurrection of Jesus. 

This is good; neighbors practicing tolerance, sharing hot cross buns (even though the crossed symbol originally represented the horns of the ox sacrificed to Eastre). By the way, the word we Christians use for that tasty bread, Bun? That word derives from the Saxon word for “sacred ox,” boun. And the Easter bunny? Eastre gave us that. Her goddess symbol was the prolific rabbit. Really, do we mind? It does seem better to me, that this naive  sharing of space, of symbols, of seasons is better than what resulted when the decision was made by religious power to no longer tolerate toleration or cooperation, or to accommodate differing beliefs: expulsion, torture, butchered tongues, severed precious parts, fire lapping at the feet of those who dared differ.   

I like that we modern Christians can share our holiday words – Christmas/Easter—with those who place no religious investment in them. I like that everyone can enjoy Christmas carols, stories of shepherds and wise men, and greeting cards, or in the springtime, candies hidden in colored plastic eggs, real eggs, colored and hidden, cloth bunnies or chocolate ones, baskets, cellophane, fake grass, jellybeans, and even the tasteless yellow marshmallow Peeps. I like that Christians can enjoy hot cross buns and deviled eggs. Easter for some will mean only family reunions, egg hunts, and ham in the oven; church for some, golf for others. There, we have the sharing. Sharing space, sharing seasons, seems sensible to me. 

But . . . for those of us who focus on Jesus, we who—unlike friends and family who witnessed his horrific dying, whose dreams were dashed, and had no idea that Sunday would bring a massive surprise—we reflect. For those of us who use the word “Easter” to celebrate matters of faith, I want to offer a thought.

AN EASTER HEARTBEAT

There is a heartbeat

Heard only by God,

And rejoicing angels,

And insects in the darkness of a death-cave.

There, there is a heartbeat

And resurrected life.

Sabbath ends with Sunday’s breaking light

And on a dirt path leading to the tomb

Three women’s hurried steps scatter dust

And cause the earth to beat with urgency.

There is a rhythm to the morning

Felt only by God

and rejoicing angels

And spiders and butterflies that sense such things

The work of wrapping the body of a Savior needs doing

But, oh God! the body is gone.

The women would flee from this tomb,

 from the shock

And fear,

But an angel appeared

Brighter than the breaking morning sun,

Gleaming like lightening thrown against the morning sky.

The rhythm of wings beat the morning air

Into a symphony of power

And shook the earth into the service of God.

The tomb’s sealed stone shuddered

Its tonnage broke from its sunken place.

One Sunday before, Jesus had said,

“If people are silent, the stones of the earth

will shout the glory of God.”

And now, against gravity,

Against the edict of all authority,

Against the power of evil,

The stone rolled back, confirming that thought.

The angel folded his wings

Quieted the morning

And sat upon the settling stone.

 “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” 

  He is not here, he is risen!”

“Come, see the dark and empty place where they laid him.” 

“Hallelujah!  He is risen!”

To some who loved the Lord

But were not with the women;

To some whose hope was buried in that tomb,

These Hallelujahs heralded nonsense.

They did not hear the heartbeat

They did not sense its rhythm

Till Jesus himself

Walked quietly,

Patiently,

Among them

And quietly,

Patiently,

Explained.

Barbara Roberts Pine 1989