Happy Easter

The poet Mary Oliver said that the greatest sermon she ever heard was the sun. Perfect.

Consider yesterday and the energy in people outside doing yard work, playing catch, reading, taking a walk...persons out with one another in the light and warmth of the sun.

A sunshine is one of the first things we learn to draw. Still, when I’m doodling, there are an abundance of suns.

A majority of the great leaders and thinkers arise before dawn and welcome the sun. There is a rush, a catch of the breath, a vibrancy, a zest, a tangible movement of hope in watching the dawn of a new day. One is really aware of how light comes softly yet with noticeable intention. The birds sing to welcome the light. In the moment before dawn there is a quiet hope, a peace, a newness.

I’ve noticed that a lot of faith communities seem to have moved past the Easter Sunday Sunrise service. It needs to be re-claimed. The service gets people up and outside and the wonder of nature brings the message.

When I moved to Erie for a new church appointment and was near a significant body of water in Lake Erie I determined that my first Easter sunrise service would be at the lake. I would not be swayed. I spent a couple of weeks prior to Easter checking for myself which beach would offer the best view of the rising sun so as to properly direct parishioners where we would gather.

That Easter morning it was a bit brisk as I drove to the beach in the late night darkness. I had determined that I would do the service in barefoot. One, because the occasion and what we were celebrating was holy and two, I could share with this new congregation my take on “Easter Feet.”

Years previous, while doing the children’s sermon on Easter I had taken off my socks and shoes and met the kids at the steps of the altar area barefooted. Of course, this caught their attention and I proceeded to tell the story as relayed in John’s gospel of Peter and John racing to the empty tomb and how they were so excited to get there they ran right of their sandals! Easter feet --- we need ‘em in our excitement to run and share the great news of the Resurrection.

Of course the kids paid attention and all the little ones in their colorful Easter dresses and white tights and patent leather shoes and sharp suits also wanted to have “Easter Feet” and proceeded to enter various stages of undress on the altar area. One never knows how the message will be responded to.

This Easter, do respond to the message of Life and “Practice Resurrection.”

To light!

To life!

To hope!

To joy!

Happy Easter Feet!

sj;

The Elusive Egg

I should preface this post by saying that I do not understand the millennial generation; they of the “everyone gets a trophy” and “pass or fail” grading scale. In my upbringing there were winners and losers and the kids who won got to be cocky jerks, poor winners, and flaunt their glistening trophies in everyone’s face. In a way I think it served as motivation.

In that light, not everyone was guaranteed an Easter egg either. The Hunt in pursuit of the elusive Easter egg sure has changed since the version that was popular during my childhood. If you were lucky…or should I say physical enough to find an egg, you kept it, if not…tough. Didn't find any eggs? Too bad, go home and cry in your milk.

My experience was that The Hunt of my youth was a much more aggressive, grab-what-you-can, full-body-contact affair. The adults who planned The Hunt were merciful enough to divide the kids by age groups: toddlers up to age five, six to eight year olds, nine to twelve year olds. Twelve was the cut-off, once you became a teenager adults assumed you were too old for such childish pursuits and should be off hunting and killing your own dinner.

The Hunt was held in the big field near the big tire in Freeport Community Park. (NOTE: There were no soccer fields then….we were Americans and played American-originated sports.) I don’t recall the area being roped off; I think the expanse of the grassy area lead to more of a free-for- all, contact sport that was fueled by the all-out blood-lust for a colored egg filled with jelly beans and the maniacal pursuit of the elusive gold-colored money egg.

Kids on Tang-induced and Pop-Tart- fueled sugar highs lined up in one long, jittery, jumpy, and jockeying for position, horizontal line. The whistle blew and The Hunt was on.

There were some poor kids who never made it off the starting line; they had “Chuck E. Taylor” tread marks on their backs. Some kids hunted in ravenous packs and were to be avoided. Others ran after the leaders hoping that where there was one egg there must surely be more. Bad move. Never happens that way. Besides, by the time the followers got there the area was cleaned out and all that was left were the spoils of the hunt evidenced in empty candy wrappers.

The Hunt was individualistic and pugilistic.

I heard of the fabled money egg, yet, I never knew one kid who found it. As for me, I once came upon a brightly colored, appeared to be yellow-tinted, glistening in the morning sunshine egg that was hidden in an arch in the monkey bar set. Eyes wide, I raced for the egg. So did another kid whose name I did not know, yet, her kick to my shins left quite an impression. She claimed that egg. I think her family moved into a really big house later that year.

I stopped attending The Hunt.

Instead, I enjoyed the family-lead egg hunts around the house where the challenge was in finding the eggs not fighting over them. In later years, the Snyder Easter Egg Hunts involved maps and eggs with clues that lead to even bigger treasure. It was creative, it was challenging, it was fun.

Happy….and I do emphasize the word happy….hunting.

sj;

I'm so angry I could just....

Waking up in late March to three or four inches of heavy, wet snow may make one have thoughts of grilled groundhog. In the past week or two you have used an expletive before the word groundhog?
Been guilty of road rage? Do you stare down or honk-off the driver who cuts in front of you?
Ever curse Pirates owner, Bob Nutting and his spending or lack thereof?

Anger. We get it, spew it, stew in it.
Being angry over groundhogs, tailgaters, and tight-wad owners are blips in our emotional read-out, inconveniences that quickly pass.

Yet, what about being truly angry about what matters? I read a quote that stated, "Had we been truly paying attention we would have been angrier more." I like it. I understand it. In the work of justice, anger often fuels the advocacy and undergirds the efforts. I think one should become angry when witnessing how people live in oppressive poverty, how white-collar cheats are celebrated and persons receiving benefits are stigmatized, and how greed and bluster deplete both our nation's moral character and bank account.

Women are raised to not get angry. Yelling or swearing or pointing fingers and demanding ultimatums have for a long time been seen as "unbecoming" in a lady.
Guess I won't ever become one.

The Christian tradition holds that on the Monday of Holy Week Jesus became angry, knocked over some temple tables, and called people names. He was angry.

He was irate over how the faith had become a surface faith that was shallow, money-focused, and indiffrent to the plight of persons who are poor. Hmmmmm......

Maybe we are just not invested enough in the conditions of our world to be angry. That's a shame. Heaven knows, there is a lot to be angry about.

sj;