The Cross gets in the way ...

Paschal Candle in Holy Trinity by Sharon Barnard

Earlier today I found myself sitting at the computer in the quiet aftermath of an exuberant family Eucharist, trying to put on paper - for the local paper, in fact - what this last week has been about. I have, of course, failed. With three or four paragraphs at my disposal I knew it was doomed before I started, but as I finished I found myself Tweeting that resurrection is profoundly disturbing, and it was up and there before I even knew I'd posted it. Now, as I write, I can hear the choir of King's on the telly singing "Drop, drop slow tears" - and I'm back on Friday again, and that's disturbing too. How odd to revisit the Cross - but of course, that's it. We do it all the time, and this morning's exuberance and joy was in a sense "for the children".

Where am I going with this? Let me give another snapshot, this one of a moment as we were drifting to the door at the end of this morning's Eucharist. I overheard possibly the oldest member of the congregation declare to the person next to him that he didn't care for the big cross in the choir, and her reply that she liked it but it had got in the way, rather. It came to me that there was something to be said about that ordinary remark - because the Cross does "get in the way", keeps getting in the way, and  the significance of it can be a stronger influence on people than the day of Resurrection - the day in which we all suddenly become cheerful and joyous and tell each other that Christ has risen. I think it's the sudden cheer that leaves me reeling, not sure how to be, not sure how ...

I think I'm not far off what it must have been like, back then. I cannot see how the all-too-human followers of Jesus could feel anything but exhausted and incredulous at the news that his body was no longer there, and I imagine Mary Magdalene hardly daring to hope that what had happened to her wasn't a wishful dream. In a way it doesn't matter if that's how she and they reacted - what does matter is what happened as a result of this day. The long-term view, in a way.

I can still remember my first real Easter, the first time it had an effect on me. It was in 1973, and that's a lot of Easters ago. I think I'll perhaps post about that first Holy Saturday in the scented darkness of the Cathedral of The Isles (yes - there again) but not now. And I need to write about some of the other things I hold dear. But today - God showed us something, and we stand amazed. Exhausted, and amazed. And we don't really know what to do with our knowledge ... or at least, this writer doesn't.

Resurrection is profoundly disturbing, after all.

We are an Easter people ...

Easter Garden
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

Easter morning. The sun shone, the church was full of the sound of Alleluias. In the Lady Chapel, the scene of Mary Magdalene's encounter with the risen Christ was recreated on the altar - though few know that the highly painted Mary was given this look, eyeshadow and all, by an American woman of the US Navy days who had been to a cake-decorating class, or that a former rector as well as the two garden-creators had risked life and limb retrieving the figures from the shell of the tower, currently out of bounds after the discovery of ... well, everything destructive. But at Easter anything is possible.

The Paschal Candle seemed to have burned down hardly at all overnight, and was still alight. We were unable, at the last minute, to have incense because of the inability of some of the congregation to tolerate the smoke - though yours truly did cense the church after they'd gone: we don't have incense nearly as often as we used to and it was just sitting there, asking to be lit.

Holy Week came at the end of a difficult Lent - it's much less easy to be quietly introspective/studious/prayerful when you're involved in the providing side of services. But the Triduum was as powerful as ever, the services moving and the atmosphere holy, and the repeated shouts of "He is risen indeed - Alleluia!" sounded heartfelt, not to say hearty.

Hugh's sermon today pointed to the congregation - bickering, bumbling us - as the risen body of Christ. Quite a challenge. Alleluia!

Paschal Alleluias

Allejuia! The New Fire was lit, the Paschal Candle processed into the dark church, the old readings heard, the Litany sung. Now the candle burns in the darkness, to be there when we return to church in the morning, where the risen Christ will greet us in the breaking of bread ...

It never fails, that dark service, the tiny lights that grow in the gloom as the candles around are lit from that first fire. Always the thrill, always something different and much that is timeless. Tonight a sudden wind threatened the fire, making the lighting of it difficult - and raising the possibility of a server or two losing an alb to the flame - but when it came, in a rush of gold in the gloaming, it was all the more triumphant. Tonight it was so dark and our tiny candles so compelling that we who read could not see the floor, feeling our way to the lectern as if we had just learned to walk. Tonight I sang the plainsong of the Paschal Litany rather than the Exsultet, and felt there was no reason for the song to stop.

And it is so, so satisfying to know that the Paschal candle has been left burning, left in this era of Health and Safety, this time of Insurance Risks - our candle will be there burning in the morning. Allelulia!

Talking with the gardener

Is he real? and can I trust
the joy which sears across my soul
with such delicious pain?
The light is white, a curtain sparkling
so that I can barely look, can
hardly see the face I love.
Am I remembering? But the voice
which said my name – my given name –
it is the same, the cadences
which bring my heart to song each time.
My tears still well, the picture flows
and changes as the light refracts
– why do I weep? He asked me that
and yet I cannot bear to say
that what is joy for all the rest
is not enough without the touch
which now I know I cannot have.
I would not have run, that night
of horror when the others fled –
not while he still breathed and stood
and spoke and suffered with that kiss
which I could never give.
So what is real? Is this enough
to share with joy and tell the world
that death can have no final word?
I cannot say. I need to hold,
to smile, to talk, to love, to be –
the shadow moves. The joy recedes
becomes more patient, calmer now
and I, alone among the trees
must share my moment with the rest
and know it is no longer mine.
But I was here. I loved. I lost.

©C.M.M.

He is risen .....

Easter garden
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

On this Easter morning, it seems strange to be blogging instead of worshipping - a matter of logistics, when there are three congregations and one priest. But I have indeed celebrated the Resurrection - last night, at the Paschal Vigil service. Think Christmas Eve, with daffodils and a warm(ish), still night so that the candles didn't blow out and the congregation huddled in the darkness didn't freeze to death. Think yards of plainsong - the Exultet, which I sang (the first time a woman has sung this in the past 30-odd years in Holy T) along with KB to do the specifically priestly bits. Think Alleluias and a new setting of the Scottish Liturgy by John McIntosh, aka Mr B.Think joy and excitement.

And if all this sounds a tad strange if you know the nature of our church, with its damp walls and peeling paintwork, our small and aging congregation and lack of money, then think again. For a start, of course, the message of Easter doesn't change because you have a cash-flow problem. But it's not just that. I have occasionally worshipped in big city churches, where there is order, hordes of well-drilled servers, a clutch of clergy and visible youth presence. But I have never felt as moved as I do here, in the solid dark of the countryside (that's another thing: Holy T. is so far out of town as to be unaffected by street lighting), where the New Fire leaps and crackles dangerously under the trees and the Paschal Candle is the only illumination as we enter the church. The screech of a distant owl is less disruptive than the roar of traffic, and the crack of twigs underfoot can't have changed in two thousand years.

I was in a state of some tension before all this began; the Exultet is very long and I have a tendency to go sharp when excited. But when it came to the bit, even though I could barely see the music, the excitement seemed to be translated into the joy of the proclamation itself and I've never felt so absorbed and focussed.

Of course things go astray in the strangeness of a special service - but this is real life too - no? An aleatoric alleluia, the strange colour of the water used to asperge us (was it the jug? or the water from the back tap?), the vanishing incense (it returned) - none of this mattered. In fact, I don't think it was noticed at the time. It was wonderful. All wonderful.

And then we had the bubbly at the back of the church .....

Note: The Kilbride Mass will be available after copyright clearance.