-The Invisible Realities-

This morning I celebrated the Resurrection in an Anglican church. It was different from any Easter service I have ever attended. The most majestic by far, I should say. For me it felt impersonal and a bit foreign, in some ways... but glorious, still. As if it would feel if I were worshipping in Westminster Abby, only on a (waaaaaaay) smaller scale. As the music played and hands were lifted in "hallelujah" to our Victorious Savior, tears came and I felt that indeed, He ought to be worshipped by skillful musicians! (Psalm 33:3) Though His heart is just as blessed by a heartfelt worshipper on a twangy guitar and an off-tune voice (amazing! And reassuring! Aren't you glad He doesn't judgmentally rate or"score" our worship!?), still it felt right to hear the grand sounds and majestic, triumphant strains of trumpet and organ praising Him. And I had to snatch a few tidbits of the music with my iPhone!

The vicar read the following poem. These types of poetry normally aren't my style (too high-fallutin' and mystical) but for some reason this one, I liked. I appreciated envisioning Christ's resurrection as an actual happening. Not just a flash of light and a bang and suddenly He's on His feet outside the tomb...but a flesh-and-blood rekindling of His cells and re-warming of His blood and the first beat of His heart. Why? Because this revolutionary truth has arrested me this Easter-- that in rising from the dead, He not only proved His power in the Spirit realm, but He proved it in the physical realm. He proved that He is Lord over my body and not just Lord over my soul. He gained the right to claim victory over my flesh and not just my spirit. He is the God of the LIVING and not the God of the DEAD! Praise King Jesus!!!

SEVEN STANZAS OF EASTER

By John Updike

Make no mistake: if He rose at all

it was as His body;

if the cells' dissolution did not reverse, the molecules

reknit, the amino acids rekindle,

the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,

each soft Spring recurrent;

it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled

eyes of the eleven apostles;

it was as His Flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,

the same valved heart

that — pierced — died, withered, paused, and then

regathered out of enduring Might

new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,

analogy, sidestepping transcendence;

making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the

faded credulity of earlier ages:

let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,

not a stone in a story,

but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow

grinding of time will eclipse for each of us

the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,

make it a real angel,

weighty with Max Planck's quanta, vivid with hair,

opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen

spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,

for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,

lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are

embarrassed by the miracle,

and crushed by remonstrance.

Note: Am I just ignorant? Do most people know what "Max Planck's Quanta" is? I thought it was some Latin phrase when the vicar read it. Had no clue. So I Googled it.

And then I felt stupid.

Anyhow.

Here's a short clip from this morning's service.