After all the busyness - which was definitely rewarding/fulfilling - a bit of a lie-in this morning, enforced by two felines lying right on top of me (and everyone knows it's illegal to disturb a sleeping cat, right?!), a fit of prep for Sunday's service, including letting the readers and musicians know what is needed/desired... and then time to give the lawn its first cut of the year.
One of the curiosities of this garden is the pair of tulips that emerge from the gravel around Easter time... today they are freshly opened and looking lovely.
Unusually my post-Easter time off isn't until next week - and then only for one of the two roles - so this week it has to be about careful pacing, enjoying the spring flowers ad listening to the wisdom of my kitty cats, as well as getting some work done that just doesn't fit into term time.
Early in the morning on the first day of the week, the women went to the tomb... arriving, they found the stone rolled back, but him they did not (as yet) see...
This morning I was up before the sun (sleep not happening!) and so able to get up to church just as the sun rose, to adjust our Easter garden to its final scene... stone rolled back, white ribbon fluttering from the cross, angel by the open tomb.
The service centred on the story right at the end of John's gospel, and and was an interactive, intergenerational attempt to explore a story that went from sadness (dejected disciples going fishing) to surprise (a huge catch of fish, spotted by a stranger) and sustenance (a very welcome warm fire and tasty breakfast) to serious conversation and steps on a beach (how much do you love me... and will you go with me?)
The level of participation was excellent, with teardrops of sadness/regret being cast into the sea of God's forgetfulness... footsteps of commitment being placed on the beach... and daffodil-cross prayers (a lovely tradition that didn't neatly fit my story but was still needed) connected out celebrating with the wider world and are ongoing lives.
It was, truly, a special Easter service, with a congregation of over fifty people - more than half of whom were not white, and many who have been with us weeks or months rather than years - bringing our Easter explorations to a fitting end.
The scene set for the service... a beach, a fishing boat (chairs for disciples to sit on!), a 'fire' and (just out of view) a picnic breakfast of bread and rape juice.
Left to Right:
Peter's boat... fire on the beach... tears in the sea... miraculous catch (we had a 'fish hunt' to find and catch them)... footprints of followers...
The idea was simple - to open our Community Garden for a couple of hours on Holy Saturday, so that people could use it for prayer and reflection... which in turn led to the idea of the Easter Garden... which has been a really lovely project, as we've told the story simply by tweaking the objects (look out tomorrow for the resurrection update!).
This afternoon a small number of people arrived, one at a time, with couple of minutes between each visit, and spent time decorating pebbles or wood 'slices', praying, or simply sitting quietly. From opening time to closing time, there was almost always someone other than me there... and it was a privilege to be the 'host'.
I think the thing that struck me most was the purple ribbon fluttering in the breeze, and the resilience of the flowers to being buffeted. Even before Storm Dave makes/made landfall, we have already had a lot of weather since we made the garden, and, so far, it has not sustained any damage. Perhaps Holy Saturday hints at the strength of vulnerability, the strength perfected in weakness... like bobbing blooms and fluttering ribbons... like palm crosses anchored with barbecue skewers, and pebbles scattered on new-laid turf.
God of fluttering fabric and bobbing blooms
As this Holy Saturday draws to its close
Darkness falls and the storm wind whips up
May we find the still centre that is you
And the strength that is found in our own powerlessness
Today we continued our journey into the Passion story, and encountered four people who were, some way, there in the gospel narrative of the trial and execution of Jesus...
Pilate's wife, who may have been in Rome rather than Jerusalem, and whose message went unheeded
Simon, a visitor from Cyrene in modern day Libya, who was dragged into an event where he had no control
The mother of the sons of Zebedee - presumably the quarrelsome James and John - who, with other women, stood silently at the place of execution
Joseph from a place called Arimathea, that no-one quite knows where it was, who had the audacity to ask for body of the dead Jesus, and who ensured it was safely laid to rest before nightfall
Similar numbers to last night, albeit a slightly different mix of people, each engaging with the story, praying, wondering, remembering, imagining...
I popped back late this afternoon to close up the tomb, to lay our Jesus to rest.
Tomorrow the garden is open for quiet prayer and reflection... then what will Sunday bring?
Maundy Thursday Evening... a Tenebrae service with simple communion. This year adapted from a published liturgy entitled 'I was there' by David E Ridenhour, we heard from seven 'voices' who were there throughout Jesus' life but especially so during his final hours...
Doubt
Sorrow
Fear
Shame
Agony
Hate
Death
We were, I think, seventeen or eighteen in total, gathered at the close of day to listen to scripture, to break bread, drink wine and hear the voices speak into the gathering gloom...
As always, a powerful and poignant way to begin the Easter weekend. Grateful to those who read, who washed up afterwards, and of course to those who participated with their quiet presence.
