As I grow older, I find it harder to reconcile the historical with the mythical. But that's ok. A story is no less "true" just because it has very little empirical basis in fact. I don't know what I believe but I am pretty sure about what I don't believe. And I find more truth in honest doubt and in historical perspective than in claims of inerrancy and truth. All I need is one day when I am reminded that there is light. I'm pretty much okay after that.
Last Easter, I was sick unto death. Some of it was viral even. This Easter will be better. In the first place, I settled an especially nasty situation last Monday so I am not spending Easter in Jackson getting ready for a trial. My friends from the other end of Mississippi are in town this weekend for a big USTA event out at Pleasant Valley. I wonder what genius thought it was a good idea to run a tennis tournament over Easter weekend anyway? I spent last night watching junior tennis players consume mass quantities of food. It was utter carnage. Boys. Girls. Eating, talking, taking pics of each other with the cellphones.
This is a true story. My buddy's kid introduced me to this girl as " You know those cool pictures in Facebook? He took 'em."
Girl: "Really? Coooooool."
Me: " Whaaaat? Those pics are in Facebook?"
Him:" Yessir. I thought they turned out real good."
Me: " Don't I get any royalties?"
Him: " It's in the mail."
Glad I could help him keep his public up to date as to his likeness. Is this a srange new world or what?
Today, I will go to church and then go visit my mother. Tomorrow afternoon the local minor league team opens the season down the street at Ray Winder Field. It will be a perfect end to a good day.
Today we are reminded that victory remains in love. Maybe I do know what I believe after all.
I believe in Easter. I believe in the light.
1 comment:
You're right about Christmas, although I love it for its sentimentality as much as for the smell of Christmas trees, and the whole gift-giving thing can be a lot of fun if you rule out actually spending much money.
Easter's been a harder one for me, for the very reason that unless you've got young kids in your life, there's nothing to do other than contemplate the deeper meaning of the day. That's, well, uncomfortable for me most years. I don't care so much for the pageantry of the regular Easter church services -- especially since I can't sing "Up from the grave he arose" without finishing, at least in my head, with "With a bunch of stuff between his toes," and no one thinks a grown woman snorfling in church is cute -- but I've always loved the sunrise service. (The simple old-school ones, not the extravaganza on the river, sponsored by my church and yours -- it's cool having black and white and brown all collected in the same place, but it's still a pageant.)
A couple of years ago I went to a Maundy Thursday service for the first time. I'd somehow never come across the Psalm they read, 22 -- the one that starts, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" As they read it they stripped the altar of all decoration, and the feeling of despair and desolation was just overwhelming. It sounds morbid, but it was also one of the most beautiful services I've ever sat through.
Post a Comment