Having grown up in a protestant church and home, I have spent all of my life oblivious to the Stations of the Cross.  If you are also unfamiliar with this practice, here is what Wikipedia says about the stations:

Stations of the Cross (or Way of the Cross; in Latin, Via Crucis; also called the Via Dolorosa or Way of Sorrows, or simply, The Way) refers to the depiction of the final hours (or Passion) of Jesus , and the devotion commemorating the Passion. The tradition as chapel devotion began with St. Francis of Assissi and extended throughout the Roman Catholic Church in the medieval period. It is less often observed in the Anglican and Lutheran churches. It may be done at any time, but is most commonly done during the Season of Lent, especially on Good Friday and on Friday evenings during Lent.

One of U2’s new song’s on their recently released album No Line on the Horizon got me thinking about stations of the cross.  Here are a few of the lyrics to this penetrating ballad entitled Moment of Surrender:

I was punching in the numbers at the ATM machine
I could see in the reflection
A face staring back at me
At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

I was speeding on the subway
Through the stations of the cross
Every eye looking every other way
Counted down ’til the Pentacost
At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

So, as my interest had been piqued by my favorite band, and my heart was open during a season of searching during Lent and Easter, I found the service our little Episcopal church held on Good Friday deeply meaningful to me.  It was a chilly night, and we met out in the garden beside the fountain in the church courtyard.  Flaming lamps flickered on and off in the wind as the priest and people read God’s Word and responded, looking at artistic renditions of the different phases of the story of Christ’s Cross.  I held both of my daughters on my lap, wrapped in a warm blanket against the cold, and we wondered in our hearts at the great mystery of such wondrous love.

If you are interested in something enlivening for your own personal prayer life, or something life-giving to read with your children, here is a link to a stations of the cross devotional that can be used personally or with others.  I love how this particular teaching is so gentle in its truth.  I’m going to try to mull over one station each day for the next couple of weeks. 

Love is the person of the resurrection, scooping  up the dust and chanting, “Live!”

Emily Dickenson

The painting above was done by Eugene Burnand in 1898.  I’ll never forget seeing the original on the bottom floor of the Muse Dorsey in Paris, France.  It startled me and thrilled me.  I had never seen it nor heard of it before.  I stood for a long time gazing at it.  The emotion in the eyes of Peter, the hope in the posture of John, the look of having just seen a ghost in both their eyes.  Could it be true?  Dare we hope?  The tomb was empty - we saw it with our own eyes.  The tomb is empty.  Hallelujah.  We rejoice today.

Today is Palm Sunday, the beginning of the week we remember Jesus’ passionate suffering, and I have been thinking more about this special time of year.  I love spring with its flowers, new leaves budding, baby animals being born everywhere, and fresh beginnings of new life where death has reigned supreme for the dreary months of winter.  Yesterday we took the kids to Spring Farm Days at an old farmstead, where we saw baby bunnies, chicks, a piglet, and kid goat, even a docile black sheep being shorn for its summer wardrobe.  Oh, it felt good to see the poor thing lose the big bulky coat of thick, black wool that had served her so well through the bleak chilly months and that now served only to catch hay and aggravate her with its bulky heat.  New starts is one thing that spring means.  Time to shed the old and begin the new.

So often it is human nature to want to cling to the old, to want to remain in our rigid ways and cling to what is familiar.  But springtime and Easter arrive to remind us that this is not the way we are called to journey, that we can muster the courage to change, to risk new directions in love, in relationships, and in calling.  Just a few months ago, my husband and I were talking about a decision whether or not to move out of town a bit and build a house in the country near my parent’s farm.  We have since decided to take this step, but for me, it was a bit of a stretch.  Who enjoys change?  I wanted to dig my heels in and refuse to move.  I’m settled here in my routine.  My kids have neighborhood friends with whom they play regularly.  I have a good buddy next door.  I don’t want to pack up everything and move.  But life calls us to move out of the familiar and have the courage to risk change.  There are new adventures to be had, new friends to make, dreams to awaken.  Easter reminds us of this truth.

Easter is at once shockingly grotesque and sorrowful and yet gloriously hopeful and celebratorial.  Dorothy Sayers, the contemporary of C.S. Lewis, once said,  “To make of his story something that could neither startle, nor shock, nor terrify, nor excite, nor inspire a living soul is to crucify the Son of God afresh.”  This is a time of year to awaken from our slumber and face the central truth of life, that there is a God who lives, there is a God who takes the broken places in the world, in our lives, and grows beauty in those places.  There is a God who loves humanity so tenderly, so powerfully, that he walked alone down the path toward his own brutal death to buy them back from evil, to make them his own people again.

This paradox is especially vibrant during the springtime.  The ground has been hard and unbearing.  The trees have lain naked in the winter winds.  The sun’s light has been scarce.  Weary, bleary days have gone on and on until it seems they will be endless.  Then quietly, almost out of nowhere, spring begins to take us by surprise.  Baby green leaflets burst forth from the trees all around.  Bird chirp their hearts out, announcing that winter is almost over.  Redbuds and dogwoods bloom, subtle in their glory, all the while singing of the truth of God’s glorious reign over death and gloom.

My life has lately been a barren place.  I do not particulary feel joy or fruitfulness, at all.  I grow weary of the monotous calling of my life as a mother of young children, repeating the same tasks over daily.  My heart aches for rest and for fruit to grow from all this planting, all this tending to the garden.  I see a good deal  of sorrow around me, in my own family, and in the situations in the world at large.  I am tempted to lose hope; sometimes I do.  But spring arrives, and Easter with it, to shout to my hurting and weary heart, that God delights in surprising us with flowers that grow from death, with new life jumping out of apparent emptiness and barren places.

Jesus’ followers didn’t get it.  He tried to tell them he was going to die, that there was no other way, but they could not hear him.  They refused to listen.  They had another plan, another dream, that did not include such horrific sadness, loss, and hurt.  And yet, he walked the path his Father gave him to walk.  And their lack of knowing and understanding his plan, did nothing to hinder his fulfilling that plan.  He still triumphantly rode into Jerusalem, faithfully offered the last meal to his friends, agonizingly submitted to his Father’s plan in the garden, and resolutely walked the bloody path to Calvary. 

Holy Week took his friends by surprise.  They did not know the climax would be his death.  How could this be God’s plan for Messiah?  For a time, they were left with grief and utter disillusionment.  Then Sunday morning came to shock all their senses into hope of a whole new plan.  For now, let us walk through this week remembering the events of that precious time.  Maybe we will find new hope for our own journey, maybe spring will awaken new life in the wintry soil of our hearts.  This is my prayer for me and for you.

Yesterday I took my girls to our church to learn a song they will sing with the other children this morning in worship.  The song goes like this:

Ho-ho-ho-hosanna in the hightest!  Ho-ho-ho-hosanna, He’s the brightest!  Ho-ho-ho-hosanna the children sing, Ho-o-sanna to our KING!  Hosanna today, the little children praise, The son of David rides, wave palm branches high!  To Him blessings we shout!  He’s told us all about, God’s love for all men, how he forgives sin.  See Jesus riding near, sing hosanna clear.  Ho-ho-ho-hosanna the children sing, ho-o-sanna to our King!

It is a joyful thing to watch and hear the children sing these words.  It got me thinking about the children who were there on that Sunday about A.D. 37 when Jesus rode the donkey into Jerusalem and the people shouted and waved palm branches in praise of him.  Some of those dear children had met Jesus.  He had laughed with them, probably telling their version of knock knock jokes.  He had held them as babies and toddlers.  He had wiped a teary blubbery face.  He had tickled and chased them.  He had given them a strong embrace and a smile that said, “Get up, you can do it.” 

There was a girl there he had awakened from death, a child he had given back the ability to run.  These children had seen him, heard him, hugged him.  And I bet they were full of sheer joy as he rode into Jerusalem triumphantly on Passover Week.  I can just hear them shouting “Jesus, Jesus, look at me!”  I can just imagine them sqealing with delight that he has come.  I can see them running down the road to get their friends and family to come see.

Do you hear them today?  Are you with them as they shout, “Hosannah! (salvation)?”  He came on a donkey, fulfilling a prophecy from Zechariah 9:9  “Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion!  Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem!  See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt the foal of a donkey.”  And they shouted their hearts out, “Salvation, salvation!!  He is here! He is here!”  My heart is so happy he has come and brought salvation to me.

I guess I’m just in the mood to suggest choice music, but I wanted to write about another remarkable singer/ songwriter named Austin Cunningham.  Austin is from Texas and now takes up residence near Nashville, Tennessee.  My husband and I have been able to hear him play twice in home concerts in our town, and he is an outstanding writer as well as performer.  He has had songs recorded by Hank Williams Jr., Martina McBride, Dolly Parton, and others.  He writes from his heart about real stuff, and he is just an amazing person.  I am not usually a huge fan of country music, but  I would drop any plans to see Austin any day of the week.  He is that good, and he is fun to listen to.   Oh, he has a new album out this year also, so if you want some good new music, try it out.  You can also download his music on iTunes.

Here’s a little taste of the best of Austin, a song Wynona Judd recorded:

Chris Thile from the well-loved bluegrass group Nickel Creek has taken a turn in his career, with a blue grass quartet, Punch Brothers.  I am a lover of Nickel Creek and I got to see them on their last tour before disbanding in November 2007.  My favorite songs include The Fox, Afton, and When You Come Back Down. 

Recently, the Punch Brothers (Chris’ new group) came to our little town on their introductory tour, getting the word out about themselves.  Until then, I knew Chris was amazingly talented, but I did not realize the extent of that talent.  He is a musical prodigy, which his mom realized when he could sing perfect pitch at age 2.  One of the best mandelin players there has ever been, and a composer of genius stature, Chris is taking a new direction in creativity.  The name of their group comes from a Mark Twain short story, entitled Punch Brothers, Punch.

One of the songs they played that night at the concert here in town is called, The Blind Leaving the Blind, a very clever play on words if you ask me.  The song has four movements, and the song itself lasted almost half of the concert.  I was lost through parts of it, because although I love music, I have very little technical knowledge of it.  To me the most profound part of the song is the last movement.  Listen to it below, and check out the Punch Brothers if you get the chance!

Here are the lyrics to the 4th movement of the song:

I’m coming back my friends
From the deep and bitter end
Where I was so concerned
That we would be the ones who burned
The more scared the safer
The more grateful for the grape juice
And the wafer

I sound done
And I feel done
But I’m not done
Unless he’d give up on a lost son

I need to hear him say
You and your friends can come in
Your thoughts and that girl can come in
Your parents and brothers are here
I let them in
Who told you I wouldn’t let you all in
You are my children

Heaven shine through the stars
The city lights and the nearest bar
Where I’ll be with my friends
Hiding from the bitter end
The armor and the weapons
Were a strange way to show them my affection

I sound done
And I feel done
But I’m not done
Unless you’d give up on a lost son