Today the temperatures have dropped and I even saw a few snowflakes, but yesterday was warm and sunny, and I was able to take a walk through the woods by the dam. I thought I was seeing old bell-shaped seed pods hanging from the branches of small trees, but a closer looked revealed that they were spring flowers, even if they were maroon. I don't know what kind of tree they are from, but they are all over the place in the woods there.

Maroon seemed to be the color of the day -- not just in the mystery bell flowers, but lower down, repeated in the trillium that is beginning to open.

We celebrated Easter this Sunday with a glimpse of the feast of the Lamb.

After much good music and song, Heidi's sermon took us to Mark's account of the women who come to the tomb and are told by a young man in a white robe that Jesus has been raised. He instructs them to go back and tell the disciples, and that Jesus is going ahead to Galilee and they will see him there. Instead, as so often in Mark's account of Jesus' followers, they don't get it, and they flee in terror and amazement, and in fear, tell no one. Heidi challenged us to think about how we share the story, and gave us five minutes of her sermon time to jot down a few words or an image of what is central for us in this on-going story of Jesus' life, death and resurrection, and then to share that with someone nearby.

Then came our glimpse of the vision described in Isaiah 24: 6 - 9:       On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
    a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines,
    of rich food filled with marrow,
    of well-aged wines strained clear.

    And he will destroy on this mountain
    the shroud that is cast over all peoples,
    the sheet that is spread over all nations;
    he will swallow up death forever.

    Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,
    and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,
    For the Lord has spoken.
    It will be said on that day,
    Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him,
    so that he might save us.
    This is the Lord for whom we have waited;
    let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

Two tables at the front were spread with festive cloth and decorated with candles and flowers, and a steady stream of our many children carried in candles, fizzy grape juice, plates and baskets of rich breads, fruits, cheeses, eggs, chocolates and more, till the tables were full and overflowing. And still more baskets and plates arrived, till the piano bench was pulled in to hold a few, the table at the front was full, and several of the helpers stayed at the front holding food, as our worship leader led us in giving thanks.

After our time of feasting, a group of many ages gathered like an African choir at the front, leading us in a Tanzanian praise song and dance -- an exuberant, celebrative conclusion to our glimpse of that feast which will be for all peoples.

Early in Lent I participated in the monthly Taize worship at the Hermitage, in Michigan. We gathered in the chapel with the chairs set up in two tiers circling a cross which hung in the middle of the room, over a center arrangement with trays of sand, a Christ candle, and small prayer candles.

We sang the simple Taize songs over and over, sometimes accompanied by piano, sometimes by cello or flute or harp, till they had sunk deep within, quieting and centering us. Some were familiar to me from other settings: “Come and pray in us,” “Bless the Lord.” We sang, and quieted our souls, and slowly people began going to the center, lighting a candle, praying for awhile and then placing the candle in the sand and returning to their seats.

For an intercession song, we sang #22 in the Taize song book:
                By your cross and all the wounds you suffered,
                                grant us freedom in your love.

I found this echoing with my reading of Julian’s showings of Christ’s Passion, and of the deep message of love she felt.  Our cross was empty, two branches stripped of their bark and roped together. But there was a discoloration on the side facing me that looked like the face of someone crying out or weeping, hand to cheek. And across the room, on the opposite wall, there was a crucifix, with Christ on the cross, and beside it, an icon of Christ the Light-Giver.  I found my gaze going to the cross behind the head on the icon, to the crucifix, to the crying face on the cross of bare branches.

And in that space I held awareness of a number of people I know who are suffering – living with cancer or chronic disease, the loss of a loved one, depression, the breakdown of relationship. I went up to light my candle and to hold that in prayer at the foot of the cross.

We moved in to an extended time of silence before singing “When the night becomes dark, your love, O Lord, is a fire,” watching the flames of the candles flicker as others came forward to add another candle. And we sang “We adore you, Jesus Christ, and we bless your holy name, truly your cross and passion bring us life and healing.”

That one I will continue to ponder. The resurrection and its hope of healing and restoration, yes – but what of the cross and Christ’s Passion? How do I understand this gift of love? Understand, not in the sense of worrying about which theological interpretation of atonement I can assent to, but rather understand and receive at the heart level, as Julian so clearly did.

As I ponder, another visual memory stirs. Years ago I attended an Interplay workshop at Bethany Theological Seminary. In their lovely wood-floored chapel, we did hand dances, moved and played, told big body stories, sometimes all together, sometimes just a few of us. For one session, Cynthia Winton-Henry read the story of Jesus’ visit to Mary and Martha, and then put on some lively music. I watched as Martha after Martha sprang up, energetically moving, stirring, dancing around.

Then one male dancer stretched out on the floor, on his side, with one hand reaching towards the cross on the wall across the room, and with intense focus, began pushing himself with his other arm, a slow, silent, straight route through all the lively dancers, to the foot of the cross, where he rested, hand open and outstretched.

Like the dancer, like Mary, like Julian, like those praying at the Taize service, on this Holy Saturday I can continue to bring my prayers to the foot of the cross, my own and my intercessory prayers.

And a different sort of flame lifted my prayers this morning, as I walked the Stations of the Cross at Pathways Retreat Center -- the flame of sunlight and new plant growth.