Spontaneous Applause

God loves spontaneous applause.

The rain held off as the string quartet began the processional. First came the grandmothers, then the father and mother of the groom. Yes, they looked wonderful in their wedding attire, but it was something else that caused the congregation to applaud. Last Fall, the father contracted a terrible neurological disease out of nowhere that almost took his life. Only months ago, he was being lifted from a hospital bed by a crane of sorts. It was doubtful he’d make it to the wedding. Then, it would only be in a wheelchair. No one imagined he’d be able to walk down the aisle, let alone dance. No wonder everyone clapped; no wonder the father smiled gratefully and subtly pointed toward the clouds above.

God loves spontaneous applause.

It was an extraordinary day made up of ordinary things. She fixed breakfast for her three children, the youngest having to eat his in the car as she drove them to school. At work, a co-worker broke down in the breakroom because of a terrible mistake she’d made. She shared a mistake she made not long ago, and it seemed to make her co-worker feel better. She met her husband for their weekly lunch, something they had started doing to stay connected, and when she went to pick the children up, she was told to pull off to the side because her eldest had forgotten something in her locker. From her car, she watched as her first-born skipped down the sidewalk waving her science notebook as if she hadn’t a care in the world. When the family held hands to say grace at dinner, she felt the remnants of her son’s peanut butter and jelly snack. Before she finished the dishes, she placed her hands on the counter’s edge, closed her eyes, and whispered, “thank you.”

God loves spontaneous applause.

He wasn’t even halfway. He had made it 700 miles, but Mount Katahdin, the finish line of the Appalachian Trail, seemed beyond reach. Still, when he saw a path leading off the trail, he decided to put his pack against a tree and see where it led. Soon, he was standing on a rock ledge overlooking miles of Virginia. The sun was beginning to set, and he knew he should find a place to camp, but the sight before him wouldn’t let him leave. In awe, he lifted his hands and let out a shout that echoed up and down the surrounding mountains. It was his way of saying “yes” to what he was seeing. It was his way of joining creation’s song.

God loves spontaneous applause.

A new song

I love many things about music, but there’s one thing I cannot stand: modulations! Modulations are when a composer lifts the key to a song in hopes of making the song feel new or invigorated. For me, modulations do neither; they make songs feel old and lifeless. The don’t tell me the composer is creative; they tell me he (or she) is bored. Driving in my car recently, I heard a song I love, but when it modulated, I cringed and switched stations.

I was reminded of this when I left church on Easter morning. As was the case in many churches, the music had been magnificent, readings and sermon inspirational, and full pews encouraging. I left with a renewed spirit. I vowed to go to church more often, read daily, and find some meaningful way to serve others. What I realized was, I was just changing the key to a song I was already singing. To make it seem new or exciting, I planned to change the key. It was a spiritual modulation, if you will, and, deep down, I longed for more.

We are told to “sing to the Lord a new song.” It doesn’t say, change the key, or sing it with renewed gusto. We are to sing a new song, and I know no better time that in this Easter season to do so. 

Instead of doing what we have always done, expecting a different result, what would it look like to sing a new song . . . in our homes? our jobs? our churches (synagogues, mosques)? How would it change the way we see . . . our friends? strangers? the struggling? the poor? the lonely? the lost? How would a new song transform our fear of . . . not having enough? not being enough? 

I have changed the key to my faith so often, I’m sure God is as bored as I am. With what time I have left, I’d like to find that new song and sing it as if I have never sung it before. 

Easter 2022

It either happened, or it didn’t. It’s as simple as that.

As tempting as it may be to look at Easter and dilute its significance with metaphor, or speak generally about how God turns bad things into good, this year I feel called to look squarely at the reality of what happened years ago. I need to get up early and approach the place where his disciples laid him. In the early morning light, I need to rub my hands on the stone rolled off to the side. I need to take my seat at the threshold and peer into the dark tomb. I’m not ready, or not brave enough, to go inside. For now, sitting close must be enough. 

Everything that happened before was easier to understand than this empty tomb. The shepherds and wise men, the fishermen and nets, the lessons and the healings, the conversations and the sermons, the storm on the lake and the lilies of the field . . . all of it is easier to hold. 

Even the events in Jerusalem make more sense than an empty tomb. The triumphant entrance, the crowd’s cheers, the crowd’s jeers, the Passover table, the tables turned upside down, the love and the fear, the hate and the forgiveness. Even the cross itself, with all its brutality, fits into a world I know well. 

But an empty tomb? It’s surpasses all my understanding. No wonder I keep it at a distance. It’s easier to focus on family gatherings, Easter egg hunts and pretty outfits than look at that morning long ago.

Sitting there, I can see the tomb is more than wishful thinking, more than a nice made-up story to bring things to a happy ending. There’s dried blood on the cloths on the floor. There’s an undeniable stench in the darkness. Rubbing my hands in the dirt beside me, taking a pebble between my fingers, I think about how the disciples handled this empty tomb. Like me, they found it hard to believe. They needed to see it, and him, for themselves. 

In whatever way that happened, they were transformed by what they saw. They stood up regardless of the consequences, spoke in ways they never had before, and even died because of what they saw. Never would they have done so unless the knew something, unless they had seen things with their own eyes. From that moment on, they pointed to the empty tomb and lived the rest of their lives in its good news.

Perhaps, we should do the same.