Easter

After a warm and sunny week in Austin (despite forecasts to the contrary), Easter in Tyler, Texas dawned…rainy and cool! It actually started pouring long before sunrise, and didn’t let up until mid-afternoon—after which showers continued intermittently. But I had a great view out the window at a beautiful state park. Good weather for reflection.

My journey began last Easter—50 weeks ago. A couple people recently asked how the trip has affected me. “In every conceivable way,” would be a fair answer. But an equally honest reply—and the one I gave both times—was that the trip hasn’t changed me. It has softened me. I don’t take myself quite as seriously. Being open is more important than being right. And things that used to mean a lot (both opinions and possessions) are less consequential now.

More than anything, the journey has reinforced a long-held view that people (even the ones with whom I don’t agree) are fundamentally good. I believe that evil actions are generally rooted in ignorance, fear and pain, not malice. What goes around eventually comes around—in this lifetime. And while we could certainly be doing a better job of caring for each other, I continue to find kind hearts beneath even the gruffest human exteriors.

Another common question: What’s the most surprising discovery? That’s easy. Since the earliest weeks, I’ve been astonished by the number of people for whom the name “God” restricts the experience of God. And there are two distinct camps.

In the first group are those such as my friend, Tinker, who struggle not only with the concept of “God,” but who are equally averse to “words like ‘Divine,’ ‘Belief’ and ‘Miracle.’” The terms, as Tinker explained, conjure a disdain for the (often irrational) dogma many were “force-fed” as children. Members of this group frequently characterize themselves as agnostic or atheist. While they shy away from religion, some retain a vigorous spirituality.

Ironically, the second camp is comprised exclusively of avid believers. They are completely at ease with the word, “God.” In fact, they claim to know exactly what God is, looks like, and requires of us. Unfortunately, their definition of God is so narrow that they have a hard time conceiving the Divine’s infinite manifestations. Such rigid clarity sets up a false dichotomy, placing God apart from rather than part of us. More importantly, it stands in the way of encountering God as surprise, as wonder, as mystery. And what is God if not Ultimate Mystery?

I think of Yvonne, a Jamaican woman working at a small café in Long Key, Florida. Raised Catholic and now an Episcopal congregant, she characterized life as an “ongoing battle between God and the devil.” To God, she attributes all the good and seemingly miraculous occurrences (including the time her truck broke down in the Keys and a speeding cab driver got her to the Miami airport just in time to catch a plane for her wedding in the Cayman Islands). I didn’t ask for specifics about the devil’s doings—but the force clearly loomed as one to be reckoned with. How disorienting it must be, I thought, to be bounced back and forth between such fiercely opposing powers on a daily basis. And isn’t it amazing how that construct reduces God to a human creation, rather than vice-versa?

During a phone conversation on Easter Eve, Susanne told me about the annual re-enactment of Good Friday by a Catholic community in the Philippines. What distinguishes the drama is the fact that a number of people are actually crucified. Real people. Real crosses. Real nails. Adherents refer to the gruesome display as a show of faith. I think it’s insane. “Why do people continue to literally carry the cross,” asked Susanne, “when Jesus came to show us how to carry the Light?”

When it comes to shining a light on God, I appreciate a reference made by a Native American jet boat guide in the Everglades. Fabio is a Miccosukee Indian—part of the Seminole nation. At one point during our 90-minute ride, he explained that his people refer to God as the “Breath Maker.” When I asked why, he replied, “We know from evolution how things got here. But we don’t know how breath came.”

Such grace and poetry underscore the potential of Easter. We miss the point if we limit Easter to the celebration of a resurrection that occurred more than 2,000 years ago. The one who was raised asked others to follow his lead. In that light, Easter is an invitation to each of us—to crawl out of our own suffocating tombs, to rise from our own waking stupors, and to set our sights not on some distant heaven, but on this earthly paradise that beckons for our stewardship.

Contrary to its common application, “Christ” is not the surname of a man named Jesus. Rather, it’s a force that Jesus embodied. And it’s also a reference to and reminder of the glowing spark of divinity within—an energy of love—accessible to anyone who embraces it. “Christ” is light. Is it rising in you?

(Eureka Springs, AR)