Today is that strange in-between, the already not-yet, the luminous quiet, the emptiness of unknowing, a bright clear day, with wind and daffodils, and brisk gusts from the sea. Waves and whitecaps chop the sea, the tide moving inexorably in with strength, pushed and pulled by the full moon. The water in Lane’s Cove was very high, coming up to the edge of the stone quays, sloshing over just a bit.
It’s a powerful day, no matter what the weather is, interwoven with the pull of life and light out of death and darkness. It seems earth’s gravity moves in an opposite direction to push out, to open a tomb, to open every tomb, to roll away every stone, all the universe holding its breath, or at least I imagine it that way. Last night’s Passover seder spoke of freedom and liberation, the push and pull of God’s mighty hand, deliverance, renewal. And now, following fast on Good Friday, this morning, and into the afternoon, if you stop what you are doing, you can feel the weight of this waiting. The sense of expectation is wilder and more soul-stirring than any other expectation, far more intense than birth pangs, for today’s pangs herald a new creation.
This day sits in my throat, a sob not uttered, but felt deep, a shudder. Tomorrow, Mark’s Gospel doesn’t wrap the story up, with a beautiful meeting of the Risen Christ; instead the women are left with terror and amazement, fleeing the scene. They will come back, and though Mark says they told no one, we know they must have, because we will come back, too, in the morning, and sing our praise and awe and wonder.
May God’s grace pour over you in rivers of light.