Projects

Something Swell on Saturday

The 3:30 Project is a collaborative blog by three life-long friends: Maggie, Mary Margaret and Jillian. On Saturdays, Mary Margaret plans to post something from the week that made her smile.

It’s Holy Saturday, the weighted pause between Good Friday and Easter, between the Cross and Resurrection. I wanted to share one of my favorite pieces of poetry, that is often shared in a musical adaptation at my church here in New York. The poem challenges us to look at the reality of death, the material stuff of believing in true resurrection of body and spirit, the physical presence of Christ, His humanity, the majesty of a living God, rather than fairy tale or myth, or vague spiritual sensation. The poem asks that we ground in the physical realm– the stuff of Creation–  what Easter asks me to believe, which is that God loved His creation so much that He was willing to become part of it to redeem it.

“Steven Stanzas at Easter”

Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
Eleven apostles;
It was as His flesh; ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.

-John Updike, 1960