We all watched with awkward attention and stifled amusement to see how the officiant was going to recover the somber tone of the Good Friday service after The Great Disruption. With an ear-shattering crash in the ancient, echoey cathedral, the Very Reverend Dude’s cell phone slipped out of his swishing, toe-length black robe and busted into three chunks in front of the altar, just prior to the Veneration of the Cross. The rest of us had put our meager petitions before the cross, which was shrouded in a black veil; our fearless leader had sacrificed and presented his iPhone – in trinity – to the good Lord.
It was almost as much fun to behold as it was to experience God sending the direct message that men are men, life is life and that what counts is our direct line to Him that we ourselves maintain, apart from man-made rituals. And that death signals life.
It was a message of freedom; an unyoking of worldly hangups.
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The call had come at the 11th hour earlier this week, after a frenzied voice mail was unable to be returned. The father of the children was discovered slumped over, dead. Too young. Too unexpected. And just when things were getting good. They knew he’d been stressed out about his children, and had been grieved at their ongoing waywardness. He had done everything he’d known to do, even promising to save them from every monster and evil that dared haunt and taunt, proving his power and love in so many ways, but still they strayed. It seemed the more opportunities he gave, the more sick they became, the more trapped in dysfunction.
How bittersweet it was for him – and them – and those who loved them – to see that the only way they seemed to get better, to thrive and grow upright, was for him to remove himself altogether.
He couldn’t do it himself, it took the one who held authority over their disposition, and over his desire for them to heal, to hold firm in drawing a line. The line was drawn very clearly – gradually over a few weeks, but very distinctly – and it became clear to all that in order for success in growth, the cord had to be cut. It was said figuratively – the last thing that was said to him, in fact…but had they known that was the last time he would be seen alive, would they have done or said anything differently? Would the hug have lasted a lot longer? What would the last chosen words have been, instead of the words used under the assumption that there would be a tomorrow?
When someone dies, the grief process seems universal…the shock, the sadness, the denial – is this for real? – the bargaining. Replaying our last words on the phone. And in person. The last voice mail, the last text. Hanging on for dear life…wait, was it something I said or did? why him? Why not me, Lord?
The authority had an inkling that the intermediary had a soft spot for these errant children who fed into the intermediary’s soft spot. Had he not been there for them, like them, he might not have felt for them as much, but it had to be. But the authority saw through the fleshly feelings and the perpetuating sickness, and commanded the cord be cut.
There had to be separation in order for there to be unity and harmony.
There had to be baptismal suffocation, drowning and death in order for there to be resurrection, growth and new life. The baptism as crucifixion, yielding to perfection, renewal and eternity.
The anguish of the one imposing the necessary separation was very great, but there was no choice. When one does their best job, when one assesses a situation and determines the best course of action and executes the plan, it is difficult, but the affirmation of righteousness counterbalances any sense of regret.
For when you know a painful ending represents and yields a fruitful beginning, you know right has been done.
Will you have the mettle to get through the pain, with the promise of a new beginning? What kind of faith does that take?
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Back at the cathedral, the stately priest had passionately inserted into the ritual an unholy “Oh, NO!” as he gathered his long robe in one hand and sheepishly collected his cell phone parts with his other hand. The elderly ladies stiffened with anxiety upon his departure from the words in the Book of Common Prayer; the younger adults gently strained to see which version of the iPhone he had just demolished. And she, near the back, contemplated that had he not dropped his phone in the middle of this serious occasion, holy day preceding holier of days, could she have otherwise have been so aptly reminded that men are just men, and that He came to us to be one of us? That He died for us, so we could have eternal life?
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The one child threw her arms around and thanked, strangely relieved and released. A totally unexpected response. We had prepared for the worst, with extra support, emergency response ready and all manner of funereal protocol.
But the child sang. She sang of how had there been no death, she would not be able to move forth. This young child who was too young to be privy to such concepts, communicated her freedom and joy in knowing the death was real and true, and it moved her. It moved her forward. She had great plans to no longer be wayward, and looked ahead to a new beginning, a new chance.
How do we get caught up in the ways of the world, that we forget and neglect such basic truths, as how death yields to birth, how dormancy produces life, the dead of winter begets the birth of spring? And a shattered iPhone will necessitate the purchase of a newer model?
There must always be a Great Disruption in order for things to get better, lest we slumber and bumble along down the wrong path.
I have no doubt the Lord used the death that rocked my week to draw me closer and remind me of a few important things. That is so cool how He neatly ties everything together in the end, even if we can’t fathom how or why something happens.
Death becomes new life…what better reason to celebrate?
He is risen! Happy Easter, my friend.
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