What We Say In Silence

I didn’t write over the Triduum this year. Normally I do, but I was an emotional train wreck. I cried for most of the Easter Vigil Mass. I had taken a nap earlier on Saturday, so I wasn’t exactly tired. At 12:30, then, my dad and I started one of the Harry Potter movies and went to bed around 3:00.

Normally for us, Easter looks like getting up and having a feast with a bunch of relatives from New Hampshire and Maine. We had our book club on Friday, and planned to meet online for a bit. We talked about food and boredom and pets. Instead of our usual pile of food to feed an army, we got an order from Buffalo Wild Wing, and my mom ordered a chocolate cake and a carrot cake. After we chatted online, my dad and I watched the next Harry Potter movie. Then I went to pray.

It seemed like the Lord was asking, so I said, “I’m not angry with you. I just don’t know why this is happening, and I don’t know what you’re doing, and it’s kind of freaking me out.” That day I had Joy Of The Lord by Rend Collective stuck in my head despite not having listened to it in a while. The Chorus ends with, “In the darkness I’ll dance, in the shadows I’ll sing/ The joy of the Lord is my strength.” I thought about the first Easter. The disciples were together behind locked doors, afraid and uncertain about what even the next hour might bring. That felt familiar.

I imagined myself in that room with them. Most of them had fled and abandoned the Lord; all of them thought He was dead and that the previous three years of their lives had been a waste. They all knew that they were in very real danger. I imagined sitting there, and suddenly Jesus walks through the closed and locked door. Chairs are knocked over; people shout, but He raises His hand in blessing and says, “Peace.” In His language, though, it would have been “Shalom.” For some reason every fiber of my being hyper-focused on that “Shalom.” I wasn’t simply imagining this anymore; I was praying it.

In my meditation, He walked over to me, got down to my level (because I was sitting in a chair, sort of stunned), and showed me His hand. Instinctively, I took it, and it was like everything disappeared, even time. It was like He was silently saying, “I’m still here.” I waited for Him to do something; I was letting Him drive the bus at this point. I thought the scene would continue and He would show His scars to His disciples because that’s just what would happen next, but nothing else happened. For a moment, I thought about letting go so things could progress like they do in the “story,” but it was almost like He silently said, “You don’t have to,” so I didn’t.

When I finally opened my eyes and looked at my phone, I was surprised to see how much time had passed. I told Him that it feels like the world got pulled out from under me. Then I realized that His world had got pulled out from under Him, albeit in a different, and much more painful way, but He knows what it feels like to be thrown into all-of-a-sudden chaos. I also realized that He came back with scars.

I don’t think anyone is going to come out of this unscathed. Those who don’t contract the virus are still worried about their kids’ education, their financial situation, the health of their loved ones, their own mental health, their spiritual well being, or simply what the future as a whole will look like. For better or worse, this is changing us. The first thing Jesus said when He came back to His disciples was “Shalom.” For some reason that felt like I had found a point of gravity and I suddenly wasn’t just spinning off in space, bouncing off of asteroids. It felt like I had found a star and could rest there. Even though it wasn’t a physical touch, He held my hand and silently said, “I’m still here.”

Today I was thinking about constants and how valuable they are. My stupid bird still sleeps under my ear and screeches at the kids playing in the yard next door. I still play the same stupid video game with my dad. We can still watch Harry Potter. The water is still running. The lights still work. I can’t see my friend, I can’t go to the studio, I can’t go to Mass, and that stuff is scary. Most importantly, though, Jesus, the God and King of everything is still here. It’s a lot easier to listen to the chaos because it’s all over the news and social media and even in our heads and it can drive us crazy.

Yesterday, I started my meditation not really knowing what to expect. Early on, when things started shutting down, I was nervous, but said, “Okay, Lord, you got this,” but of course I’ve been listening to the chaos. Last night, in my meditation, the Lord stopped everything and said, “Shalom.” He’s done it before; He can calm the storm, and He can catch us when we’re sinking. It might still rage around us, but we can find His peace in our souls. Hold onto that Easter moment. Let Him hold your hand, and let Him be your star.

What Did It Sound Like?

Ever since Easter I’ve been wondering off and on what Jesus’ resurrection sounded like, and how it might be rendered musically. I realized as I was praying a few minutes ago that I’m thinking about it too much, or maybe just too intellectually. There are, doubtless, many things no one can know about what happened at the tomb right when it happened, but certain things can be known, or at least, could be plausible.

There were soldiers stationed there overnight. What I imagine is a couple of comrades in arms muttering to each other because they were tired. With a sigh of relief, they see the dawn slowly approaching. It’s very quiet because it’s so early and because they wouldn’t have the noise of the city that we’re used to. It would be nearly, if not completely silent. Then the sun would come over the horizon, and they would hear something different.

They would be confused by the sound of powerful wings like nothing they had heard before. Then, maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t see the angel, but something strange would happen. They would yell and undoubtedly, run away, maybe to tell someone, maybe to hide, or maybe just to try and rationalize what was happening and try to convince each other that they were not crazy.

The Angel would then role away the stone, revealing the entrance to the tomb. I don’t know what angels sound like or look like, but I do know what large stones being rolled on the ground sounds like. It would be reasonably loud, especially if it were pushed away with force, which it probably was. The light would flood into a previously pitch dark space, and Jesus would push away the shroud, take a breath, know what had happened, and step outside. Maybe he would talk to the angel, and maybe not. Maybe he left instructions for the angel to tell the women what to say when they came and found the tomb empty.

There are a lot of maybe’s in there. There’s ultimately too much I don’t know. Somehow, though, I just want the whole thing to be louder. I want to know what happened to the soldiers. I’ve never really thought about them before. To me, they’ve never really been an important part of the story. Thinking about it, though, to Jesus, everyone is an important part of the story. He knew who those soldiers were. He cared about them. Maybe at some point those same soldiers came to know Jesus through his Apostles. Then again, maybe not, but I don’t think they would have been unaffected by what happened. I guess this went in a different direction than I was intending, but it’s interesting to think about.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!