But Then Comes the Morning

As a child, my family attended the 8:00 am Sunday Mass at Saint Columba Catholic Church. Going to the early liturgy, proved to be a greater challenge on the First Sunday of Easter after having attended Holy Saturday's Vigil Mass. Yet, one of my favorite Easter memories is of a solo performed by the parish cantor. 

The years have blurred my memory of her name - possibly Carol Bogolin - yet I can still her here clearly and powerfully singing part of the refrain: "

But then comes the morning, yesterdays sorrows behind. W

ake it's the day of your longing. Life returns, mercy comes, it's morning." 

 

Sadly, I have not heard the song since my childhood. After several unsuccessful online searches, I discovered the title, lyrics and writer of what for me resonates with the wonder of Easter.

But Then Comes the Morning

by Jack Miffleton

Look at him stripped on the hill 

running the streets poorly clad 

robots have taken his job 

his hands are outstretched for the nails 

REFRAIN: Forgive Lord, forgive.

It was night when we did what we did.... 

But then comes the morning.

Yesterdays sorrows behind. 

Wake it's the day of your longing.

Life returns, mercy comes, it's morning. 

Look at him nailed to the cross. 

Nailed by our lack of concern 

Locked and forgotten in jail 

Confined to a home for the aged.  

Look at him die on the cross. 

Witness man's cruelty to man 

Cut down like weeds in our wars 

Stabbed on the streets where we live. 

The night watch is set at the tomb. 

He's buried, not dead but alive. 

As long as you did it to these 

you also have done it to me. 

To Fix Love

God loves.
God loves me.
God loves us.
God loves all.

God's love is not a gift.
God loves because that is the nature of God.
Grace allows me to know that God's love is.

No one loves me because of who I am.
People love me because of who they are.
So, when someone chooses not to love me, it is not a problem for me to fix.

Ours to Remember and Share

(The following was written for Catholic Charities USA for November 2014.)

Cultures designate specific times to honor events and peoples significant to their history. Scripture proclaims that even within the first week of creation it was important to honor God on the seventh day. Humanity moves within the parameters of time from weeks to months to seasons, each bearing its own significance. Similarly, the liturgical calendar carries the faithful from Advent to Christmas to Ordinary Time to Lent to Easter to Pentecost to Ordinary Time and the cycle perpetually repeats throughout the universal Church. Each time gives voice to the challenges that mark a historical and transformative journey of faith. In the process, two significant occurrences develop. The history becomes ours, and we become the guardians of the legacy. 

National Black Catholic History Month (NBCHM) reflects the rising of a consciousness to remember and share the history of a people striving to rise above struggle to proclaim their inherent dignity and the dignity of humanity. Black Catholics are a diverse people reflecting a range of experiences, hues, lifestyles, opinions and perspectives. We are saints and we are sinners. We are cradle Catholics and we are converts. We are clergy and we are laity. We are Martha and we are Mary. We are Zaccheus and Zacharias.

You distinctly hear the beauty and complexity of our history in the instrumental version of Mary Lou Williams’ Credo, the very movements that are woven by the Spirit throughout the history of our Church and our nation. Centuries before the establishment of the Vatican, and the construction of the concept of “race” as we know it, our African ancestors followed “the way” of Christ. Knowing upon whose shoulders we stand, we are a proud people. Knowing in whose name we are baptized, we are a faithful people.

Winston Churchill declared, “History is written by the victors.” While there may be some truth in his words, the claim is not absolute. History is written by the survivors courageous enough to speak their truth with the often unspoken hope of dialogue, reconciliation and peace. From them we learn of enduring unimaginable indignities and ineffable hardships with a staunch belief in the mercy of God who cannot be confined by time and space.

History shows the will of God unfolding in the fullness of time. The process is not linear, but cyclical. Descendants of a once kidnapped and enslaved people relate to the story of the Exodus in a uniquely personal manner. Remembering those who died in the Middle Passage; those, like Christ, who were hung on trees; and those whose humanity was denied is part of the inheritance. Dwelling in the Promised Land is the timeless hope as the role of faithful citizenship is embraced.

Today, Black Catholic History is being written through our faithfulness and our failings. NBCHM is a time for us – for all of us - to collectively remember and share the contributions and struggles of Black Catholics. It is also a time for the Catholic Church in the United States – clergy and laity – and people of goodwill to stand in solidarity with us as we seek to follow Our Lord towards dialogue, reconciliation, and peace.

Pope Francis’ words to Palestinian and Israeli leaders on May 24, 2014 are equally relevant to us as we honor Black Catholic History Month, “The path of dialogue, reconciliation and peace must constantly be taken up anew, courageously and tirelessly. There is simply no other way.” May it be so.

Leslye Colvin

(Editor’s note:  For more information about Mary Lou Williams [1910-1981], a most prolific Black Catholic pianist, song writer, and educator, see her biography on the PBS Website, the Mary Lou Williams Center for Black Culture at Duke University, Mary Lou Williams:  Soul on Soul, and her entry on biography.com.)

Jesus is Stripped of His Clothing: Good Friday Reflection on Racism

As a child, he was taught the history of his people and their ongoing relationship with the living God...a people created and loved by the one God...a people whose faith endured as they struggled in captivity, in exile, in slavery, in oppression; the same faith that inspired them to hope for a new day.

Living in an occupied land without privilege, he embraced his God-given dignity though never denying others theirs. In fact, he empowered others to do the same.

Yet, there he stood in his truth before this cross assembled by others - stripped of his dignity, standing in his nakedness, knowing the assault of lies, the weight of shackles, the sting of scourging, the absence of respect, the pangs of exhaustion, the judgment of unjust systems, the apathy of others, the violence of fear.

In spite of his compassionate teaching, centuries later, other peoples stood in their truth before crosses assembled and maintained by others - stripped of their dignity, standing in their nakedness as they faced the cross of racism.

For too many generations, peoples have known the assault of lies, the weight of shackles, the sting of scourging, the absence of respect, the pangs of exhaustion, the judgment of unjust systems, the apathy of others, the violence of fear - in the midst of it all, mindful of God's love for them.

Grateful for the progress made, truth compels us to acknowledge that racism is neither a relic from history, nor a single cross. Instead, our nation's original sin is a complex web of crosses deeply entrenched in our landscape.

Dismantling this web is an ongoing ministry dependent on moving beyond our apathy and divisions to work together in truth so that we may confront the unjust systems and fear that racism perpetuates. When we, who are people of goodwill, stand together in truth, no man or woman is stripped of dignity.


(Written for the 32nd Annual Good Friday Pilgrimage in Atlanta)

Thomas Colvin, Jr.

     Thomas Colvin, Jr., a good and decent man, peacefully departed this life on Friday, September 23, 2011 at his home in Dothan.

     A Mass of Christian Burial will be held 11 am Wednesday, September 28, 2011 at St. Columba Catholic Church with Father Patrick Gallagher officiating. Burial with military honors will follow in Sunset Memorial Park with Robert Byrd directing. The family will receive friends from 6-8 pm Tuesday at the funeral home with a prayer service at 7:45 pm.

     Born in Ozark, on June 15, 1931, he was the youngest child of the late Thomas and Flora (Waters) Colvin, Sr. Educated in the Ozark Public Schools, he earned degrees from Alabama State University and Troy University, and also matriculated at Alabama A&M University.

     On June 1, 1957, he married Alma Celestine Boykin. To this union three children were born: Leslye, Thomas III, and Angela. A lifelong Christian, he and his family joined St. Columba Catholic Church in the 1960s where he served in several ministries. A tireless volunteer, he was involved with many parish and community efforts. In addition to having served as Chair of the Dothan Board of Education he served many years on the Dothan Housing Authority, and was a Fourth Degree, Knight of Columbus. There are too many other organizations to identify individually, but he was committed to each.

     He began teaching in the Dothan City Schools after receiving an honorable discharge as a Sergeant from the United States Army. A brick mason and educator, he was chosen as the Teacher of the Year in 1966. He retired from George C. Wallace Community College in 1990 after more than three decades of educating the students of Dothan and the Wiregrass area. In his retirement, this loving and devoted family man enjoyed being a grandfather, genealogist, and fisherman.

     He was predeceased by his parents, Thomas and Flora (Waters) Colvin of Ozark, and his brother and sister-in-law, Lewis and Carolyn Evans of Indianapolis, IN.

     Those blessed to cherish memories of him include his loving wife, Alma Boykin Colvin; three children, Leslye Alise Colvin of Decatur, GA, Thomas Colvin, III of Huntsville, AL, and Angela Denise Colvin-Burque of Auburn, AL; three grandchildren, Brittany (Jonathan) Nekayah Colvin Danner of Birmingham, AL, Joseph Thomas Burque of Auburn, AL, and Andrew Daniel Burque of Auburn, AL; one great-grandchild, Kaylex Mariyah Danner; two sisters, Mary (Melvin) Loman of Albany, GA, and Florine Colvin of Ozark; sisters-in-law, Paulette (Willie) Love of Ozark and Renee Matthews of Birmingham; brother-in-law, Chris (Toretha) Jackson of Ozark; three special cousins, Loretta Boykin, Bea Lewis and Ann Parker, all of Ozark; one aunt, Barbara Smith Waters of Dothan; and a host of nieces, nephews and cousins.

     In lieu of flowers, please make donations to Catholic Social Services of Dothan, 557 W. Main St., Dothan, AL, 36301.

House of Refuge (Originally published in The Dothan Eagle)

***Daddy, it's been only two weeks. Thank you for the memories....***

House of Refuge

DeVon A. Applewhite / dapplewhite@dothaneagle.com

Photo: Ric Helmke / ehelmke@dothaneagle.com

January 27, 2007

Tom and Alma Colvin began attending St. Columba Catholic Church in 1966 in search of a house of worship which would place more of an emphasis on a relationship with God.
The year was 1966.

Turned off by the confrontational style of the pastor of the church they were attending, Tom and Alma Colvin started a search for a congregation more responsive to their needs - a house of worship which would place more of an emphasis on a relationship with God. Their search led them to one of the few predominately white churches that accepted blacks at that time, St. Columba Catholic Church.

The Colvins gave St. Columba a try on the advice of Tom’s parents, Ozark residents who attended Catholic services there.

Because of the family link, it’s not surprising the Colvins were receptive to converting to the Catholic faith, but what was remarkable about their visit was the welcome they received.

“I didn’t feel any hostility at all,” said Mrs. Colvin, a teacher in Dothan City Schools at the time.

Mr. Colvin, employed as a masonry teacher, also felt comfortable worshipping at St. Columba. The reception they received was a stark contrast to what was going on in the Deep South.

During the late 1960s, segregation was entrenched in society, Martin Luther King Jr. was leading civil rights marches and race riots were happening in other parts of the country. It was a time when many African Americans were well aware there was an invisible boundary they dare not cross.

The Catholic Church was one place in society where blacks were not marginalized and could co-exist with whites peacefully. Although the Colvins were not the first black family to integrate St. Columba - there were a handful of black families already attending - the scenario would not have occurred in most white Protestant churches.

Joining St. Columba’s congregation in 1967, the Colvins and their three children, who don’t consider themselves forerunners in fostering race relations between blacks and whites, were emboldened.

“We grew up in a segregated society, but we didn’t look down,” Mr. Colvin said. “We always looked up.”

It’s that dignity which never allowed the Colvins to feel inferior to any of St. Columba’s white members. The couple viewed themselves as equals, never fearing retaliation for asserting themselves and taking on active roles in the church.

When she became a member, Mrs. Colvin led a class similar to Sunday school for years and served as parish council secretary.
She has also been an active volunteer at Catholic Social Services for more than a decade. Mr. Colvin has served as vice president of the parish council, lector and Eucharist minister.

Four decades after joining, the Colvins remain devoted to St. Columba and are grateful for their conversion.

Although there are still only a handful of African American families attending St. Columba, the Colvins said worshipping in the overwhelmingly white congregation has never caused them to lose touch with their identity.

“You can keep your identity with any religion,” Mr. Colvin said.

“People can look at me and see I’m black,” added Mrs. Colvin.

The Moment of Reconnection

When visiting the home of my childhood,
it is inevitable that some visits coincide
with the funerals of those
for whom there is no memory
of not knowing.

Respectful of the grief,
the community gathers
to bless the family. 
Members of the community,
in turn, are blessed
by seeing so many
from yesteryear...
those who mutually delight
in the moment of reconnection
through the sharing of a glance, a smile,
a word, a touch, or an embrace.

Peers and elders;
friends and neighbors;
schoolmates and educators...
for each, life has provided
different experiences and paths,
different hills and valleys.

Fully grounded in the present,
the moment of reconnection blesses
the common experience,
the common path of yesteryear.

A Future Not Our Own

It helps, now and then, to step back
and take the long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of
the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete,
which is another way of saying
that the kingdom always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No programme accomplishes the church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about:
We plant seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,

knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that

will need further development.
We provide yeast that

produces effects beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning,

a step along the way,
an opportunity for God's grace

to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference

between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders,
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own. 

Written by Bishop Ken Untener of Sagninaw

                                                       

Disempowering Disappointment

"That's life, sugar." How many times have I heard this phrase? The three words are my father's most common response to the challenges that appear to be intent on disrupting our plans, efforts, and goals. As I have matured, it has become clear that the matter-of-fact tone of my father's delivery was never a lesson in futility. Rather it was his call for me to disempower my disappointments thereby not allowing them to define my existence.

From an economic perspective, history will inevitably chronicle this time as a period of great disappointment. Hopefully, it will also resonate with the legacy of a people who chose to disempower their disappointment  by feeding the hungry; clothing the naked; nursing the infirmed; embracing the gay; welcoming the immigrant; visiting the imprisoned; and proffering goodwill. In turn, may we expand our horizon enough to see that dignity is not a financial commodity; and relationships with the Divine, self and others are the only true investments.

The Fragrance of This Dawn

What do you smell?
What fragrance kisses your nose this dawn?

Grief offers nights with no end, no sleep.
The memory of this early walk is no more.
Has exhaustion given way to sleep?
Are you now sleeping?
Surely, this is a dream.

The weight of your spices is forgotten.
Their aroma made impotent.
Prepared for the stench,
Reason cannot grasp this.
What do you smell?
What fragrance kisses your nose this dawn?

You stand alone at the entrance.
His body is no longer here.
You question your sight.
No cold corpse to touch.
Surely, this is a vision.

With your pulse racing,
you question yourself.
Your eagerness to serve leaves you
not knowing what to do?
What do you smell?
What fragrance kisses your nose this dawn?

You are indeed awake.
Early you came to prepare his body,
his lifeless body,
the body that is not here.
Where is the stench of death?

The other women arrive
before you gather yourself.
Stunned, they too share in this reality.
You hear each gasp.
What do you smell?
What fragrance kisses your nose this dawn?

Tell us Maryam,
What is the fragrance of  resurrection?

Seeing You

Seeing your body
struggling to breathe,
yielding to pain,
as your senses are assaulted.
You are robed in agony.

Seeing you hunted for so long.
Who can count the lies, traps and distortions?
Had they nothing to do of worth?
They sought to tear you
from those who love you,
from those you love.

Seeing you there it seems so far away.
Only my grief can bridge the distance
from there where you hang
to here where we sob.
I know of blood spilled
by stones, by sword, by cross.
No, it never makes sense.

Seeing your tears, sweat and blood
trickle down your flesh
mingling with dirt and dust,
yet not being able to comfort you is a curse.

Seeing you there in your broken humanity.
Your nakedness I do not see
though surely it is before me.
What is nakedness
at a time such is this?
I have been blinded by your agony.
My senses are useless.

I am not to look upon one who is unclothed,
but not to see you in this moment
allows me to try to deny this reality.
What solace is there in denying what is?

Gazing upon you is the only way
to share in your agony,
in the humility and sorrow
of your final hours...your final moments.
You are not alone, my child.

Soraya Manutchehri, Today I Wept for You

I began writing this on the morning of August 12, 2009. Unfortunately, the pain of writing of this young woman's tragic death was too much to bear. If you have not viewed or read The Stoning of Soraya M., I strongly encourage you to do so. - Leslye

Sitting in morning prayer, I again thought of you and the circumstances that sought to dehumanize you. Hatred, selfishness, lies, threats, conspiracy, distortion, deceit, contempt, ignorance, fear - these are but a few of the stones used to murder you.

You were not an ignorant victim, but a loving mother. You recognized that your marriage was no longer. You simply wanted a little more time to save money for your daughters and yourself. Until the end, you sought to protect them from the injustice of society that would have left them impoverished as the daughters of a divorced woman.

Having come to know you, Soraya Manutchehri, I cannot hear the story of the woman who was brought before Yeshua after she had been allegedly caught in adultery without thinking of you. If only  humanity had taken to heart the words, "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone." 

***

A week ago, a friend and I went to see The Stoning of Soraya M. Based upon Freidoune Sahebjam's book of the same title, the movie introduced us to Soraya Manutchehri, a young Iranian woman trapped in an abusive marriage.

The Question and Prayer of Holy Week

Gasping for each painful breath, dying upon the splintered cross, you said, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.” And we question how this could be. How could they not know what they were doing?

They were characters in the greatest story of all time. The inconceivable foretold by prophets was far from fiction. It was reality in an unprecedented form as the Divine lived the human experience. 

Pondering their actions leads us to ponder our own. Often, we too do not know what we are doing. Again, how can this be? What is it to know? How can I not know what I do when I follow the greatest teacher of all time? How closely do I follow you, Yeshua?

Whether from personal experience or group indoctrination, it seems easy to question the intentions and actions of others. They are with us or they are not. Our perceptions and assumptions quickly lead us to build another divisive wall that merely hinders the common good and perpetuates our not knowing.

Yes, Yeshua, I know that challenging the status quo by accepting and embracing the unclean and the marginalized as they were, where they were, was your way of life. Being in solidarity with them and moving beyond barriers was how you lived your faith. In doing so, you called us to question our contributions to unjust systems.

Whether blind, infirmed, lepers, tax collectors, Gentiles, Samaritans or women, they all came to you. Each encounter including journeying across a divisive wall. Yet, not one did you condemn or disrespect according to the standards of the system. Not one. With compassion and mercy, God always meets us where we are. This I know.

So, what is it that I do not know? Am I to accept and embrace those who are ill? Am I to accept and embrace those with different political perspectives? Am I to accept and embrace those who are of other faiths? Am I to accept and embrace people regardless of their sexual orientation? Am I to accept and embrace those who live on the streets? Am I to accept and embrace immigrants, refugees, and others who do not share my nationality?

You taught us to love God with all of our being, and to love others as ourself. Yes, I am to accept and embrace others. Again, what do I not know? Am I blind to it? Am I so focused on my reality that the reality of others is irrelevant? Is there a disconnect between what I know intellectually and the daily living of it? Is what I know simply what I profess on Sunday and leave on the pew until the next weekend?

How can what I know become my way of life, how I live my faith? As I ponder this, thank you for forgiving me when I do not know what I am doing. Desiring to follow in your footprints, my prayer is that you help me forgive those who do not know what they are doing. 

The Smile of Heartsongs

Who can forget the dimpled smile of the young boy who spoke to us of Heartsongs? I cannot. I continue to be a fan of Mattie.

On Tuesday, November 3, Messenger: The Legacy of Mattie J.T. Stepanek and Heartsongs, by Jeni Stepanek (Mattie's mom) with Larry Lindner, will be released. Although Mattie authored several books during his short lifetime, this is the first to actually tell the story of the young peace activist's life. Although his life was marred by muscular dystrophy, the illness did not define Mattie or his life. With a foreword by Maya Angelou, Messenger: The Legacy of Mattie J. T. Stepanek and Heartsongs is a must have for all who admired the simple yet profound eloquence of Mattie's call for peace.

For more info visit: http://www.mattieonline.com/

A Clearer Image: Two at a Well

There are differences between our languages that no language, not even yours, can bridge. There are differences between you and me - differences of time and space, differences of culture and place, differences of perception and understanding – there are differences between us that language cannot capture.

Even when our language is the same, differences may whisper their presence - subtle differences in meaning or intonation may pierce the heart. Throughout the human experience, the wise have accepted the limitations of language as you and your neighbors accept the limitations of photographic images.

Rather than defer to the limitations, the wise gingerly hold language as though it were a fine gold thread with which to weave simple yet profound lessons that can be neither frayed nor unraveled by reasoning or lack thereof.
•••
Across the centuries, my wish has been that you had witnessed our encounter. Had your ears heard us, you may have remembered it differently than written. That is, if your ears knew the language. If your ears knew not the language, your eyes may have observed that which was beyond words - if your eyes knew to move beyond the norms and beneath the surface to see clearly with the heart.
•••
Some matters are best served through the language of heart and spirit. It is the spirit that connects one to the other in silence, in nuance, in the unspoken. The heart is the doorway. When fully opened, it embraces the spirit of the other. When securely closed, it imprisons the spirit of self and denies the spirit of others.
•••
For you, what meaning is there in the word Samaritan? Is it possible that the meaning has been lost to you? Suffice it to say that many showed us no favor. It was easier to deny us, to deny our humanity. Even their laws condoned this action. For many, the mere thought of us barred the heart. Then, who would have faulted him had he chosen to travel the preferred, yet longer, path to bypass Samaria?
Most, if not all, would have been amazed that the writers would have chosen to include me in his story, as amazed as they were that he chose to journey through our land. But amazing was this son born of woman. Did he see her in me or me in her?
•••
To you, in your language, I am the woman at the well…not “a” woman, but “the” woman. For many, the distinction is of no consequence. Yet, to my mind, it is.

Having known him, I say that I was neither “the only woman” nor “the only Samaritan” to whom he spake, whose presence he embraced. How do I know such? His comfort in my presence was real. It was the reality of his presence that disarmed me.

Seeing me as a woman and a Samaritan, he did not bar his heart. Pretense did not journey with him to be used as a garment of derision. His speaking was as gentle and natural as his breathing. He was sure of himself, but with no hint of arrogance. Of him, I say that it was not a state of mind, but a state of being - to be present, clearly present.
Our conversation was no aberration but to those limited by language, those who chose not to understand. Could they not think beyond the gate?
•••
What understanding do you have of my significance – the significance of “the” historical woman? Do the women of your time share the standards and limitations that were my lot?
•••
In affirming my humanity, he brought new light to the law of God and freed the law of man. Twenty centuries later, can you begin to grasp this reality? He affirmed me.
•••
I understand that uncertainty accompanies the memory of me. Did he affirm the existence of my faiths or my lovers? I will allow you to ponder the answer, but I do say, far beyond this, he saw me clearly in my humanity. Beyond judgments, labels and stereotypes, he saw me. He knew me. He honored me.

Where others saw only a woman or a Samaritan, he clearly saw me in my humanity. Do you? With a clearer image of me, a clearer image of him may you see.
- © 2006 Leslye Colvin

I wrote A Clearer Image in October of 2006. I post it today for a special group of friends. - Leslye

The Gardener and the Forgotten Baskets

It was the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring. On that morning, as usual, rabbits were scouring for food. Except for a gardener, they were alone in the garden until the women carrying baskets arrived.

Having never seen humans so distraught, the rabbits took a break from their routine. They watched as one of the women approached the Gardener.

Speaking to him, she was suddenly startled. At once, she dropped her basket spilling its contents. Oddly, she seemed not to have noticed the loss.

Mindful of their hunger, the rabbits approached the basket. Yet, they were drawn to continue watching this encounter between the Gardener and the woman. Surprisingly, the woman who had been so distraught seemed to have experienced a new life of awe and joy within her.

"Who is this Gardener?," the rabbits wondered. Obviously, the two humans knew each other. Puzzled, the rabbits recognized the man as the most unique person they had ever seen. He was human, he was spirit. “How so?” they pondered.

When the woman returned to the others, they too dropped their baskets spilling the contents. Not mindful of the baskets, they left the garden praising the Creator.

Soon, the women returned with men. The Gardener was no longer there, but the baskets identified where the women had stood. It was such odd behavior for humans, but no one picked up a single basket. It was as though they were of no use. Instead, the women and the men left the garden together praising the Creator.

Not understanding any of this, the rabbits instinctively knew that they had witnessed something spectacularly glorious. Since that time, on the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring, rabbits around the world have shared baskets to proclaim the glorious experience of the Gardener.

© 2009 Leslye Colvin

Resurrection Sunday Reflection (Triduum 3/3)

Alleluia!

Glory be to God!

Let all that breathes sing praises to God!

Alleluia!

Sing praises to God's holy name!

Alleluia!

Yeshua is risen!

Glory be to God!

Yeshua lives!

Alleluia!

How do I express this? How do I speak of this that I have witnessed? It was only a day ago, that I was at a loss for words to express my feelings. Now, only one day later, I am at an even greater loss to know how to share this that I have witnessed.

My beloved Teacher and friend lives! I speak truth. What my mouth speaks was witnessed by my eyes on this very morn. Every part of me proclaims that Yeshua is risen from the dead just as he had foretold.

We reached his tomb just as the sun kissed the horizon. We paused at the sight. Why was it open? We spoke not a word as our hearts began to race. Who moved the stone? Was someone else here to anoint Yeshua's body?

Entering the tomb, we see that his body is no longer where we placed it. Yes, this is where we placed him just before the Sabbath. My God, have they now stolen his lifeless body?

Resuming the trail of tears that had begun days earlier, I noticed a gardener. Maybe he witnessed what happened. Surely he will tell us where they have placed him and we will gather his body and return it to this tomb. Then we can anoint him as planned.

Oh, my God! That which happened next is truly beyond my ability to speak. The gardener, glory be to God! The gardener standing before me was Yeshua himself. He called me by name. I speak truth. I speak in truth.

Glory be to God!

Life returned to my body, to my soul as tears of mourning became tears of joy. Yeshua is risen from the dead! Yeshua lives! Alleluia! Alleluia!

--A follower of the living Yeshua

Holy Saturday Reflection (Triduum 2/3)

My God, I am at a loss...a loss of words to speak of that which tore out my heart. How can one speak if she has not a heart to inspire her words? This I learned from the Teacher - to allow my heart to give birth to my words.

Again, my God, how do I speak? How do I think? Surely, no language contains words to describe what I feel on this Sabbath. No mind can grasp what has happened over these past two days - from the preparations for the Passover to the absence of the Teacher. For generations, this time of year, this festival symbolized what? I know not. Confusion consumes me. Is it grief or lack of sleep? Does it matter?

Last night, was not for sleeping. Sleep is for those who need rest for tomorrow's purpose. Nor was the night for dreaming. Dreams are for those who have hope for what the new day brings. The night and the day have become as one. They are only for ashes and sackcloth as we mourn this nightmare that is our reality. The Teacher is dead.

For so long, my thoughts have been of what to do for Yeshua. Even now, having touched his lifeless form, I wonder how to serve him. With sunset nearly upon us, his burial was so hasty - too hasty. He is worthy of so much more. I will see that things are done properly in the morn.

Yes, I will gather spices to anoint his body. I will journey to the tomb before daybreak. Certainly, the other women will journey with me. If we leave just before the sun kisses the horizon, we will have the full day to serve him once more.

--A follower of Yeshua

Good Friday Reflection (Triduum 1/3)

My God, what happened? I cry out to you from the deepest recesses of my soul. My heart and my mind are lost in a fierce sea of confusion and despair. Where are you, my God? I need to know that you hear me - even in the midst of this chaos. I no longer feel the ground beneath my feet, nor do I see the sky above me. Yeshua was my ground, my sky, my all.

What can be done when a blossom has been snapped from the branch before it fully opens? Can the breaking be undone? What happens to the hope and awe it inspired? Is it not like bread that is never baked, or a marriage that is not consummated?

If only you had merely turned your back to us. Then, I would spend the remainder of my days begging for your mercy and forgiveness. From sunrise to sunset, I would sing your praises. Now, there is no song within me - not even for tonight's Sabbath. There is only an abyss of sorrow. It is an abyss as cold and dark as the tomb in which we placed him.

The Teacher had spoken of his death, but certainly he did not mean in this manner. What is more degrading than this? I have known others who have been crucified, but this one is beyond my weak ability to grasp. Of what was there to convict Yeshua? Has honoring your Law become a cause for execution?

--A follower of Yeshua

The Tension of Holy Week

Today's vigil Mass for the Palm Sunday of the Lord's Passion marks the beginning of the holiest week of the year for me and all Roman Catholics. Beginning with Jesus' triumphant ride into Jerusalem and following with his subsequent passion and execution, tonight's Gospel readings pull us into the tension that exists within the human condition.

Joy and sorrow. Heart and mind. Betrayal and embrace. Power and vulnerability. Fear and love. Faith and reason. Despair and hope. Humility and status. Honor and shame. Death and life.

During this Holy Week, we are invited to ponder the words and actions of people very much like ourselves. People living in the midst of tension with beliefs and hopes; laws and opinions; blessings and brokenness.

The men and women who were the first apostles, were called upon to experience ineffable joy and ineffable agony. Called upon because they had chosen to follow the Teacher who embraced his faith with compassion thereby diffusing the paralyzing tension that was imposed by the status quo.

Fortunately for us, we know that this tension was resolved with Our Lord's Resurrection. Yet, often, we too are pulled into the midst of tension as we attempt to reduce everything to the lowest common denominator.

Are we really called to be blue or red, or pro-this or pro-that? If blue and red joined forces, could they as purple focus on resolving issues? What would happen if we recognized that pro-this and pro-that are not necessarily mutually exclusive?

My prayer for this Holy Week is to ask for the courage and wisdom to see and live beyond the tension.

http://www.leslyewrytes.com/

personal expressions from the heart to the heart