Palm Sunday in our Lutheran church is so different than when I was growing up. Back then, it was my favorite. It was a party. Celebration, dancing, waving the palms, all of that good stuff. We didn't enter much into the darkness of the Lenten season, but we loved to celebrate. At Bethlehem, the day is Passion Sunday. We begin with celebrations and hosannas and end in somber reflection on the crucifixion.
This year, on Passion Sunday, after opening with joyful Hosannas, my co-soprano and I sang the opening of Pergolesi's Stabat Mater before the sermon. Pastor read the gospel, from the triumphant entry to Jerusalem, through the trial and mocking and torment and misery, to the final breath on the cross. And then, we sang The Mother, grieving, stood beside the cross, weeping, while there hung her Son.
I don't think either of us fully engaged emotionally with this piece until it was time to sing it in the service. That was self-preservation . . . it's haunting, beautiful, and profoundly, painfully sad. And when we finished, both of us were visibly moved, as were many around us.
What could be more raw and real than a mother weeping . . no, wailing . . . for her son?
Since my brother died, nearly 11 years ago, this story has had more power than ever before.
Since I became a mother myself, I can hardly take it.
But Sunday, I understood the contrast of Passion Sunday, and of all of Lent and Easter, in a new way.
On Ash Wednesday, we say "The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." We then, by choice, walk together in a period of darkness, towards the light.
In art, chiaroscuro is the way light and shade play together to create dimension, contrast. In singing, chiaroscuro is the balance of a clear, bright, bell-like resonance with a rich, warm, velvet tone. Without the dark, the light is strident, white, jarring. You can't even see it, or you don't want to hear it. Darkness is a part of art, and darkness is a part of life.
As a mom, I am still working on managing scary intrusive thoughts about the world and my sweet little boy in it. I wouldn't have considered myself a fearful person before, but on the wrong day in the wrong mood with the wrong input, I find myself deflecting thoughts of all kinds of frightening dark scenarios. I have my tips and tricks for chasing them off, but my experience tells me that darkness is very real and often, in many ways, out of my control. When it shows up, it happens just like Passion Sunday . . . and it knocks the wind out of us, to put it mildly.
BUT. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. And that is the story of Easter. A mother, and a father, loved their son, watched him grow, watched him do amazing things, watched him struggle, watched him suffer, watched him die, and lived without him . . . and then lived a miracle, and watched him change the world.
It's so easy to live in the dark, or to live with a fear of the dark. Lent helps us understand the dark, find the beauty there, and face the ugliness head-on--with our light. And Lent always, ALWAYS leads to Easter. Every time. Even when we can't see how. Even when the worst possibility has happened. The light redeems the darkness. The light was here before, and the light is coming again. The light will win, every time.
So, at Easter, I will celebrate the light in my little one, and in my own soul, and in the hearts of those around me. I am grateful for another moment, day, year of carrying that light to the dark places, and I keep the faith that redemption is stronger than pain. All will be well . . . the light will win.
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