Easter Sunday
by Frank Fisher, Obl OSB

"Most of us
go to our graves
with the music
still inside us."

Those are the words
my mother
always said to me.
She would laugh
as she spoke those words.
Then she'd add,
"But you'll never do that
Salome.
You were born
with your song
on your lips"

I always joined in
the my mother's laughter
as she lovingly stroked my hair
and spoke to me
about music.
Part of my own delight
came,
of course,
from her complete attention,
and her love.
But most of the joy
fueling my glee
came from
 the truth of her words.
For it seemed like music
 was on my lips
for every waking moment
of every waking day.

Every morning
I'd rise from my sleeping mat,
rush out the door,
and gaze with delight
at the expanse
of the sea of Galilee.
Then the red morning sun
reflecting off the water
would ignite my music
as my voice lifted up
in a morning Psalm
praising the Holy One
for all of creation's beauty.
And as I skipped from task to task
for the rest of the day,
my song never quieted.
Indeed
I never ceased
my song of God's praise
until after the evening Psalm
when I closed my eyes
once again in sleep.

Yes,
I thought my music
gave voice
to the very center
of my life.
And when I took
each step
along life's pathway,
my music seemed
to expand and grow
to match the my life's new depths.
When Zebedee
and I wed,
my music flowered anew.
Then,
when our sons,
James and John were born,
the joy they brought
made my songs soar anew.
At that point
I was sure
there could be nothing more
for me to sing.
Of that,
I was very sure.
Or at least I thought
I was sure.
But then,
James and John
began to follow
the Master.

The first time
those boys
brought me to meet Jesus,
I knew in an instant
any song,
I'd ever sung
was only a prelude
to the ones I'd sing now.
With my sons,
I followed Jesus
across the high Galilean hills
and through dusty city streets.
And as I followed
I sang
of the blind regaining their sight
and the lame their legs.
I sang
of sins forgiven
and of the good news
Jesus preached
to the poor.
Most of all
I sang of the joy
of finding the Messiah,
the true morning sun
who would long shine over Judah.

Every day
seemed to bring
a new crescendo of song.
It was almost like
something
was about to begin.
Then one day,
I,
and hundreds upon hundreds of others singers,
sang
as Jesus rode into Jerusalem.
"Hosanna in the highest,"
we trilled
as the Master neared the temple.
"Blessed is the one
who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest."
But as we reached the temple
my song
caught in my throat.
I knew somehow
as soon as I saw the sun
reflecting off its golden roof
that something horrible
was about to happen.

My music died
the day Jesus died.
As I watched him hang there
twisting in agony
on the cross,
I screamed
and screamed,
and screamed again.
I screamed and cried
until
I couldn't utter
a single sound.
That was fitting,
I thought.
For how could I make music
when Jesus
was dead.
And as I watched Joseph
take his body down from the cross
and carry it away
to the tomb,
I knew
my mother
had been wrong.

There were no songs left to sing;
no music
left to make.
I would
go to my own grave
with any music
locked down deeply
inside me.

Slowly,
ever so slowly,
I began to move
through my new
joyless,
non-musical world.
I ate,
slept and washed
like one
whose very mind
had shut down.
Gradually
I began to respond
to the others around me
and to understand
they too
were feeling pain
of unimaginable depths.
I reached out to them
for comfort
and they reached out to me.
Their presence
kept me alive
in those days.

It was my gratitude
for their presence
that made me agree
to accompany the two Marys
back to the tomb
on the first day of the week.
I certainly didn't want to see
the decaying body
of the Master I'd so loved.
But I knew
I couldn't let the others
face its presence alone.

We stopped in market
as it first opened
and bought the spices we needed
to anoint Jesus' body
in the way
 taught by the law.
Then,
step by dragging step
we made our way
toward the place
Jesus had been laid.
On the way
we suddenly realized
we'd brought no one along
to help us open the tomb.
We knew
we hadn't enough strength
to do it alone.
Yet
we also knew
we couldn't face another
agonizing trip such as this one.
So we continued walking,
heads held downward in despair,
and wondering all along
what we'd do
when we were confronted
with the immovable grave stone.

But as we neared the tomb
something
made us look up.
And we saw
someone
 had already
 rolled the grave stone
 away.
Dropping the spices
we ran to the tomb's door,
ducked our heads
under its low entrance
and stepped inside.

Jesus wasn't there.
In the place
where Joseph
had laid his body
there was a strange man sitting.
He was
dressed in dazzling white.
My eyes locked with the man's eyes
and something deep inside me
unlocked
as he said,
"Do not be alarmed;
you are looking
for Jesus of Nazareth,
who was crucified.
He has been raised;
he is not here.
Look,
there is the place,
they laid him.
But go,
tell the disciples
Jesus is going ahead of you
to Galilee.
You will see him there
just as he told you."

That something
that had been unlocking
deep inside me
opened fully
with the man's words.
And at its awakening
I screamed out
in fear and amazement.
Both Marys screamed out too
and together
we three
ran as fast as we could
away from the tomb.

At first,
we were so stunned
and frightened
that we couldn't speak.
And when my voice returned
it wasn't speech
that came forth from my mouth.
Music instead
came forth.
The music
I had felt
would go with me to my grave
bubbled forth
and arose in a song of incredible gladness.

I sang
all the way to Galilee.
I sang to my risen Lord
as I sat with Jesus
by the side of the lake.
And now
I sing across all Judah
and out into the lands
to the gentiles.

I will not go to my grave
with my music
still inside me.
I will go there instead
singing alleluias
to my Lord and Savior.
And I will sing
through death
into the new life Jesus gave me.

Alleluia
I will sing.
Praise
I will sing.
Thanks
I will sing.
Thanks
to the risen Christ
who died and arose
for such a one
as me.

Hymn : "The Strife is O'er"

To God alone be glory.
Amen.

(Comments to Frank at f.fisher.obl.osb@comcast.net.)
Interim Pastor
Central Presbyterian Church of New Lenox, IL
Oblate of St. Benedict's Abbey in Bartonville, IL