The loud crashing violence gave way to calm eternal silence. Death is still. Irreversible.
The kids sat on the cold steps for 30 minutes in silence. The only sound was the clicking of heels as the guard turned a corner. The tomb was a simple but beautiful. White marble engraved, "Here rests in honored glory, an unknown American soldier known but to God. "
The pacing of the soldier created space for meditation. My mind drifted to a different tomb, gaurded by a different soldier, in a different garden with the same holy, eternal silence. The sounds of violence left behind to the stillness of death.
The unknown soldier. Honored by ceremony.
The broken Savoir cradled by women brave enough to bear witness to his suffering.
Then I thought of the giant pile of shoes at the holocaust museum. Bags of hair from shaved heads used to stuff mattresses. Bodies thrown unceremoniously into mass graves. They too had much in common with Jesus.
Clothes stolen by strangers ready to profit off of state sanctioned violence. Innocent lives taken because their very existence was a threat.
I sat with these three graves all day. My own early Easter vigil.
All the tombs were silent. All the tombs bore witness to the horror of violence. All the tombs known and beloved by God.
I was pulled from my mediation by the changing of the guard. I watched the path of the guards as they changed places. It was so perfectly walked that each path was etched into the cement below then. The movements automatic, precise as guns moved in unison. Feet moved in unison. The laying of the wreath. A large crowd has gathered in this sacred cemetery to witness and participate in a ritual to remember sacrifice. In unison we placed our hands on our hearts as the sad and beautiful blowing of taps echoed in the valley below.
I followed the kids as we left in silence. We loaded up into the bus and headed to the national cathedral. It was a massive building. As we entered, we were greeted by a large beautiful copper bowl filled with water. The group moved into the tour.
I.... had to stay a moment at the water.
I dipped in my fingers. I felt the water. My mind flooded with stories. The stories of redemption we tell on Easter vigil. I raised the water to my brow and formed a cross. A ritual we do to remember the sacrifice.
The rememberance of baptism is my favorite part of the Easter vigil service. It falls in the middle place. On the one side, the darkness and finality of death. On the other, the joy and hope of resurrection. We are baptized into both. We are called to carry both. The sacrifice of the cross and the infallible hope of resurrection.
In that moment, with my fingers in that water, the sparkling stained glass windows ahead of me and the silent tombs in my heart, I stood in the cross road.
This week we tell familiar stories. We participate in familiar but sacred rituals. We remember bread and wine, a broken body, the still garden. We put our hands in the water. We play "were you there. " We slam the book. The traditions etched in our hearts as deeply as the sidewalk under those soldiers' feet. The movements remind us, draw us and call us into a deeper trust in those baptismal waters.
Waters that save us. Waters that give us courage to follow Christ and carry our own crosses.
May you be blessed in these holy days. Make space for the story. For the stations or even just for a moment with the water. You are known. You are beloved and there is no where you can go where God won't be with you.
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