We
have had a wonderful week of spring, Manitoba style, with temperatures from
zero to minus 10 Celsius, bright sunshine on snow, melting slowly so that the
run-off is only slightly sloppy. It looks like winter, but Manitobans know that
this is really spring, albeit a bit chilly.
Then
Resurrection morning came, hazy and dark, with a light covering of snow after a
week of only sunshine. I had decided to walk to church for the community
sunrise service. (Sunrise is at 7 a.m.—defined by the planners, not by the
sun.) On this occasion the sun’s rise came close to coinciding with the
community service.
The
snow made footing difficult, too little to make me change my mind and drive,
but just enough to conceal an unexpected patch of ice. My footprints were the
only ones I saw around me as I hurried carefully along the edge of the
sidewalk. Manitobans know that the footing is better away from the centre of a
smooth and slippery sidewalk. No one else seemed to be up, but I knew the
church would be full, and the cold wind and slippery walk only increased my
sense of anticipation for the service itself.
I
got there as the brass ensemble finished their prelude and the choir took its
place. There were good seats up front, but I ascended into the balcony and
found a spot about three rows back with nobody behind me. The music and
readings began. I must admit, I was disappointed at first—it was commonplace,
ordinary, people I knew and voices I knew. The excitement and anticipation stoked
by the cold wind ebbed away in the back pews of the balcony.
I
concentrated on the fact of the event, and reminded myself that my feelings and
expectations were almost irrelevant. We were there as an act of faith and
commitment, staking our lives on the reality of the resurrection of Jesus. I
can do that, whatever I feel like.
Then
came the unanticipated moment. We rose to sing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”,
and a young lady who had slipped in behind me reached forward across the back
of the pew to get the hymnal from our pew. She couldn’t reach it, so I gave her
mine and picked up another. With the first line of the hymn I realized she had
not entered the pew alone. She had a good strong soprano voice, and several
others had joined her, including a strong bass underscoring our song.
The
verses rose and soared: “Soar we now where Christ has led, Alleluia! Following
our exalted head, Alleluia! Made like him, like him we rise, Alleluia! Ours the
cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!” No longer just the choir from the other
end of the sanctuary, supported by organ and brass; now all of us sang out, sang
out our hopes driving away fear.
The
great moment for most in our annual community sunrise service is singing “Low
in the grave He Lay.” With trumpets and organ and choir and community in full
voice, the hymn moves from quiet throbbing anticipation to a crescendoing
cataract of sound and joy. But this Resurrection Sunday, the voices behind me
singing out when I didn’t know they were there were my great moment. The
anticipation I felt hurrying through the cold wind stepping carefully on the
new snow was more than rewarded—Christ the Lord I Risen today! Alleluia!
31 March 2013
