Memories of Easters past….
The Source
Memories of Easters past…. I’m sure that my grandma didn’t use a wire brush on my head. I mean, she wasn’t that kind of lady. Grandma Orr was an apron-wearing-kid-hugging-chicken-frying-church-going-cookie-baking icon who was obviously the model for much of Norman Rockwell’s portraits of genteel farmwives. But all that really counts is whether the hair brush feels like its made of steel. Grandma had seven grandsons and but one granddaughter. When we’d spend Saturday night at her house there was no option in going to church the next morning and there was no escaping her hairbrush. All of which was rather pointless since each of her grandsons had either burr haircuts or flattops and our heads needed no morning maintenance. I’d always wondered if it was her lack of granddaughters’ locks to brush that made her so determined in scraping our Sabbath scalps. Easter morning brought out the resurrection spirit in Grandma and we knew that we’d get a good chafe before hopping into Grandpa’s Buick and heading out to South Prairie Presbyterian. (I do think it’s significant to note that most of her grandsons are now bald.) Easter morning was also a bit torturous for those in our youth group. It was the punishment for being a young Christian…you had to do the sunrise service. No breakfast, dressed in your Easter finery at an un-Godly hour, you stood before the church and tried to remember your lines at 6:30 in the morning as the smells of the men’s breakfast wafted up from the basement. It’s hard to recall Bible verses before the sun rises and with the aroma of bacon permeating the pews. I can recall a sunrise service from very early in my youth in which my Sunday School teacher wisely discovered that I either couldn’t or wouldn’t memorize lines. She gave me one simple phrase: “He is risen!” That was it and I said it several times in the script. Of course, any actor will tell you that memorizing lines is only half the battle...the tough part is remember when to say them. I couldn’t. At least I didn’t. So I threw in my “He is risen!” whenever there seemed to be a lull in the action. “And at the break of day on the next morning…” “He is risen!” I shouted…rubbing my head, trying to restore the circulation after Grandma’s wire brush. (The young actresses looked at me as if I were a prophet. I smiled.) “The two women came to the tomb…” “He is risen!” (whispered) “Not yet, Kenny! They just got there!” “Where has he gone?” asked one woman. “He is risen!” (loudly whispered) “We don’t know that yet, you idiot!” The only time I really got in trouble at an Easter service was one morning when I looked around the filled pews at the 10 a.m. service and saw folks who made church attendance only an annual pilgrimage. I said…rather loudly, I’m afraid.. “Who are all you guys?” I’m still puzzled at why most churches relegate their two most important observances, Christmas and Easter, to the youth. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a youth, but having been one I remember how totally clueless I was and that my main motivation for the high holy days had something to do with Christmas presents and chocolate bunnies. I’m not sure I was the pillar of ecumenical leadership that St. Paul encouraged us all to be. The church I currently attend does its best to trick folks into staying around for the morning. In years past we’d meet for the sunrise service, repair to the fellowship hall for a belly-load of biscuits and gravy, then many would go home and sleep the rest of the morning. Several years ago we moved up the time of the regular service. Do the sunrise bit, wallow in the gravy, then walk back into the sanctuary to meet the strangers. It’s a trick we learned from Wal-Mart. Bait and switch.
I guess when it comes down to it, it’s really pretty simple. Lots of great prophets hanging around the history books. Lots of good advice from all of them. And all of them died. No doubt about it…but only one came back. That’s a good enough Easter memory for me.