Passion Player

Easter Sunday, still-dark early morning, ±6 years old
It’s a cold one this year. Mom zips up my warm coat and sheaths my egg dye-stained fingers in the closest pair of fuzzy mittens she can find. I yawn and lean against the wall while she repeats the process of similarly encasing my sister. Once everyone is sufficiently bundled up, our family shuffles out the front door to attend the annual sunrise service. As we exit, my eye lands on some conspicuous parcels on the dining table. I feel a jolt of excitement, because despite the sophisticated draping of kitchen towels to conceal their contents, I recognize those lumps to be our Easter baskets. I pretty much know what we will find in them (chocolate bunnies and other treats, fresh new undergarments and socks, probably some bubbles or small toys, itchy green plastic grass), but I still can’t wait to get back home and tear into them. Just like that, I am fully awake, a willing and eager celebrant.

Good Friday, mid-evening, ±9 years old
The Tenebrae service at our local Lutheran church has almost reached its end. The last candle has been extinguished, and the sanctuary sits in total darkness. My body is a ball of tension and all my senses are on edge awaiting the final moment, a loud BANG to symbolize the storm as Jesus died (made I’m not sure how: percussion? a prop gun? dropping something heavy on the bare floor?). It always startles me no matter how I prepare. My hands are clenched and my cheeks are wet. This year, I am a worshiper who suddenly understands the recitations on a new level, feeling empathy for the violence of Jesus’s suffering in my nerve endings and the heavy guilt of my culpability in my heart. When the sound finally comes, my shoulders jump and my tears fully let go. The service ends, and we all file out silently to our cars. I do not feel better for a long time.

Sometime near Easter, late evening, ±15 years old
I am spending the night at my aunt and uncle’s house, and she introduces me to her vinyl recording of Jesus Christ Superstar. I am elated, aghast, edified, offended, enlightened, entertained, and forever grateful. I am a fan.

Maundy Thursday, early evening, ±16 years old
Mom’s best friend/my adopted aunt offers to take me to a Seder meal and service hosted by a Messianic Jewish congregation at a sister church in our area. I am a welcome but definite guest at the table, and I don’t speak more than a handful of words the whole night. Everything about it feels foreign and familiar to me at the same time. My Jewish brothers and sisters embody history, prophecy, tradition, and faith in a way that feels regal. I am jealous of them, in an aspirational way. During the dinner spread, I try lox and cream cheese bagels for the first time. I do not care for them. I do, however, develop a taste for charoset and matzoh ball soup which lives on in seasonal cravings to this day.

Easter Sunday, early afternoon, ±18 years old
My sister and I are too old to hunt for Easter eggs respectably on our own, so we graciously decide we are teachers for our baby cousin to “help” her and play with her and teach her the ropes of the game. The first year we have Easter at her house, the family dog — an aged, rotund, and happy Shelty named Mac — begins the hunt early, having quickly discovered that the eggs we’d hidden are in fact real hard boiled eggs, his favorite food on earth. He doesn’t even mind the shells. He snarfs down a handful of them before my uncle sees what he’s up to and leashes him a safe distance away. We switch to reusable plastic eggs the next year.

Maundy Thursday, early evening ’til bedtime, ±30 years old
It is the early aftermath of my divorce, and my small group of young adults has decided to hold a Seder meal amongst ourselves. The oldest child from each family is invited to attend, which includes my nearly seven-year-old daughter. I watch her fill her space as she is embraced and seen by people she admires. We are diners in table fellowship together, reciting the words, saying the prayers, drinking the juice and wine, and breaking the bread. We remember that God always knew and God always knows and God always will know. We heal a little bit extra that night.

Palm Sunday, mid-morning, ±36 years old
For the first time I can remember, I have joined a church which does a full palm branch processional for the children, and my own daughters are right in the middle of it. They dance and twirl like Miriam herself. I take it all in as I stand in the congregation, a link between my children worshiping with greenery in the aisles and my mother worshiping with her voice in the choir. My cup overflows.

Easter Sunday, all afternoon, ±43 years old
My house is the gathering place and I am lucky to be the host for our family Easter dinners. We are all too old for egg hunts, but too boisterous for just sitting around watching the paint dry and the food settle. This year, I provide entertainment in the form of a slingshot war with marshmallow Peeps for ammunition. We work off the food and work out (at least some of) our aggressions by chasing and pelting one another in the park nearby with neon-colored mini missiles. My uncle is the clear winner. I fear the grass may never recover.

Palm Sunday, early morning, 48 years old
I am on staff now at the church where my children danced and my mother sang, a facilitator of worship for the people. I arrive long before the sun’s first rays paint the pews with window colors, and I will leave after the last notes reverberate back down off the rafters. I have always felt at home in church, and I am thankful to be part of this body which observes the full complement of Holy Week services. We exult today with palm branches, share in the Lord’s Supper on Maundy Thursday, grieve over the crucifixion on Good Friday, and celebrate to the fullest on Easter Sunday with grateful hearts raised to the heavens…and on the Monday after, we will rest.

The role I play in Holy Week is ever changing, but the story and its role in my life stay the same: God loves, Jesus bears, and Spirit remains with me always.

And also with you.