the place of remembering

This is a hushed week.  Really it is no different than any other week except it calls me to remember.  Many call this week holy, this time we set aside to walk with Jesus through His final week on earth.  It is holy not because of liturgy but because IN liturgy we remember together.  It is not the words I utter with my lips that matter most, but the liturgy I live out in community each day with my life.

I need liturgy.  Not the kind written in a book {although there are many beautiful things to be found there}, not the kind celebrated in a building {but I am ever thankful for growing up with these words that still echo in my heart}.  Yet neither of these hold true meaning without the liturgy of prayer lived out each day with Him and before the world around me.

It is a hushed, holy week: this time I take to reflect on Love’s journey to the cross.

And from the cross as well.

Not an ornate silver cross like the one I wear around my neck but a rough, wooden one.  What for me has become a symbol of freedom and liberation was then a symbol of a military state’s oppression and domination. I don’t even like wearing the literal shape of what subjugated a people in fear, so I embrace a more symbolic one.  Four Celtic Trinity knots weave a reminder of the cross and the fact I need to remember in eternal community.  I am invited INTO the community God is within Himself.

I NEED to remember.  To RE-member.  To be put back together by the very act of Love that tore His flesh with my wounds. This love makes every week holy.  If I stop to see the cross… and beyond it.

How easy it is to forget.  That the ruffian lot of turncoats who all but one left Him when the night was darkest {would I have risked all to stay?} did not have the benefit of the story’s ending.  Or the perspective of 2000+ years of His comings in and through His people.  They were nose to nose with what looked to be the biggest epic fail of all.  Abandoned.  Defeated.  Enemies of the state by association. Complete failure.  Grief at the loss of a friend, teacher, and dreams all in one Man’s nailing, in one Man’s refusal to fight back against what seemed ultimate injustice, in one Man’s willingness to embrace MY brokenness and die a criminal’s death for ME.

But they did not know any of that. They met a dark Friday and darker Saturday head on without knowledge of any happy conclusion in sight.  They walked among the graves of buried dreams and broken hearts.  What do we do in the places before resurrection when all we see is what is lost?

I wonder about the raw faith it takes to trust for restoration in the middle of a valley of dried out bones, in a cemetery of shattered yesterdays.

It is in these places I most need to remember.  Not alone.  Liturgy cannot be lived alone.  It is by its very nature a public act.  It can only be authentically lived in the place of community.  It is in these hard places I need to remember together with you and you with me that the pain on Friday and the darkness of unknowing on Saturday will lead to a resurrecting to come on Sunday.

What lies beneath buried innocence in a cemetery of broken dreams? Could there still be stones waiting to be rolled aside? Resurrection leaping forth to leave death an empty tomb.

Only those who dare walk among the graves and remember His promise together, dancing over panes of shattered yesterdays will know.  For it is in the remembering, new places of resurrection come forth in all of us.