A distant sleepy dawn,
I see me, as Peter, fireside afraid.
Jesus burnishing bright hope in the fire’s light.
Wood, hands, Death, spear, stone,
Nowadays a ceremony spoken, or mostly listened to.
Juice-filled plastic cups, bread already broken, passed from row to row.
Even if there are never enough air-conditioned seats to hold the entire world,
There will always be enough of You,
Welcoming all with new wine, deeply flowing,
Refreshing with plenty of fresh bread.
I am seeking, feebly, like many for
To celebrate, eat, and drink palate-tingling grapes
In, outside of and always beyond the ceremonies.
You rise to shine.
Shining broader than a Sunday’s hour,
Shining on every nation,
Shining even on those who aren’t inside the brick walls on Sunday.
You didn’t fit, or walk in the door either.
You knocked, called out.
We were locked in, busy discussing, worrying or just
Wondering what to do.
So you just stepped through, forgetting bricks, walls.
You entered in.
You made a way so that all can come in,
A way of wood and nails.
Remind me of your way,
Your way of rest, forgiveness.
Forgiving the prostitute over the law teachers.
Healing the outcast sick as the elite doctrinally precise fumed.
As we celebrate,
Let’s lay no other burdens than forgiveness,
Let’s see that it’s not just for you, for me,
It’s for everyone.
Let’s escape from religious law,
To abundant, ongoing life.
There is something beyond Easter.
Someone who will give us rest.
Jesus, you are fresh new life at its best.
By Jonathan McCallum