Passiontide and the Violence of April

In a long ago season, this Sunday, the last Sunday in Lent, two weeks before Easter, we'd have begun a time called Passiontide.  I first learned about this concept in Gail Godwin's wonderful book Father Melancholy's Daughter.  I'd quote from it, but that book is in a box in the cottage.  Some days I despair of ever seeing it again.

We live in a time of compression, not stretching out.  This morning, I'm back to my thinkings about silence and about how we try to cram too many things into a Sunday. Today, the cramming will be partly my fault.  After church, we go to Lowe's to get more supplies for house restoration, and then my brother-in-law will come to help us move some heavier furniture.

This morning, I'm wondering if how our experience of Holy Week might change if we stretched it out, rather than trying to contain it all into one Sunday morning. Two weeks to spend with one of the central events of our faith: how might we change?

I'm also thinking of all the ways that April can be a violent month.  This year, two of the world's major religions, Christianity and Judaism, celebrate events central to their faith, Easter and Passover, events rooted in violence.

April is a month of all sorts of grim anniversaries: the Oklahoma City bombing, numerous school shootings (most notably Columbine and Virginia Tech), the anniversary of King's assassination.  Today marks the 25th anniversary of the Rwandan genocide.

The weather in April can be violent too, as seasons compete for dominance.  April is a time of tornadoes.  I had all these images swirling in my brain when I wrote the following poem:


The Ides of April


Mid April, when bills come due and debts
must be paid. Both winter and summer battle
for dominance and rip the landscape
with tornadoes and late spring snows.

Good battles evil, captives set free
by way of forced and bloody frenzies. Refugees
driven from their homes trudge down dusty
roads towards a desert destiny of freedom.

A gospel of radical love battles entrenched
orthodoxy. We must sacrifice our lust
for structure and rules, our yearning
for punishment. We must arc our minds
towards grace and unconquered redemption.

We must be as flowers who battle
against the frozen ground, who thrust
themselves towards a distant sun
in the hope of a future warmth,
a profuse explosion of fiery blooms.