Resurrection

It is 5.45am.

My eyes are gritty. My brain feels smothered in cotton wool. The ache in my arms and legs goes down to my very bones, the exertions of the last three days making themselves felt already, and we’re not done yet.

The pilgrimage made by the women to the tomb on that Sunday morning two thousand years ago was not in a small and luridly coloured Renault travelling across the Clyde. I reflect wryly that if I had been part of that small group of loyal women on that day all those many years ago, I would have been the one begging to be allowed to inhale coffee before we went out. I would have thought, a little irreverently, that the body of Jesus, dead and cold as we expect it to be, would do no harm waiting a few minutes more for its embalming for me to be properly caffeinated. The sky is still mostly dark over Great Western Road as I slip into an empty church.

This is a place that feels of home. I know every corner of it, and standing here in the darkness and stillness I am entirely content in my own soul. On this dark Sunday morning, this place bursts with the remembered footsteps of all the people who have walked through it and memories of all that has happened over the last week.

Here, where just seven days ago a crowd gathered together with their palms and their shouts of Hosanna. A mighty Glaswegian rabble that packed in tight and then walked and sang with the Lord.

Here, where a labyrinth laid in the Nave on Monday and Tuesday, where people came to walk and pray and meditate, taking a moment of peace before the rollercoaster of the Triduum began.

Here, where water and suds were splashed as the feet of so many disciples were washed, and where we shared the supper that started with friendship and feasting and ended with betrayal.

Here, where there is a wax stain from where the great Paschal candle was smashed on the altar steps by bandits who had turned against their Messiah, and here, where I ran the length of the aisle to snatch away precious things from the back of church as the words of Psalm 22 rang in all our ears. Do not be far from me, for trouble is here and there is no one to help.

Here, where we waited that long long night in the garden. There was a point on Thursday night when I understood how the three who had fallen asleep must have felt.

Here, where the cross stood on Friday morning, and here, where so many people waited at the foot of it for hours, waiting and waiting and not leaving even when it was clear that nothing more could be done for him.

Here, where we cleaned and polished and shone on Saturday, putting everything back to rights, just in case, just in case there might be a resurrection. There are two thousand and seventeen Easter eggs hidden around the wood and stone, and cases of Prosecco waiting patiently under tables. There has been a rumour and it is said that miracles do happen, sometimes.

Here, where the murals of Gwyneth Leech show everything that has happened this week, the crowd with clubs and swords, the tree, the people passing by with their heads turned away, all of it taking place just around the corner in Kelvingrove Park. This week is not something that we can separate ourselves from by time or by place. This is something that has been real and close and true.

The sky has begun to lighten. There is a gentle spatter of Glasgow rain. Gradually, over the last hour or so, we have been joined by everyone else, our friends with whom we have grieved these last days, all arriving for what may be one final journey, one final service — or may be something else entirely. We gather together away from the sanctuary that we all love. We make our pilgrimage outside to the memorial stone where the dead of our congregation are remembered, to the place where they buried him.

And here, in the place where they buried him, a fire burns and a tomb is empty and the Gospel truth dawns that he who we loved and lost is with us now.

Christ is risen from the dead. Alleluia.

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