Easter

When we were kids Good Friday meant new clothes and a march through the city with banners and the Salvation Army to the town hall where all the Sunday schools would gather for an outdoor service. We would wait for the 'Sally Bash' on a certain corner, listening for the solitary bass drum that signaled they were on their way, and jangled my insides which I loved, although almost always brought tears to my eyes cos of its sadness and solemnity. Bewildered faces watched as we shuffled past, interrupting their normal Friday, as we followed our hefty beat, with me all the time dreading that one of the faces would recognise me and bring it up at school. The service was basically the same each year with the Mayor in his chains not knowing what he was talking about followed by the singing of my favourite Easter classic 'There is a green hill far away...". Someone who did know what he was talking about, would do that, and then we'd head back to church for some awful 'action' choruses and a nerve wracking performance of some half prepared song, in front of the whole church, followed by the receiving of an orange on the way out. (no one can tell me where that tradition came from). Then we'd buy fish and chips on the way home and spend the afternoon walking along the beach or up a hill or by a river. This was Easter, this was how we remembered.

Last year I went back home and joined the parade, which is still going on, though only with a hand full of kids now. I still had to bite my lip at the drum, not to mention my sadness at the lack of people there - where once we had filled an entire street we were now relegated to a lay-by tucked round the side of the town hall. But what seemed sadder still was the fact that this was going on and the rest of the city didn't seem to notice. Not that I wanted to be noticed personally of course, I'm still embarrassed about walking down a street behind a banner, but more that it seemed to me that Jesus was the reason we were there and people didn't seem to care and their whole lostness, even with Christ pounding out His message through the middle of them, seemed quite tragic and, for want of a better word, sad.

Just writing this now, I think about His own procession through the streets, carrying His own 'banner', with maybe a solitary drum beating out His last steps, if only the one in his battered chest. Of course the people then were less apathetic than now, but most of them still made the wrong choice, which seems sadder still to have Him there in the flesh and not see. I'm not sure I'll ever really appreciate just what happened or how it was for Jesus to go through all of that for me. I always get stuck feeling guilty that I don't feel very much - it seems so removed (or I am?) but I guess what does help/challenge me is to think of how I let Him live, or die to me and in me each day. What banner do I carry? What beat do I step to? As I travel the paths of my life do the people who meet me meet Him, not stumbling and bleeding but vibrant and true.