He is Risen

The Divine in the Daily Grind

I will go to church with you. I will stand when the music plays. I will bow my head and raise my arms in praise. I will weep among the thanksgiving. -Firefighter Evans, 1981–2021

The Spectacle

Jesus is alive. Millions testify to it, gathering in pristine sanctuaries before marble statues and beneath the amber glow of stained glass that would take Michelangelo’s breath away. They give thanks to His living body, resurrected on this Easter day.

At The River Cross, Pastor Hugh stands on a stage still swirling with the remnants of a smoke machine. The colored lights have faded to a solitary spotlight, illuminating an easel where a six-by-eight-foot canvas stands shrouded by black cloth squares.

In the aisles, volunteers in black uniforms use flashlights to guide latecomers, ensuring the “performance” remains undisturbed.

The Pastor lifts a glass of water from a simple wooden stool. “Like water,” he says, looking at the glass. Then takes a sip and makes a satisfied smacking sound, much to the congregations delight. “It nourishes us. It doesn’t ask for anything in return. It just gives us more time.” He peels away a single black square, revealing a flash of white background — an out-of-focus fragment of a larger mystery. Before the congregation can guess its shape, the band erupts, and the lights dim.

Marcus sits in the pews, eyes closed, hands linked with his wife, Carmen, and son, Dillon. He isn’t just praying; he’s pleading. He spent his Saturday on the corner of Peachtree and MLK, practically giving away his singles. He just wants his art to lead to a sale — to a life where he isn’t berated for failing to find “real” work.

The Workforce

Two miles away, the reality of the “risen” looks different.

John makes twenty dollars an hour. He’s on his way home to shower after cutting his thumb on the aluminum lid of a Vienna sausage container. He sucks at the insistent flow of red, then spits it out the driver’s side window. The blood is gone from his mouth in a spray, along with whatever germs nine hours of collecting trash have accrued on the opposable digit. Fact is, the facility sink was broken and he wouldn’t have taken the time to wash his hands before leaving anyway.

His family was waiting. It was Sunday and he wanted to make Easter service with his wife and kids.

Sgt. Patterson was directing traffic when, two miles away, the church bells were tolling off the six. His family was there and the music was starting. Probably some new Christian pop. Secretly, he’d die to be in the mosh pit at Nine-Inch-Nails again, but back row at The River Cross, jamming to ‘Let the Light In’ with his wife and kids would be a fair substitute to his current situation. FD was just arriving on scene and he’d already had to swear at a driver who was stopping to take a picture of the kid splayed on the sidewalk. Sure there were people there, but that was mostly the problem. ‘Just do your job,’ he thought, and waved another through, not wanting anyone else to brake long enough to photograph it again.

The Doubt

In The River Cross the lights come on. Pastor Hugh looks up, his hands clasped. “Don’t you love that?” he asks. “I mean if you have any doubt, Man. And let me tell you, If you doubt — if you’re an atheist or an unbeliever, well, that just makes you Human.”

He paces to the stool again. “Thomas. He was a doubter. Jesus called him out!”

The crowd laughs.

“But it’s in the moment you say, ‘God, take this doubt from my mind,’ that you begin the journey.”

Sgt. Patterson’s wife Nancy, and his children, Regina, and Olivia were watching from the uppermost balcony seats. No text had come in response to what was keeping him. Below, Pastor Hugh had been followed by the spotlight on the dark stage over to where he was about to remove another shroud from the canvas. The little wireless mic at the Pastor’s mouth was just a black dot of foam hovering on a thin wire too small to make out from there.

The square of cloth is removed, revealing a bottom corner of pure white light.

“Thomas wouldn’t believe it,” the Pastor says, “even after the disciples came along and said, ‘Thomas! We’ve seen Jesus, He’s alive!’ And Thomas says, ‘I won’t believe it until I see the holes in His hands and I place my fingers into the wound at His side myself!’”

There was silence in the church.

“Eight days later,” says the Pastor, pacing. “The disciples are together again with Thomas when Jesus appears. He says to Thomas, ‘Come here. Put your hand here in this wound.’ Then, after all the disgrace Thomas had gone through — after standing there and forsaking Him publicly — he puts his fingers into the wound and exclaims, ‘My Lord, my God!’”

“Grief can take a long time to heal,” says Pastor Hugh, putting a hand on the wooden stool. “Because it is like being put in the dark.”

He waves a hand toward the remaining linen shrouds clinging to the canvas. “Believers get hung up on the fact that happiness breeds happiness. And they should! Surround yourself with happy people and watch happiness multiply. But it is no magic rocket ship to perpetual contentment. Nor is it a cure-all.”

He reaches to unshroud another square — one in the center this time — but pauses with his fingers resting on the cloth.

“Doubt, and grief. Hardship,” he says, then peels it away gently, letting it drop. A faint impression of golden hair, perhaps a mustache, appears in the light, though it remains frustratingly out of focus.

“I’ve counseled many of you here tonight who are grieving. And I know it seems that sadness breeds sadness — that those in hardship find themselves surrounded by others in hardship. But I also believe that this is passive. Our grief and our disbelief are like being buried as a seedling in the dark soil.”

Pastor Hugh tightens both fists as if curling a heavy iron bar and closes his eyes. “The light is calling from just above.”

He relaxes again.

A flashlight beam directs John down an aisle and toward the far right section where his family is seated. He has to silently motion for eight people to stand to let him through. Shuffling past them reminds him of trying to reach the restroom during his kid’s ballet recital. He finally sits, and his wife immediately places a hand on his bandaged thumb.

Above them in the balcony, another volunteer traces a line on the floor with a flashlight for Sgt. Patterson. Still in uniform, Patterson keeps his eyes on Pastor Hugh, listening intently as he navigates the rows of seated patrons to find his family.

No Filter

The Pastor is saying, “It can take a long time to germinate. And then to sprout. I guess it really depends on how deeply we’ve planted ourselves in our grieving — and how many filters we are trying to find God through. The answer is, and I will tell you, the only filter needed is your heart. When’s the last time any of you challenged God to show up, huh? A show of hands. Come on, God — just show Yourself!” He yells this like he’s experienced the very challenge himself.

If anyone present raised a hand, it went unnoticed in the dark.

“Your eyes are a filter,” he continues. “Jesus told Thomas when he finally believed, after shoving a finger into the wounds: ‘Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.’ Another filter is your disqualifications. The ‘I am not worthies’ and the ‘I could never be forgivens.’ They are just as light-quaffing as those tiles of cloth up there.” He points to the bedlam canvas.

His hands cross behind his back as he walks several paces away from the shrouded image. “But Thomas found — ” he chuckles, lifting his gaze. “Thomas found that once you break the surface — ”

He hurries back to the canvas and reaches behind it. “Once those leaves start popping out, boy — ” He engages a string, and the remaining felt pieces shower down from the brightly illuminated photo. “ — does it go on that straight march for the sun! And multiply fresh green growth along the way!”

Shining in a halo of brilliance, the face of Jesus emerges from the darkness.

This Prayer’s to You

The ambient light increases, and the Pastor is again the center of attention. “Let us pray.”

Silence falls over the sanctuary.

Garbage man John, SGT. Patterson, and Recording Artist Marcus, bow their heads with all present.

“God, we are gathered here today to celebrate the return of Your Son from the grave. We want to thank You for sending Him to us and for forgiving us our trespasses against Him. We want to thank You for all things…”

As the prayer takes shape, the workmen begin to feel tears gathering in their eyes.

“Our time. Our health. Our ability to make connections with others…”

John squeezes his wife’s hand, feeling the rhythmic throb in his bandaged thumb.

“Our money and jobs. Our families. The food on our tables…”

Marcus is overcome by a peculiar feeling and begins to weep.

“The roofs over our heads. And the freedom to worship as we choose…”

Patterson’s mind wanders to Nine Inch Nails again — his private surrender to his family’s more “appropriate” Sunday jams. Tears start falling for everything he feels he has sacrificed for them.

“On this Easter day,” finishes Pastor Hugh, “we ask You, more than anything, to bless those less fortunate. In Jesus’s name we pray, Amen.”

The Not Knowing

The triangle in the drummer’s box starts to ting and the colored lights begin to rise, but Pastor Hugh raises a hand. “Band, if we could have just another moment. Please.”

The lights dim and the ringing stops. The drummer lifts his foot from the bass pedal.

“The Hindus believe ‘not knowing,’ as it’s written in the Kena Upanishad, is their most powerful spiritual attribute,” the Pastor says. “They don’t know if Shiva will appear in their daughter, or in the lady behind the counter at the DMV who is taking an absurd amount of time processing a tag and title. They don’t know. So they salute with Namaste. Translated as: The God in me sees the God in you.”

He pauses, leaning over the stool. “We think we’re the lucky ones because we do know. We know that Jesus has risen. We know that He ascended into that blessed realm.”

CHEERS.

The triangle tings again, but Hugh makes a patting motion in the air, and it stops. Some in the crowd check their watches; the service is running late.

The Pastor’s finger goes up, and he shakes it with a smile. He’s seen SGT. Patterson come in late. He’s seen his trash collector arrive tardy. He’s seen the many who serve his community scattered throughout the pews.

Pacing, he says, “When I was little, I knew all about Santa Claus. I wasn’t always sure if I believed he could see me when I was sleeping or knew when I was awake — but I wasn’t taking any chances!”

A spatter of laughter ripples through the room.

“After my father died,” he looks out at the crowd and pauses. “Yeah, I’m human!”

There is some light, awkward laughter.

“I knew I was gonna shape up. At first, it was because I figured my dad might have just gained all those magical abilities of Santa! He wasn’t confined to the nursing home anymore, busy watching Judge Judy. No! Now he had ascended. I couldn’t care less about Santa, but the last thing I wanted was my old man seeing me smoking the ol’ peace pipe.”

The room erupts in laughter.

“This was just years before I became ordained. My dad, for the most part, was my Jesus. And it was his light, up there — ” he looks skyward, “ — that germinated my seed.” His lips draw tight, and he nods reverently. “Yes, we know. But we do not know where Jesus may turn up today. I would wager He isn’t here but on rare occasion. He’s too busy collecting our trash. Caring for others in a hospital. Inspiring people to pursue their dreams…”

Midway back at ground level, Marcus’s wife squeezes his hand.

What Would Jesus Do

Last night, Marcus and his family had sat around the dinner table — a card table covered in a checked cloth from Dollar Tree. Carmen served them, in a better mood than usual; the upcoming service always did that to her. She saw Marcus watching their son, Dillon, and sighed.

“You’ll have better luck tomorrow, honey,” she said. “Derek said he’s been picking up jobs at the temp service on Main. Maybe you should go there?”

Marcus continued to watch Dillon. The boy had picked up his spoon and was drawing a smiley face in his mashed potatoes. Carmen saw it and did what any good mother would: “Dillon! Don’t play with your food!”

Dillon made a quick move, and a dollop of mashed potatoes hit the linoleum despite Carmen’s attempt to catch it. She huffed. Marcus tried not to laugh, but failed.

Another huff followed. “It’s all we have right now, baby!”

Marcus knew she was right, but he only watched as she went about wiping it up. “Five second rule?”

She looked at him mouth agape.

Then, feeling like he should say something more serious, “I know. He’s just got an artistic streak like his daddy.” Then, to his boy: “Come on, Dillon, where are your manners? We haven’t even said grace.”

Carmen sat and exhaled. “Well, we can at least be thankful for what the good Lord has provided,” she said.

What I have provided, he thought.

“Marcus?”

That was the cue for the blessing.

Marcus thought of his checking account — a few hundred bucks in there. Meager sales from his singles, but heck, it was something. He looked at his little family and at the food, a thought flickering through his mind: Why, when things are hard, is it me who’s to blame? But when things are good, it’s the Lord we thank?

“Marcus?”

Marcus’s eyes shifted side to side, shaking off the shameful thought. He’d bowed his head and said grace.

Happy Easter

At The River Cross Pastor Hugh continues, his voice steady and resonant.

“Jesus would be out there protecting civilians. He would be putting His life on the line, again and again, in the face of adversity.” He looks up, his gaze meeting SGT. Patterson’s.

Patterson’s eyes are filled with tears which couldn’t possibly be seen from stage.

“Though,” Pastor Hugh adds with a knowing tilt of his head, “He’d probably also be petitioning against the laws and agendas that don’t seem to work for the global good. Probably get himself arrested.”

Patterson smiles.

“I will leave you with this: Be mindful of whom you judge. Jesus is everywhere. And if you choose to RISE — or if you don’t — we may even find Him in you. Namaste, everyone. Oh! And feed the bunny! Like Santa, you don’t want to take any chances. Happy Easter!”

The face of Jesus comes into sharp, clear focus. First the triangle, and then the bass, strike the opening chords of the closing song: “Let the Light In.”

*Jay Horne is an award winning author of more than twenty works of fiction and audiobook adaptations. The River Cross is the title of one of his works in progress. Catch up with these characters there, but it is a horror novel, so prepare yourself for that genre. For more Christian writing enjoy ‘A Christmas Spirit’ about a dog and cat meeting Santa on Christmas Eve and learning how animals always find their way home.*