almost certainly,
as the sun readies to rise on easter
as birdsong sings life into still-darkened skies
as grandmothers detangle hair they will tenderly braid
as women ready stoves for loaves they’ve kneaded and risen
almost certainly,
before we can sing the first verse
of ‘Up from the Grave He Arose’
or ‘Christ the Lord Is Risen Today’,
a BLU-109 bomb, made not far from one of our churches–
or perhaps a BLU-116 or BLU-137, the upgraded versions–
will explode into [Gaza/ other area of violence]
severing limbs and shattering life
making of holy gatherings unmarked graves
making of holy sites overcrowded tombs.
and almost certainly,
this is not the easter sermon
any of us wake wanting to hear
but it’s there, right there, in the gospel accounts:
‘Why do you not know how to interpret these present times?’
‘Why, what evil has he done?’
‘Why do you look for the living among the dead?’
all right here, while the crowds cry ‘Crucify! Crucify!’
or stand at a distance
or turn quickly, quietly away
and almost certainly–
so the story goes–
there are some
who will turn their backs
when we need them the most
but almost certainly–
yes, even in these horror stories–
there are others
who will come looking,
searching through the wreckage of crucifixion’s wake
through open-air prisons and cobalt mines
through apartheid systems and trans antagonisms
through ravaged lands and police barricades
carrying salves, offering ointments, armed only with
storehouses of salt left by oceans of tears
and healing herbs and precious spices
and hearts that refuse to harden
our hallelujahs are empty, when we do not mourn the dead
our hallelujahs are empty, when we will not fight for the living
and empty hallelujahs will not get anyone free
this easter, may our hallelujahs catch in our breath
until every hallelujah we sing breathes life into precious flesh
sung in refusal of violent death’s sting
sung in defiance of empire’s terroring
sung in resistance to genocide’s justification
sung in noncompliance with oppression’s normalization
sung in easter vigil–a hymn of resurrection!–
in wreckage, we remain
from wreckage, we rise
we shoulder up among the ruins, and
we return to each other beyond the tombs.
hallelujah, dear ones,
may we make it so.
Written for Easter 2024. This version is slightly adapted from the original found on Enfleshed.
Photo: broken grave marker in France, Tony Othen
