I've had a beautiful spring Easter Sunday, and
I’m feeling angry about it. I woke rested, successfully made a new recipe
(a Dutch Baby), ate brunch while chatting with my best friend, visited with my
family during Noon Zoom, did some yoga, went for a walk in the sunshine with
niece P on the phone, potted my herbs, and cleaned up the patio, all before
starting to make dinner.
I was going to let the brunch be my Easter
dinner, but as I pondered a frozen burrito, I worried that it would make my
mother sad to imagine me eating something basic rather than a special meal, so
I put on some music and started to cook.
All day I have been humming “Christ the Lord Is
Risen Today,” a song I remember from my days in Junior Choir. I don’t
know the words, other than the lulling Alllllll-le-luuuu-iaaa that punctuates
each line, but I love the song, so I looked it up and happened upon this
recent version, released only two days
ago.
The video is of the “Worldwide Easter Choir”
from the Methodist Church. It’s one of those recently popular Zoom
versions featuring dozens of people with surging voices performing in unison
inside their little boxes. There’s something intimate about watching
people sing from their homes: some sharing
earbuds, others with giant headphones, a grid of human colors.
My eyes started to blur with tears, but I wiped
them away when I noticed the lyrics on the bottom. I read along. Then I got to the end of the song, and I
played it over. Again and again and
again, I played it. I studied the words and listened to the holy
sounds. And with my two graduate degrees
in English, here’s what I’ve decided about the true meaning of “Christ the Lord
Is Risen Today.” The subtitle, in fact, is “Fuck You, Death.”
Even though I had such a wonderful day, I’m
angry because instead of being by myself, I should be in Salem, Massachusetts,
in the Tabernacle Church along with my family, crying and hugging after the
death of my Aunty Jane.
I wouldn’t call myself a Christian, but I grew
up going to church, and now when the world is hurting so much, when my own
family is in mourning, I find myself yearning to believe in a heaven where my
Aunty Jane is reunited with my Uncle Jean Paul, her husband of 50+
years.
But that doesn’t come easy to me. I’m
angry. The world is in such turmoil that
I can’t gather with my family. I can’t even hug them. How am I supposed to believe in this
so-called risen Christ? How am I supposed to sing out this
fluff?
Sons of men and angels say, Alleluia!
Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!
Sing, ye heav’ns, and earth, reply, Alleluia!
No matter how I try, I’m just not feeling this
make-a-joyful-noise nonsense. But buried in amongst those Alllllll-le-luuuu-iaaas
is much sterner stuff. It turns out the writer of the hymn, ol’
Charles Wesley, wasn’t simply trumpeting out celebration of the
resurrection. That dude? He had an
axe to grind. Listen closely to some of
these words:
Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alleluia! . . . Where thy victory, O grave? Alleluia!
He’s taunting death. He’s gloating!
I can get behind that strategy. I’m not feeling particularly celebratory,
and I’m not sure about this idea of a risen Christ, but I am feeling on
board with this “fuck you, death” strategy. Aunty Jane died on Good
Friday. And though no one would accuse
her of being a saint, she was a churchgoing woman, a Christian. I like to
think that my aunt, sharp-tongued though seldom profane, would appreciate my
interpretation.
And I suppose, maybe, just maybe, if I squint, I
can glimpse this vision of a faith in which this dude with long hair rolled a
stone away from a cave and now that means my aunt and uncle are together.
Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!
Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!
Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia!
Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!
Happy Easter to all.
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