A giant sigh of relief bellows from the behind the western hills. It is the chorus of Christians who have completed the days of abstinence, some from meat others from television and beer. No matter how far or relatively short their steps out of the world were, out of the world they were and glad to be back. With them enter a certain paschal glow, and a bevy of mysterious Mona Lisa smiles.
While in the east, on the other side of the valley of the shadow of death, the full moon calls for Passover, the days when yamaka protected heads walk in groups of four and five to Temple to worship the powerful God who parted the Red Sea so grandparents could escape the tyranny of slavery. And on each side of their path stand the Orthodox Christ-lovers, heads bowed with respect and patience as the yamakas pass-by.
Deep in Lenten love, learning how to listen, how to be humble, how to pray; the people of the East visit the souls of saints through their writings. This is the season of transformation. The time will have passed too quickly when it’s over, when the Son has risen in the East.
Lent will finally end for everyone, Passover passes too, but Easter never ends. Jesus will always be alive, healing, making miracles of millions of fish, showing dominion over demons, and wishing people would walk on water. He is still the go-between, the facilitator and the biggest brother. He still loves to teach and to outwit the nitwits, and He still loves to demonstrate the difference between truth and ego. Some things never change. Easter never ends.