Paschal Moon

I see your bright fullness lighting up the April sky, and I remember that Easter is coming.

I see the stars dim and fade against your light and I remember that you were made to reflect the greater glory of the sun with a gentle light that is kinder to our eyes. We cannot see all things by your light, but nor do we stumble in the darkness. We too were made to be reflectors of the light of God, each in our small capacity, into the darkness of this world. But there was One whose light was the life of men.

I watch the dark clouds race across your tranquil face. They cannot change you, they only affect us. This is the nature of clouds, and the nature of the changeable currents of this world. We are a vulnerable and fickle people, and we project that fickleness onto you – yet you ever keep your face fixed toward the greater light, where your true allegiance lies, it is only towards us that you change. And I think of the Unchanging God with worship wonder and joy.

And I wonder what you have seen, riding high above the centuries as the spinning spheres mark out the passage of time. Do you remember that first Passover? Were they still painting the blood on the doors when you rose, or were they finished by then, and inside eating that feast with its promise of redemption? I am not sure if you could see the angel of death pass over the land, but you would have heard the mighty cry of grief that rose up from every household where the firstborn were destroyed. And you would have seen a nation of slaves march out of Egypt into a miracle they could barely understand.

And then, so many years later, you saw Him there, while you cast strange, twisted shadows from the olives. You saw Him there, praying in anguish, and you marveled that those who loved Him best could sleep through His pain. You saw the weight of His torment bearing down upon Him, till His sweat fell like mighty drops of blood, and you saw the love which held Him steadfast to his agonizing purpose. You could not turn your face away. Your light glinted on their armor as the soldiers came to arrest Him. You saw the traitor’s kiss and the despair of His friends.

By the time you rose the next night they had cut Him down from the cross and put Him in the tomb, so that His body would not hang there to desecrate the Sabbath. And all the world was dark and sad – for it seemed their only hope had died.

But then, Sunday morning, while it was yet dark and you still lingered in the sky, you saw the miracle take place that no human eyes beheld. You saw the very angels of God roll away the stone that sealed His tomb and the Risen Lord walk forth. You saw the women, who set out while it was still dark, turn their sorrow-burdened steps towards His burial place, and no doubt you smiled to yourself in anticipation of the wonderful surprise that awaited them there. And, as your light faded into the dawning of day, you knew that a new morning had begun for the whole creation; for death, the last enemy, had been defeated, and all the promises were beginning to come true. And you shine down on us still, watching our folly and our desperate prayers, as you wait with us for the consummation of all things.