Sundries

It is Easter, that repurposed pagan feast-day on which the risen Christ is celebrated. And in the Greek-speaking parts of Christendom, they say "Χριστός ἀνέστη", Christos anestë, which means "Christ is risen!"

Oddly, it puts me in mind of electrochemistry. The anode, anodos is the 'rising way'; the cathode, kathodos, is the 'descending way'. If you know enough Greek, then you therefore know the anode is where the electrons rise from the cell into the rest of the circuit and the cathode is where the electrons descend into the cell.

But we celebrate Easter today, and it is not about Elektra, 'amber', leaving its cell. Something altogether more energetic escaped that day, and remains in the world at large.

Thunder

It came even down into the little island and its little hills. The rain fell like spears. The wings of angels beat like shields. The fire was out this cold morning. But Christ is risen indeed, and the world is not the same.

Simplified

'Simplify me when I'm dead,' go the words in one particularly memorable modern poem (which I've appended at the bottom of this post). At this time of year I think of the two-way simplification of the man named Jesus, son of God, son of Man.

There are indeed at least two ways to look at the person of Jesus Christ. The first is "Time's wrong-way telescope", which makes him look smaller, less distinct, a vague image which is conveniently distant and far from us all; the second is the simplification of death and aftermath, a cold but dynamic logic given to us by Paul the apostle.

In the first, we find it convenient to distance him by virtue of alien experience. He died for the sins of all the world, a thought so large that we can run around saying that we are too small, that it is so big, that we are not worthy, that there must be some sort of calculus that is beyond us. So we put it far away from us, and we bow down and sing hymns, and because of that well-known phenomenon called 'diminished responsibility (or sense of moral agency) due to being in a large group', we feel a lot better, marvelling from afar.

The second is terribly inconvenient. If the Christ is not dead and risen again, then you are still in your sins. If it didn't happen, you are pitiful because you believe it did. If Christ is not risen, your faith is in vain. And in this second model, the Christ walks up to you and very inconveniently tells you, as one man to another, "Do not be faithless, but believe.' Having provided the physical proof to Thomas the apostle, he turns round and says, "Because you have seen me (and stuck your hand into this big hole in my ribs), you have believed; blessed are those who haven't and yet believe."

It's easier to surrender far away from the battlefield, as it were. It is easy to sing hymns once a year, remember the death on Friday and the resurrection on Sunday. That can be a good thing. It's not so easy though to be forever standing witness (in all our own fallen glory of fallibility and shame) to something that you have not much rational evidence for. But there it is. Simplify your choice.

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Simplify Me When I'm Dead

Remember me when I am dead
Simplify me when I am dead.

As the process of earth
strip off the colour and the skin
take the brown hair and the blue eye

and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon came in the cold sky.

Of my skeleton perhaps
so stripped, a learned man may say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.

Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce from the long pain I bore

the opinion I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.

Time's wrong way telescope will show
a minute man the years hence
and by distance simplified.

Through the lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion

not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled
leisurely arrive at an opinion.

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I am dead.

Keith Douglas
(died in France, 9th June 1944, under enemy mortar fire)

Easter

I had a huge lunch with my two sets of parents and my brother. Then I fell asleep and I dreamt. I dreamt that I was reading the last book of all the historical books of the Old Testament, and a voice came from all around me. And the voice said, "All things are become new. What has been and what will be come together. Rise up with this book in your hands and speak."

And I dreamt that I rose up and spake to a sea of faces, past and present, old and young, without discrimination as to creed or race or division of any other human kind. And then I woke, and it was a hot afternoon, and I could not remember what I had said.

Day 006

Today is Easter. It is a day of rejoicing and new beginnings — for everyone.

I am totally unpacked now. Unfortunately, somewhere between the wind and the west moon, my chargers were misplaced. I am no longer able to mount a charge until I find replacements. My friends, go out there and break a lance or two for me. Sigh! Such are the perils of indulging oneself in a moving experience.

Great Eastern Life

All things are made new. There is nothing in that old shell, that old place, for you. There is instead the powerful life, the enormous potential, the noise of the crusade.

And every person's conscience must decide what is worth it and what is not.

For He is risen, and the clock of the world began its final circuit a long time ago. It could be 11:53 pm right now.

Belief

It has always struck me that the Easter week fills the role of 'pagan fertility rite' very well. It is uncannily resonant (if not downright consonant in parts) with Robert Burns's version of the old British folksong, John Barleycorn, for example.

I have seen many movies of the crucifixion before, some compassionate, some agonized (or agonizing), some artistic, and some all of the above. To me, the best representations are those that don't highlight the gore and bloodshed. They cut to the essence of it; the sacrifice of the holy for the unhallowed.

I have good historical reasons for feeling this way. If we were to be historically accurate (for example) about pre-industrial England, we'd have to put more horseshit on the ground than can be found in any film. You wouldn't be able to see Sherlock and Watson in the London fog. And Arthur's brave defence of Celtic Britain would be bogged down by poor equine breeding stock. The story of the Christ doesn't need historical accuracy because no matter how much gore we put in (yes, we know about Roman crucifixions) the blood on-screen cannot sanctify the story any more than it is already sanctified.

John's gospel puts in succinctly. At the end of John's account of the latter part of Easter week, he says that what has been written is 'that you might believe.' That is all there is; the crucifixion and burial occupy a scant, terse 26 verses or so. Read the account yourself to see the difference between Bible and Hollywood.

Hence I am going to go out on the limb of a tree and say this: the accounts given are terse for a reason. They do not sensationalise because of two reasons: 1) it is not necessary to do so - the story speaks for itself; 2) it is not possible to deliver the true impact of Jesus' death and its aftermath, no matter how hard you try. Emotional impact, yes. Spiritual impact, no. The problem is that the former can act as a counterfeit for the latter, and it often does.

So away with all these gloomy meditations on the death of Jesus of Nazareth. "He is not here; He is risen!" says the Good Book. It is a time of joy. With the brethren of the Eastern Churches, we should greet each other thus:

"Χριστος ἀνεστη !"
Christ is risen!

And the response is "Ἀληθως ἀνεστη !"
In truth, (He is) risen.