I enter the van post-shopping trip, nerves frayed and patience gone. There was too much touching in the store, not enough listening and obeying. A young woman greeted me in the aisle and counted aloud, and then informed me that she wasn’t surprised that there were two bottles of wine in the cart.
As we click our safety belts and settle in for the ten minute ride home, a request comes from the backseat for “a popular CD.” OK, I think…rustling through the mismatched CDs and their cases, in search of something to satisfy the various musical tastes.
Found it. It’s Holy Week. Time for a weeklong reprieve in the storage of Behold the Lamb of God.
As we back out of the parking space, Andrew reads to us of The Story, of a young hero coming to rescue the one that He loves. The children fall silent, awaiting Osenga’s opening chord. They know it well. They’ve known it for all of their short lives. Then Garrett comes in with the steady driving beat, calling them to pay attention…to listen.
And suddenly, I am listening and seeing again. The music is loud — probably too loud for their young ears — but I don’t care. They must learn what it is to drive in the sunshine with the windows down, music blaring. The road stretches out before us, calling us forth. At every turn, a new color declares its Maker. The azaleas are showing the first signs of blooming. The daffodils are showy, delirious in a springy yellow haze.
Gather round, remember now/How creation held its breath/
How it let out a sigh/And filled up the sky with the angels
We turn a corner and I see the border of suburbia, that ludicrous line where the pastureland abuts the building lots. The white cows are beyond the treeline today, but I can still see them scattered across the green as they eat a late lunch. Their rural tranquility mocks the stucco house a few hundred yards away. A bradford pear demurely shows its last few blossoms as the dogwood shouts out a song.
So sing out for joy for the brave little boy/who was God, but He made Himself nothing/
He gave up His pride and He came here to die like a man
We pass through a construction site and I roll the back windows down a bit further, hoping to bless the signmen with the music. As we do, the opening strains of “Passover Us” remind me of the reason for my errand. Enclosed within the sacks on the floor are horseradish, parsley, matzoh, wine and other makings of our annual Seder supper. We will celebrate as the Jews did, but with a different ending. We know the fulfillment of the prophecy personally. The herbs are bitter and remind us of the pain of slavery, the saltwater reminds us of the slaves’ tears, but the wine becomes sweet as we anticipate drinking again at the marriage supper of the Lamb. “Next year in Jerusalem!” we cry out in Hebrew with raised glasses. Lord, come quickly.
That night all the children of Israel prayed/
“Lord, let your judgment passover us/Lord, let your love hover near/
Don’t let your sweet mercy passover us/Let this blood cover over us here”
We turn the corner into the neighborhood and Andrew, Jill, Andy and the rest are belting out the chorus a few more times as Garrett hammers the drum solo home in the background. There’s a part of me that wants to keep driving, but babies need naps and preparations must be made for our dinner. I give thanks for this short moment, this window into the eternal, this showing forth of glory seen and unseen.
He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For byhim all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.