After a week of rain and awaiting spring,
it was time for the Easter Vigil once again.

Vic had called and asked if I would act out Matthew,
a man despised
but who would hear when Jesus called.

I consented with my curiosity instilled 
two springs ago when Lyndale first
intercepted long held visions from my past:

Easter was never my time to smile when church
would open doors to strangers in a place
they never came except on holy days,
not leaving to their fate some loss of grace
by absence when it most would seem their detriment.

Little girls in pink and women with flowered hats.
Men dousing after shave
and boys housing dreams of somewhere else,
away from ties and somber looks,
away tossing balls or climbing rocks.

Long services, longer prayers.
Pictures of relatives..."who cares!" said I
when I was twelve.

Easter was a day most dreaded
as I grew up,
but there were no Paschal Vigils then for me to see,
like Lyndale brings
and offers me.

Roseann drove, dropping me off at the back door.
She wanted to sit beneath her long lost sun
and drink from its holy brim
before it fell to goddesses beneath the earth,
Isis giving birth once more to consorts in the morn,
she wanted to offer her painful back to brilliance
beyond the shadow of red brick walls
while I sat down in the back pew...
but not my usual pew.

I had to sit to the right 
for there was a backpack, left alone,
holding space,
leaving me with the script of Matthew,
in a different place with words
of a man I tried to view,
but there was not yet any sense
of what would come.

A hand upon my back and there was Goren
with black from chest to shoe,
his golden hair on smooth slate skin
and arms draped softly to his side. 

He hugged me, grinning, as John approached
both sitting where the bag was left,
so I moved to be in front of them,
commenting that any two people 
sitting in that pew will have a relationship.

They said they could handle that.

Roseann arrived
and we pondered where we should be placed
with parts to read and songs to sing,
then someone said that they should be up front.

Goren asked me to hold his bag,
which I hung upon my back
with my coat curled up in the strap of my shoulder purse,
to my side,

then Matthew had a money bag
and words would run.

Annie rang the bell and sang us into silence
as her crystal voice sprang gently to our ears.

Don welcomed us and the Vigil Choir began:
"Trim the Cruisie's Failing Light" they sang.

Music, flowers on the banister,
and stained glass embellishments from the setting sun
framed spirits

as Don danced to the cadence of Kayla's
liquid words from Genesis:

hands forming stars,
his body pounding rhythms of creation
to our laughter
and elation,

the beginning of the universe
and god was on the stage
and we all became part of the carpet and slides with
"Mike" taking care of business
inside Eden,

setting us all straight
as we learned of the mundane task
of caring for paradise.

Could expulsion be so terrible in this soft place?

We were sent away,
down,
to the basement
where rummage sales have merged with time
and images will show us as we are,
without the false appearance of posing,
no need to be pretending,
as we wind the circle of each other through the halls
of covenants and community.

Ezekiel's words spoke of resurrections and
and the prophets regale us upon the stairs,
then we embrace and sing,
entering the narthex
with stories of a life we came to celebrate.

Amy Muse was the innkeeper's wife.
David Weiss gave possessions up as the young ruler.
Lisa Day groped with her soul through Mary Magdalene.
Kathryn Lee spoke gently as the woman thirsty at the well,

and I

was the tax collector, Matthew,
with Goran's bag
filled with the wealth of who we are
inside this place,
together,
not alone,
ready to walk the journey

once Goran dismissed the child of god
to the froth of anger,

around the block,

"I see no criminal" said the Roman Pilate,

in front of the Super America,

"Crucify Jesus!",

in the color of Bryant Lake Bowl neon lights,

"Release Barabbas",

with traffic wondering
for an instant
who this trail of souls would be
as Goran lead us
with the candle of our experience.

The alley,
its darkness now beside us.

I wrap my arm around Annie
as we approach a spotlight 
and the sound of Kelly rapping wood to the sounds
of crucifixion -
Michael spreading arms inside the pain of Jesus.

Death in the parking lot.
We were all there.
Sharing.
Feeling.

Walking past the back door where a lit face 
asked us why we sought the dead among the living.

Dean's trumpet assailed the night on 31st street
and Bryant park
slept on,
it was spring and the trees were taking care of their
day long photosynthesis,
letting us pass by
as Paula proclaimed that Jesus was not in the grave.

Don declared that Jesus was alive.

Sarah breathed the spirit of peace.

We welcomed the saints, calling out names of those
around us and in our history.

Joann...
Michael...
Dan...
Fern...

Someone said later as we looked at labels in the foyer,
"Do you know I learned Fern's name?
She had fern plant drawn on her label..."

We took part in new water poured for us
as we reentered the breath of god.

Then we sang

and Annie released us from the night,
leading us on
to the morning.                           

(c) 2000 Oliver Smith