I have a few pieces of poetry that I love to take out and muse over each Easter season. Today, here is one many don’t know about, from someone many will find surprising: John Updike. His “Seven Stanzas on Easter” is likely the finest Easter celebration short of Chrysostom’s “Easter Homily.” He hits directly at the point I consider the weakest link in contemporary Christian thought, namely, or embarrassment at the scandal of the divine intersecting the material creation.
Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.
It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.
And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.
May your Easter observance be exuberant and mindful!