A Different Kind of Garden

As Easter dawns upon us, as welcome as the blossoming of springtime, I am struck by the fact that so much of our salvation story takes place in a garden. There is the Garden of the Sinning in Genesis, when forbidden fruit was eaten from a tree. There is the Garden of Sorrow where Jesus suffers the agony of turning his human will to the will of his Father, to reverse the sinning. There is the Garden of Burial, where they quickly bury Jesus, because the Sabbath is coming, without knowing it is just a temporary measure. 

Then this Garden of Death and Burial becomes the Garden of Life and Resurrection. The marvel, I think, is that all of these gardens exist within us. We know about the sin thing. We know about the agony of struggle thing. We know about the deadening thing, But what does the life and resurrection thing look like? We ponder the Easter readings to find out.

I suggest we position ourselves in the doorway of our tombs and peek out as we peel the burial clothes from our new skin. There is a lot of light...we notice as we blink the darkness away. There are flowers everywhere, and their fragrance almost takes our breath away. Lilies and roses, gladiolas and pansies, violets and zinnias. There are lilacs and orange blossom bushes. All of them are drinking of the sweet water drawn up from the same moist earth. 

In this garden, all are on a level plane. There are bishops and clerics, nuns and religious brothers and sisters, associates and laity of all sorts. They all draw their strength for loving from the same redeeming blood and water flowing from the side of the Living One. Each of them grows in its own little patch of turf, fed by the same rich humus.

These companions in this human garden share differing gifts. Some share deep contemplation. Some share administrative gifts. Some freely offer different works of mercy. Some are proclaimers of the Word who will not be silenced in the witness of their lives or from the pulpits of their churches, classrooms, or writing desks. 

As I continue to peek out from the deadening safely of my tomb and keep shaking off the burial clothes that cling to me, my new nose and eyes tell me that truth comes from this fragrance like a symphony; that all class systems are a thing of the past. That tribalism and racism are a hangover from the sin garden, and no longer have a place here. The Spirit blows where it will, we will not dictate how it bestows its gifts and charisms, and on whom.

As we move forward in this Resurrection Time, we remember that this newness already exists within us. We are fed by this resurrection life each time we receive the Risen One. The old burial clothes need to be folded up and put aside.