Episcopal Chaplain at Boston University
Toward the end of high school I went on a family trip down the
middle fork of the American River, near Sacramento California. For two
days we learned how to steer as a group, how to push forward, how to
reverse out of a jam, when to stop and let the current take over. One
section of the river included a class five rapid—“the Shoot” I believe
it was called—into which we moved forward with a mixture of care and
abandon. At first we steered to the left, then to the right, paddling
madly to avoid hidden vortexes. At a certain point we shifted from our
seats to the bottom of the boat, holding our paddles straight up in the
air. We hurdled through a kind of spin cycle and were spat out at the
bottom, soaking but exhilarated.
Each Holy Week we journey into the Paschal Mystery of death and
resurrection, a metamorphosis beyond our wildest imagining. We enter
assured that we are indeed God’s children now, even as we don’t know
what we will be on the other side. We may paddle into this week with
great gusto, but ultimately we must cede to the current, as we sit
together on the floor of our little boat.
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