The Paschal Moon in the time of the Pandemic

Paschal Moon through the Trees

Below is a poem I wrote about he Paschal Moon in the time of the Pandemic. More photos of the moon from the walk I took that inspired this poem are included at the end of the blog post.

Paschal Moon

 Oh Paschal Moon what say you in our darkest hour?

Only 221, 772 miles away, you are closer now and brighter than at any other time of year.

What secrets can you reveal? What hidden foibles we dare not recognize? 

Blindness is rampant on this earth, which is anything but terra firma.

I first saw you on Good Friday, two days before you entered your fullest 

and most powerful phase. Yet the tides of my life had already gone haywire,

swung wildly and mercilessly by this terrible pandemic. 

In Germany, Crucifixion Day is named Karfreitag, or Mourning Friday. 

I am grieving for all the lives snuffed out and those that will be soon, 

for the dispossessed who are unimaginably lost, stored in freezer trucks, 

then dumped in rows of unmarked graves on Heart Island and elsewhere.

We can never forget this and may these souls never be forgotten.  

Christ died for our sins so we could be forgiven,

not so we’d end up perishing alone without funerals, 

our bodies disposed of by strangers if no one claims us fast enough.

Dying for us was not sufficient. We refuse to learn.

Christ was interred in a cave, not some fancy mausoleum 

built by human hands at the command of those with baseless pride.

The wealthiest are bent on acquiring more and more money

to ensure their protection and to be remembered after they die,

like Pharohs lying in tombs filled with gold in the Valley of Kings.

But they are false kings and real or self-conceived royalty

is no protection from this equal opportunity destroyer.

It might come for you at any time, and you may face it all alone.

If you’re lucky you’ll make it, perhaps not even notice you’re ill.

But if you’re unlucky, old or immuno-compromised, 

one of the weak Jesus would have healed and defended, 

or one of the poor He promised to invite to the greatest banquet of all,

you might just end up buried temporarily in a park, 

and then who knows which body your loved ones might get back, 

if your relatives know where you are or can even get to you.  

Unimaginably horrific, like the Black Death that could never happen again

and is.  More disturbing than pondering if Jesus’ body was stolen. 

That was long ago and believers kept faith.  Can I keep mine? And in what? 

In my leaders, my fellow man, God, that goodness triumphs over evil?

The searching rays of the Paschal moon reveal all concepts of safety as illusions.

In the half-light we are all the same and at equal risk, though probabilities

are skewed for those who are able to quarantine versus those who must work.

But fear and uncertainty still persist whether we go out in the world or not. 

The Angel of Death will not respect markings of lamb’s blood this time, 

and God might be after any family member, if you believe this plague is God’s doing.

Personally, I suspect we only have ourselves to blame. 

Degraded environments cause outbreaks of Cyanobacteria in our water; 

melting permafrost may unleash ancient diseases and cause pandemics to prevail.

Is this the eleventh plague or the sixth extinction? Are we merely victims?

Or might listening to the earth’s wisdom rather than our discordant voices

help us heal the planet and ourselves, if we can remember how to work together?

On Good Friday I spied your majestic presence through the trees, 

I was walking up hill to my home, not Golgotha, carrying my own cross.

My shoulders heavy from worry for my first born who has the virus,

has had it longer than expected and with complications. 

Alone in the woods, did this suffering I was experiencing really exist?

And how much worse was his ordeal being alone in a new place?

Was this the 10th plague all over again, I wondered?

But then I remembered how many grandparents are being lost too,

and how I am torn between protecting my mother and seeing my son.

So many must be broken-hearted.  There is surely loud wailing across the globe,

especially here in America where States have been abandoned 

and thoughts of succession are looming again.  But how to escape?

This time we have no Moses to lead us across the Red Sea into freedom,

Or is it just that we are not listening to those who defend the oppressed?

God chose Moses because he was just and always spoke the truth, 

even when it meant criticizing his own people.  Where are those voices now?

And in a strange land Moses still defended the seven sisters harassed by shepherds,

Why is it now that the powerful are turning a deaf ear to the wisdom of women?

The net of Fascism is closing in on us, a snare that is descending and crushing 

so many of God’s children. We live in a society where everyone does not count.

How I long for Indra’s web to be revealed, with its shimmering jewels of equal value,

The road was flanked with a thicket of trees not yet cloaked with leaves

The branches of one brushing against another, all seeming to hold

each other straight and offer support as their crowns reached for you.  

I envied them their closeness to your light, kept walking, hoping

if I climbed higher, around the next bend, I could see you more clearly

and praying I’d become closer too, all the while knowing how small I am 

and that a few hundred feet is nothing compared to so many miles.

Partway up the hill, the moon appeared closer to the crown of one tree

than it’s own lower branches seemed to be, were epiphanies possible?

Could we discover a way out of this petri dish of a mess our planet has become?

I climbed further still and some branches seemed to touch the moon itself.  

How I longed for connection with cosmic powers that rule the tides,

with all those places and people near and far who have touched my heart, 

with my son who I could not be physically present with and so longed to help.

As night descended I sat down and saw the moon encircled by branches, 

imagined stardust and atoms and the interconnectedness of it all.

I envisioned souls everywhere rising up and reaching for the light and receiving, 

the gift of the Paschal Moon so we might shine on even in our darkest hours.

Tree Reaching for the Pascal Moon

Branches Touching the Moon

Encircled