Underground

Anyone who follows the liturgical calendar of Lent knows that these forty (well, more than forty) days are a somewhat dreary time.  We trudge behind Jesus, headed toward the cross.

It's not just people in the church though.  Some of us recently went through the phenomenon of daylight saving time.  Although I mostly find this to be a mild inconvenience, apparently it is a practice that does not come without risks.  Just today I was talking to a coworker who was bemoaning the continued lack of sleep this has brought.  Getting out of bed is an extra struggle.

Those of us who live a region dictated by four seasons also know this is a rough time of year.  The hopefulness of spring appears to taunt us, with snow and sunshine inexplicably mixed.  Here in New Jersey you can witness this through the confusion of fashion attire.  Some of us are still bundled up in winter coats and scarves, while others have boldly pulled out sandals and shorts.  

But something else is happening underground.

During a chapel service this week we talked about the hidden alleluias of Lent.  Perhaps it is because we have sunk into the gloom that moments of hope become so radical.  Underneath the monotony of late winter, flowers are beginning to emerge.  

"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven." (Matthew 5:14-16)

There's something wildly exciting about the idea that beneath my boredom and gloom the creativity of God is murmuring.  While I am trying to hit the snooze button one more time, the alleluias of the world are creeping forth.