He is Risen Indeed!

Despite celebrating the death and resurrection of Jesus more than 20 times, I never realized that three days can be a long time.  When I was in first or second grade, I specifically remember trying to count the number of hours that Jesus was in the tomb to see if he was really dead for three days.  Friday afternoon until Sunday morning seemed a little bit short, and I remember thinking that Jesus had stretched the definition of 3 days in the tomb a bit. 

The holy week celebration I participated in this year was like nothing I have ever experienced.  In many ways, Lutherans in Umphumulo remember the events leading up to Jesus death and resurrection just as my home congregation has in St. Louis.  We both remember the last supper on Maundy Thursday and take part in Jesus’ amazing example of service by washing each other’s feet.  Good Friday provides a chance to reflect on the depth of Jesus’ love for us: how he endured the beatings, pain, insults, and rejection in order to save the world from our sins.  And Sunday morning is the culmination of it all: Christ is risen!  Both in Umphumulo and in St. Louis, I also had the privilege of spending time and sharing food with friends and family to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. 

Here the stories diverge.

All 15 congregations that make up Umphumulo Parish met to worship together for holy week.  The parish had arranged to use the facilities of Nyamazane Primary School, which is about 10 km from my house in Umphumulo.  During the days leading up to Easter, I had wondered how evening services would work.  Relatively few people have access to cars or private transportation, and nobody seems to like walking home after dark.  I soon learned that the most people were planning on spending the entire period—from Thursday evening until Sunday morning—at Nyamazane.  High school students, middle aged women, retired men, grandparents, and young adults all brought blankets, a change of clothes, and pads to sleep on and camped out in the various classrooms for three nights.   I was, in a word, impressed.  I’ve been to my fair share of youth conferences where young people happily sleep (or stay up late talking) on the bare concrete floors of classrooms, but I didn’t expect many churchgoers (especially 60+ year old grandmothers) to jump at the opportunity.  Full disclosure—I only spent one night at Nyamazane; everyone who was there for the entire weekend has my highest respect. 

The inescapable difference between holy week in Umphumulo and in St. Louis is the amount of time spent worshipping and in community with each other.  Beginning with the Maundy Thursday service at 6:30 pm, I spent 42 of the next 62 hours in church.  Frankly, I couldn’t imagine how I could stretch what is traditionally a couple hours of services in the U.S. into three days.  More importantly, I was terrified of listening to Zulu preaching for three days.  My Zulu isn’t nearly good enough help me understand anything more than the most simple sentences and phrases; sermons were going to be rough. 

In addition to services celebrating the last supper on Thursday and Jesus suffering and death on Friday, the weekend was filled with singing, sharing testimonies, meetings, dancing, and Bible studies.  In between all this worship, we talked, ate, and tried to stay warm at night and cool during the day.  All weekend had been leading up to the Easter vigil Saturday night, and amazingly Saturday evening arrived before I knew it.  After sharing dinner, everyone crowded in to a huge canvas tent that had been set up in the school’s courtyard to watch Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ”.  I had never seen the film before, and it was an excellent reminder of why we had been gathered together since Thursday evening.  After a short break, everyone reconvened in the tent where we had been worshipping all weekend.  Since I couldn’t understand most of what was being said around me, I soon lost track of who stood up to speak.  It was all I could do to keep my eyes open, and I took a 45 minute rest around 2 am. 

When I woke up, Baba Mabaso (the parish pastor) was leading a formal church service in the tent.  In fact, he was baptizing two members of the community, and confirming about 8.  I had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming about a confirmation held at 3 am on Easter Sunday, but once I woke up the experience was very striking. After a while, the service moved out of the warmth of the tent and out of the gates of the school.  We stopped about 100 meters away in the center of a dirt soccer field, and Baba Mabaso read the story of Jesus’ resurrection.  At 4 am, the moon was bright enough that I could see my shadow, which was good because the candles kept blowing out.  Still, I now feel as though I have a much deeper understanding of what the original Easter Sunday might have been like: “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance.” (John 20:21)

I’ll never forget what happened next.  Standing there in the dark, about 200 people of all ages exploded.  Everyone was singing, dancing, and trying not to step on each other in the dark.  People were blowing vuvuzelas and smashing cow bells.  A few people got into their cars and started doing doughnuts in the middle of the soccer field while leaning on their horns.  The joy that had erupted from everyone around me as we celebrated the empty tomb was so palpable you could taste it.  After an entire weekend of singing and dancing, we sang and danced and acted like God’s kids for the entire world to hear.  They probably did too; there wasn’t much else happening at that hour of the morning.  It turns out that the resurrection is a lot more exciting when you’ve been waiting for it for three days.  I loved it. 

Our Easter Sunday service ended by 5am.  Everyone was exhausted, and I’d never been happier.  We shared a tea and a light breakfast together before everyone started to head home.  I walked in my front door around 7, and was asleep by 8.  He is risen indeed!