Flowering the Cross

Since I've only been attending St. Paul's United Church for a few months, their tradition of "flowering the cross" on Easter Sunday came as a bit of a surprise--a lovely one, but it's something I've never seen before.

Everyone is asked to bring at least one flower--any kind--to the service: several, if possible, so any guests can participate if they choose. A plain white cross is set up in front of the communion table and, usually, someone has also left a vase of flowers next to it. What no one can see from the pews is that the cross is covered with chicken wire.

During "the children's time" between the opening hymns and the sermon, the children are told that Jesus was killed using the cross, but, since their families and friends believe he came back to life, decorating the structure with flowers is a way of remembering that. They're asked if they want to do that themselves and are invited to stay long enough to watch all the grown ups do the same before going off to Sunday school in another part of the church.

By the time everyone who wants to has tucked their flowers under the chicken wire, a lovely mixed bouquet is standing in front of the communion table and the service goes on as usual.

As I said, it's a lovely custom. But, somehow, I wasn't in a celebratory mood. Perhaps it's the rotten weather today, or the hesitant appearance of spring this year, or Linus' battle with cancer, or Mother's with congestive heart failure--any number of things. The following poem is what came to mind:

some cover the cross
with flowers
on Easter Sunday
hide pain under joy

turn bad memories
and old hurts
that can’t heal into
something beautiful

denying the pain or
flaunting it

the old soldiers’ wounds
are bandaged
as they smile at praise
and honors

they know what
poison is