Third Sunday of EASTER (Written on April 15, 2009)

For the Lectionary (what's a lectionary?) of April 26, 2009: Luke 24:36b-48

 

You are witnesses of these things.

 

GLIMPSING DANAUS PLEXIPPUS by Larry Patten

I ducked, and barely missed being bonkered by a butterfly.

Whew!

However—since I’m a two-hundred pound guy, and I rode my bicycle at twenty miles per hour, and a goofy-looking helmet protected my noggin—shouldn’t I instead say: I avoided hitting a butterfly?

After all, who’d have suffered more from actual impact? Chunky Larry or Madame Butterfly?

I’d been dashing along the bike trail, admiring the scenery, alert to other bicyclists and the occasional walker, and mostly minding my own business. Then, whoosh! On the far left side of my peripheral vision a winged creature swooped into view. I ducked. All survived the near miss.

It was my second butterfly encounter within the week. A few days before I lounged in a lawn chair after finishing yard work. Just passing the time. Just enjoying a spring afternoon. And then, floating by the orange tree, I spotted a monarch butterfly. For a leisurely moment, the Danaus plexippus did what butterflies do so wondrously well. It flitted up and down, a splash of brash gold and black against the tree’s green backdrop. Unlike an anxious, frenetic hummingbird or a proverbial buzzing—and always so business-like—bee, the butterfly took its time.

And so I watched. And I was amazed at how my mind wandered until the insect disappeared into the neighbor’s yard.

I wondered, didn’t I see more springtime butterflies when I was a kid? Was that because I was a curious kid rather than a busy adult? Or, with the continuing onslaught of asphalt and concrete, with pesticides and global warming, have humans made the world more perilous for monarchs and their fellow winged Lepidopteras? I fear it’s more the latter than the former.

I then thought of my friend Dan, a pastor in the California town of Pacific Grove, the self-proclaimed “butterfly capital of the world.” There monarchs arrive from their two thousand mile journey, creating an annual explosion of fragile glory. Viewing my temporary backyard companion prompted a brief prayer for Dan. I enjoyed the winged reminder of him.

I remembered the Lenten activity done during children’s time in worship a few years back. One of the pastors I worked with knew how and where to acquire butterfly cocoons. Every Sunday, each a week closer to Easter, we designed lessons for the kids based on Lent’s preparation and Easter’s emergence from a tomb. From cocoon to butterfly; from Ash Wednesday, through Good Friday, to Easter.

The winged beauty left my yard. Here, for a gift of seconds, a fluttering of wings, encouraging an abundance of thoughts and memories. Gone, but I remembered.

One butterfly was a split-second gasp and duck, barely there in my peripheral vision. Another became a luxurious moment of reflection. Both gone.

In the time following Easter we no longer read scripture about the Bethlehem babe or the teller of tales or the Nazarene who wowed the crowds and threatened the authorities. Here and there, though, according to Gospel snippets, he appeared. Words were spoken. A bit of fish was eaten. The disciples didn’t believe their eyes. Joy and disbelief held hands like nervous teens on a first date. Luke gave us Emmaus with its burning hearts. John sketched Thomas’ doubts. The resurrected Jesus appeared . . . and then gone.

Gone. Luke said one of the Nazarene’s last statements was, “You are witnesses of these things.”

The cocoon breaks apart. A butterfly emerges. Beauty takes flight.

In our day-to-day faith, in April or December, it’s always after Easter. Now, what of Jesus? Now, what of my witness?

For me, because I fervently believe Jesus called us more to a relationship with our fellow humans and with the Holy, rather than to dwell on him, I am always humbled by the glimpses of glory I experience. A butterfly blazes into my view. I duck. The length of the encounter was less than a singular, splendid tick of the clock. But it reminded me of the immense world around me, the world—and God’s ways—which are beyond what I know and control.

And yet I remember. You are witnesses. What will I do today to care for the earth? Here, because of human actions, beauty takes flight or may disappear forever. Here and today, I have friends and strangers to keep in prayer and to share a life with. Here and today, as I gather with children to observe a cocoon, for weeks a still and somber shell, I tell them stories about hope and forgiveness that will open hearts and heal wounds. And I learn from those same children, for I know almost nothing.

I am called to witness. It’s always after Easter.

in Peace,

Larry