Tuesday, Day 10: Egg
When I was little, rather than going to the long midnight
liturgy, we always went to the Agape Easter service on Sunday morning. This was
a joyful service that was child-friendly and fascinating. The good news of the Resurrection
was read in as many languages as possible, followed by the Resurrection Song,
Christos Anesti.
At the end of the service, rather than distributing the traditional
red eggs, our priest would distribute eggs in every color of the rainbow.
Before doing so, he would preach a simple sermon about the color of each egg,
recounting its symbolism. I wish I could remember what all of the colors meant.
The priest in my childhood, now deceased, was a stern man.
Most of the children feared him at least a little, but I had some good reasons
to be afraid. Once, I accidentally brushed my hand against the communion
chalice, which is not supposed to be touched, ever. Another time, I slipped on
my way up to communion and almost fell over. Both times, the Fr. B did not
hesitate to scold me loudly.
A lot of the parents feared him, too. My mother was one of the few who did not. Once, when he decided
to cancel the children’s program for Greek Independence Day because the Bishop
was visiting and his son was becoming a priest on that day, my mother convinced
several parents to sign a petition demanding that he allow the children to perform. She won.
Another time, when he announced that there were too many children at a church
supper and asked parents to send their children to the Sunday School rooms,
where there would be child care, my mother stood up and made a big deal out of
refusing. “These are supposed to be family suppers,” she said, and other
mothers joined her in telling their children to stay put.
My mother was good for Fr. B. She was the only one brave
enough to challenge him. He was good for her, too—he gave her the clarity to
know what role she believed the church should have in her children’s lives, and
to fight for this. He helped her to find like-minded, strong women friends in a
community that typically is very patriarchal—and to empower them to speak out,
too.
When my mother died, Fr. B stood for a long time by her
casket in the middle of the funeral in silence. That was their last
conversation. Although it appeared to be a one-sided conversation, I like to believe he was asking her forgiveness, and that she granted it, but I’ll never
know for sure.
But I digress. Back to the Agape Service. Fr. B always
seemed different on Easter morning. All
of his sternness and haste seemed to disappear. He was famous for rushing
through the liturgy--but on Easter he slowed way down, took his time, smiled
genuinely at each person who kissed his hand at the end of the service.
We joked that Holy Week—which required him to lead at least
two and sometimes four services each day--had exhausted all of the anger out of
him. But I think he genuinely loved giving his Easter egg sermon, at least
partly because it never failed to captivate the children in the congregation,
even if it was the 10th time they had heard it.
After talking about each of the colors, he would end with the
red egg, the traditional color. He would remind us that the red symbolized the
blood and suffering of Christ. “The Easter story reminds us, though, that that
suffering was only temporary, easily peeled away to reveal a greater truth.” He would then crack the egg. “Just under the shell,” he would say, “the
egg is white, the color of clouds that provide rain for the flowers. White is
also the color of Jesus’ shroud.” He would then peel away the white, exposing
the yellow yolk. “The yolk is the color of the sun. It symbolizes Jesus,
unveiled to us, no longer in pain, bright as the Easter sunshine. Christos Anesti.”
And we would reply, "Alithos Anesti."
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