If I could have one part of the world back the way it used to be, I would not choose Dresden before the firebombing, Rome before Nero, or London before the Blitz. I would not resurrect Babylon, Carthage, or San Francisco. Let the Leaning Tower lean and the Hanging Gardens hang. I want the Mississippi Gulf Coast back as it was before Hurricane Camille, that wicked killer which struck in August 1969. — Elizabeth Spencer

The Cross is the abyss of wonders, the center of desires, the school of virtues, the house of wisdom, the throne of love, the theater of joys, and the place of sorrows. It is the root of happiness and the gate of heaven. ...

The Cross of Christ is the Jacob’s ladder by which we ascend into the highest heavens. There we see joyful patriarchs, expecting saints, prophets ministering, apostles publishing, and doctors teaching, all nations concentering, and angels praising. That Cross is a tree set on fire with invisible flame, that illumineth all the world. The flame is love: the love in his bosom who died on it.

We know much about the events of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday. But what about Saturday, the day with no special name, the day on which the body of Jesus lay in the cold sealed tomb, the day on which many churches close and seal their sanctuaries in memory of his burial? That Saturday long ago was a Sabbath day for the ancient disciples—commanded by law to be observed as a quiet day of rest. In the stillness of their homes, did they mourn for Jesus? In the silence of their prayers, did they ask for direction in his absence? Did they agonize about how they would go on, what they would do next? Did they struggle to make sense of all they had experienced? Did they grieve?

Anyone who has suffered a loss and has waited for healing and rebirth knows what a day like that Saturday is like—the day after the funeral, after the mourners have gone home, after the flowers have wilted, after the casseroles have been reduced to leftovers, and you wander from room to room feeling the palpable emptiness of a loved one’s absence. In many ways, the whole of New Orleans is “living on Saturday”—somewhere on the long span that stretches between the tragedy of Katrina and the triumph of our promised rebirth. Just how long will this Saturday last? We do not know. All we can do is trust the promise that even now there is something unseen to our eyes that is happening during this in-between time in the tomb--something revolutionary, something utterly transformative. All we can do is trust that at the end of this longest day, the sun will rise on an Easter Sunday morning, the day will at last break on anopen empty tomb from which a brand new, resurrected life will emerge. This is the promise to which we must hold fast. Join me on Sunday as we sing of this promise that is ours at Easter:

There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody;
there’s a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.
From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery.
In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity;
in our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity.
In our death, a resurrection, at the last, a victory,
unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

“Hymn of Promise” by Natalie Sleeth

So let us take our part in the Passover...

If you are a Simon of Cyrene, take up your cross and follow Christ. If you are crucified beside him like one of the thieves, now, like the good thief, acknowledge your God. . . . Enter paradise with Jesus and discover how far you have fallen. Contemplate the glories there, and leave the other scoffing thief to die outside in his blasphemy.

If you are a Joseph of Arimathea, go to the one who ordered his crucifixion, and ask for Christ’s body. Make your own the expiation for the sins of the whole world. If you are Nicodemus, like the man who worshipped God by night, bring spices and prepare Christ’s body for burial. If you are one of the Marys, or Salome, or Joanna, weep in the early morning. Be the first to see the stone rolled back, and even the angels perhaps, and Jesus himself.

-- And what else is there to talk about except that which everybody else is talking about…of course, Mardi Gras.

It's that time again: that wonderful, crazy, colorful, crowded, happy, mixed-up but glorious time when all New Orleans forgets itself for a day, lets its hair down, puts on a rubber nose, a funny hat, and walks around laughing at the silly people in their crazy costumes.

It's a day for contrasts…a day for change.

A day when legions of quiet, timid, introspective little men forsake their cashier's windows and their neat clerk’s desks, put masks across their faces, and suddenly become Don Juan.

A day when a secretary can become Queen of England…a housewife, Annie Oakley.

Mardi Gras is fantasy in a fright wig, reality with a burnt cork on its nose, a dream with a scepter in its hand, and pompousness about to be punctured.

Mardi Gras is fun and laughter, vulgarity and coarseness, color and light, and at the end, quiet.

Mardi Gras is a state of mind, an attitude, a pose, an opinion. But at its most basic…and perhaps satisfying of all, Mardi Gras is the one day in the entire year when New Orleans can tell the world:

"We're going to have fun!" And we do.