The Lord is risen!
He is risen indeed!

Today’s Easter message at the church Emily and Steve attend was a very good message. The pastor talked about our deep affinity with rescuers, and our desire to see someone come and liberate those who are oppressed. He illustrated his message with video clips from The Gladiator and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And he invited all to see and acknowledge Christ as the ultimate rescuer—through the power of the resurrection. The service was challenging and uplifting—and it was made even better for me as throughout the whole service I was the official holder of Colette, our granddaughter, who spent most of the time asleep in my lap.

But I confess that I did miss certain things that have been part of my life and Easter celebrations for many years. The Sunday before I had missed the children marching down the aisle with palm branches, and I had missed the special services of Holy Week. Today I missed the people with whom I have shared many Easters. I missed the Easter flowers at Calvin. I missed sharing a message myself. I missed singing the Hallelujah Chorus. And I missed starting the service with The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed! Somehow Happy Easter is just not the same…

I guess what it all says is that my roots in a more traditional and liturgical setting, although not as strong as many I know, are a part of me that have value and carry meaning to me. There is something to be said for contemporary worship and new forms, but without the roots in the traditions of the church there is a thin-ness to them that does not do justice to the historical nature of our faith. We did not invent the gospel in this generation, nor should we forget the history which the gospel brings with it…

In any case I am now back in the USA, having finished six weeks in Mexico. My teaching went well, and five days in wonderful Cozumel have ended. I will be leaving tomorrow for the west coast for two weeks, but my life has changed—-I am officially no longer a westerner but am an easterner (south-east) as, after a year of being homeless, Nancy and I are now homeowners once again. We have purchased a small home in Greensboro, North Carolina, just four minutes from Emily, Steve and Colette. Our car even has North Carolina plates now. We feel a bit traitorous, as both our ancestors made the arduous trek west well over a hundred and fifty years ago--seeking a better life. But such is the adventure God has given us today.

But—before I leave Mexico entirely, I said I would make comments on a hacienda visit I took, so I should. The Yucatan Peninsula was one of the wealthiest places on earth from the mid 19th century through the first of the 20th century. The reason was that this era was the heyday of the great sailing ships, when they plied the oceans carrying the world’s cargo. And the ships needed hemp for their riggings—and the Yucatan supplied the hemp. When steamships replaced the sailing ships, and when nylon replaced hemp, everything changed, but for a period the Yucatan produced what the world needed—and it got rich.


At least a few people got rich—that was the landed aristocracy, the hacienda owners, the most direct descendents of the Spanish conquerors. The pattern was standard, and it made money for a few on the sweat of many. A hacienda consisted of a great home for the landowner, the factory necessary to spin the raw hemp into twine or rope, and thousands of very poor, very hardworking commoners living in primitive conditions. It was a kind of slavery, with the workers forced to purchase all they needed from the only local store, a store owned by the hacienda owner. People were not bought and sold, but forever in debt, being paid little or nothing, the effect was the same. And the work was hard. The henequen plant is rough and pointed. The temperatures regularly rose beyond 100 degrees, and the land is dry.

Today the Yucatan is dotted with decaying haciendas. Most of them are abandoned, although a few are being turned into tourist destinations. Around almost all, no matter how decayed, is a small village, a village that houses those who used to labor in the field or their children. The villages are very poor and the people live in them in ways not unlike how they lived when the hacienda was in its glory.

The hacienda I visited kept producing hemp on a very small scale until the 1950’s. Today it is fascinating to see, to learn about, or to stay on site as a Bed and Breakfast guest. One marvels at the ingenuity needed to keep such an operation going, but that emotion is mixed with sadness about the whole system which it represented as well. A part of history.