On my last trip home to Virginia from Marble it was particularly rough, especially during the last part of the flight. The winds were suddenly 50 miles an hour, and the plane was shaking. Then, on the approach, it got really bad, the stewardess sounded particularly frantic about the “turbulence” we were entering and the plane was bucking like a bronco. While I have gotten more and more scared of turbulence as I get older, this was the first time I thought, hmmm, this flight may not end so well. It was a small prop plane, and the pilot seemed to be fighting for control.

It was also the first flight where I cried upon landing, and bowed with my hands in front of me the ancient Namaste prayer to the pilot, who stood beaming and astounded at the front of the plane as we filed out. He also looked about 16 years old, but that is a common midlife phenomenon, I find.

I was grateful, relieved, and could move on, somehow, into the week that awaited, and into time with my husband, who I was exceedingly glad to see, shaking though I was. And yes, my fear of turbulence has ratcheted up a few notches.

This blog comes to you the day before Pentecost, the birthday of the church, the time when the Holy Spirit, the very presence of God came into the church and gave it new and surprising life.

In much the same way the Holy Spirit comes to people—something surprising, unexpected, pulling on new parts of ourselves, asking us to trust it even if it manifests in strange ways.

Martin Smith, a former monk in the Episcopal church, in his classic book "Season for the Spirit" has written:

Many people brought up as Christians relegate the mystery of the indwelling Spirit to an attic where they store teachings which common sense dictates to be implausible, 'mystical,' remote from reality. As soon as we allow ourselves to be grasped by the truth of it, the indifference we used to show is unmasked as actual resistance which tries to keep the Spirit at arm's length.

“The path of real life moves from one shelter to another. We are not drifters or homeless, but seekers, pilgrims, itinerants of a hidden impulse. The secret of transformation has to do with knowing when to stay and when to move on.”

I believe paradox is at the heart of the spiritual life. Lose your life to find it, says Jesus, and my own life and that of many folks I know attest to this unwelcome yet exhilarating truth.

One of my favorite writers, Thomas Moore, author of “Care of the Soul” and the new book, “A Life at Work” is particularly artful and provocative in his understanding of the paradox that calls to us.

(Shameless moment of promotion: Thomas Moore will be at Marble on Saturday, May 10 for a wonderful day of conversation on soul.  Information and registration here. You may still be in time to get his new book free with your registration.)

In this ongoing Easter season, the temptation is to keep the concept of resurrection at arm’s length. Whether through associating it with miracles and mystery and Jesus only, or assuming it is an Easter-only event, it is easy to sidestep the demands of both this concept and the Easter season.

I have written in an earlier blog about the basic aspects of “resurrection” and how the word can mean “again standing up”—all the daily aspects of just getting up and showing up.

But there are also those more life-changing, ground-shaking aspects of looking at new life, at change, at resurrection power. Quaker author Parker Palmer has written about what it is like to be “threatened with resurrection”—that deeply ambivalent reaction I certainly have to newness and change.

The Easter season brings with it some very provocative and challenging images, one of which is the empty tomb, with the stone rolled away, and Jesus missing from the tomb, but palpably sensed and seen in some of the post-resurrection stories, like appearing to the disciples on the road to Emmaus.

In all four Gospels, the tomb is found empty, with the stone that had sealed it rolled away. Mark’s gospel ends with people afraid, as they stare into a tremendous unknown and flee. Matthew’s gospel adds joy: "And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy."

As a wonderful magazine, “Weavings,” has commented, "The women’s fear at the empty tomb may be the terror of finding oneself in the presence of an unmistakable act of God... Would we have done any better?”

Dear Friends... tomorrow is Palm Sunday, the beginning of what our tradition calls Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter.  Many church services will highlight Jesus' fateful entrance into Jerusalem, a visit that is the beginning of events that will lead to his death.

Lent culminates in this week, and for years, the words that have cut to the heart of the matter for me have come from a friend and mentor, the Rev. William Dols, the former editor of a wonderful resource called The Bible Workbench.   What I love about this approach is that it brings the story home, and asks us to look in the mirror, and encourages us not to keep these potent stories at arm's length. 

In many churches this weekend, they will read from the Gospel of John, Chapter 11, the story of Lazarus, the man who had been dead for days and entombed, and left behind grieving relatives and friends.

There is a retreat center I have been to where they use the Lazarus story as emblematic for us all, because what Jesus does when he gets to the tomb—simply, incredibly—is what we are all called to receive, and to do, in our own lives.

In the story, Jesus comes to the tomb and demands the crowd roll away the stone. Jesus calls loudly, "Lazarus, come out!"