"Which government . . ." started Ford again.
"No government owns it," snapped the robot, "it's been stolen."
"Stolen?"
"Stolen?" mimicked Marvin.
"Who by?" asked Ford.
"Zaphod Beeblebrox."
Something extraordinary happened to Ford's face. At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess. His left leg, which was in midstride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again. He stared at the robot and tried to disentangle some dartoid muscles.
"Zaphod Beeblebrox . . .?" he said weakly.
"Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God, I'm so depressed. Here's another of those self-satisfied doors. Life! Don't talk to me about life."
"No one even mentioned it," muttered Arthur irritably. "Ford, are you all right?"
Ford stared at him. "Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said.
There you go. Arthur and Ford are riding through the universe in a hot spaceship, boosted by the President of the Galaxy. Since the spaceship is powered by Improbability Physics, this information is not really surprising. Improbable, but not surprising. On this Easter weekend, when the miracle of Christ's resurrection is celebrated by Christians throughout the world, this seems like an appropriate passage on which to reflect.
Think about the improbabilities of the life of Jesus Christ and Easter. Jesus, who grew up the son of a carpenter in a nothing town near the Sea of Galilee, wasn't seen as anybody important. Just a guy who made tables maybe. Repaired oxcarts and fences. That's it.
He probably didn't look all the special, either. Olive-skinned, with dark, curly hair. Muscled from working with heavy wood. There weren't any power tools back then. Everything was done with his own two calloused hands and backbreaking labor. I'm sure he carried some scars from his carpentry work. Times when a hammer or chisel or saw slipped, bit into his skin.
This person, a handyman, a no one, literally changed the world. That is real improbability. And now, 21 centuries later, we still celebrate him.
Yesterday, I played the organ at the Good Friday service at my church. Lots of chanting, singing, and prayers. We venerated the cross. Celebrated Holy Communion. At one point during the service, we did a litany of intentions. We prayed for Pope Francis. The bishop of the diocese. Priests and clergy. Then we prayed for Jewish people. Those who don't believe in Christ. Those who don't believe in God. Lastly, we prayed this:
Let us pray, dearly beloved, to God the Father almighty, that he may cleanse the world of all errors, banish disease, drive out hunger, unlock prisons, loosen fetters, granting to travelers safety, to pilgrims return, health to the sick, and salvation to the dying.When I heard those words, I wondered how many of the people in the congregation below really thought of their implications--cleansing the errors of the world. Feeding the hungry. Healing the sick. Freeing prisoners. Welcoming travelers and pilgrims. If people were really listening, they should have felt pretty uncomfortable with themselves and conditions in the United States.
Think about it. We have a healthcare system that denies people necessary medical treatment because they can't afford it. We have families starving while CEOs of billion-dollar corporations are getting tax breaks. We are imprisoning pilgrims (including children) who come to this country, seeking a better life. We aren't feeding the hungry or comforting the sick or welcoming the stranger.
That bothers me. Makes me angry and sad. Notre Dame Cathedral burned on Monday. By Tuesday night, over one billion dollars had been pledged for the rebuilding of it. That's a miracle, and I hope that Notre Dame does rise from the ashes. However, if the world can do that in the space of 24 hours, why can't it solve world hunger just as quickly? End poverty? Cure cancer?
You might hear tomorrow morning. Easter. Two of Jesus's disciples are walking toward the city of Emmaus after his resurrection. They encounter Christ on the road, but they don't recognize him. Now, as disciples, they probably had seen Jesus. A lot. They knew what he looked like. Sounded like. Walked like. Yet, they don't know who he is on this road. The same thing happens with Mary Magdalene. She encounters a guy who she thinks is a gardener near Jesus's tomb on resurrection morning. She, also, doesn't seem to be able to identify Christ, even though she washed his feet with her hair.
I can only think that Jesus wasn't appearing as Jesus. He was changed. Transformed. Perhaps, he was a beggar. Or a leper. Or a woman. Christ was appearing in the form of someone completely unrecognizable to them. To drive home a point. From that time forward, he would be a part of everyone. The poor, sick, dying, hungry. He would be the immigrant at the border. The AIDS patient in the emergency room. The guy at the entrance to Walmart holding a sign that reads, "Homeless. Anything will help."
Maybe that's the real message of Easter. It's not the incense or chanting or music or hard boiled eggs or ham. It's opening our eyes and seeing Jesus Christ everywhere. In everyone.
Saint Marty hopes so.
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