The Sixth Sunday in Easter is here. There is no gala for such a day. Yet, it is the Lord’s Day. And it is the Lord’s Day in this windy, awakening sunny season. The Iris has arisen, in breath-taking brigades; her deep, broad azure petals have been touched with celestial light from the Savior’s Word. Do you see it? She blooms and she will bloom again. And yet once more. Not until the sturdiest flower, yes, the last sentinel in her impressive encampment finally retreats in unnecessary shame does she repose. And then as the frigid northers are reinforced; strengthened by the unholy axis of the fierce soldiery of ice and concealing gray cover, the once-crisp stalk yields. No treatise of surrender is contracted. For she shall not remain in silt and soil. She refuses to say that she is defeated. Proud winter storms: take care that your gloating is being measured. There is proleptic power in the dying figure.
On the Sixth Sunday in Easter the bonny blue Iris is alive. Let all of God’s People rejoice. There is nothing ordinary in the uncelebrated seasons of life. Therefore, let us continue steadfastly in faith, in hope, in love, whispered in an unending litany.
