I awoke yesterday to a birthday surprise.  David convinced me to go for a hike this week.  We need it.   I guessed — the hills of southern Ohio?  He said — the mountains of North Carolina.  Four hundred miles away.  Right.  Why not get away for a change.  We quickly covered our family, work, and teaching commitments — well, all but one.  I’ve been waiting all year for Holy Week -- to show my English Lit students the opening scene from The Passion (Icon).  It’s when Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, submits his will to his Father’s and then suddenly, authoritatively, forcefully crushes the serpent beneath his foot.  That moment, that fulfillment of the Genesis 3:15 prophecy, will turn my English course’s year-long meta-narrative from tragedy to redemption – the Second Adam in the second garden, finally fulfilling the ancient curse on the serpent...

Genesis 3:14 So the Lord God said to the serpent, "Because you have done this, cursed are you above all the livestock ?…. And I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head, and you will strike his heel." In the dark onset of our human tragedy, a singular seed or “offspring” is promised.  A redeemer will make his blessings known far as the curse is found.  Far as the curse is found. And on the Friday called “good,” the “better Adam” takes into himself the curse – the thorns, the lies and mockery, the strike of the serpent.  Jesus quietly, knowingly, ingeniously, absorbs it all. Class ended. Eight hours ago David picked me up after school, did a group hug with our kids, and we headed south on highway 75.  It is early April and the limbs on our Ohio trees are still bare, or the buds are not yet visible to me.  They are only a hope. Five hours ago we drove over the Ohio River bridge into Kentucky.  The trees were brown and the sky was grey.  Near Lexington the sun brightened the white fences of horse farms.  Before long clouds re-gathered and in more diffuse light we began to differentiate colors. Redbud trees turned a hint of rose and by the time we hit Berea they blossomed lavender.  We then dipped into the Appalachian valleys of the Smoky Mountains and the Springtime ripened in full out greens and whites and purples.  It is one of those Springs that make me feel that, well, this is it… there’s never been such a Spring before.  To drive south from Columbus to Asheville in early April is to travel into the budding of Springtime.  Faith is a similar kind of travel, coloring the present with the assurance of the things promised.  Faith animates our world of time as well as space.  In such moments we believe in the Good Story’s blossom and fruition.  We see it, taste it, and trust in the fullness of time.