Dry bones. Fleshly living. Stinking body in the grave. This is not a day for natural exuberance. How much nicer to look at a world in the week of its creation, when all is green and vivid with promise; to caress an animal and feel it pulsing; to reach out to the hand of a friend.
The Christian church, however, is not a museum, an antique shop, a house of the dead, a desert scene -- though it often looks like each of these. It is a place of life: of people returned from exile, of those who would naturally limp but can dance, whose eyes were dimmed but now they see.