Front and off-center in our church right now are two Alleluia banners. We decorated them long ago on Mardi Gras before entombing them in the pump house for Lent. Now that they are out, you might be noticing their unique qualities.
You’ll find the signatures of many of the Mardi Gras artists. You’ll also find scripture quotes and other holy symbols. Then you’ll notice other bits, like cartoon monsters. “I like Artichokes,” proclaims one banner. “I’m a fishie,” is illustrated nearby. Silly, irrelevant—take a closer look at our banners and you might wonder what these things are doing in church.
Guess what? Our silliness is actually theologically profound! Alleluia is a Hebrew word meaning praise to God, but this churchy word is all about more than church. Alleluia is all about God’s victory. In short, Alleluia is ultimately the last word on all of life. Alleluia for everything! For artichokes and fishies, yes, but also for struggles and stresses as well as triumphs. Really?
Doesn’t that opinion seems naïve, even heartless? St. Paul recommends to the Philippians that they give thanks in all things, but is that really good advice? After all, there is a lot in every life that just doesn’t go with praise and rejoicing. Alleluia in such places raises deeper questions than the presence of cartoon monsters on our banners. Does Alleluia mean that God wants us to suffer through all that? Alleluia means that God planned all this? Maybe Alleluia mean we should just shut up and pretend everything is ok?
No. Alleluia doesn’t mean that everything that happens is God’s will or seeing the world through rose-colored glasses. Alleluia means we see another dimension to reality, the dimension of grace. If Alleluia is the last word, then every turn, every encounter, every high and low, becomes an opportunity for us to experience that same power and presence that defeated death on the cross. Alleluia means grace can (and will) change everything. Easter means that God wins, and Alleluia means we get the point.
If we’d been thinking theologically on Mardi Gras, we could have put more than artichokes and monsters on our banner. Maybe we could have named some places of Alleluia on our banner–schools and hospitals, or home, or wherever we’ve seen that reversal, where life is found in the deepest darkness and weakness becomes strength. We could tell stories of healing or forgiveness. Or maybe we’d just stick with silliness. What should we put on our Alleluia banners?