There are texts that resonate with me in a very special way this morning. I want to begin this Easter Monday with the words that will accompany us in church today:
See, what a morning, brilliantly clear. Hope dawns, there is news from Jerusalem. The stone is rolled away, the grave is empty, and an angel tells us: "He is risen"
You have to translate these lines to understand the feeling with which we actually wanted to start into the day:
"See, what a morning, brilliantly clear. Hope dawns, there is news from Jerusalem. The stone is rolled away, the grave is empty, and an angel tells us: 'He is risen'"
But to truly appreciate this "brilliantly clear" morning, we must look at what we lived through yesterday. It was no ordinary holiday. What began with a wonderful Easter breakfast felt like the beginning of an apocalyptic scenario as the day progressed. A threatening, completely unnatural wall of clouds pushed toward us across the Skagerrak. Within a very short time, it became pitch dark in the middle of the day, as if someone had suddenly switched off the light.
What followed was no ordinary storm. It was a force of nature that hasn't hit North Jutland with such ferocity in April since 31 years ago, since the record year of 1995. With a deep, spine-chilling roar, the hurricane broke over North Jutland. You sat inside while the world literally broke apart outside.
The eerie howling of the wind mixed with the sound of shattering glass as the hurricane gusts of up to 160 km/h hammered against our North Jutland. In that moment, nature gained total control. Everything around us was newly "rearranged": In a whirlwind of debris and raw violence, objects that seemed firmly anchored to the ground for years became weightless toys. Trampolines whirled like dark shadows through the air, roofs gave way to the enormous pressure, and through the howling of the wind you could hear the dull cracking sound as entire forests in the neighborhood were literally flattened.
You could see with the naked eye what tremendous force nature can unleash and how small we humans are in comparison.
And then, this morning, this incredible contrast. You wake up and there is a silence that is almost threatening after the noise of the night. I step outside and see a brilliantly blue sky. The sun shines so peacefully on the fresh green grass, as if nothing had happened yesterday.
You want to enjoy this deep breath of fresh spring air, but as your lungs fill, your gaze wanders over what remains. It's a surreal sight on my walk toward Elling Church. Everywhere the sunlight now sparkles so beautifully in the grass, lie the shards of our existence. Almost no greenhouse in the village has survived; the glassy dreams of the garden year lie shattered into a thousand pieces.
The forests we know and love were literally "laid flat" in a single night. Proud trees that fell like dominoes and now block the paths.
It's a strange feeling: the Easter joy about light and new life meets the reality of a North Jutland that is marked. But perhaps the song fits this day perfectly for precisely that reason. "The stone is rolled away" – the song is about life ultimately triumphing, even when darkness and violence have reigned before. We know once again that we up here by the sea are always only guests of nature. But we are guests who know how to get to work.
We enjoy the sun, breathe through, and begin to clear away the traces of the worst April hurricane in 31 years. The music may ring out a little louder today – because hope resonates with it.
