This, year, as last, I'll make an empty tomb cake for my Sunday school class of 4- to 6-year-olds. I'll bake one small square cake for the base, and one small dome-shaped cake for the tomb. I'll frost both with sand-colored frosting, perhaps scatter raw sugar for a sandier appearance, and carve out a hollow in the dome's side. Candy-coated chocolate rocks will accent the ground. A large plain cookie will become the rolled-away boulder, guarded by a tiny wooden angel. Two wooden women will approach the empty tomb. We'll look quietly at the cake for a while; we'll tell the story, and we'll eat the cake.
Once I would have scoffed at the practice. For a brief time in my university years, I became enamored of a narrow approach to worship that privileged all things left-brained. Christianity is a religion of the Word, I insisted. Images, incense, Christmas pageants, even instruments were suspect. After all, Nadab and Abihu offered "strange fire" and were soundly extinguished by God, which somehow ...1