Many years ago I took my three young children to the marionette service on Easter. The girls were settled in front among the bouquet of children in poofy dresses and bow ties. I kept Benjamin back with me, as he can be unpredictable in crowds. I was not entirely sure he understood what the story was about. He knew there was a basket somewhere hidden in the house waiting for when we got home, full of jelly beans and chocolate. But the details about Jesus and betrayal seemed too vague. 

 

The service began with the lofty arc of red silk scarves and quiet music. Everyone was quiet, which considering the crowd was amazing. Gently the show opened with Jesus and his disciples suspended on strings, praying in a garden. An angel floated down to comfort Him. Then a pair of soldiers abruptly interrupted the scene, one thwacking a gold paper sword. 

 

"Is he the bad guy?" Benjamin's voice carried across the room. Whispering has always eluded him. I spoke in Ben's ear to assure him that yes, these were the ones taking Jesus away. The room darkened and a shadow of the cross appeared on a scrim. Drum beats broke the silence to represent an earthquake. 

 

After a respectful pause women came to the tomb, one of whom was weeping. Then the puppet of Jesus appeared around the corner, and approached the woman from behind. 

 

"He came back!" Benjamin almost shouted. 

 

Whatever the details about guards, and rocks, and fleeing disciples, Benjamin understood. Sometimes I feel inadequate, trying to help my son on the spectrum tease out the purpose of our time on this planet. But not that morning. 

 

Beware the bad guys. God comes back.