The Mary Passions, part one, The Mother

Reflections from Mary, the Mother of Jesus on the passion, adapted from the Gospel of Luke (Luke 22:14-23:56)

Even now, I can’t help but remember those days. At the time I thought I would never forget one single, horrible moment, one thought, one feeling, one word.  But you know, it’s true, time does (mercifully) take the sharp razor’s edge from unbearable pain, makes it tolerable. But there are things I remember, moments that are burnt into my mind and my heart.  Mostly things about him, my beloved son, the child that came to his father and me as a gift from God and who through-out his life never did stop both mystifying and teaching me. But my feelings during those awful hours as he suffered and finally died? Yes, I still remember and can call it all back in a heartbeat….

My sense of unease had been building through those last few weeks; mother’s intuition sensed that all was not well. He had pushed the establishment, powerful people, too far. I wanted to protect him, to tell him to stop…but to stop what? Stop doing what he seemed so clearly called to do? Stop being who he was? 

We gathered that last night at the Mount of Olives.  Jesus asked us to stay awake while he prayed. He seemed worried, sad, as he prayed, and I prayed for his safety as I watched. Finally, after a long time, he went to find his friends, and of course, they were sleeping. (My feelings flared then!) I was angry and wondered how they could be so thoughtless. But Jesus was gentle with them, as he often was when they would have tried my patience beyond endurance. He simply asked them why they slept, and asked them to pray for their OWN deliverance.     

        

But their sleeping was nothing to what happened next;  a crowd of people suddenly appeared from the darkness, and Judas, Jesus’ friend,  just walked up to my son and kissed him. “What on earth?” I wondered, but Jesus looked right into his eyes and said, “Judas, is it with a kiss that you are betraying the Son of Man?” Well, total chaos broke out .Peter was flailing around with his sword, and I have to admit, I found myself wishing more of us had weapons. In the confusion a slave’s ear was cut off!  But Jesus told them to stop, and they did.  He healed the slave’s ear. My heart was breaking; I was so proud of him, and so terrified. He stood bravely in front of them all and asked them why they came after him as though he were a dangerous criminal?   He reminded them he had been with them every day, and they hadn’t arrested him.  Then he said something that stopped my tears, nearly stopped my heart:  “But this is your hour, the hour of the power of darkness!”      

   

When they took him to the high priest.  I stayed as close as I could. (My eyes caught his), sending him love, courage. But Peter and his other friends kept their distance.  I heard Peter say to three different people that he wasn’t with Jesus, didn’t even know who he was. That made me so angry.  The last time he said it, Jesus turned and caught Peter’s eye, and something passed between them in that moment, that made Peter run away in tears. Peter told me later that Jesus had predicted he would betray him. “He told me I would deny I ever knew him, not once but three times,  and I simply would not believe that I could ever do that to him,” he said, “But the Teacher knew my heart, just as he always did.”

My next memory is of them making fun of Jesus and beating him. It is a mother’s nightmare to see her son being treated this way. I felt such rage, such helpless fury as I watched them blindfold him; call him names, even spit on him.  I couldn’t bear to stand there and watch, but I couldn’t bear to leave either. So I stayed, weeping silently as the other women held me, grieved with me.

I did not sleep that night, and in the morning, they took him to the Chief Priest and the questions started. So many questions!   But Jesus was calm as he answered, turning their own words back on them, refusing to be trapped, yet never, ever denying his truth.  But even as I was so fiercely proud of him, I wanted to hush him; get him away from there.   When the Chief priest asked, “Are you the Son of God?” and my son said to him, “You say that I am,” I knew then, in that moment, that things had turned some awful corner. I knew it, even before I heard the Chief priest confirm it, even before they decided to take him to Pilate (so they could make him part of this hateful process, too, before we could take the next step on this awful journey).

Pilate had more questions! He asked my son if he was the ‘king of the Jews’ and he answered, “You say so,” which I thought was a good answer. Then Pilate said something that gave me a glimmer of hope, “I find no basis for an accusation against this man.” I breathed then for the first time in a long while. I looked around me at my neighbors and friends, expecting that they too would see that Jesus was innocent and that this ridiculous charade could be done with!  But they avoided my eyes. They were so vicious, so self-righteous, and kept insisting that Pilate take action against Jesus. I felt so confused, so desperate. How had this happened? These were the people I thought I knew, that knew me, knew us, but not now.  Now they were a mindless crowd, angry, out for blood.  After what seemed like forever, Pilate again said he could find nothing Jesus had done that deserved death, so he was going to have my son flogged and released. I breathed again then. While of course I did not want to see my son hurt any more, to see him in pain, if it would take a flogging to end this, I knew he could endure that. Then Mary and I could take him home, tend his wounds; we would have a meal, it would be ok, maybe. (I could see it all there for just a moment.) 

But then the raging noise of the crowd broke through my thoughts. Pilate’s words had only upset them even more. Someone shouted out for another prisoner to be released, not my son, and the crowd roared its approval.  And when Pilate asked them what he should do with Jesus, the next words I heard were beyond those of my worst nightmare.  This crowd, these animals were screaming (she sobs) “Crucify him, crucify him!”

           

I tried to breathe. I tried to reason with those standing nearest to me, but I don’t think they even heard me. And in the end, they prevailed.   Pilate released the murderer, and my son was sentenced to the (ugliest, lowest) most horrible death imaginable-death by crucifixion

I remember the crowd that followed him up that hill; a lot of them just onlookers, gawkers, but some were there who really cared, like my friend, Simon, who helped him carry that hideous cross, and our women friends who began wailing and beating their breasts in love and mourning, and never let up the whole way there.  

                         

That walk, every step, seemed to go on forever, and yet we arrived in a heartbeat, at that place called The Skull, where it was to end. I watched it all, his pain, his agony, the brutality of that death. I held his eyes in mine and never looked away.  I have to admit, his heart was so much more forgiving than mine towards the soldiers who cast lots to divide up his clothing, to the ones who scoffed and taunted/mocked him. Even the criminals hanging alongside him could not just let him be! One of them kept calling out, “Are you not the Messiah?  Save yourself and us!” The other one finally shouted for him to “Shut up! They were getting what they deserved, but Jesus had done nothing wrong.” Then he said something I will never forget, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  

My feelings were a torrent of love and grief for my son, anger and bewilderment. How has it come to this?  My child, my loved one, born of the Spirit, is dying on a hot dusty hill between two criminals. Despair flooded through me right then. It all seemed so pointless. I wanted to lash out with all the hate and pain in my heart. And then I heard him praying to his Abba Father, praying for the men who were killing him, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”  My child, not just my beloved, but God’s too….in this awful death, he was still giving life.

Noon finally came on that endless, endless day and I continued to keep vigil at the foot of that torturous cross. It was very strange; it got dark suddenly, right in the middle of the day, the sun's light dying as he was.  Then, finally, after hearing nothing for a long while I heard his voice, ringing  loud and clear one last time, “Father-God, into your hands I commend my spirit.” I looked up, desperate to look into his eyes one last time, fighting off my despair, to give him the last ounce of love within me. And then, he breathed his last.

I don’t remember a lot that happened after that. I know there was a centurion there, who saw it all; he praised God and said, “Certainly this man was innocent.”  And I remember Joseph went to Pilate and was given permission to collect the body.  I was so relieved that we could take him from there before the carrion came.  So Joseph, the women and I gently removed the broken body of the man I bore and raised, from the nails and wood of that horrible cross. We rubbed his skin with ointments, smoothed his hair, wrapped him in cloth with burial spices, placed him gently in the new tomb, and left him there where no one had been buried before. 

Funny how little details remain, after all the blurring of time. I remember, as we finished the Sabbath was just beginning.  So, all the Sabbath day we rested, but there was no rest from my broken heart and my grief.

 Jesus, my son, was dead. 

This reflection is part one of a three part series titled The Mary Passions. The Mary Passions take the biblical text for the Passion of Christ, the anointing of Jesus' feet, and the resurrection and reimagine them through the lens of Mary, the mother of Jesus (Palm Sunday); Mary of Bethany (Maundy Thursday); and Mary Magdalene (Easter). 

These reflections were inspired by The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski, and written in collaboration with The Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig (Palm Sunday reflection) and The Rev. Anne Wolf Fraley  (Easter morning reflection). Terri Pilarski wrote the Maundy Thursday reflection. 

The Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig is a priest in the Diocese of Minnesota who works bi-vocationally as a psychotherapist.

The Rev. Anne Wolf Fraley is a priest in the Diocese of Tennessee.

The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski is a priest in the Diocese of Michigan and the Rector of Christ Episcopal Church in Dearborn, MI.

Carolyn Blackmore offered the reflection at Christ Church at the 10am service on Sunday, March 24, 2013.

A Woman's Passion, part two of a triology on the various Mary's in the life of Jesus

This reflection, based loosely on the Gospel of John for Lent 5C blends Mary of Bethany with some of the characteristics of the unnamed woman who anointed Jesus in the Gospel of Luke. It is intended to offer a glimpse into her interior life and how she may have understood herself and her actions. Much of what this describes her as doing, midwifing and tending to the dying, is fanciful imagination on my part, giving her work that may have been common for a woman in that day and time, work which also might have determined her to be unclean without having to be the "prostitute" some like to assume is the sin of the woman in Luke's Gospel.

 I know what you think of me, even all these years later. For some I am portrayed as an inappropriate woman, unclean, unworthy. People think this of me because I tend to people that others would never touch. I help the poor women, even the Gentile women, give birth. I am a midwife and for that I am considered unclean. I help the dying and comfort them in their final hours with tinctures of herbs to soothe their anxiety and bring them peace. And because I tend to the beginning of life and the end of life I am considered unclean, unworthy. Some have said I am prostitute, but that is not true. If I am considered unclean because I care for those most in need, then so be it. I don’t care what they think of me.

 Others remember me by my name, Mary. Yes. Jesus was my friend and I was his friend. He knew me, the real me. In Jesus I recognize a kindred soul, another who sees deeply into the pain of this world and yearns to heal it with God’s love. Like Jesus I seek to bring God’s healing love into the frightened lives of women in pain, of babies entering this world, of children dying, of the old taking their last breath. I bring comfort and love, not in my words but in what I do. 

That night, that last night, I will never forget. I was nearby and heard the noise from the dinner party. As a woman I was not allowed in the room, unless I was willing to serve the food or dance for them. But my job was not to feed the men nor entertain them.

 I am a healer. 

Let me tell you, I did not want to go in there. I knew it would cause a stir. And I was tired. It had already been a long day of tending to a woman giving birth. I had with me my alabaster jar of nard. The fragrance always soothes those who are agitated and scared.

 I knew that Jesus was in the room with them, eating and drinking.  I knew that things were going badly for him. I knew, I just knew, that he knew this too. The Roman soldiers were watching and following him. The chief priests kept a careful eye on him as well. Even his own friends were meeting secretly with government guards and spies. I personally saw Judas meet with a few of them, money exchanged hands. Judas was not to be trusted. I know him and his family, and his greed.

I know that the end is coming and I am helpless to stop it. I’ve seen it happen before. The tension mounts as the Roman soldiers apply pressure and the chief priests decide it’s better for one man to die than it is for the entire temple to be destroyed. And so it is. Someone is given over to be crucified; one person must die so the rest of us can live in peace—their idea of peace. The chief priests and scribes will do this. And Pilate and Herod and all the others will be placated for a time. I know this because I have been in all of their homes. I have cared for their family members. I am the one called for whenever there is a need to care for the suffering. As a caretaker I am trained to use my senses. I observe everything around me. I see and feel and hear things that are not intended for others to know. And so, of this, of their intent to cause Jesus’ death, I am certain. 

And my heart, filled with this awareness, is breaking. 

Jesus -  who showed compassion to the most vulnerable. Jesus who worked side by side with me, and helped me re-member that the work I do is God’s work, even if the people despised me for it. It was Jesus who pointed out our flaws and our idolatry and yet, loved us even more. Jesus  - who brought my brother Lazarus back to life. Jesus - who loves everyone. Yes, he was the one they would reject.

I could do nothing to stop it. Money had exchanged hands. The deal was done. I’d warned Jesus, and he knew it too. But not even he would not change the course of these events. He would allow them to unfold as they must. 

There was, however, one thing I could do. As one who cares for the dying I could go in to that room and anoint him, who was to die, with my oil - my jar of nard. 

My legs felt heavy, and although my walk was purposeful, it felt as though I were walking through water. Those few steps to Jesus, my beloved friend, took a life time to walk.

 I collapsed on the floor before him and took those weary feet into my hands. Dusty and calloused – marked from three long years of walking – I gently held those feet in my warm hands and kissed them. I took one foot and rubbed it clean, massaging the nard into the tired muscles. And then I cared for the other foot. Tears ran down my face. Tears fell on his feet. I could not stop myself! I bathed him in tears and nard. 

And then I realized I had no towel to wipe his feet, soaked as they were, in my tears. 

My hair would have to do. I uncoiled it from my head and let its length fall to the floor. And I used my hair to wipe his feet and dry my tears. 

I know the others were talking. I could hear the gasps and the guffaws, the men chiding me and calling me names. I heard Judas, (that fool!), suggest that MY nard should have been sold and the money given to the poor. Judas, who would have kept the money for himself, had the nerve to suggest that I was being greedy.

Quietly Jesus spoke. And I knew that he understood everything. He knew how deep my love for him was. He knew how deep my love for God is, a depth of love that mirrored his own. And that was enough. 

It was enough to know that love trumps everything. 

Even death.

Boldly Sin, Boldly Change.

A reflection on the readings for Lent 3C: Isaiah 55:1-9by the Rev. Karla J. Miller

This winter and spring, my congregation is exploring the ideas in progressive Christianity.    We did a book study on Marcus Borg’s book, “Speaking Christian”, and we are using the book to guide our lenten conversations around God, Jesus, Forgiveness, Mercy, and Salvation.   What I am learning from my congregation is that although they think progressively, act progressively, and love progressively,  they don’t always have the theological language with which to speak progressively. Especially about God.

So, we are working on that.

Most of my people understand God as Love.  As an immanent, transcendent reality that is present in the world.  The ground of all being, in who we live and move and have our existence (Acts 17:28).   The idea of God out there, separate from the universe, controlling, authority-figure that is often the God that atheists argue against its existence, is not the one they know.  This is the God they see splashed across the evening news when a religious expert (usually from a radically conservative perspective) is called upon to speak for God. 

I think about this God in the context of the gospel lesson this week.  You see, I think that Jesus was trying to point out to the “some present” is that their idea of sin and the Divine was humanly skewed.   Jesus was offering a message of real change--you don’t have to “think it in the way you were taught”  without questioning; you don’t have to “do it the way it always has been done”  because guess what?  The old paradigm doesn’t fit anymore.   God is Love.  God doesn’t give a rat’s ass about these little picky “sins” as you name them.  God cares that God’s message of Love is offered to all.

Can’t you  just see Jesus saying to us, the Church, “Just look at your empty pews!  The old paradigm is clearly not working, so why keep trying to tweak it and patch it and dress it up and dress it down?  Unless there is true, bold change at the very heart of it all, it’s not going to work.”

We all know change is incremental in institutions.   Especially the Church.   And yet, while within our walls on Sunday mornings, where our comfortable worship and hymns cling to words that address  Our Father who are in heaven,  a heaven that is out there, and a hell that is down there--there is a dying, crying world outside--OUTSIDE--on our streets.   There are children in the wet, bitter cold of Syria who have no shoes--literally, walking barefoot or in flip-slops in icy mud, where human waste ferments because of lack of sanitation.  There is the twelve year boy in your catechism class who is already diagnosed with anorexia, because it’s the only control he has in his life.  And then there are those polar bears, the mama and cub, stranded on an ice floe, surrounded by water, because of global warming, and they will simply perish, because there is no way out. 

Don’t they need a God who is with them?  Don’t they need to know that the pain, the suffering isn’t their fault? Don’t they need you,  us, the Church--to be healing love, rather than what it is perceived to be?

Our gospel lesson calls us to Repent.  Now.  Change. Now.  Not in incrementally so that we are comfortable and don’t feel the uneasiness of it all.   We are in a time in Christianity, where we need to embrace that fact that we are indeed in living in a post Christian world.   Where we are called to make Bold Decisions.   Where we are called to prophesy, “God is GOOD!  God believes in you!”  and where we act, outside of our walls, because we believe that God cares--about the polar bears and freezing children and lost teenagers.  

The good news in this text, though, is that Jesus recognizes that a little time is needed, though, for change.  He gives the fig tree a year to bear fruit--and if it doesn’t--then it might as well be cut down--to make room for a tree that does.   We, the Church, have a little time.  If the pews aren’t full on Sundays--then maybe we need to take the pews to the people, to the world.  We have some time to do that, and hopefully, as we boldly lead, the liberating, nourishing Ground of All Being Love will bring new life in our world. 

Lent 2C

A reflection on Psalm 27 by the Rev. Anne Fraley.

Psalm 27:1, 14 The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? … Wait for the LORD; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the LORD!

This past week I took part in an icon-writing workshop. This was the fourth time I have had the privilege of serving as chaplain in this annual offering by our local cathedral’s program for the arts. As in previous years it afforded me an opportunity to release the concerns of daily life to be immersed in communal silence, and in the same way that the image of my saint emerged on my canvas, some of my own soul came into focus in a new way.

The icon I wrote was St. John the Theologian dictating to St. Prochorus, an obscure biblical figure who went on to be a bishop and martyr in the early years of the Church’s development. The icon is full of details, from the position of John’s turned head to receive divine wisdom, to the elevated position of the two men in front of a cave of darkness.  The mind and heart can swim with contemplation while painting layers of color, and as the image came into relief with the application of lightening layers, my soul was drawn more deeply into the ancient truths the icon is meant to reveal.

I went into this week of creative devotion fresh on the heels of reading columnist Susan Campbell’s memoir Dating Jesus, subtitled “A Story of Fundamentalism, Feminism, and the American Girl.” A self-described recovering fundamentalist, Campbell shares the story of how she wrestled with and extracted herself from a Christian tradition that extolled her adored Jesus while subjugating women through a literal interpretation of holy writ. Her narrative is familiar to us, and though her journey toward spiritual maturity bears little resemblance to mine, her pain reverberated in the corridors of my own experience.  As I faced a blank canvas ready to be immersed in this ancient spiritual practice, Campbell’s courage to depart from the tradition that shaped her life so firmly and fiercely inspired me to take a modest risk with my icon. Unhappy with the patriarchal tradition of men portrayed as sole guardians of the Word, my Prochorus would be depicted as feminine, Prochora.

This was far from a scandalous act, but it was a significant choice for me as a woman and a preacher of the Word to add curling locks to the saint of old. It wasn’t just about adding a feminine image to a genre dominated by men (with the exception of the prevalence of the Holy Mother). It was a declaration that in spite of appearances and experiences to the contrary, for centuries women have been entrusted with receiving and sharing God’s wisdom and the incarnate revelation of Christ. In this icon in particular—with John’s face turned away from his scribe—the sacred trust implicit in the theologian’s posture conveys an equality of the sexes that underscores a truth that many of us have received over the years. 

Such a declaration is not meant to deny or diminish the oppression of women during these same years, especially by a Church that professes to proclaim the Good News that ought to have liberated our sex and rejoiced in its equal participation. It is, instead, intended to acknowledge what has been hidden by the darkness of patriarchy. In the same way that icons are painted beginning with the darkest layers, revealing its details with successive of layers of increasing light, so is the Church in many quarters now in a place where the barriers of gender are being shed. It is a journey far from concluded, but the voices of women now heard from pulpits and shared in decision-making circles have reached a tipping point of no return.  As the psalmist proclaims, with the Lord as light and salvation, there is no place for fear. Strength and courage are endowed to us through whatever waiting we endure.

Feast of the Transfiguration

A reflection Luke 9:28-43 by the Rev. Crystal Karr

 

²⁸Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray.²⁹And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.³⁰Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him.³¹They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.³²Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him.³³Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” —not knowing what he said.³⁴While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud.³⁵Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”³⁶When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

³⁷On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him.³⁸Just then a man from the crowd shouted, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son; he is my only child.³⁹Suddenly a spirit seizes him, and all at once he shrieks. It convulses him until he foams at the mouth; it mauls him and will scarcely leave him.⁴⁰I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not.”⁴¹Jesus answered, “You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you? Bring your son here.”⁴²While he was coming, the demon dashed him to the ground in convulsions. But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, healed the boy, and gave him back to his father.

 

I adore Peter, probably because I can relate.  Here Peter is confronted with an amazing site—the man he’s been following transformed into a vision of whiteness while talking with two other men—Elijah and Moses.  Still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, unable to take in all that he is witnessing, rather than taking a moment to process what is going on (not that he could have anyway) he blurts out the first thing that comes into his head—to make a lasting marker on the mountain for each of the great men before him.  Then comes God’s voice, “Just stop!  Shut up and listen!”  I can imagine Peter, stumbling and embarrassed.  He wants desperately to please Jesus, to be the one who gets it, who understands…even when he clearly does not.

 

This week I subbed as the librarian at an elementary school.  As I envisioned Peter on the mountain top with Jesus, Elijah, Moses, and the other disciples I was reminded of one of the books, The Dinosaur’s New Clothes

 It’s a new take on the old story of The Emperor’s New Clothes—two swindler’s come to town proclaiming a glorious robe made of cloth only intelligent and “dinosaurs fit for their jobs” can see.  Everyone utterly afraid that their foolishness, stupidity, or unfitness for their job would show through they lied about seeing the robe.  Peter on the other hand, sees the glory of Jesus blazing before him.  He wants everyone to know that he sees it, that he understands it.  He wants to make it known.  I imagine he wants to tell the story so that everyone knows that he was there, he put up the dwellings, he saw it first.

 

How much trouble in this world is caused by wanting to prove ourselves worthy?  Prove ourselves intelligent?  Prove ourselves fit for our jobs?  Too often in moments in which we need time and space to breathe, to take in the experience, to simply sit and process so what we witness can make a lasting significance in our heart and lives, we jump to bragging about being their first, how to fix it without thinking first, or we go along with the crowd so not to be considered stupid and unintelligent. 

 

Too often in our rush to prove ourselves we, like Peter, miss what is going on around us.  We miss the glimpses of God in action, in the act of transforming our world.  We need time to process just as we need time to act.    The more we take time to sit and listen and be with God, the more relevant and transformative our actions will become.  We live in a knee-jerk world in which stopping to listen to the voice of God, stopping to process and understand those we are dealing with are practically dead arts in many circles.  In order to transform our world we must leave our needs to be right, to be first, and to prove ourselves aside so that we may go deeper listening to God, listening to the “others” and then responding with relevant and transformative action.