Showing posts with label Holy Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holy Week. Show all posts

Thursday, March 28, 2024

This Dark Night

"My God, my God. . .
Why have you loosened Me from You?
Why are You far from yeshua-ing [saving] Me?
Do You not hear the words of My roaring?"

The man of God sings the ancient words

In that moment the cup is drunk
and slammed down,
outer garments stripped,
the table turned. . .

. . .darkness descends. 

A child's inconsolable cry goes up
in fear, sobs shaking breath—
The whip cracks and the cry intensifies,
The nails pound through our ears:
Clank! Clank! Clink!

It is all happening so fast
I can't think—
And still the child weeps,
his tears run down my cheeks. . .

. . . I, too, am a child this dark night.

Friday, April 15, 2022

Turning Tables

 
In this season of bright sadness
a voice in the dark says:
"Go. There is nothing left
for you here," all is madness

We go. In silence we slide
out into the night,
round moon slicing the sky
above, its sadness bright

The table is turned,
the wine swallowed burned
its way down inside
now part of us, blood of Christ

Christ, bloody and torn
turns universe-tables,
Son of Man crowned with thorns
endures epithets, labels of scorn

Dark sun shades that day
we remember as this weekend
crawls on toward the ember
of new fire, night turning grey

Ashes of sadness form a nest
for Heaven's Fire to rest
before He leaps upward
in life—excelling mythic-bird

There is nothing left
here in the tomb—death bereft
of corpse and terrible sting,
Life holds in hand the final victory

The Fullest Extent of Love 
exited the grave on His own two feet,
turning the sadness of sorrow sweet. . .



Wednesday, August 26, 2020

The Longest Lent




Lent began six months ago today.

Six months ago I was in a cool, dark sanctuary, listening to my vicar say "You are going to die." I didn't know how accurate that statement would be for this year. We rose, row by row. Ashes were traced across my forehead, I returned to my seat. We rose, row by row, again going forward—this time to receive the bread, the wine. In darkness we stepped into February chill. Ash Wednesday was the only evening Lenten service I got to attend in person this year. Not a single evening of Holy week was spent in that dark church sanctuary with fellow believers. We weren't present together in the darkness of Easter morning that bursts into light and noise and exuberant alleluias.

Oh, yes, I "attended" Holy Week services and Easter morning on-line. But that isn't the same—not even close. I haven't worshipped, truly worshipped, physically together with other believers for six months. It feels like the longest Lent in the history of the church calendar. It feels like Easter was an anticlimax or like it didn't even happen... Like it was swallowed up in the darkness, buried in the ashes of burned hopes, dreams, plans, businesses, cities, and people.

This weekend we will gather to remember our friend Mike Adams, who took his life in this season of darkness. He is a standout to me, because he is someone I know. . . But he is one among many. The number of suicides this year are, in some demographics, outpacing the number of virus deaths. Don't tell me this virus is killing people—I know it is—but the power plays surrounding the virus are killing more people in other ways, whether physically through suicide or because of division that makes one citizen stab another for not wearing a mask; or internally, spiritually, emotionally isolating us from one another. . . Keeping us apart at home, six feet away, cancelling events, or putting masks between our faces, stifling our expressions of vulnerability, kindness, concern, and even anger or fear. If no one can see our expressions of pain, how can they reach out to us? And are they afraid to hug us? If I can't see the look of loss on someone's face, how will I know "You too? I thought I alone knew that grief. . ." and be able to wrap them in love?

How do we invite others into our pain, into our sorrow, into our deep joys, into a place of hope, if we cannot be close, see the human expressions of these things across each other's faces? To be isolated while six feet away from someone—to be denied physical affection and warm greetings—is worse than being alone at home. It is the extreme loneliness of being alone in a crowded room. It is like the searing pain of being close to your lover, but being just unable to reach them, to touch them.

This season feels like birth pangs gone wrong, come too late. It feels like something is terribly wrong with the baby, it isn't moving. . . The thing we've been looking toward, the hope at the end of the morning sickness, the joy at the end of labour, the person to join our family has been snatched away, and we are left to bury our dead in isolated grief—with no hugs and no real place for grief or anger to go.

It feels like the longest Lent. But in the normal Lenten season we are together in our lament. We gather together to acknowledge that something isn't right. We encourage one another to take heart that the King is coming. We hope for one another, when someone can't hope for themselves. But this is isolation—not the solitude or quiet reflection of Lent—and it is the work of the enemy of our souls. Dividing, separating in every possible way.

Where is the hope? Where is the empty tomb of this season that has killed us in more than body? Where is the Easter morning coming out of this mourning? Where is the light in this darkness? Where is the King?

Maybe this horrible, longest Lent is in some way our taste of what the disciples felt when Jesus died. See, we know the end of that story, but they didn't. We know on Good Friday that Easter is coming. They didn't. And maybe this interminable Lent is our true unknown Good Friday and Holy Saturday. It is our season where we can't see what is happening in the spiritual realm. We can't see the Easter about to come.

Maybe we will die before we understand what it was all about, but we must know that Jesus will never be held down by death. Jesus will never be defeated by the enemy of our souls. Death and satan will one day be undone. The Kingdom will come in its fullness. And that won't be an anticlimactic Easter in the time of covid. It will be the greatest celebration of life and love and sacred community. . . It will be seeing face-to-face and still living.

Easter is coming. . .


Saturday, April 20, 2019

Vox Populi

The voice of the people raises a cry,
Hosanna! Son of David, rescue!
Rescue us from Roman rule;
the weight of the law; Herod, cruel—
Save us! Says the vox populi

The crowd raise their voice
in unison—a chant, a piercing cry:
Give us Barabbas, this man Crucify!
Crucify the Christ, His blood be on us
and our children. Speaks the vox populi

Insults from every side fly:
He saved others, but Himself He cannot
"Son of Man, save Yourself, and us!"
If You are God, come down, Jesus!
And so it went, from the vox populi

Other voices raised on high:
Do you not fear God, sharing like
Him in death? Remember me, Lord.
"Surely this man was the Son of God"
From lips once found among vox populi

He is not here, He is risen!
Thus, the angel voice raised the cry
I have seen the Lord, Rabboni!
"Yes Lord, You know that I love You!"
These words came not via the vox populi

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Maundy-Thursday





We streamed out of the aisles like tears,
The grim voice in the darkness, clear, 
Had not allayed our fears—
It said, "Go! There is nothing left for you here."

We left the stone walls in silence,
Not one atop the other cried out—
All we knew was darkness and fear of violence,
As one by one we deserted Him on the mount

We set our feet to wandering ways,
Not steadfast pilgrims but scattered sheep—
Scant days ago our mouths were filled with praise,
But this night our eyes are full of sleep

We long to return from the exile
of our own choosing, the darkness bitter
with tears that drop as we toil mile after mile,
Under the black sky, void of stars that glitter

We walk the road of memory this night
that is different from all others,
But darkness is our companion, and Fright
our fiery devotion smothers

We surged out of aisles like bitter tears,
The even voice rang out in the dark,
"Go! There is nothing left for you here."
We went out into the night, silent and stark



_______

Photo by Carolina Pimenta on Unsplash

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Hallelujah!



Proof of the healing God has been doing in my life and heart the last year or so: I was just hoping that tomorrow was Sunday, because I was looking forward to going to church. I just spent parts of the past four days at church for Holy Week. . .and I wanted to go again tomorrow.

"My heart overflows with a good theme," and "my tongue is the pen of a ready writer..."

Thanks be to God!

Friday, March 25, 2016

Shadow Reflections



I walked home from the stars
last night, and found upon my way
a branch, as an elderly hand in sway,
its shadow on the wall made scars.


Painted limb appeared more real
than the mesh of winter twigs
twining about in grey-green sprigs;
the shade-tree’s lines dark enough to feel.


I pondered how I would like to be
a clear shadow on history’s wall,
though I could only grapple with the Fall,
redemption shown in depths of two, not three.


All we are is but flickering shade—
yet in this season of Bright Sadness,
even shadows reflect in crisp blackness,
the glory of the King, fresh made.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Caiaphas Bows to Bentham



How they had waited, constantly plotting
To remove that rabble-rouser from the streets;
His uprising had led to blood-shedding,
Now he was in a cell, his own blood clotting
From wounds he had received—
Death soon would be his reward;
Another disappointing zealot, rotting



So, the leaders went on about their feast,
Their underhanded work done by Roman law,
As the lamb was chosen for the Passover
And those same rulers devoured the beast,
They began scheming to trap their next victim,
That bold, would-be-messiah the people favoured,
Treated like a king, turning them from the priest



Long had they sought to catch that pest
In word or deed, yet always he managed to hide,
Or to walk away from their upraised stones
Having exposed the sins their own hearts caressed,
Leaving them in consternation over this and
Much more, forgiving sinners as if he were God—
Surely for blasphemy they could make an arrest



Now, in the confluence of time and place,
During the Passover supper, the moment came,
One of the rabbi's followers could be bought,
He was willing to sell his master without a trace
Of remorse or guilt as the silver crossed his palm—
At last the trap had sprung! The messiah-king
Would no more be a threat to the Jewish race



"It is imperative to sacrifice one to save all,"
So the high priest had said, a grimace on his face;
Now they had removed the rabble-rousing rabbi
From before Caiaphas, to deal with the Roman law—
His beard plucked out, his back shedding blood;
How little they knew they had sent the Lamb
To be slaughtered, the Sacrifice, once for all



To their chagrin, Pilate offered a deal,
The zealot-murderer, or this taciturn king,
One he would free during the feast, one condemn,
He asked the people which sentence to repeal,
And to his horror and disbelief, as one they chose
The militant man, to be released into their midst
A man who was known to cause strife and to steal



The religious men shook upraised fists,
Unable to have both firebrands extinguished—
Still, it was expedient that one man might die
Not the whole race, so there hung Jesus by his wrists
The very Lamb of God, Who takes away all sins
The only One who could possibly save all men—
Priest and Sacrifice, Servant and King—very God he is.



___________

*About the title: Bentham is the founder of modern Utilitarianism

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Betrayer



Hushed conversation is weaving itself all around me, yet I am nothing but a loose thread in the tapestry, cut off while still in the picture. A battle is waging within me, to go or stay. Do I keep my promise to the religious leaders, or keep faith with the master? If I break either faith or promise I will break into pieces. My palm craves the silver I have been offered, yet I recoil at the repercussions of my foolish pledge. I waver like the flame on the table. What will they do to the teacher if I tell them where he is? Oh, I know—I know what they have tried to do at least twice before. I've seen the stones in their hands, in their glances, in their very hearts. My own heart is mostly stone, so I should know. 


A movement interrupts my indecision; the master is handing me a bite of bread dipped in the bitter herbs. Confusedly, I receive the bread and eat. He does not now say to do this to remember him. He only looks at me and tells me to act quickly. He knows! In that split second I quiver, then recklessly plunge into my choice. Swallowing the bread, I rise to slip into my sandals, feeling something evil slip into my soul as I melt into the night. The darkness is not around me, but in me. My choice was brief, the consequences are about to reverberate into history. I walk in a do-or-die fashion to the house where the shepherds of my people are feasting on a slaughtered lamb. I rap upon the door quickly, decisively. Flickering light shines out along with a man's peering eyes. I tell him what I know, offer to lead these men where they want to go, to find another lamb to slaughter. Sooner than I planned, a throng of men have gathered with various weapons and various reasons to find the master. 


I hold out my hand, boldly saying I will not set foot toward the final destination without the bounty price. There is some grumbling—greed is always slow to let go its treasure, but hatred and envy will cow even greed to give up its store when power is within grasp. Silver rushes into my hand, satisfaction washes over me as I pocket the pieces. I turn on my heel, ready to walk the dusty, covert path to the half-hidden garden. I have given the men with me the sign they need—I will greet the master with a kiss. Then my work will be done and I can slip away from the madness.


Time is doing something I can't comprehend. It warps and swivels in and out, quick then slow. How have we come so far so fast? My heart thuds and breath is hard to slide into my lungs, we are here—any minute now I will see the master. I must remember to greet him as planned. There! That rag-tag band of bumblers I have spent the last three years wandering with are up ahead. Ah, there is the master, steely-eyed, hard, always seeing through me. I walk toward him, thinking of all those times I was supposed to give money to the poor and had pocketed it instead. I suddenly knew clearly that all along the master knew that the money was ending up in my account. He always knew. Even now his knowing eyes fell upon me, and he told me—unflinchingly—to do what I had come to do. Through dry lips I greeted him, kissed his cheek, and kissed my sham-life goodbye. 


There was an exchange of words between the guards with us and the teacher. Suddenly, all the Jews around me fell facedown. What had he said? I heard the guard repeat the question, clearly hearing the reply this time: "I have already said that I am he." Even the darkness inside of me trembled at the power and authority in this claim, in that voice. The teacher was calling himself God Most High. The man was crazy! A scuffle—some words—the teacher touching a servant's ear—and then he was being dragged away. I blinked in the darkness as the torchlight disappeared around the bend and bushes. The others were gone, pelting in every direction but toward their master. Darkness settled upon me like a cloak. With a start, I realised I was free to go where I pleased. I had my time to myself, a pocket full of silver, and I no longer needed to pretend about who I was.


Just who am I? I wondered, as I walked toward the city. And what will I do now? I shrugged—it didn't matter. I was my own master with my own money. And my own conscience, I added. But who was I to worry about that? Had I even allowed my conscience one twinge since the time I began to look for a way to hand the teacher over to those religious men? Nope. If my conscience had ever even so much as twitched over anything, it was so long ago it was forgotten. 


Exhaustion caught up with me, laying me down in a quiet spot until the sun had winked open its eye and the noise of confusion dragged me awake. How had I ended up so close to the home of the priest and the temple? The further away I could get from that place, the better. Curiosity welled up inside me, however, and I nervously walked closer to the knot of men arguing and jeering. There was the teacher, haggard and bruised, being taken somewhere else. But what caught my eye was that impetuous jughead, Peter. He looked horrible. He was grubby, his eyes were bloodshot, and the tell-tale tracks down his face said he had been weeping, not merely sniffling. 


Almost before I knew what I was about, I slid next to Peter and demanded what was wrong with him. He turned toward me with a strange look of disdain, consternation, and pity co-mingled. Without any preliminaries he whispered something to me. I leaned in to catch his words, "I know," he said in a broken voice. "I know now what it feels like to be a betrayer." He turned away to follow his master, leaving me reeling and alone. I began to pace to and fro for quite some time. All I could hear were those words, echoing: I know now what it feels like to be a betrayer. That's what I was, a betrayer. Betraying the teacher. Betraying Peter and all the rest, too. A betrayer. All you are is a bastard betrayer! I shook away the accusation, turning my attention to anything but my roiling thoughts. I surfaced into the last half of a comment being made, something about the blasphemer getting his own. Wasn't it just like the people to betray their king? Last week they were shouting Hosanna, save us—today they were screaming to crucify their so-called saviour. The speaker slapped his companion on the back as if it were a good joke, then the pair sauntered away to hear the next round of gossip. 


I stood rooted to the earth, one phrase ringing in my ears, Isn't it just like the people to betray their king? Betray. Betray....Betray. The word haunted me, jarred on all my senses. Then, like a thunderbolt, another word swooped into my brain—crucify. How long had I been pacing? In that amount of time the teacher had been brought before some Roman who had the power to crucify him. I knew that news and rumours ran rampant, intertwining, making it hard to tell fact from fiction. Crucify. The word clawed at me, eating away all the grand lies I had fed myself. I had known all along about the stones those religious ragbags had held once-upon-a-time. What did I think they were going to do once they had the teacher in their grasp? But crucifixion...? Crucifixion was barbaric. I felt sick all the way to the pit of my stomach. I felt hot and cold and rash. Betrayer, my thoughts mocked as I stalked toward the temple.


Heads swung up from prayers, eyes opened wide when my wrathful gaze scoured anyone in my path. Where were those deplorable holy men? There! Before the eyes and ears of bewildered onlookers I spat out words I never dreamed of saying, "I have sinned." what? Those grey-beards were startled, too. "I have—" I faltered at the word, "...betrayed an innocent man." Their eyes narrowed into little slits, like snake's eyes. "That's your problem—you deal with it," one retorted. I clenched my fist around a heavy burden—slivers of silver. I screamed a curse and threw a handful of those wretched coins at the feet of the rattled men in front of me. Again, and a third time, I pulled those bits of metal from my pocket and slammed them into the ground. Deliberately, I turned my back on them and walked away. Betrayer. I heard the word ripple through the men interrupted from their prayers. I walked outside, shattered. I had chosen to break faith—and now I had been broken by empty promises and deceitful men. The betrayer had been betrayed...

...Then he threw down the pieces of silver in the temple and departed, and went and hanged himself.  —Matthew 27:5

Monday, March 30, 2015

Lent Week 6: Under Zion's Palms




Under Zion's Palms
(Lent Week Six)


Week's first day
Streets thronging, full—
He waited outside 
The city gate
For the foal,
The donkey's colt,
To ride upon
Under Zion's palms


Snorting and shy
Came the beast,
A cloak upon
His unbroken back—
The Master mounted,
The people-sea parted,
A way prepared
Under Zion's palms


'Hosannas' rose up,
Palms waved high,
Garments spread down,
And men cried,
'Save us now!'
Blessing the King
Coming from God
Under Zion's palms


Angry Pharisees spat,
'Silence these men'
But He replied,
'The very stones
Would sing out
A mighty chorus
Were they silent
Under these palms'


Cresting a ledge,
He looked out
Over belovéd Zion—
There He wept
A bitter brine
Over a people
Blind in heart
Under those palms


In mere days
The very men
Who cried 'Hosanna!'
Would shout 'Crucify!'
He would die,
No cloak upon
His broken back,
Outside Zion's palms.



Monday, April 2, 2012

Holy Week Commences

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of power and might,
Heaven and earth are full of Thy glory.
Glory be to Thee O Lord Most High,
Blessed is he who cometh in the Name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest!
(Sanctus)

Heartiness v. Heartlessness to Others

Beware of outstripping God by your very longing to do His will. We run ahead of Him in a thousand and one activities, consequently we get so burdened with persons and with difficulties that we do not worship God, we do not intercede. If once the burden and the pressure come upon us and we are not in the worshipping attitude, it will produce not only hardness toward God but despair in our own souls.

God continually introduces us to people for whom we have no affinity, and unless we are worshipping God, the most natural thing to do is to treat them heartlessly, to give them a text like the jab of a spear, or leave them with a rapped-out [harsh] counsel of God and go. A heartless Christian must be a terrible grief to Our Lord.

~ Oswald Chambers (1 April, My Utmost for His Highest)

This past weekend was refreshing to my soul. It was spent with friends over cups of good tea, hearty conversation (and a box of kleenex), laughter, food, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, walks, more conversations, and more delectable food.




Over a breakfast of crepes and fresh fruit (and delightful tea), one of the women at 'The Awesome Ladies House' read the above text from My Utmost for His Highest. Several parts caught my attention, but in light of a conversation had the day before with the very same friends, these lines hit the hardest: If once the burden and the pressure come upon us and we are not in the worshipping attitude, it will produce not only hardness toward God but despair in our own souls.

If we run ahead of God, if we seek to care so deeply about others that even God Himself cannot care as deeply as we do (or so we imagine), then the burden becomes intolerable. We are crushed under our own compassion and concern. What is right to have our hearts broken over becomes despair to our souls. Whether it is love for another, a brokenness over someone's hurt, anger at the problem of evil, a hatred for death, or something else with a good root, if it is carried too far (and not surrendered to God) it breaks us.

Yet how could we think that we care about something or someone more than God? How could sin or death, hurt or evil break our hearts more than they break God's? We are tempted to think that God is not so good as He actually is. That is a lie. God is Good, even when we cannot see the outcome. God hates brokenness and the Fall far more than we ever could. And only the Christian God did something about it, because He could. Only He could become a man, live a sinless life, and as one with authority –yet innocent– die in our place and be raised to life by His own power.

Surely the One who did this hates brokenness, death, and pain more than we do. He hates it enough to not only desire to fix it, He actually stood death on its head at the cost of His own life.

As I have been reading the Matthew's gospel I have been brought to tears at Jesus' attitude. He pronounces woes upon the Pharisees (with whom I have far too much in common), but juxtaposes that with the desire for life and hope for all of Israel (and the world). “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the one who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her! How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing!"

Over and again the book of Matthew says that Jesus was moved with compassion for a person, a crowd, etc. It is this idea of a hen gathering her chicks to herself for comfort and protection that paints the picture of God's tender love toward us. The word 'compassion' etymologically means to 'suffer together'. Jesus is the only God in history who suffers with us. He suffered for us in His passion and death. Now He suffers with us when our hearts are broken. He even teaches us what is good and right to be broken over.

We only taste the barest portion of His suffering (either in our own experiences, or in suffering for or with others). Further, we only taste a fragment of what true joy, hope, exhilaration, life, and Beauty are. The more we know God, the more we cultivate a capacity to experience both the depth of pain and suffering, along with the heights of joy and hope. Imagine how much richer our experience and understanding of the good, true, and Beautiful, of life itself, will be when we are with God in the new heavens and the new earth!

This leads to what another of my friends said after we read Chambers yesterday: "When you rearrange despair it becomes praised". Indeed, as Chambers said, if we meet with suffering or burdens when we are not in an attitude of worship, we will despair. Instead we must seek to 'give thanks in all things'. If we are praising God for who He is, all that He has done, for His word, et cetera, because of or in spite of life's circumstances, then how can despair gain a foothold?


These are the thoughts given to me upon the commencement of Holy Week. Though I 'missed' church yesterday due to breakfast with 'The Awesome Ladies', I was given more hope, life, and hard things to chew upon than one hour of liturgy at church often offers. In fact, I will long remember what I was doing this Palm Sunday because I was living out 'church' (being the body of Christ) with these ladies. I am tempted to break church tradition and say the 'H word' a week early: Hallelujah! He is worthy of all praise, adoration, our hearts, and our very selves! Amen.

~ Johanna