My Lenten Baby

I fully expected our baby to arrive during Holy Week or Eastertide—after all, first babies are notoriously late... But our unnamed baby came during Lent. He needed to come early for his sake and mine. Looking back on it all, I know it was a severe mercy that nothing in our birth plan got to happen. It was a mercy from God that I had to be cut open, as I had an internal infection no one knew about, and baby had two knots in his umbilical cord. It was a Lenten kind of mercy, where all our prep and planning turned to ashes, but we were alive.

It was a howling whirlwind for those five days in hospital, a nightmare of emotions, doctors, nurses, specialists, and unhealthy food (seriously, why is hospital food made out of nothing nutritious?). It was overwhelming with so many lights, so many instructions, and medications I'd never have chosen, all accompanied by almost no sleep. Tohu vavohu. Chaos. Lent.

We were finally released to go 'home'—a house I'd never slept in before. Not only did we end up in the hospital (the last place I wanted to have our baby) two weeks early, we left our Summit cabin and came 'home' with baby to our new house full of still-packed boxes. We were supposed to have a proper farewell with our cabin, to have all the boxes unpacked, and a home ready to welcome our baby. Instead, we were bleary-eyed wild people, one of us with emotions off the map of the known, wondering where to find the soap, the blue jeans, and our cast iron skillet. Nothing felt normal and our bedroom didn't even have a door on it that first night. Lent—long days. 

I missed Holy Week. I missed Easter. I missed Pentecost. I was stuck in Lent. I found out that I don't like my Lenten self. I've never known I could be so scary and unfeeling. But there were moments, whole days, where I wouldn't recognise the person inside my brain and body. She was unstable and mean and angry. The darkness and despair of Good Friday indwell me far more than I imagined.

This Lent feels long and tiring in a way I've never known Lent to feel before, even in some dark times. And while I know we've entered Ordinary (ordered/numbered) Time in the Church calendar, there is still part of me that just feels Lenty.  The part of me that cried to my sister that I don't like being a mom (I actually do, but I'm a wimp and this is hard). The part of me that gets frustrated with our little guy when he wiggles nonstop and kicks me during feedings. The part of me that has yelled at my husband because everything is out of my control and I don't know what he's thinking. It all feels like Lent is still indwelling me, and I just want to get to Eastertide's glory or Pentecost's crazy awesomeness. Maybe I'd even enjoy hanging out in Ordinary Time, though it's not usually my favourite, since much of it takes place in horrid, hot summer.

Maybe I need a little more time to soak in Lent... "Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift." Like Mary Oliver, maybe I need to realise that seeing even the darkness in me is a gift, causing me to fall on the Mercy of God. 

Things have evened out a good deal since Baby T's arrival. Walks help. Visits from friends have helped. Sleep helps. Worship helps shine the Easter light into those dark places of my Lenten soul. Work helps (until it doesn't). Hikes and coffee shop visits, and weirdly, grocery trips all help me feel more even-keeled. But now I know that the ashes of Lent are smeared deep and dark across my soul. Hope is not a thing with feathers, as Emily Dickenson famously wrote. Hope is a Person, real and solid, someone to be grasped—to grasp me when I'm sinking into my Lenten darkness. Hope is a Person: Jesus the Messiah—the Light of the World we're reminded of in Advent, when the calendar resets...still in darkness, but with an eye ever toward the Morning Star.

Threshold

Threshold: The figurative use was in Old English, "border or beginning of a region or place;" + Hold, the Germanic verb "generally accepted" [OED 1989] to have meant originally "to keep, tend, watch over." (Etymonline.com)

Lent is arriving—my favourite season of the Church calendar, beginning in the chilly darkness of late Winter. Arriving is often a word I consider more around Advent, but this year it feels very fitting for Lent. Many things are expected to arrive in this Lenten season: We're packing items, ever-so-slowly emptying our cabin, preparing to exit 'the village' as it is lovingly known. This place has been my home for nearly seventeen years, just seven years shy of the time spent living in my first home. My parents still live in their 'starter house.' Nick and I wouldn't mind our roots going down deep like that for our family in our first home. 

As we pack and transport various items, my ever-burgeoning womb reminds me that I'm in more than one liminal space. Moving toward arrival, but not there yet. It is unsettling to live at the threshold of a season or space, it is uncomfortable as even the familiar becomes unfamiliar. If I'm not choosing presence in the liminal it can be disorienting—but if I offer my attention to the discomfort, something shifts. I find this a time of slowly saying goodbye to one season and place and gently entering into another. It is less abrupt than a long-weekend move or the (relatively) few hours of labour before baby arrives. The shift is happening in slow motion. Sometimes it's frustratingly slow and other times I remember to be grateful for this pace.

Thinking of this leisurely transition, I am met with an image. In my mind's eye I see a stone house with a weathered threshold at the kitchen door (the real entry point of a home)—from outside to inside. It is one step, but we feel the difference of out-of-doors to indoors keenly. When we step out, the world becomes brighter, open, bigger and we shrink down to size. When we step in, we are welcomed into warmth, beauty, safety, and cosiness. The threshold is a brief space, not a lingering place. It is that fascinating 'liminal' space in a building or home. We are lingering at the threshold, the border, from one place to the next—from one season (renters, newlywed couple, living in community) to the next (homeowners, parents, settling into a neighbourhood where we've yet to meet anyone).

The word 'threshold' also conveys the idea of tending, keeping, and watching over. We are caretakers of our bodies, home, yard, child, and to some degree, our neighbours. We are to tend time and toils, skills and souls. We keep watch in the night via prayer. And we remember Who it is who cares for us, tending our souls, feeding our selves. Sometimes He offers me a word for the year and often it shifts over the dance of the days. For this season of Lent I believe the Lord is offering me the words 'liminal' and 'threshold'—we'll see if they tarry into Eastertide and ordinary time. And I trust God to know what I need next if I'm to move into something else this year. . .

So, I breathe out a final hallelujah! before Ash Wednesday, praising God in this lingering at the border, at the arriving of Lent.

Photo by Colin Watts on Unsplash

Miserere Mei, Deus {Have Mercy on Me, O God}

 

I remember exactly where I first heard the piercing note at the 2:00 minute mark in the above song. Surrounded by chilly stone and tile, and later by rich warm wood and angels overhead. That first moment I was just outside the chapel, overhearing the New College Choir practise for Ash Wednesday evensong.

The piece was even more stunning when I was sitting in the pew a few hours later and those notes rang out from every stone and surface, as if the angels high above were giving voice to the Creator. . .

. . .Let me explain that when I say there were angels overhead, I mean there were really angels above me.

Ever since that day, I love to listen to the haunting Miserere Mei, Deus on Ash Wednesday (and throughout Lent). Though I had been attending an Anglican church for a while before spending four months in Oxford, I don't think I knew then that Psalm 51 was specifically associated with Ash Wednesday. 

Have mercy on me, O God,

    according to Your steadfast love;

according to Your abundant mercy

    blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

    and cleanse me from my sin!

For I know my transgressions,

    and my sin is ever before me.

Against You, You only, have I sinned

    and done what is evil in Your sight

. . . 

Behold, You delight in truth in the inward being,

    and You teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

    wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

. . .

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

    and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from Your presence,

    and take not Your Holy Spirit from me.

(Psalm 51.1-4a, 6-7, 10-11 ESV UK)

This Ash Wednesday has been grey with great white flakes of snow sifting o'er the valley like powdered sugar. They came more and more rapidly, until a fluffy almost-four-inches of snow crunched underfoot and buried the roads. My sweet boyfriend offered to come pick me up for evensong in his four-wheel-drive truck, but it was not to be. After quite a harrowing afternoon that ended with his work truck being towed, we both decided that staying home was best. 

In the gathering dusk I put the kettle on, lit three candles, and streamed our Ash Wednesday service. I even crushed my blackened match so I could join in the receiving the sign of death on my forehead whilst saying, "Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return." And though I couldn't receive the physical Eucharist with the congregation, I prayed the Prayer of Spiritual Communion, receiving the sign of death that leads to Eternal Life. 

It was not the way I would prefer to step into Lent—separated from my physical church family—but there was still a sacred space, a sacred time that I was able to step into, perhaps in a deeper way than if I had been physically present with other believers. Still, I look forward to gathering in person as we continue this Lenten journey.

I also look forward to removing some noise in my life (the car radio, shows, certain foods) in order to listen to the call of the Father. I can only say I sense that He is moving, that He wants to speak something to me that I have not had the quiet or space to hear before this season. So I ask for an open, hearing, obedient heart. I ask for eyes to see. And I give thanks for all the ways I have experienced His kindness today—from beautiful, much-needed snow and Nick's safety, to the quiet darkness, lit by a trio of beeswax candles and warmed by a mug of tea. 

O Lord our God, grant us grace 

to desire You with our whole heart,
that desiring You we may seek You;

and that seeking You we may find You,
and that finding You we may love You;
and loving You we may hate those sins
from which You have redeemed us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

—St Anselm

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. . .

Ash Wednesday IV

Ash and oil

mix in paint

across my forehead

A cross my

forehead boldly bears

stares at me

from the mirror

Dust of death

to wipe away

like life—brief

Unlike the bread,

the strong wine,

both now part

of my body

much like I'm

part of His

Life from death

Life swallowing up

sin's spectre grey

painting a cross

for Life Himself

to die upon. . .

Yet He holds

so much life

death is undone

like ash become

palm once again

___

Photo by Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

Ash Wilderness

No ashes smudged my brow,
no fellow pilgrims gathered 'round,
no bread was pressed into my hand,

there was no wine for parchéd tongue

no taste of Christ's body or His blood

Instead, white flakes upon my crown

Ash-like, they blanketed the ground,

My empty home was filled

with candle glow and a beating heart

a chamber of blood for the body of Christ

Empty space became hallowed

my knees pressed in, head bowed;

Desolate darkness filled with little flames,

the silent void invaded by a chant

breaking forth from the Body of Christ

In this season of sadness bright

the valleys become hollows to catch light,

the negatives show up outlined clear—

Our Lent has been a year-long affair

sustained with only the Body of Christ

We who see the edges of dark

find the contrast stark 

between Advent's rising Sun and its setting,

where we befriend lament and night,

swallowing deep the body of Christ

'No ashes' leaves an empty space

where I learn to receive a crown of grace

for expectations unmet and things lost—

And a single heart is not alone

when it is part of the Body of Christ

Hollowed hands are a channel of

opportunity to be offered in love,

to be raised in repentance, 

and lifted in worship, open to be

the physical signs of Christ's body. . .

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. . .

Juxtaposed

Starry stubs of light
pool time in waxen white
flowing from this shadowed season
when sadness should be bright

In darkness tinged with light
we wait the coming time
when God sneaks in like treason
and all will be made right

But this time it's different
The subtle shades of Lent
look more like darkened joy,
like the negative of a print

Everything is going in reverse
all the bright is coming first,
and then darkness rushes in
swallowing the light of the universe

Is there Easter at the end,
or a deeper darkness to wend
through before day rises,
edged in shade as I am unmade?

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

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

What if the Season is Barren

They are like trees along a riverbank bearing luscious fruit each season without fail.

Their leaves shall never wither, and all they do shall prosper.

—Psalm 1:3, The Living Bible



What if the season is barren

rather than bearing?

How if the leaves have curled

and the river has curved

away—away from from this tree, empty?



“Empty? Why art thou empty?”

Asks the Spirit-wind,

rustling through parchèd leaves.

“Have you ceased to delight in

my Word—written, spoken, spilled down?"



In the stillness after the query

hangs an echo from ancient days:

“Who told you you were naked?

Why are you afraid? Have you disobeyed,

eaten what I forbade?”



“Yes, Lord,” I whisper in shame.

“I have known good, but evil is now

natural to my broken frame.

I have not delighted in Your Name,

to Your Word I refused to bow.”



“Yet all these days

I have guarded your ways—

return to me, delight in me.

My arm is not too short to save,

remember this and offer praise.”



Like a long-waited rain to a dry tree

were His entreaties to me.

I took delight as I meditated,

both day and night, upon

His Word—written, spoken, spilled down.



_______

Photo by Peter Oslanec on Unsplash

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.

Lent Week 5: Judica—Veiling Sunday

Judica: Veiling Sunday

{Lent: Week Five}

Veiled, all veiled

around the sanctuary,

from the cross

to the icons,

to the spiritual

Body and Blood:

bread and wine

Veiled, all veiled

inside my self,

from my heart

 to my mind,

will, and emotions;

behind the mask

of "All's well!"

Veiled, all veiled

within the Disciples'

understanding and hearts—

the Master among

them as they

argue which of

them is greatest

Veiled, all veiled

in holiest Sanctuary,

a thick curtain

to separate man

from Holy God

because of sin—

a Sacrifice needed

Unveiled! Christ Unveiled!

Upon the mountain,

Behold His glory!

Upon the Cross,

Behold the Man...

Unto His mother,

Behold your Son...

Unto the world:

Behold the Lamb!

*This is the missing poem in a cycle of Lenten poems I wrote last year. All of the others were written on the Sundays of Lent (usually after church), but this one eluded me as I had a guest in town. It came to me today, and so I am adding it in to complete the collection.

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

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." I 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

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.