i am the true vine

Finding Equilibrium: "rest in one another"

2011-07-02T05:40:00.000-07:00

Though it hasn't been updated in a while, this blog seems like the most appropriate place to add my own thoughts to a chain blog that I have been following with great interest on the subject of division in the church. This is the 13th in a conversational exchange that began a few weeks ago. Links to the 12 previous posts, and the rules of the chain blog follow at the end.

First, I wish to say a thank you to all who have come before me - I have gained insight and wisdom from this dialogue. I chose this moment to step in because Andy's post, which discusses how Scripture can guide us in understanding how to live with our divisions, reflects some of my own thinking. I am assuming here that we have all read his posts (see links at bottom), so I will just note in brief that I was particularly drawn in his first post to the citation of the Genesis 3 dialogue between Eve and the serpent as an example of arguing about "what God said". And in his most recent post, he presents the two ways that the New Testament quotes Genesis 15 (in Romans 4 and James 2) to reflect contrasting views of the relationship between faith and works. In summarizing his discussion he suggests that the New Testament presents us therefore with models of how to allow a healthy tension of difference in doctrines. This is what I would like to pick up on.

As a Lutheran, I have been impacted by Bonhoeffer's sense of equilibrium. This word which has been trivialized in contemporary usage could benefit from being recovered in its fuller and more robust meanings. An equilibrium engaged by Bonhoeffer is one that flows out of his dissertational work Sanctorum Communio, which at its heart has much to say about how we reconcile our own personal theologies with community in the church. The key idea here is one of a tension that holds difference in a sustained and sustainable relationship of mutual trust envisioned and emboldened by Jesus' call to live out the gospel witness.

To Bonhoeffer, all things are reconciled in Christ. The desire to cling to one's own ethical and spiritual dilemmas can be a movement away from God (and Genesis 3 is an excellent example of this) when the dilemma prevents us from holding the principle of God's divine grace as our primary and utmost knowledge of God. Christ reconciles all dilemmas for us by putting the 'love of one another' as the model of obedience. We make ourselves over in our dilemmas by submitting to that love, even when such submission involves a painful accommodation of those whom we have been hurt or compromised by.

Bonhoeffer: "Within the community of love, both social and religious, which was originally given, ... the spiritual form (this community of love) and the natural form (the empirical community) are so created that they rest in one another."(1)

In this way I found Jon and Fred's most recent posts compatible with each other. If I may paraphrase them: with Jesus Christ as our absolute center (Fred), we can make an agreement to be in unity (Jon). And Andy has now shown us the ways in which the New Testament calls us into that Bonhoeffer tension in which we "rest in one another."

If I can offer a kind of worldly image of this equilibrium it would be the playground seesaw. When you and your mate sit at opposite ends of the seesaw, you are engaged in a dynamic relationship of ups and downs having to do with having chosen this partnership. There is the capacity for both serving each other in joy and creating cruelty. We can pull ourselves up or push ourselves down with the goal of 'bumping' the other hard on the ground or swinging them uncontrollably in the air, or we can go up and down with a feeling of mutual joy in the ride. We face each other along the device of our difference, we are looking at each other all the time. In fact, it is in the nature of the seesaw that you cannot actually look at yourself or see yourself, but only the other. Then, arguably the greatest joy in the seesaw experience comes when you find that wonderful balancing place, when you both have your feet off the ground and through the careful exertions of the body leaning forward or backward you help to keep yourself and your partner in equality. You are engaged in an action that in some ways defies the natural rhythms of science - and yet the fact that such balance is possible is an expression of the mystery of scientific truths: a metaphysical suspension exists within the hard laws of gravity.

It is this equilibrium that I most yearn for in the church. That sense of mutual trust and balance in dynamic tension, even while holding our own tenets of faith and belief. To be sitting on the same axial point: the traditions and witness brought to us by the authors of Scripture, but doing so through the knowledge and acceptance of differing points of view. One person looks at that axial rod, that long pipe of connection (which metaphorically could be Scripture for instance, or the witness of Jesus) from one point of view, and the other partner looks at it from theirs. When we pull or push hard and 'bump' the other, we become absorbed in our own power. When we suspend our feet and try to 'balance', we surrender that power to the thing that binds us.

There is an important difference between 'balance' and 'harmony'. Balance is exactly this: the tension of things being held in common at equal weights. Harmony is a relationship of mutual well-being, in mutual service. One can have balance without harmony, but one cannot have harmony without balance. Achieving that selfless sense of the desire to be in communion and community is the starting point, accepting difference but acknowledging our common axial focus. From there, harmony is possible, if both parties learn to love the surrender to unity.

It is worth noting that Bonhoeffer himself believed the community could only exist as a collection of individuals: "God does not desire a history of individual men, but the history of a community of men. In his sight, the community and the individual are present at the same moment, and rest in one another. The structures of the individual and the collective unit are the same. Upon these basic relations rests the concept of the religious community and the church."(2)

It is no coincidence that "rest in one another" appears twice in these quotations I've used, though they are from different arguments of the thesis. Bonhoeffer's call for us to rest in one another in Christ, is not just a call to be obedient to the commandment to love one another, but to love one another through our differences. To perhaps even love the tension. Loving the tension is not about the suspense of "who might win", but an expression of companionship which is equal in its difference, a surrender which allows that (mutual) 'feet off the ground' bliss.

(1) quoted in J.W. De Gruchy, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Witness to Jesus Christ, Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 1991, p. 59.
(2) De Gruchy, 54.

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Chain blog rules:

1) If you would like to write the next blog post (link) in this chain, leave a comment stating that you would like to do so. If someone else has already requested to write the next link, then please wait for that blog post and leave a comment there requesting to write the following link.

2) Feel free to leave comments here and discuss items in this blog post without taking part in the actual “chain”. Your comments and discussion are very important in this chain blog.

3) When you write a link in this chain, please reply in the comments of the previous post to let everyone know that your link is ready. Also, please try to keep an updated list of links in the chain at the bottom of your post, and please include these rules at the bottom of your post.

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“Links” in this chain blog:

1. "Chain Blog: Dealing with Divisive Issues Introduction", by Alan
2. “Chain Blog: Dealing with divisive issues starts with love” by Arthur
3. “I am divisive” by Jeremy
4. “Chain Blog: Please agree with me” by Jon
5. “Division and our shared humanity” by Andy
6. “Chain Blog: solving the problem” by Bobby
7. “Divisiveness: Acts 2 & Ugly Carpet” by fallenpastor
8. “Stimulating our Collective Memory” by Trista
9. “No, we can’t just get along” by Alan
10. “Who says we are divided?” by Jon
11. “Disunity and the mind of Christ” by Fred
12. "Cooperative Division: We are united in our division", by Andy
13. This post.
14. You.....?

new life

2009-04-12T12:26:00.001-07:00

If you are new to this blog, start at the bottom of the scroll with Palm Sunday, and move upward, or click on any link at right for each day of the week.

A rattle at my door awakens me. It is not even dawn, but even so, I am afraid I am too late. When I open the door, a small dove is on the stones outside. It is larger than most, and purest white in colour. As soon as I see it, the dove lifts gently into flight, hovering above my head and then gliding into the narrow street. I gather my robe and put my shawl around my face to conceal it, leaving only the eyes. Under my robe I am clutching the sack with the oil and spices. Their fragrance is strong, I fear I will be discovered because of them. I enter the road and do not look back, hurrying toward the edge of Calvary.

In the dark, it is hard to know my way. I am still not used to Jerusalem - roads and buildings which lean only shadows out to meet me. Once, I cannot see where I am going and stop, my heart beating. The fluttering of wings guides me forward. My dove is my guide - it seems to know where I am headed and takes me there. When I think about this I start to feel safe, I know the Lord has sent me this winged angel.

We reach the edge of the mount, the dove and I. The crosses are bare, all the dead have been removed. Smoke and ash mix with mist - some of them have burned in the night, there is the smell of rotting flesh. I draw the robe closer and follow the dove around the edge of the hill and out again into the fields near the cliffs. After a while I recognize where I am. Approaching the tomb, my step falters, I fall short.

The sepulchre has been rolled away. Immediately, I fear the worst and start to weep. The dove has hovered and landed on my shoulder. I cannot seem to move. I am rooted like a tree in front of the open tomb, weeping and crying out in anger. The claws of the dove's feet dig into my shoulder and give me pain. I step forward and it flutters ahead of me, disappearing into the tomb.

I walk inside and collapse in grief. Immediately it is all confirmed: they have taken my Lord. His shroud is here, even the towels of blood I kept with him. It is all there, but he is not. Wherever they have taken him, they haven't even kept him wrapped. It is unbearable. I cry and wail and and weep as I have not done yet in the whole time of Jersualem. I am unable to console myself. I am kneeling in the midst of the imprint of his body, holding the shrouds. I cannot see or think for weeping. My cries echo in the dark space and crush me.

The flutter of wings returns to my ear. I expect the bird to light again on my shoulder but it is gone. I lift my eyes and see the watered image of divine shapes, holy ones, thin as the air and wholly there to my touch. I stand to reach out to them. Their wings are like silk. Then I sink again to my knees and am unable to lift my head.

"Woman", one of them says to me. The voice is like a heavenly song. "Why do you weep so."

I fall into fresh laments and cannot speak. One of the holy ones lifts out a feathery hand and raises my chin. Immediately, I am calmed by light.
"They have taken my Lord," I manage. "And I don't know where they've laid him."

They speak to me but I do not understand. The rush of sound is in my ears again, like wings and like air. My garments lift a little. The shroud and the towels move and I take hold of them quickly, clutching them to myself.

At the entrace to the tomb, there is a shadow. A humble gardener has come, perhaps hearing my pleas and cries. The shimmering sound intensifies, I can barely hear or see. The gardener enters and tries to approach me.

"Please sir," I say. "Where have you taken my Lord? Is it you who took him? I must anoint him." I take out the sack from under my robe. It has become wet and limp from my crying and my anxious body. I start to unpack it, sobbing anew. I want to prove to him my intentions, I need to show him I mean well. Oh that I could bribe him. I speak in a torrent even as I thrust my hand into the sack. "I have oil in here. And the best spices. Please let me see him."

My body is curled over in grief and crying, the sack on the ground. I have no light, I am blinded by light but have no light. I cannot see the light and I cannot see the sack and the things in the sack.

Again, this grip of my shoulder. The bird returned? The holy ones? The gardener? I must not be deterred. Let me pull out the oil!

"Mary," the presence says. The vial of oil slips from my hands and rolls on the ground. Immediately my sobs are calmed and I am flooded with peace.

I rise slowly, turn slowly.
Before me is my Lord. He is transformed, though he is himself. He is not real, though he is the same man. He is shimmering, though I can see his hands.
"Teacher!," I cry out and fall upon him in amazement.

He catches me, holding me at a distance from him. But even his arms on mine are familiar and warm. His face is transformed and it is also momentarily sad.

"I cannot," he whispers. "I cannot hold you. Do not try to hold me."
I stare into his eyes, which are like orbs radiating out the cosmos both in front and behind. I am calmed at once by them.

"I am on my way to my Father. Go and tell the others that you have seen me. And tell them that I am ascending to my Father."

I am still transfixed. I cannot move or blink or speak. I want only to follow him.
"Take me with you," I say.

He shakes his head.
"Do as I tell you." He says it in the firmest, gentlest voice. His arms on mine, holding me back, are trembling. He is not yet divine, and neither human. He is something inbetween, though he is very much alive.

I let go of him and step back. I don't know what to say. He is smiling at me. And he is weeping too.

"Go," he whispers. But I cannot move. We hang there in a breath of silence.

"A dove led me here," I say then. He nods.

"A temple dove," he says and even as he says it, he is fading gently.
I cry out and lunge forward to stop him.

The light lingers, but he is gone. I look about the tomb, the holy ones too are gone. It is black again, it is just me again.

The tomb entrance is wide open. Outside, the dawn of the new world has begun and risen, stretching out to the ends of the earth.

saturday: darkness

2009-04-11T20:47:00.001-07:00

I have a Hades heart. It is the blackness of the tomb we laid him in today. Mary and Martha and Junia and his mother and myself and John and Joseph, the councilman from Arimathea carrying his body in the pouring rain, my towels still around his feet and hands to catch his blood. This man, Joseph is the first true follower of his death. I told him so but he put up his hands in humility. He told me the money he paid to remove our Lord from the cross was less than the cost of a Temple dove. I told him my Lord would like that.

Now I am here in the place where we prayed. I have come here on my own, slipping away from the others and even Junia. I want to be in the place where my Lord went night after night. The mountain is empty, the stars are out, the graves of our ancestors stand up like swarms of upraised soldiers' swords, stabbing the night sky. The wind is gentle here, it stirs my garments. It seems to circle me, though its breath is small. There is the quiet wind and the drooping trees and the sad stars. And there is my Hades heart.

For the cost of a temple dove, we could have him again. We could pull the nails from his feet and his hands. (Joseph put these nails in the fold of his garment to take away with him.) We could lift him and straighten his body and put his arms at his sides. And we could carry him through the rain, our feet caked in mud, wet earth spattering our legs. We could carry him to a place that the councilman had found, a tomb. And there, by the light of torches, and as the moon rose and the men stepped out for sabbath prayers, I could hold him one last time. How warm his body still was! How still were his eyes. The marks of flogging made his mother weep. We all wept. The rain stopped then, and the sun emerged just before setting. By the light of torches and the dying light of sun we pulled the thorns from his body and bathed his wounds, keeping all the towels, keeping all the blood of him together.

Now it is night. Some time in the hours after we left, Pilate's people came and rolled a sepulchre in front of the tomb, in the case that we might steal him. As if we might steal something that belongs to us. I feel finally the anger that he had all last week. I am washed with it. I am filled with weeping and washing of rain and lamenting and anger. Now I must worry about how we will anoint him. He must be anointed. I have a day or so to think of how.

The wind has increased and lifts me, draws me to my feet. It stirs the dirt again in small, eddying circles. I begin to walk away, back toward the house of my friends. Soon I will be in their embrace and we will talk of nothing else for all the night and we will weep and lament and praise God with psalms. But right now as I walk, there is only this wind that is always near me, and these stones and epitaphs, the faces of our fathers lifting their voices to heaven.

friday: passion

2009-04-10T12:26:00.001-07:00

Unravelling. The world has gone to choshek, to the darkness of creation. They say the veil in the temple rent from top to bottom when they hung him - the sky went black for a long time here too, the crowd dispersing in fear. Then the rain came, drowning us all, leaving us with drowning and darkness.

It is over now and I am still here. And the soldiers are still here. And his mother is still here. And Mary my friend is still here. And Junia is here. She wants to run to get us water in case they let us sponge him. I tell her to set the sponge on the ground and let it soak up the rain - it will be enough. A while ago, they pierced him and water ran out with blood. Some argued the water was rain. Others said that it came from his body. The blood ran down his leg. Since we cannot sponge him, I gather the blood on the ground with a towel. We must keep all his blood together. It is the law. We must keep the blood together and bury it with him. We must do everything properly. They must let us anoint him. They must.

I say these things many times to the soldiers. The rain spits in their faces. "It is a full week of crucifixions," one of them tells us. "If I allow it for you, then everyone will want to do the same." They keep pushing us back in case we come too near. The other two men have died already. My Lord is still alive, his chest barely moving, his face downward, his gaze washed over like a pool, staring to me and the others, and to whomever passes into it. He does not move.

The others have fled. They fled one-by-one through the night last night, through the day today. From the moment that the soldiers came, from the long night of waiting, through the long morning of trial, through the flogging, through the hanging, one by one they fled. I have not seen John or Peter, they've fled. I have not seen Thomas or Andrew or Philip or Bartholomew, they've fled. All who ate with him are gone, they have fled. I saw Judas here a while ago, crying out and weeping and cursing our Lord and falling at his feet at the cross and weeping until a soldier started to whip him away. I sent some of the women after him.

I have been remembering something our Lord said once. About the presence of holy ones, the holy ones of God who are always here with us. I feel them in our midst. I feel them close to me. I feel them close to him. The rain whips us all for the wind is great. But on him it appears to fall more gently, as if there were a hole in the firmament just above his head and only dew could fall there. Gentle mist.

Sometimes I move forward to be in his gaze and to look in his eyes. I wait til the soldiers have left, or have forgotten him for a few moments and have turned their backs. I hold my eyes wide open, so he knows that I see him. His face is frozen open, his mouth twisted in agony. But his eyes are like pools, hovering between life and death. I talk to him. I pray with him. I even try to smile. His mother joins me sometimes. We stand together in each other's arms within his gaze and tell him we will anoint him, we will serve him. We will love him.

Just now, a woman has returned who was among those who went after Judas. She is out of breath and filled with fear. She says he was heading for the Temple to clasp the horns on the altar. But then seeing soldiers there he changed his mind and ran away from them instead, pushing our people away and running into the hills.

Darkness has begun to fall. Still he breathes. They have mocked him, it has been unbearable to watch them. The agony of my Lord is nothing to the shame they bring on him through their jeers and taunts and their piercing of him, their rending of his garments. Every time they touch him I cry out in anger, "Leave him!" One of them struck me and I fell back. Another suggested I be arrested too. His mother intervened and they backed away. She has a glory all her own, even more so now. People look at her in wonder. Her face has grown rounder and reflects the light. Even her tears leave trails of silver light on her face.

Now, as darkness falls, someone calls them to food. Since the crowd has thinned to almost nothing, they decide to go and leave only one guard. And just as they are deciding this, I see John returning. He is limping from having been beaten by some people. He is weeping and falls at the feet of our Lord. Crying out to him. The soldiers mock him and laugh as they leave. The one soldier left is only a boy, a young man in clothing too big for him. Just then, our Lord speaks, whispering words we cannot really hear or understand. His mother and myself and John and Mary our friend, try to draw closer. The boy-soldier allows it, looking helpless. We cannot hear what he is saying. We turn to the boy-soldier and say, "he is dying. Please give him a drink." The only thing nearby is some sour wine. The boy puts some on the sponge I had set on the ground, so it is wine mixed with water, and stabs it with his spear. He lifts the spear to our Lord's mouth and we see him taste it.
Then he speaks again.
"It is finished," he says clearly. And then he dies.

The wind blows up from behind us, sending our garments straight out in front of us, as if they might shroud him. We fall into weeping and calling his name. We lament. We cry out. We fall to the ground. The circle of gentle mist-like rain that was just for him, widens to include us. It washes us, gently, even as our voices rend the air it glides in.

thursday: the supper; the garden

2009-04-09T13:43:00.001-07:00

In the whisper of morning, is the slow crawl of light through trees by the wadi where we slept last night. After the Temple, out of which we escaped with barely our lives, my Lord sent word to the twelve and myself and a few others to meet him on the edge of the city, near Bethany, to stay together and do the passover. It was difficult to send the message to all, so dispersed had we become. He and I and young James and Bartholomew and Andrew and Philip met up and slept outside near the wadi, so as to better be seen by the others whenever they came. I slept alone, then Junia slept with me and I dreamt all night of terrible things. Omens and portents and horrors too great to be imagined. I cried out over and over and Junia wiped my brow and gave me water. Eventually, I looked up to see myself held in the arms of my Lord. Junia had slipped away and instead the teacher held me close, rocking me with greatest tenderness. Singing to me in psalms.

"Do not be afraid," he whispered in my ear, even as he rocked me. Eventually we fell asleep this way, my head cradled in his shoulder.

Now the dawn has broken and we are awake, he and I, huddled close together. The earth is cold and damp, the grasses soaked with dew. I wake to find him staring in my face. He pushes the hair from my eyes, takes hold of my hand. I see then that he is weeping again.

"What is it?," I say quietly.
He shakes his head.
"This will be the last time we are alone together." He says it simply.

Later in the day when we are all gathered, my Lord sends someone to secure a room in an inn. We all go in and find the room just big enough for the twelve and myself and a few others. I beg the teacher for Junia to stay and he agrees.

Preparations are made for the meal and there is dissatisfaction about the presence of the women. Anxious for us all to get along, my Lord compromises: we can be in the room but can't sit at the table. I am pleased enough with this, as it is better than nothing at all! My Lord performs the role of priest and does all the blessings. We recline and drink and break the bread and eat. The lamb is brought in and we finish it all. It is time for the last cup, after the grace. My Lord stops here. He takes off the priestly garments he had put on for the night and lays them to one side.
"Bring them to the table," he says now to the twelve, but he is referring to us.
"You must never deny them the table again. All are welcome at my table. Everyone. Eat with tax collectors and Samaritans and the unclean. Think of these words of mine and never fail them."

They move to allow us in, myself, and Junia and Mary and Martha our friends, the sisters of Lazarus. Staring into the table, he pours the wine again, blesses it and looks at us all. His eyes are anxious and sad, full of longing for us. His gaze falls on me and I smile. He then looks to Judas, who is sitting near to him, once again. He kisses him and then, when the disciple has started to weep, speaks gently.
"Go."
Soon after that Judas rises and leaves us. I think of the time in the temple yesterday, of my strange foreboding. And the letter he drew in the ashes of our camp that night. I do not understand and yet I know everything. "The hour has come," my Lord has been saying. And I am beginning to see what hour he means and what it is that is coming. Quietly he lifts the cup as if for the final blessing after all. Instead he tells us stories and sayings.

He tells us that soon he will be gone. He instructs us how to continue in his absence. How we should take the wine of festivals and drink it as if it were his blood. To eat the bread of our festivals, as if it were he himself we were eating. He speaks of his body and how it no longer belongs to him, but to others. However, he will always belong to us, always be with us. He tells us not to be afraid, and not to fear his pain. He tells us we will all suffer greatly because of him. He talks of his father, the God of our ancestors, to whom he will soon be returning.

In all these things, we recline in amazed silence, unable to fathom what he is meaning and filled with foreboding. I feel my heart and my kidneys slide like streams and fail to sustain me. I can see it now, the message of my dreams and of my waking fears.

"How will they do it?," I hear myself say, out of turn, out of place. As usual, drawing stares. He shakes his head and doesn't answer.
He looks at me.
"Soon you will know me again."

Not long after that, he takes some of the men with him and goes out to walk in the Kidron. I beg to come, but Matthew denies me. When they have gone, I sneak out after them, following at a distance. My Lord leads them into Gethsemane, to pray. I stay behind rocks where I might watch and listen. My Lord instructs them all to listen closely, to watch out for him while he prays and to not fall asleep. But no sooner has he left their sides than the food and drink take liberty with their eyes and they slide away. I take advantage of their sleeping to creep a little closer.

My Lord is in a terrible anguish, such as I have never seen. He pleads with his father to spare him the cup of trial. He does not intuit my presence, as often he has in the past. I want to run to him, anoint his brow, bathe his feet as he did for us all before we ate this night. I want to hold him as he held me in the dawn that began this very day. But it is as if a wall has now dropped between us, which time has hurled us against, and which nothing can break.

Twice, he returns to the disciples and rouses them, asking them to stay close and keep watch. And both times, they fall asleep again. His prayers become more agitated and frightened until at last something in him breaks and he submits into a quiet trance of peace. In this moment, the wind returns, lifting the branches of the trees and ruffling all our garments. I huddle again behind the rock, afraid of being discovered.

After a while of hearing nothing, I look round again to see where he is. To my amazement, he is asleep, just like the others, though apart from them. From my place of watching, I fall on my knees now and pray to God with all my heart and with all my soul and with all my might. I beg God to spare him, to give him to us for more time so that we might learn more and learn it better. The wind scatters my whispered pleas into the brambles and the night shadows. Eventually, I just rest in silence. In front of me is my beautiful Lord, curled up like a child. The stars above him are ranged like watchful angels, the holy ones who never sleep. I search them with the quiet of my heart and see in the direction of Nazareth, the subtle blinking of his natal star.

wednesday: the temple

2009-04-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

From one pool to another. From Bethsaida to Siloam, the pool for travellers, for those coming to pay their taxes. We have bathed and healed ourselves and others. The long narrow stairs away from the pool and up to the temple seems to take forever, but it is our preferred way, as we find we are less likely to run into soldiers and priests.

The day has filled with tension, with too many new people. We have outgrown even what we know how to do. There are many times when I cannot even see one of our group, let alone the teacher. My Lord travels among crowds without thought of his safety and no longer thinks at all of his own wellbeing. No rest, no food, no time alone. He is forgetful of his ablutions, his garments, his prayers. Only at night does he steal away, often taking one of us with him. John and I are not getting along well. Peter too. They seem to disdain me and I now ignore them. I know the teacher gives them messages for me that they do not relay. I have given up trying to stay alongside them, or anyone. I have begun to sink back in the crowds, to become less visible. It is dangerous for me, for the edge of the crowd is where I
see the men of my former life. They stare at me and present me with favors. I hurry away but do not always escape their grasping hands. Junia is my good friend who stays near me at all times. It is Junia who brings me word from my Lord. Running toward me, out of breath.
"The teacher says," she begins, and then leans over, hands on her knees, "that you are being too modest. He needs you to stay closer."

It is not going well. He has become too loved, too quickly. There are too many new people. Our group has become too big for fires, for common prayers. Our numbers are filled with strangers who have only just joined us. There is no way to tell who is good and who isn't. A woman from Judea told Thomas there are spies among us and many times we believe it to be true. And almost as much as he has gathered people to him, his own spirit has shifted and his impatience grows.

We have been in and out of the temple all week and each time it is only more frightening to me. Not because of the soldiers and priests, but because of my beloved Lord. He has become too bold and rash. He is courting disfavour and judgement - I understand why but it has become too much. He insults the Sadduccees, because they tried to trick him in his teaching. He weeps over the widows and orphans that he meets. He sits with them as they wait for doves.

I have known for some time that my Lord is partial to these small birds. They are for him divine. Their beauty bewitches him, and yet in every moment there is the scream of one being slaughtered. Meanwhile, the sheep and cattle roam without rope or any containment. Those who are changing the money haggle with simple farmers over rates much too high. More than once we have stepped forward on their behalf.

In the beginning we were watched only by a priest or two. But through the week it has become more rancorous. He sees things we don't. He sees people who have been here for days unable to pay the money-changers their interest. He sees the widows and orphans who are waiting for someone to buy them a dove. He points these things out to us who have been easily distracted by noise and the grandeur of place.

And then it happens.

Some soldiers have been arguing with him. They have no skill for argument, for they are not Greeks or rabbis. My Lord makes a mockery of them quickly and in their frustration, one of them grabs me suddenly, pulling me into their midst and holding me by the hair in front of my Lord.
"Do you really care what a woman like this is offering?" Two of the priests snicker behind me. The crowd watches me and turn their heads in shame. The soldiers are referring to my old life.
"Don't you think this girl herself should be an offering? For how will she ever atone for the multiplicity of her sins!"
My Lord becomes dangerous. He has lost his reason and his temperament. Pushing over a doveseller's table, he falls to the floor with it. He sees a whip to be used for the cattle. Immediately he is on his feet with it. The whip cracks across the floor in our direction. I sheild my face. My Lord now takes me himself a bit roughly by the arm to hold up to the soldiers.
"The day will come when you will owe this woman everything. She has eyes to see and you have none. She has ears to hear and you have none." The whip cracks again, scattering doves and people. The sheep and cattle are restless and make a terrible din. In the far reaches of the temple, all continues as normal, for they cannot hear us down here.

I shudder this exposure, this horrible presentation.
"Well then teacher, take her and whip her, if you want something to whip." It is a Roman soldier who says it, throwing me along the floor. Immediately some women come to my attendance. But I push them aside to see what my Lord is doing for I can hear he has become enraged. The whip cracks and snakes in all directions. The tables fall, the moneychangers are chased from their seats. My Lord shakes out purses so that money falls together in uncountable piles. He takes handfuls of coins and throws them into the crowd. The peasants scramble on the floor. Matthew tries to reach him, tries to touch him. John is at his side. But my Lord is overcome. I cover my head in horror, turning away. I can only hear, the air crackling, the floor alive with pounding and the rushing here and there of animals.

Something catches my attention and I look away. I see Judas standing near a column, shaking his head in disgust. "No!," I cry out to him, for I have a knowledge I don't understand. "No,!!!" I say it again. But he does not hear. He has left the column and is moving away in the temple toward the other places. I fall back on my knees in despair, but for what I don't know. My knees slide like water; I am ashamed.

It is in this moment that my Lord claps his hands loudly several times. Immediately the cages of doves fly open. The birds take flight. The sound of their wings becomes like angels, hovering and beating against the roof of the temple, swooping and halting and swooping and halting, binding us in cords of blinding white.

tuesday: bethsaida

2009-04-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

We start out before dawn. My Lord and the others hope to arrive at Bethsaida before the time of prayers. We are quiet as we walk, shadows chased by light. The fireflies are out, mystical companions. My friend Junia tries to catch them. My Lord smiles at her. He stretches out a hand from his garment. Immediately the flies light on his arm and hand.
"Take one," he says to Junia, and she does.

On our way, we find a sheep caught in a thicket, half-dead. I begin to weep a little.
"I heard this sheep last night," I say. The teacher is walking near me.
"It was lost. Its bells rang after dark while we were sitting by the fire."
Some among us began to tend to it, for it was bleeding and weak.
My Lord spoke to us, teaching us in sayings about the sheep.

"How many of us would go after a lost sheep when 99 sheep are safe behind the fold? But I say to you we must always search out the lost sheep. Even if one sheep is lost in 100, that sheep is the most precious to its owner."
We understand him and are happy for this.
The sheep is struggling and some among us think we should kill it so that it might not die and cause us to be unclean. Our Lord goes to the sheep and putting his hand on its neck, restores it to life. Those who have joined us recently react with amazement as the sheep lifts itself and begins to run in the thicket.
Our Lord appears unhappy with their wonder and motions us forward.
"Come, we are late," he says.

He has begun to be impatient. It has been this way since we arrived in Jerusalem. I cannot always make him out, or know what he is thinking. I watch him now as we walk, studying his face when I can. Without seeing me, he reaches for my hand and holds it, then lets it go.
"Do not worry," he says. And then strides on ahead. I run to catch up to him.
We walk in silence.
"You are frightened too," I say to him quietly after a while. He does not respond, but leaves me then, moving to some others.

We are late indeed. Even as we go, slivers of sunlight chase the moon out of the sky behind us. Eventually, we have to stop so the men can pray. I stand behind a large rock out of sight. There I pray with them, all the words engraved on my heart. Closing my eyes, I can hear my voice blending in with theirs. Opening my eyes, Junia and another look at me doubtfully. I say nothing and move on, just as my Lord did with me.

When we arrive, the sun is round and beating down. Someone has gone ahead to say we will be there and even before we have come round the hill, some in need of cures are waiting for us. My Lord is not happy to see them. His agitation grows more bold and he thinks we do not see it.
"You must be in the water," he says to one of them sharply, and keeps walking. A few steps later, he stops. A man lies on the ground, one of his legs missing from the knee. His arm is outstretched to the teacher. But the teacher does not respond in kind.
"Who carried you away from the pool?," my Lord asks the man.
The man is immediately shamed.
"I paid my friend to do it. I wanted to be first."
"Soon you will see that the first shall be last and the last shall be first."
To our amazement, he then moves on, without healing the man.
Thaddeus, whose heart is the most tender, picks the man up and carries him.
When we have walked some time in silence, our Lord ceases and appears sad. He moves through our crowd to Thaddeus, still carrying the lame man. Taking the man gently from Thaddeus' arms, he continues walking, carrying the man himself. They are in the midst of the crowd and soon we take no notice. Not long after, however, the man cries out. He is standing now behind our Lord, with two full legs. He is shouting in amazement and gratitude, praising God.
Again, the teacher says nothing, appears almost sullen, and urges us on.
The man runs into the hills, leaping like the sheep.

I draw near to my Lord and walk alongside him. He is not in a good temperament, he is brooding and tired. He limps a little from the sores on his feet. The same sores I felt under my hand as he rode on the horse when we first arrived.
The chill in the air has started to lift but the ground is wet and hard.
"Let us stop and rest, so I can tend your feet," I say to him.
He halts in his path, sagging a little.
He seems to want to reply somehow, but cannot. He is lost in his own thoughts, his face lined with sadness. He stares into the hills and then at the last traces of night sky, flushed with pink and blue. His lips utter something I cannot hear. He appears to forget me and walks on. I do not know how to be with him sometimes. I too become distant and silent.

We walk apart a long ways. I use the time to go within myself and experience peace. It is hard to find. The morning has brought birds in my ears and dew beneath my feet. Each is beautiful when observed by choice, but right now it only means noise in my ears and cold wet feet. I want to push this out, rest in peace. I cannot.

Soon there is the sound of cacophonous voices. A few steps later, we have broached the hill and the pool is in view. It is overburdened with people. There are lepers and many who are sick or afflicted and those who are unclean. It is more than one man can do in one day.

But it is not just this. On a nearby ridge are some priests and Pharisees. And in another direction, some soldiers are there, waiting also. My hand flies to my mouth in sudden dismay.
"My Lord, it is the sabbath!"
There is a murmur behind me as the others take this in. We had known it when we set out, but forgot it as he healed. I realise now that this is why he had hesitated. And yet he had said nothing. Thomas steps forward.
"Lord, you came here to teach, not to heal. There is no harm in teaching."
Junia adds,
"They have no doubt heard about the lame man."
For a while, none of us move. Instead our eyes travel from the pool to the soldiers to the priests. The wind that has been following us since we came to Jerusalem tosses up dust in a small column before us. The tall grasses that slope gently downward to the pool undulate and wave like the palms of our arrival.

The waters of the pool of Bethsaida are coral pink from their journey through the earth. The source is moving and bubbles forth from its hidden place in the wall. The stirring is like a gentle stream eddying over rocks. I sit in one of the five porticos which divide the two pools, and which is near the source. I have one hand dribbling in the source water as it emerges and meanwhile my feet are in the women's pool. The women in the pool are tired and old and poor, almost all are peasants. They chatter with each other, even as they pray and do their ablutions.
"He won't have time for us," says one very old woman, hobbling slowly up the stair near my leg. I lean forward to assist her with my hand.

A little while later, I am helping a small girl into the pool. Her body is perilously thin and she cannot walk. I lay her gently in the waters and she continues to cling to me. I sink into the pool myself, sitting on the step up to my neck and holding her closely there. She lays her head in my neck and appears to sleep, her body finally comforted.

There is the sound of commotion, a clamouring of voices. I look up to see my Lord being dragged at the elbows away from the men's pool. I lift the girl into the arms of a woman and rush to see what has happened, my garments wet, my body cold. Two priests have the teacher by his arms and escort him away. The soldiers intercede, conversations I cannot hear. Junia folds another cloak around me, even as I pass. I stare into the field by the north end of the pool, trying to make out what is happening. Eventually, the priests let go of my Lord and he walks slowly back toward us. I sigh in relief. I feel again the gnawing fear which will not let me rest. They have let him go, but he must heal no more. Our faces make this plain as he draws among us. It is odd to me that only now in our day does he seem himself, transformed and loving. No longer fretful or in moods, but smiling and peaceful.
"I understand now," he says, "what I must do."

The figures of the priests and the soldiers on horses have faded into dimming lines behind the hills. We all turn round to face the pools again. It hardly seems possible but now there are even more there than before. They call out, cry out his name. Thomas and some of the others engage him. "My Lord, please, no. They will return. You will be taken." The teacher listens to them, cupping the face of each in his hand, to gaze in their eyes.
"Yes, I will be taken." He says this to Thomas.
Then he lets go and strolls back in the direction of the pool.
Immediately, his name is called out in supplication. Many voices at once. Their plea is like that of the wanderers, calling out to the God of all Israel. He moves eagerly toward them.
Meanwhile, the sun of creation bears down on us all, drenching the world in wind-smitten light.

monday: prophecy

2009-04-06T19:41:00.001-07:00

Sunset. The time of day when I long for God. Orange and pink fingers of creation. Last night, I leaned into it with my whole alive being. It seemed to me that at the end of the earth, the God of my ancestors was weaving together the sky and the sea in tranquility. Yet, even in this glory, I could not shake my fear. It was as if the earth beneath my feet was restless, and somewhere beneath there was a stirring of earthquakes. I have this fear all the time now. I wake up to it, as I used to wake up to strangers, feeling the same torment in my kidneys and my heart. I have been longing for a mikvah, to bathe properly, to feel the dust lift off my soul and know that I am resting in the peace of being clean.

Returning to where they were gathered, last night I begged my Lord to take us out to the edge of the city for some purification. We have been so negligent with the laws. He agreed immediately.

Now it is a day later, the sun has set again, and we are in the Kidron, camped by a wadi there. Earlier I watched them say their prayers. I listened as I love to do, to the sound of my Lord in his own voice among the others. "Hear o Israel, the Lord our God is one God and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might." Now, by a fire, he teaches us about this saying, and how he himself is Israel now. "I am the true vine," he says. "I am the true Israel." He says these and many other marvellous sayings that we struggle to remember. I sit on the edge of the circle, staring out into the valley, feeling the cold wind stirring the garment from my shoulder so it is exposed. I keep covering it again. I have a strange combination of woven feelings, like the sea and the sky at the edge of the world. On the one hand, I am filled with love for the teacher and on the other, I have great, great fear. It as if the womb of the earth that the psalm describes is about to enclose me into a cave. I shudder.

In the valley I hear sheep bells, after dark. It feels like an omen, as the sheep should be inside their gate. I begin to pray silently behind my garment which I have wrapped around my face against the blowing sand and dust. I am praying as the others did, the same words. It is dangerous I know, but no one can hear me. The stars are rich with light. I think of the words of our holy ones: "and now you are as numerous as the stars in the heaven." I smile, despite my fear.

The teacher stops teaching and speaks to me, even though many others are in front of me, waiting with questions.
"Mary, why are you praying?"
I am amazed that he has read my heart, and do not know how to answer. There is silence and discomfort in the group. Those of us who have been together a long time are shamed by this deference to a woman, when we have so many new ones with us. My head is lowered. John rises and walks away and Peter follows. James and Andrew confer with each other, shaking their heads. I can tell they believe me to be disrespectful, since I am not listening to the teacher and choosing instead to pray. My Lord addresses them, looking first to Philip and Andrew with such an intensity that they cease their whispering immediately. But then also speaking to John and Peter.
"The time will come," he says, "when this woman will tell you news that you will not believe but must hear. My teaching will fail forever, if you do not hear it. You will know the moment when it happens. But you must prepare. You must open your hearts to her. You must listen to her. I must know that you will hear her when she comes to you. Promise me that."
His words burn the ears of the men gathered. My heart and my kidneys are alive with trembling. I do not understand this teaching and feel too humbled by it. Peter and John stand by a tree. They listen but do not speak. The teacher turns his gaze back to me.
"Why are you praying, Mary?"
It is more insistent now. I had waited, hoping my silence would be allowed. But just now, as he speaks, the trees that are near to me, begin to fall into a wind-filled odyssey of stirring and breathing and rustling their branches. I think of our arrival here in the city, of the palms, the hosannas and the hissing. I speak, saying my mind, despite myself and my place.
"My Lord, I have been dreaming of water. I have been dreaming that water has come upon the earth and nearly drowned us all as in the time of Noah. And I am frightened. So I am praying."
Thomas shakes his head and scorns me in embarrassment. I see this same disdain on the face of many others. I lower my head in shame.
My Lord is very silent. I have closed my eyes and behind my lids I see his face, that he is weeping. I open my eyes. A woman near to him is wiping his face, for he is indeed crying. We have never seen him cry and now twice in several days, this anguished weeping. First, for Lazarus, now for me? For us? We cannot tell.
"They will not hear you," he says.
He says it with such deep lament and speaking to himself. "You will speak the truth and they will not listen." He takes the face of a woman near to him and cradles it. "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."
"I will have to come many times, before they believe you. It should not be so."

There is a sound then, from the town. A shofar. The horn blasts its mournful calling.
"Mary, I am that water that covers the earth."
I do not understand this saying, and sit in amazed silence. I feel as I do when he stares at me some other times, with the eyes of a man and not a teacher. I feel loved as I never have been, as if the heavens themselves have reached down to embrace me.
"What would you have us do." He is speaking to me again. His love for me, gives me my voice. I do not hesitate.
"My Lord, I am told that the water is stirring at Bethsaida. We should go there. We have not bathed properly. But not only this. There are many to teach there. Many who are ill and in need of cures."
He seems overjoyed with these words.
"Yes. We shall go and teach the living water at Bethsaida. It is the right time."

One of the animals tethered nearby is restless. A servant goes to tend to it. There is a skirmish for a moment, as it is meant for sacrifice and must be handled properly. Some among us are concerned. Others do not care at all.

"You love her too much."
It is Judas who says it.
He is sitting closest to the teacher.
My Lord answers by taking a stick and drawing a letter in the ashes of the fire.
"My friend," he says to Judas. "What is the word that I have written in the ash?" For none of us can read it but Judas himself. The disciple falls silent, to the point of gravity.
"Look at me."
Judas raises his head.
"When we go to the temple, you will make friends there. They will offer you something." And here he pauses. It seems as if his face is crumbling again, right before us. He does not weep for himself. Rather, he seems to weep for Judas.
"Take what they give you," he whispers.
I do not understand this saying and the others are just as bewildered. Judas is the steward of our purse so there is nothing unusual in the instruction, but my Lord is heavy with emotion. And Judas, staring at the ashes, can not speak.
My Lord kisses his face most tenderly.
"Remember that I love you," he says.

Crackling of the night fires and torches crucifies our silence.
"Tomorrow we will indeed go to Bethsaida," the teacher says, and his voice is an oasis of gentleness in the midst of fire sound. He says this, then rises to go and pray. None of us go with him, for we feel chastened by him and are too moved. Eventually, John walks away from our group and goes to join him.
I stare back into the valley, into the vale of darkness, and shiver behind the veil of my garments. In the distance, a sheep's bell rings and is lost, into the mournful cry of the shofar, into a God-seeking wind.

palm sunday

2009-04-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

Here are some daily reflections on Holy Week, offered through the imaginative experience of Mary Magdalene.

The noise. Voices and wind, clamorous and calling. We have been walking for more than five miles and just now reaching the edge of the city, drawing near the gates. The old men stand up, some turning their backs to us, others moving to let us through, their tired faces like the crooked path that brought us here, filled with marks and the heavy weight of knowledge. They are good men - I see one I know - he is my uncle's father. I wave to him; he nods his head, then looks quickly away. I search the faces of the people near me. Rhapsodic and suspicious, anxious and happy, they see only the teacher.

We are stopped now. The crowd presses us together. Peter comes between me and a woman who is trying to touch the teacher. My Lord takes the woman's hand for a moment, holds it, lets her go. We move forward a little. Three of the gatekeepers are pushing on the doors. Two more keep their backs to us. A gentile spits at these two, curses them. I call out "no!" in anguish. No one hears me.

The gates grind as they open. The crowd floods them, pushing them back, spilling into the city beyond. We follow slowly, separating into a narrow line to get through, each of us touching the gatepost scroll and bringing our fingers to our lips. Even my Lord does it. But the gentiles do not. The gatekeepers watch and I am shamed. It is terrible, and it is the new way. I look at John, then at Andrew who is near to him. We all seem to have the same thoughts. Peter has impatiently gone into the crowd and tried to teach them but it is too fast, we are already inside.

In the city, there are people lined up on the walls, on walkways, hanging from windows. Their faces frighten me. I cannot easily tell who are our friends and who are our foes. The people on the road lay leaves of palms down before us, but some of them spit on these first. They call out 'hosanna', but some of them say 'heretic'. Some Samaritans who are trying to join us are pushed to the ground by some men. "Unclean! Unclean!" shouts a woman at those who pushed them. A Roman soldier is at a distance, his horse baying at the restraint. I cannot see my Lord's face. I am behind him and near to the horse's thigh. Philip is to my right, shielding me from the crowd. The sun is hot. A man lunges forward, tries to touch the teacher. Philip and Bartholomew stop him. Some women among us fall in behind me, for my protection. I am so grateful to them. I think of Miriam and her timbrel. I think of when our people returned from Babylon. All this 'hosanna', 'save us, send rain', what hosanna really means. This crowd is sending us water. Sending us rain. And also parting the way for us like the sea of reeds.

I think of just this morning, when my Lord and myself and some of the others bathed in a river and I watched my Lord drink. I think of how silent it was, how still, except for the dripping water. And now this crashing din. We are always leaving and coming. Leaving and coming. And there is always this silence, then noise. Quiet and stillness, then raging sounds, like a crushing torrent.

We have miles to go before the Temple. I do not know the plan, whether we will stop. Where will we lodge? When do we eat? Will we go there straightaway? We too, must pick out our passover lamb, and who will inspect it for us? It must be done by sundown. I lift my head to find the eyes of the others. They are all absorbed, each looking to himself and the journey. Only I seem to look at us all, search our faces. But I cannot see my Lord's face.

A man pushes forward, offers us a skin of water and figs. I take it gratefully, smile at him. It is surely prayer answered, in the very moment it occurred. The man is now gone. I take a sip, then hand the skin to Thomas, who gives it to James who passes it to my Lord.

I start to feel dizzy from the noise, the heat. I reach out to steady myself on the horse's thigh, and find my hand on my Lord's foot. The foot which has been anointed and kissed by my friend Mary, by myself. I am so grateful for it. I take hold of the ankle, slip my hand around it. The skin is swollen and caked with dust and gravel. Underneath there are callouses I can feel with my fingers. I look down to keep my balance. My Lord's foot is in the edge of my view, and below it, the horses feet trodding the hard clay road, and my own feet, shaded and then bared, shaded and then bared, by the flow of my garments as I walk along.

I begin to feel blessed. A holiness rests within me. I hold on to my Lord's foot and lift my face. Happily, I walk, happy with love, love for the teacher, love for our friends, love for those who love God. People stare at me, and I smile back at them. I am stronger now.

I feel a breeze on my cheek and look up. My Lord is looking at me now, the skin of his hand on my cheek. I can see his face now. All is well now.