Month: March 2024

The Roller Coaster Week

Posted on by a43dcb5_wp

Every Holy Week we’re invited to follow along as the days and events unfold. If we really enter into it, live each moment along with the characters portrayed in the Gospels, our emotions are taken for an unpredictable ride with wild swings and tumbles. The action builds to an unsettling climax. Let’s look into this annual, yet somehow eternal, pattern and flow.

Palm Sunday, with it’s foreshadowing of Good Friday, starts our seven-day journey. We, as part of the crowd gathered to purify ourselves to celebrate Passover, welcome and celebrate Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem, waving palm branches and shouting Hosannas. Here is the conquering king promised by God. Our liberation is finally at hand. How can we not be filled with hope and joy? But there’s something just a bit off. Jesus enters on a donkey, not astride a warhorse. We don’t care, after all our waiting he’s here.

Monday, the religious authorities and the Roman spy network are buzzing, following Jesus’ every movement. Pontius Pilate, the Roman Procurator, is not a kindly man. He was commissioned by Caesar as responsible for imposing Roman rule on the province of Judea with its unruly population. He despises the Jewish people, no doubt considers them an inferior race, and takes every opportunity to harshly grind them under his heel. He needs to keep Caesar happy in order to get out of this fetid Bywater to be sent to a more prestigious post, hopefully closer to civilization. He, of course, was first to be informed. Jesus goes to the Temple area to continue his mission of teaching to the myriads of pilgrims gathered there. We go there to see what he will do.

Tuesday, the atmosphere in the overcrowded city is electric. There are five times the normal population constantly in one another’s space. Jesus doesn’t seem to be making his move to overthrow the hated, oppressive Roman domination. What’s going on? There is usually a larger visible presence of Roman soldiers during these big festivals, but this year we see significantly more. These foreign mercenaries are everywhere and seem on edge, ready to act with speed and brute force. We go to the Temple area in case that’s where the takeover will start, but we keep near to the edges so that we can escape quickly – if necessary. The religious authorities continue to confront Jesus to try to discover his plans. Maybe there’s a weak link in his closest followers – those that are always with him – that they can manipulate to get at their so-called rabbi. 

Wednesday, we begin to feel twinges of disappointment. Nothing’s happening! Is this teacher and healer from Galilee just that? His words seem so powerful – like a prophet sent by God, but is he the One? Under the cover of the bustle, Judas Iscariot, one of Jesus’ inner Twelve, sneaks off to the chief priests and the officers of the Temple guard and asks, “What will you give me if I hand that man you want so badly over to you?” They offer thirty pieces of silver, a tiny sum for someone they have been trying to get hold of. Judas takes the money and disappears in the crowd to surface again close to Jesus. He’s looking for the right time and place to fulfill his end of the bloody bargain. The two-pronged threat to Jesus’ life is much greater now.

It’s Thursday, the eve of Passover, remembering our time of bitter slavery among the Egyptians. It’s a time to reflect on our past and to thank God for the gift of our present, though compromised, freedom. Tonight we gather as families to relive that time – the plagues, the Angel of Death, the blood, the lamb, bitter herbs and unleavened bread, dressed and ready to flee. We will drink the cups of wine as we retell our story. Jesus is unimportant now. He’s a fraud; one more wannabe. We need to get on with our lives as they are. Maybe next year?

Jesus and those with him also gather for the time-honored rituals. The Twelve are in high spirits. What they’ve been waiting for, hoping for, is at hand. They can feel it. It’s the beginning of Passover. Jesus, who is often the life of the party, by contrast, seems subdued. Is he sad? How can that be?  As the meal is served and they begin to eat and drink, Jesus suddenly comes out with, “One of you, one of those I’ve chosen, one of you who have been privy to my inmost thoughts and desires, one sharing this sacred meal with me now, is about to hand me over to those who want to get rid of me.” Shocked silence, then a chorus of denials -“Surely it’s not I, Master!” Jesus goes on, “And the rest of you will all run away and desert me.” Immediately they assure Jesus that they’re with him no matter what. Peter, the impetuous, even goes so far as to blurt out, “If everyone else leaves you, I won’t. I’m ready to die for you.” Jesus answers, “Will you die for me? Really? Tonight before dawn you will deny me three times.” Peter shouts, “Never will I deny you! Not me!” Jesus smiles and sadly shakes his head.

Jesus modifies the time-honored rite when he takes a piece of the bread, holds it up, and says, “This is my body given over for you.” Then he takes a cup of wine and, instead of the usual formula says, “This is the cup of my blood to be poured out for you and for many. All of you take, eat, drink, and remember me this way.” After the meal they go out of the city, cross the Kidron Valley, and climb up to one of Jesus’ preferred places to pray when in Jerusalem, locally known as the Mount of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane.

Around midnight, the other disciples dozing from all the food and wine, Judas comes leading an armed band of guards and they seize Jesus. The groggy disciples act like they’re going to resist, but see they are badly outnumbered. One swings wildly with a sword and happens to cut off the ear of one of the captors. Jesus tells them that he doesn’t want any bloodshed. Violence only begets more violence. The Twelve run for their lives. The guards lead Jesus to the house of Caiaphas, the High Priest. 

Peter follows at a safe distance and furtively enters the courtyard of the High Priest. It’s a cold night, so he inches his way towards a fire to keep warm. Sure enough, three different people see Peter and identify him as one of Jesus’ band. His very accent gives him away. He denies it, each time with more vehemence. Jesus’ words come back to him and he realizes what he has just done, breaks down and weeps, and again runs away.

Caiaphas interrogates Jesus about his teaching and other activities. Jesus remains silent. When pressed, Jesus responds, “I have taught and acted openly, even in the Temple area, you can ask anyone what they heard me say or saw me do.” One of the armed guards violently slaps Jesus across the face for what the guard considers as insolence to the High Priest. Jesus calmly looks at the guard and says, “If what I have said is true, why do you strike me?” Caiaphas believes that he has plenty of evidence of Jesus’ guilt to condemn him, so, in the morning, he gathers the whole Council and the majority certainly agrees with their chief. Jesus is guilty and must die. One problem. They don’t have permission from Rome to impose capital punishment. They need to get Pilate to see that Jesus is a threat to the Empire.

They drag Jesus, still bound, off to the fortress of the Romans to urgently demand that Pilate hear their case.  The religious leaders attract a huge crowd of us along the way. When we all arrive at Pilate’s headquarters, the religious authorities remain outside of the pagan grounds, so that they won’t defile themselves and not be able to continue to celebrate the Great Feast. Pilate comes out to them, not surprised that they are there with this Galilean. His network of informants is quite large and efficient. He hears their plea, but is not convinced. If this man has broken their own law, they may go ahead and punish him themselves. They scream out that this rebel has been gathering throngs of followers and claims to be a king – a rival to Caesar. Pilate tries to question Jesus, but Jesus remains silent. Pilate tries to release for them either this Jesus, or a well-known rioter known as Barabbas. The High Priest and his Council incite us to shout for Barabbas. We, who just a few days ago welcomed Jesus into the city with shouts of Hosanna, now repeatedly cry out at the top of our lungs, “Crucify him!” We become so loud and angry that Pilate fears a riot. That would not look good to Caesar. He takes Jesus into custody and instructs his own troops to prepare this pretender for crucifixion.

The Roman guards have no pity for these “Jews.” They are bored because they have been on high alert, yet there’s been no real action in the city these past days. Now they have the “King of the Jews” to do with as they please. They had been playing a game when the “boss” called them to take charge of this criminal, and the loser was to suffer whatever the others decide. The loser quickly indicates that this Jesus would be a good target for their sport. They decide that a king deserves to be dressed and crowned as a king. The soldiers strip Jesus, put a purple cloak on their new “loser,” and weave a crown for him out of thorn branches. They mock, spit upon, and kneel before his majesty. When they get tired of their sport they replace the cloak with the man’s own clothing. Then they deliver the standard punishment for a serious felon – forty lashes using various types of whips, guaranteed to rip and tear the flesh. Many die from this flogging, but that’s not their problem.

They gather the death squad, drop a heavy wooden crossbeam on their pisoner’s shoulders, and drag him off out of the city and up a hill to the execution site. Some of us are sympathetic when we see how Jesus has been treated. Others, feeling disillusioned by this fake, ridicule him. Jesus does not respond, but slowly, silently plods on. They all arrive on top of the Place of the Skull – a bald height in plain site of the city, where several stout, notched posts, not too tall, were already planted firmly in the ground waiting to secure the crossbeams of those Rome wanted to exhibit as graphic warning against defiance of any kind. They strip Jesus naked, throw him on top of the crossbeam lying on the ground, and nail his wrists firmly so that there is no way he can pull free before dying. Then, using ropes, the haul Jesus up the post, drop the beam into a groove and let his body violently fall into place, pulling against the nails. His feet are then also nailed to a wooden block fixed just far enough down the post to cause the most discomfort and pain. Two others, previously crucified, are still alive and trying to guess what this other miscreant has done and why there is such a vehement crowd with him.

We, as is the case with most humans, are eager to see any spectacle that comes along, even if bloody and tragic. We gather just outside the perimeter the Romans have established to watch and jeer, as the victim slowly becomes exhausted and, unable to lift himself anymore to draw breath, collapses and suffocates to death. A few women who had come with Jesus from Galilee are standing as close as they were allowed. Being women, they were not seen as a threat. They are there helplessly watching, crying, being with their Master until the end. They have no illusions that he is going to miraculously free himself from the cross, and from death.

After several hours, the sky darkens, a strong wind comes up, driving sand and other loose debris on the hill into the eyes of all of us. Jesus having undergone the vicious beating, unable to push himself up any longer, cries out in a loud voice, and dies. The women wail. The soldier who led the death-squad have seen many such executions. This man was different. Instead of screaming and cursing, he silently bore this torture. He had not spewed hatred for those responsible for his agony, nor for the bitter taunts and spitting of the bystanders. The centurion exclaims. “Surely, this man was a son of God.”

Joseph of Arimathea, one of the Council, who had not supported, nor agreed with, their condemnation of Jesus, goes to Pilate and requests the body. Pilate confers with those overseeing Jesus’ execution who confirm that, yes, he was indeed dead. Pilate releases the body. Joseph takes Jesus’ body and lays it in a nearby tomb hewn out of the rock and closes it by rolling a large stone across the opening. He is in a hurry, because it is late and holy Sabbath is about to begin.

The Twelve are holed up, scared to death that the authorities will be coming for them next. Maybe they can slink out of the city undetected when large groups of pilgrims leave after the Passover celebration. They are ashamed of their cowardice. They are lost. They’ve given up everything to follow their supposed Messiah. He’s dead. It’s over. But something inside wishes it wasn’t. They can’t pretend that Jesus didn’t happen – that his work and message was in vain. But they can’t carry it on without him. They are alone. And the silence and emptiness is overwhelming. What now?

True Beggars vs. Actual Beggars – Aren’t We All?

Posted on by a43dcb5_wp

True beggars, actual beggars? Is there, technically speaking, a difference? What is this about? On the street corners, and along the roadsides of too many countries there are people, human beings, standing or sitting, reaching out their hands for something. In our own highly developed country they can be waving hand-written signs at those stopped or passing by. Anything $ Helps.

Isn’t a beggar, a beggar, a beggar? From my experience, it seems there can be a distinction made. But then, my background in philosophy tends to want to clarify things by delineating differences.

Thousands of desperate migrants have been swept up and bused into our city from the southern border. Most are fleeing economic collapse, or systemic violence. They have left all: home, relatives, the culture that identifies them, in hopes of making a better, safer life in our country, which they still see as a land of promise. Sadly, the sheer numbers, and presence everywhere, is hardening people’s hearts here, stealing our usual compassion and generosity. We need to hear these displaced people’s stories. But we need to want to learn names and listen to tales of desperation and hope.

These ragged fugitives, who have never known freezing temperatures or wind-driven snow, for me, are a stark contrast to the marijuana immigrants, with their windproof and waterproof tents and down sleeping bags looking for enough cash to express their freedom though hybrid smokes or candies. Obviously, temporary highs don’t deal with these people’s inner pain. Tomorrow they will be at the same intersection asking for more assistance to try to ease  untouchable hurt.

These latter are not bad people, they just have no clue as to what human life is meant to be about. Both populations beg. One group is unimaginably, desperately needy. The other doesn’t seem to recognize it’s own deeper needs. One group doesn’t know what it has. The other knows what is essential.

The migrants are looking for work so that they can feed, clothe and educate their families, and just live without constant deprivation and/or terror. Some have taken to offering to wash car windshields while traffic is stopped at a light. We who are comfortable see them as a problem. They all challenge our well-established sensibilities and lifestyle. But could there be another layer or level to our discomfort?

In some sense we are all beggars. No one, not one of us, can do well without the help and support of others – as much as we in the US of A hate to admit this. Our very being comes as a loan. We owe. Big time! If we are able to stand at all, we stand on the help and achievements of those who’ve preceded us. It may be that the people, whatever their story, on our street corners and roadsides, with their in-our-face poverty, mirror to us our own neediness. If we haven’t yet accepted our interdependence this reflected image of our own limitations can be frightening and painful. We haven’t learned that no one can “do it themself.”

Several years ago, while living in a L’Arche community in Erie, PA, I was introduced to a style of praying using a beggar’s bowl. In India, and other countries, those who are poor often have a bowl to reach out for alms, and a sack to hold what is given in the course of a day’s begging. Every Lent we have placed a small, slightly battered, old wooden bowl in our prayer corner. As so often happens, I don’t have words to capture all that is moving inside, especially when I reflect on the pain and brokenness of our beautiful world and all it’s suffering people. This can be overwhelming. So, I pick up the bowl and silently hold it in my lap, occasionally lifting it and reaching its emptiness, the emptiness of my own powerlessness, out to God. And we cry together. This simple exercise helps to keep my heart open to be moved by compassion – the compassion of God.