Part 3 -The Cloth

EASTER

A night ago, two nights in fact

I fell asleep in the shadow of the cross

Dazed and confused

I woke in the wee hours of this morning

As soft young hands were folding me

Laying me gently down on a hewn shelf

The air was misty, surreal.

It was a tomb.

Confounded I went with the One to the tomb?

Three sunrises ago?

Serving once again,

Without knowing -Touching, smelling, seeing- the One

I was there at the end, in death -a shroud.

The end.

Ordinarily I would say so

Yet, I woke up to no ordinary end.

I woke up.

Dead - now alive –What kind of a miracle is this?

Particles in the air twinkled

A light peeked in the tomb from outside

And the One rose as if from sleep,

 In each movement, in the rising

The One grew warmer and brighter. 

The tomb was filled with a warm presence,

Penetrating every fold and fibre

Inundated with such power, energy, life

As the light grew so bright,

It was more than I could take, I turned away

 and the One – vanished in the light.

Again alone with no sense of being alone.

Alone in the tomb

Pulsating Hope

Breathing a fullness of life

Drunk in the awe of a miracle

I stayed in the tomb.

That’s where they found me

The women

Bearing spices and whispering to themselves

The young man spoke –I had forgotten his presence

Him too basking in miracle

He told the women not to be alarmed;

Go tell Peter -

And with that the air within the tomb changed,

The warmth left

The light receded,

Beckoning us to follow

-there was nothing left in the tomb.

The One, no longer there to be encountered,

I was scooped up and with the women scurried away

Taken, to show the disciples.

We fled.

The women in terror

I in amazement

Not that you notice in your Bible

Lost in translation,

 Mark ends the story, “They were afraid for ...”

Dot. Dot. Dot.

I was there in the dot, dot, dot

In a room in Galilee

With the followers

Those who had encountered the One

Mourning, sharing memories, being a community.

Life regulated to ordinary tasks

drying dishes, washing babies, binding wounds, cleaning chaos, wrapping bread, carrying bundles;

yes, ordinary tasks repeated a hundred times in a lifetime...

but there is nothing ordinary about the every day.

We had learned this on the way to the cross

Ordinary is bound with miracle

With the possibility of encountering the One.

The stories, the dot, dot, dots ...

Trickled in.

I was there in the ordinary moments of life

Later on Easter morning, the handkerchief in the gardener’s pocket

The blanket on the beach when the One shared fish over a fire

The folds of cloth stretched out with the words “Peace be with You”

The cloak sharing whispers on the road to Emmaus

Years later, lining the saddle of the donkey going to Damascus

The bed sheets as the scales fell from Paul’s eyes

I was there a million times, for a million miracles

A million encounters with the One

In the ordinary.

The bonnet taken off as a child was baptized

In the apron of a mother’s lap when the story was told

On the table in the breaking of the bread

Coverings sheltering the homeless

Clothing on the naked

Towels drying washed feet

Wherever the words were remembered

“I give you a new commandment, love one another”

It is here in the simplicity of three words,

Love one another

Where the miracle is birthed, incarnate, wrapped in swaddling cloth

Given as gift

It’s an encounter of the One; it is the One

Resurrected!

I am but a simple cloth that was there

That wishes to be there, here

-with God, in God, through God-

Serving as a cloth

Giving my all, my everything

To bring resurrection in each movement,

 in the rising

The One growing warmer and brighter. 

The tomb that is this world filled with a warm presence,

Penetrating every fold and fibre

Inundated with such power, energy, life

As the light grows so bright,

The world

Pulsates Hope

Breathes a fullness of life

Is drunk in the awe of a miracle

I am there in the ordinary tasks of life

Serving you in the every day –serving others through you

The One is encountered

Touched, seen, smelled, heard

Resurrected!

I am but a simple cloth holding a miracle

 in the ordinary just around the corner

expect me, expect the One

Love. Resurrected!

Part 2 - The Cloth

GOOD FRIDAY

It was the wee hours of this morning when I was discarded in the garden

Fallen away as a Jesus’ follower ran away

to get away

from the hoard, the angry mob, the violence;

anger and hate –for one who could change everything

their fortunes, their position, their status quo

and so they bound and took the One. –Jesus was gone

I alone was left to pray in the garden.

It was the wee hours of this morning when women came through the garden

Starting their day, on the way to the market

Woven baskets over their arms

On the way to trade their wares

To gather produce, herbs, and spices for their family meals

As one women swished past,

I was swept off the ground, folded; reverently placed in a basket beside some eggs

To be traded, kept, used

It was later, after the sun had risen and the street was full of people

That the day changed from ordinary to a sad kind of miracle

All along the street people in a mass crowd

were encountering the One,

touching, smelling, seeing

But not how the One was expected –

The One was suffering, thirsting, crying

Weak in the knees -human beyond human

Humiliated under the weight of a cross.

The matron who had swept me from the garden

Folded me, reverently placed me in her basket

Stopped –

She stopped in the street

As if no crowd was present

She stopped

at the sound of the One crying;

Turning she looked at the One eye to eye

And she reached for me

Gently taking the folds of cloth in her soft hands

She walked to the One

And holding his cheeks in her hands wiped away the tears

The sweat –and for an instant, the pain.

The narrative of the Stations of the Cross says that the matron’s name was Veronica.

She choose to be present with Jesus along the way to cross,

offering him a cloth to wipe his face,

legend says that an imprint of Jesus’ face was left on the cloth

I was there that morning

Through the hands of compassion I encountered the One

Wiped and gathered his tears, took for an instant some of the pain.

Looking at the cloth of my existence

I was the same cloth, no material face

Yet I was changed –I had intimately encountered the One

My fabric was transformed in a miracle!

Perhaps I glowed different, was whiter than snow

But from that moment every other place I end up

With me, is the presence of the One

His suffering, his pain, his tears

Tears that have a miraculous power –to love

Especially love for the unlovable.

And that’s why today is different

The One is encountered as we once again let the Word of the Passion penetrate-

Walking the way to the cross

We as the matron in Jerusalem are invited

 to practice Presence –in suffering; in pain; in tears

To be present for God, in God, as God dies

Wiping God tears

We wipe our own

With compassion we seek out and wipe the tears of others

Others who suffer, are in pain, those crying –

It is here that the miraculous arises

and the presence of the One is all around

         and the world

Encounters God who dared to love –humanity

That is a miracle in itself.

As we come to the end of the walk, 

As we lay ourselves at the foot of the cross

It is here that we find

The vera icon –the true picture

The cross

Ultimate, intimate love.

It is here in our own suffering, pain, and tears

That we are exhausted by guilt, shame, humility

It is all laid down

Poured out

And as the last words are heard

 

-it is finished- As the last breath is exhaled  - Inside us dies too  A love so intimate, a love so extravagant And me so undeserving I will curl up and rest here, at the bottom of the cross To soak in the remaining Presence Of the One Despised, forsaken, a miracle in disguise In this moment I am my all and yet nothing, In the shadow of the cross

Part 1 -The Cloth

MAUNDY THURS.

“The Cloth”

I was there in the ordinary moments of life:

drying dishes, washing babies, binding wounds, cleaning chaos, wrapping bread, carrying bundles;

yes, ordinary tasks repeated a hundred times in a lifetime...

but there is nothing ordinary about the every day.

It was a long time ago now

when I was changed to believe that everything, everyone, every moment is sacred.

It was an ordinary day in an ordinary time of history,

one day ran into the next, and the next –

but, the tasks of those days turned out not to be ordinary after all

in the way you think of ordinary;

as a place where nothing is expected –no surprise, no drama, no nothing.

Yet, it was in the supposed ordinary where I encountered the One.

It started as a warm feeling.

The realization that there was a presence that couldn’t be touched,

couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be smelled

until, that is, the presence grew and was birthed as a baby.

And then the One was encountered-

touched, seen, smelled, heard

And my tasks changed such that they were done with a love I can’t explain.

I was there in the ordinary moments of life:

Tasks I had done before but now in them I saw the One, touched the One, smelled the One

In every movement

I expected surprise, warmth –a million miracles.

It is true I was there:

The swaddling cloth wrapping incarnation in a stable

The bands that fell off lepers healed,

The strips of cloth holding fast Lazarus as he rose from a tomb

The cloth containing a little boy’s lunch; fish and loaves multiplied to feed thousands

The extra cover at night as Nicodemus approached the One

I was there keeping off fog on a sleeping Messiah as the fishermen faced a growing storm

The cloaks placed on the royal pathway mixed with palms,

prostrated in prayer as the One entered Jerusalem.

A woman unwrapped from within the folds of my cloth an alabaster jar of ointment,

 Jesus feet washed with her tears, anointed with oil, wiped with hair, with a towel

She saw what I saw.

She felt the One –encountered the One

She was touched by the miracle found in ordinary,

and did the extraordinary,

out of intimate love anointed him the Messiah, the One.

I was there in the ordinary moments of life,

  the One wrapped me into the holy story, drew me into relationship

by simply being present in my serving such that it is;

it was this night –a night of all nights

that I was encountered by the One:

as a cloth on the table when sacred bread was broken, taken, shared;

around Jesus waist and wiping the feet of reluctant disciples;

a prayer shawl on the shoulders that went out to the garden to pray.

It was an ordinary night

But one like no other.

I could feel it,

The deep saturated words of the One hanging in the air –

Touching tension, smelling fear, breathing love

A miracle so big that words were heavy

So actions took over.

The One with grace and decorum fed the disciples in a new way

The One washed their feet: a host, serving

The One prayed and prayed and prayed.

Words not enough to contain forgiveness, love, communion.

How else could this not so ordinary miracle come to an end?

It seems as but a dream, a vision of the ultimate plan.

And yes, for the miracle in the ordinary to continue it came to an end

In the garden

I was there to see the miracle walk away

Men came to take the One and he just went away

No fight, no flight; just a look that said

I’ll see you in the ordinary, keep watch and pray.

I was there in the garden,

a robe that falls away in the commotion and remains left behind

–discarded –

left with “the look” from the one.

I stayed and prayed;

 waiting for a million miracles

-discarded-

foreboding of the night and day that was yet to come.

On the Book of Romans

"Paul's piling up of loanguage in superfluous repetition is an instinctive or deliberate attemp to mirror the super abundant quality of grace given and received."   -James Dunn, WB Commentary on Romans, pg281

grace through culture and art

http://www.ted.com/talks/sheikha_al_mayassa_globalizing_the_local_localizing_the_global.html

Love the Lord Your God with All Your Soul -Mid-week Lent Reflection

 Cicero, a Roman philosopher, statesmen and orator –living in 100BC, once said:  “A room without books is like a body without a soul.”

 And I would say that the opposite is true:  not only a body but, a soul without depth is like a room without books.  

Many argue about the soul and what it is, where it is; is it the same as Spirit?  My understanding is that soul is the piece inside that holds one’s unique essence.  It is ethic, faith, hope, charisma; life.  It is the part of an individual that connects them to the whole.  It is the part of humans that often is forgotten, not fed or taken care of.

Tonight we focus on the phrase: love the Lord your God with all your soul.

“Anthony de Mello tells a tale of an ancient island a mile or two offshore that had a great temple with thousands of bells.  Whenever the wind blew, the bells, in unison, would peel out in awesome clarity and grace.  Over the centuries the island sank deep in to the ocean, yet a legend arose that if someone listened carefully the temple bells could still be heard in all their beauty. 

One young man sought the mystical experience of the fabled bells and spent weeks and weeks trying with all his attention to hear them.  Yet all he heard was the wind in the palm trees and the endless sound of the surf. Frustrated, he gave up all his exercises to empty his ears and decided to go home.

 Before he departed, however, he decided to lie on the beach and enjoy the sand, the warmth of the sun and the sound of the endless waves.  In the depth of his relaxed silence, he unexpectedly heard a faint tinkling of a bell, then several bells a bit more loudly, until finally he could hear all thousands bells in all their splendor.  To his amazement, the young man was swept away in wonder and joy.  

 ( –as told by Edward Hays, “A Lenten Hobo Honeymoon” pg56)

This story is telling. Is it not when we stop trying so hard, when we finally take time to unplug, to relax...that then our souls have the opportunity to hear –to be mystical – to transport us from our bodies, full of books that say nothing; to a richness of a well crafted library, where books of significance, beauty, grace, knowledge have been collected for centuries –full of truths, full of hope, full of hidden promise.

These are the texts, the sounds, the silence that grow one’s soul. Tonight when commanded to love the Lord your God with all your soul – this requires lying on the beach, enjoying the sand, the warmth of the sun, the sound of the waves; in the depth so silence your soul will reconnect with the love of its existence –God, creator, redeemer, sanctified...

As one spends more time reconnecting, the soul grows bigger; it becomes easier and easier to walk each step of the day, as if on the beach. Each step becomes prayer; feeding your soul and in the process it seeks other souls to feed, to love.

For the healing of the world, relax in silence and be blessed with the tinkling of holy bells, holy words, holy experience.

"....This is a first world problem"

Twice during the day yesterday, this phrase was used in my hearing.  ..."but this is a first world problem".  It was said in the context of the gripes North Americans have and the complaints typically made. 
Ponder the things you complain about: weather, health, politics, finances, cost of living, jobs or lack thereof....really in comparison to the same issues in other parts of this world, the gripes are from a first world perspective.
I wonder if we heard and pondered more often, "...but this is a first world problem", would  we be more likely to live out of abundance, be content, generous, and thankful?
Next time you are standing in a group of people who are giving "an organ recital" (a litany of ones aches and pains) -perhaps direct people to ponder that many of our aches and pains are first world problems. 

Grace for me is found in the re-defining of perception; in an awakening of pondering what it is that matters.  I believe that re-defining perception and pondering what matters leads people to a fuller understanding of self, God, and one's relationship with other creatures.  Healing in the world can not occur without this kind of reflection.

A New Experience

Some people were born to be readers and some people were not. 
Reading has always been a pleasure -in a variety of forms- novels, non-fiction writing, essays, poems, blogs, and daily comics.  Today, a commentary can be added to the list.
Commentary reading (this one on the book of Romans) is not for everyone, although is highly recommended, particularly for those who preach or teach the Bible.  A whole new world of insight, logistics, and dots and tittles whelming to a climax of thought, was opened through the experience. 
Thank-you is extended to the professor who deemed this exercise necessary, for it would not have been embarked upon without prompting.  Every year it is intended that a commentary will be added to the reading list.
Grace comes from the most unexpected places.

Today's grace came to me from a devotional reading:
from: "My Personal Daily Prayer Book", Christine Dallman, Margaret Huffman
2009 Publications International, Ltd.

Administering the healing power of love to defeat the destructive power of hatred;
wielding the freedom of truth to do battle against the bondage of lies;
ambushing the fear of death with the hope of life.
As the fight of faith goes on all around us, may we find ourselves fighting for love, truth, and life.

Grace seems to take so long. We pray to not loss hope before grace comes in its fullest.

www2.elca.org/peacenotwalls/wall/forbidden.html

Conferences in February

Every February, Lutheran clergy in Atlantic Canda, get together for a conference.  For many of us it is the highlight -the grace- in the middle of a dull month. It allows us a few days to breathe between the end of Christmas and Annual Meetings, and the start of Lent and Easter.
 It is a time of supporting each other, telling and listenng to each other's stories, planning for the future, and a time to worship and pray together.
 I am grateful today for my colleagues who shared of themselves with me the past few days.
I was graced by them and the ministry of the Bishop and Assistant to the Bishop.  We were all graced by the presence of Anglican brothers and sisters.
 We were graced with conversation that allowed for honesty and a chance to dream big.
 The Bishop's sermon today quoted Henri Nouwen - that joy is like a cat - it is not something we can try to grab because it will run the other way, but sometimes it rubs against our legs and ends up in our laps -these moments are grace.  The conference was joy.