We've been on this road again over our life times. Always the same; always new. May this article posted in March of 2002 be helpful in your meditation for this week. Blessings on you and yours.

This Week Called Holy

— Originally posted here on March 20, 2002 

This Holy Week. This Upper Room. This sacred table - then and now -- a place of faithfulness and betrayal.

One Lord. One band of followers, united by presence, divided by ambition - not for worldly goods, but for spiritual power. Better than, holier than, wiser than, deserving top rank, the best seats in the Kingdom.

As he washes the feet of his disciples, Jesus turns petty warfare into divine peace, healing each heart, except that of Judas, who could not let go of the purse strings.

It was the Last Supper. It was the First Supper. He needn't have done it that way. One supper would have sufficed. From then to the end of time, Jesus could have directed that we make do with prayer remembrances, but he planned for something beyond remembrance; he planned for friendship, leaving us not a prayer service, but the Mass: "Do this in remembrance of me." (Luke:22:20)

We've learned our lesson too well, for with each closing of an Upper Room, we feel abandoned, angry, confused, betrayed. Of late, the holy veil of our Church's temple has been rent in two, top to bottom, exposing scandals too numerous and despicable to mention during this sacred time.

So naked, and poor, and vulnerable have we become that no amount of expensive cloth or holy rituals can cover our collective shame. Only a return to the lessons of this Holy Week will regain the trust of God's people and merit the grace of forgiveness.

With a hymn, the Paschal Supper closed, and Jesus led his followers across the Brook Kidron, up the valley, into the Garden of Olives. How often had he come there to pray. It was his favorite spot, as it has been for Christians ever since. He knelt, but prayer could not allay his fear. Drops of blood stained his garments.

Was any sorrow like his sorrow? Any fear? Any loneliness? His question seared the soul of Peter as it has done for many a Christian since: "So you had not the strength to stay awake with me for one hour? " (Matt: 26:41)

Then, flickering lights could be seen through the trees, as Judas came to betray the Master with a kiss, and betrayed himself in the bargain. Peter grabbed a sword and cut off the ear of the soldier about to place his hand on Jesus. The Lord would have no part with violence, and gently replaced the ear.

Into the safety of the night, the apostles fled, leaving the Lord alone to be taken to trial. Pilate washed his hands and ordered the scourging - blood for the blood-thirsty. But they were not satisfied.

Because Jesus had refused to play their game, the crowd shouted for his death. Had he placated the Scribes and Pharisees, or bowed to the power of Rome, he might have saved himself, but would have disobeyed the Father and scandalized the little people who trusted him to show them the way beyond the power of those who bless the darkness and curse the light.

With the crown of thorns on his head, and deep cuts on his shoulders and back, Jesus took up his cross and ours. He had walked through his entire life looking out for those on the edge of society - the poor, the sick, the confused. How fitting that at the end he put aside his suffering to console a thief, of whom the poet Sydney Carter might have said:

"No revolution will come in time
to alter this man's life
except the one surprise
of being loved."

And what of Mary and her grief? Only silence meets inquiry. The Russian poet, Aleksej Remizov, tried to capture her complete desolation:

"Who will comfort a mother who has lost her son?
Who will give her refuge?
Who will shelter her in the dark night of grief?
They say: "Go home."
Who will lead her to her home?
Who will stay with her in her sorrow?
Who will pay heed to the cries of her heart?"

The Star of Stars

Mary stood while the nails were pounded through the hands and feet of the Son of God. In keeping watch to the end, she cradled his body in death, as she had cradled him at birth.

She who spoke no recorded words during his passion, spoke none in the glory of the Resurrection. In the depths of sorrow and the height of joy, only silence.

Originally posted here on March 20, 2002 

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