GOOD FRIDAY

Poem for Today - Good Friday - April 18, 2014

THE KILLING

That was the day they killed the Son of God
On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem.
Zion was bare, her children from their maze
Sucked by the demon curiosity
Clean through the gates. The very halt and blind
Had somehow got themselves up the hill.

After the ceremonial preparation,
The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood,
Erection of the main-trees with their burden,
While from the hill rose an orchestral wailing,
They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day.
We watched the writhings, heard the moanings, saw
The three heads turning on their separate axles
Like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head
Was loosely bound a crown of plaited thorn
That hurt at random, stinging temple and brow
As the pain swung into its envious circle.
In front the wreath was gathered in a knot
That as he gazed looked like the last stump left
Of a dead-wounded deer's great antlers. Some
Who came to stare grew silent as they looked,
Indignant or sorry. But the hardened old
And the hard-hearted young, although at odds
From the first morning, cursed him with one curse,
Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed Messiah
And found the Son of God. What use to them
Was a God or a Son of God? Of what avail
For purposes such as theirs?  Beside the cross-foot
Alone, four women stood and did not move
All day. The sun revolved, the shadow wheeled,
The evening fell. His head lay on his breast,
But in his breast, they watched his heart move on
By itself alone, accomplishing its journey.
Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the                          knowledge
That he was walking in the park of death,
Far from their rage.  Yet all grew stale at last, 
Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself.
They waited only for death and death was slow
And came so quietly they scarce could mark it.
They were angry then with death and death's deceit.

I was a stranger, could not read these people
Or this outlandish deity. Did a God
Indeed in dying cross my life that day
By chance, he on his road and I on mine?

(c) Edwin Muir

THE MASS, THE  EUCHARIST: 

WHAT ARE YOUR  QUESTIONS? 

The title of my reflection for this Holy Thursday morning is, “The Mass, The Eucharist: What Are Your Questions?”

On Holy Thursday we look at, we consider, we ponder, the great mystery of the Mass, the Last Supper, the Passover. We think about when Jesus celebrated a Sacred Meal with his disciples on the night before he died. We’ll do that in this parish at the one Mass we celebrate this day: our Holy Thursday celebration – tonight at St. John Neumann Church at 7:30. 

We'll be celebrating the Passover and the Exodus which moves into the Christian Passover and the Christian Exodus.

Last night, I was wondering about what to preach on this morning. I’ve spoken at this 8 AM Holy Thursday Service – every year for the past 10 years or so.

Pause. Silence.

Finally, a question hit me. I’ve been going to Mass and communion for some 67 years now. After all those Masses and communions, I have to have some questions about the Mass. What are they? If I had to come up with one question, what would it be?

The key questions that hit me were: When and why did Jesus come up with this idea of using bread and wine – and saying, “This is my Body…. This is my Blood…. Take and Eat….. Take and drink…. and Do this in memory of me”?

Why bread, why wine, why these words? Why these actions? Why this ceremony, ritual, sacred meal?

Why? Why? Why?

For starters, I realized I really don’t know when he came up with this idea.

For starters, I realized I can come up with some reflections to the why?

First the when…. Did the idea hit him during some Passover meal celebration with Mary and Joseph while growing up in Nazareth?

The Passover Meal was celebrated every year at this time to remember and to recall that this was a way of thanking God for making us a people – for calling us out of slavery – so a nobody can become a somebody - redeeming us from the Pharaoh – as Moses lead us through the waters of the Reed Sea – into the desert – and to head for the Promised Land. In a rush, with blood on their doorposts - at that meal, we Jews took bread, took wine, and ate the Pascal Lamb – to recall that moment of freedom from long ago – but this time eating more slowly.

I’m sure Jesus asked at that meal what every youngest son asked at that meal, “Why is this night different from every other night?” And Joseph told his son about Moses – with all the words in the scriptures about this very night.

When did Jesus come up with this idea of the Mass? The Eucharist? The Lord’s Supper? We know from our readings tonight – and during this Holy Week -  that the Passover meal surely had something to do with it.

Or did the thought hit him in everyday daydreaming – from everyday scenes? Seeing farmers planting wheat seeds…?  Seeing vineyard workers picking grapes …? Seeing a father breaking bread and breaking off a piece of that and handing it to his child…? Seeing a mom giving her child a sip of her wine…?

Or did he cry when he saw people hungry and starving for daily bread? Did he cry when he saw religious worship and rituals being done by rote and simply being lip service?

Those might be the when’s – indefinite when’s at that.

The why is more significant. The why is more my question more than any question. Why did Jesus choose bread and wine? Why did he choose the Passover Meal? Why did Jesus tell us to do this in memory of me? Why did Christians following Jesus celebrate this meal, this Mass, over and over and over again?

Was it because Jesus saw people who were  physically hungry – for bread, for wine, for anything?

Was it because Jesus saw people who were spiritually hungry?

We know both. We’ve experienced both.

Was it because bread, wine, to become bread and wine, that they have to go through a long process of dying – wheat being crushed to become flour – grapes being crushed to become wine. And then the long wait – life is a lot of waiting. And Jesus knew he was about to crushed – broken – killed.

Was it because a loaf of bread – is one loaf – but when broken – can become many pieces – can enter many stomachs – uniting a whole community of people – different people – but becoming one by means of a meal? So too wine. So too the Pascal lamb.

And we’ve experienced many meals – Thanksgiving, Sunday dinners, anniversary meals, a great dinner out with friends – a cookout – when laughter and joy was the sound all around.

Was it because a table and an altar – where a sacred meal takes place – where a meeting can take place – where a family meal or meeting can take place – can give us a sense of being centered – connected. It’s nice to have a place at the table. Some people feel they don’t. Some times some people like the idea of upstairs – downstairs – and they want to in the up and put down others.

Was it because a meal is a great time to share words and food, bread and wine and food?

Was it because a meal is a good time to share not just bread and wine, but words – words about our life together and life apart. The family that eats together stays together. The family that does not talk with each other – and is unaware that they don’t eat together – will not stay together.

The family that does not make sacrifices for each other won’t stay together.

The family that does not pray together won’t stay together.

The family that does not see their common story – common heritage – common connection – are not in communion with each other.

The family, the people, who are not really present to each other, while they eat and afterwards – are not getting what Jesus was about: being really present – not just in tabernacles, not just in bread and wine, but in the Body of Christ, member with member as Paul was to tell us – and each part of this body – is important. We all need each other: those who are handy, those with a lot of heart, those who see what is needed, those who have an ear for what is happening, and those who do the footwork.

Was it because a meal is all about service – serving and being served – and we all need to get that – from the shopping and arranging the meal – going to the next village to prepare for everything – to the washing of feet – to the seating each other – to the breaking of the bread – sharing the cup – listening to each other – and never betraying each other.

Why? Why? Why?

When? When? When?

Today – this Holy Thursday – we ponder these questions once again.

The title of my reflection is: “The Mass, The Eucharist: What Are Your Questions?”

What are your questions?

ENCIRCLED BY JESUS

Poem for April 17, 2014 - Holy Thursday

JESUS THE ENCOMPASSER

Jesu!  Only-begotten Son and Lamb
          of God the Father,
Thou didst give the wine-blood of Thy body 
          to buy me from the grave.
My Christ! my Christ! my shield, my encircler,
Each day, each night, each light, each dark;
       My Christ! my Christ!! my shield, my encircler,
       Each day, each night, each light, each dark.

Be near me, in my standing, in my watching,
           in my sleeping.

Jesu, Son of Mary! my helper, my encircler,
Jesus Son of David! my strength everlasting;
       Jesu, Son of Mary! my helper, my encircler,
       Jesu, Son of David! my strength everlasting.

Prayer poem, page 168, 

in The Celtic Vision,

Prayers and Blessings

from the Outer Hebrides

edited by Esther de Waal

PORTRAITS:

SELF AND OTHERWISE

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for this Wednesday in Holy Week is, “Portraits: Self and Otherwise.”

In this past year I have learned several new words. For example, “Selfie” and “Bestie”.

I asked a bride last Saturday what a “bestie” is. It was a word she used in an answer to some questions I ask couples – in order to help make my homily more personal. She looked at me – as if I was really dumb – and said nonchalantly “Your best friend – of course.” And she shrugged her shoulders. That’s how she had described her husband to be – “My bestie”.

I actually thought she wrote, “My beastie” – and I didn’t know what that meant either. I figured it was a nick name.

The title of my homily is, “Portraits: Self and Otherwise.”

Looking at my life, how would I like to be portrayed?

Am I a bestie or a beastie?

Am I the best selfie I can be?

PHOTOGRAPHS

I’ve always heard that the first person we look at in a group photo of any sorts – if we’re in the picture - is ourselves.

Is that true?

I don’t know.

I know that people when they see themselves in a photograph, they immediately make a judgment: “Not bad …. Horrible …. Good.”

Now that I know what a “selfie” is, I’ve seen lots of people taking them. Then they swing their phone – which took the picture – to see themselves in the picture. Many then delete or erase that picture and try again – and again – and again.

Do you have a decent picture of yourself?

Is there a picture of yourself that is horrible? Passport or driver’s license or what have you?

So that’s been my experience – that’s how I’ve noticed people - when  dealing with pictures of themselves.

PAINTINGS

When it comes to paintings of people – I’ve met very few people who have had a portrait of themselves made. Their children yes.

I noticed a portrait painting last year in some house I was saying Mass in. The lady in the painting looked sad. I said to the lady, “That’s you.”

She said, “And I know. I look sad.”

I said nothing.

Then she added, “My husband I were going through a tough period in our lives at the time.”

I thought. That’s a good painter – someone who caught a mood.

As to being a good portrait painter – I wondered. As in taking photographs, maybe they too should say, “Smile!”

TODAY’S READINGS

I thought of this topic when I read today’s readings.

The first reading from Isaiah 50: 4-9 has Isaiah talking about his head. He centers in on his tongue, then his ears, then his cheeks and then his beard. He mentions his back as well.

I began thinking: A sculptor or a painter would love Isaiah’s face and skull to picture and sculpt. He says in today’s text that he sets his face like flint. Solid. Face forwards. With courage. With strength. An artist could do that.

Then I began - in light of thinking about Isaiah - what would it be like to paint or picture Jesus at the Last Supper?  What a great contrast could be made with his face and the face of Judas.

Next I have to look more carefully at paintings of the Last Supper by Rembrandt and Da Vinci. I don’t know if Caravaggio did any – but I hope so – because he used light and shadow so well.

Also I don’t know off hand any paintings of Isaiah. I’ll have to type in the Google search box: “Paintings of Isaiah” – and see what comes up.

CONCLUSION

Since the title of my homily is, “Portraits: Self and Otherwise” – I assume a good thing to do is to look at pictures of myself and ask, “What was going on with me at this moment?” What was I feeling?”

To paraphrase Pope Francis from his homily last Sunday: “I can be either Judas or Jesus. Be Jesus of course?” 

WALKING AROUND 

IN ANOTHER'S SKIN 

Poem for Today - April 16, 2015

THE MOTHER Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come. You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye. I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed              children. I have contracted. I have eased My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck. I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized Your luck And your lives from your unfinished reach, If I stole your births and your names, Your straight baby tears and your games, Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,              and your deaths, If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths, Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate. Though why should I whine, Whine that the crime was other than mine?-- Since anyhow you are dead. Or rather, or instead, You were never made. But that too, I am afraid, Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said? You were born, you had body, you died. It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried. Believe me, I loved you all. Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you All.

© Gwendolyn Brooks

TREMBLE, TREMBLE, TREMBLE

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for this Tuesday in Holy Week  is, “Tremble, Tremble, Tremble.”

One of the moments I look forward to every Holy Week here at St. Mary’s – is when Harry Thompson sings and plays the Negro spiritual, “Were You There.” 

Have you ever been there when Harry sings that? It can make you tremble, tremble, tremble.  This 1926 spiritual song by J.W. Johnson and J.R. Johnson captures Good Friday for me.

You know the first two verses and you know them well. You’ve been there.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?
Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

We have meditated on the moments when Jesus – on the cross - shook in horror and pain – when he trembled, trembled, trembled. One moment there on the cross he felt the total absence of God – and he screams out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We also know Jesus felt just that in the garden – in the agony in the garden – which we read about in Matthew, Mark and Luke.[1]  Some scholars think the opening words in today’s gospel is John’s way of presenting those same feelings of Jesus - but in the upper room. [2] We read there that Jesus was deeply troubled and declared openly, “I am telling you the truth: one of you will betray me.”  The scholars think this is John’s way of capturing the  tremble, tremble, tremble of Jesus in the Agony of the Garden. John has Jesus go to the garden – but he’s arrested almost immediately just after he arrives. The others have him praying and asking his disciples to pray one hour with him – before Judas arrives with the soldiers for his arrest.

TREMBLE, TREMBLE, TREMBLE

The tremble, tremble, tremble moments of life happen when tragedy and trouble hit home: deaths, divorces, drugs, being dropped, alcoholism, betrayals, cancer, and the crush of so many other things – like being out of work – and deep inner itches – like feeling like a motherless child.

Those are the moments we know Good Friday in our own soul – in our own family – in our lives. Those are the moments the Stations of the Cross are not just on the walls in our churches – but they are on the walls of our soul – and we are making them – and hopefully we’ll say and pray, “Thank you, Lord, for the gift of faith.”

Tremble, tremble, tremble….

CONCLUSION

As Christians we begin our prayers with the sign of the cross – perhaps because we know it’s the cross is so often the beginning of our knowing Christ and life. It’s being on the cross that we so often realize Christ is hanging in there with us – and we can be the good thief and steal our way into his kingdom – at any moment – but especially when we’re feeling tremble, tremble, tremble moments.

NOTES:

[1] Matthew 26: 36-56; Mark 14: 32-52; Luke 22: 39-53; John 18: 1-11]

[2] Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel According to John XIII-XXI, The Anchor Bible, Doubleday & Company, Garden City, New York, 1970,    page 577.

REVELATIONS 
FROM THE LAND 
OF SICKNESS 

Poem for Today - April 15, 2014

FEVER

I have brought back a good message
          from the land of 102 degrees:
God exists.
I had seriously doubted it before;
but the bedposts spoke of it
          with utmost confidence,
the threads in my blanket took it for granted.
the tree outside the window dismissed all complaints,
and I have not slept so justly for years.
It is hard, now, to convey
how emblematically appearances sat
upon the members of my consciousness;
but it is a truth long known,
that some secrets are hidden from health.

(C) John Updike