Monthly Archives: April 2011

All in a name

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It was dark in the garden. It was dark in her heart. She had known plenty darkness before. The cold, eclipse of rejection. The pitch black of shame. The midnight of self hatred. But none like this. This was worse than all of those combined. Hope had been hammered out of her with the nails that they had roughly banged into his already broken, feet and hands. Even now, she didn’t know how she had stood there, and watched them do that to Him, except that she couldn’t tear herself away. The excruciating anguish of seeing his agony, and being helpless to do anything to help him, had torn her apart. That was Friday. A blur of pain and fire. Saturday she had been mute with grief, unable to think, or take anything else in. This morning she had forced her exhausted body to move. There was one more thing she could do for him.

This time, no one would see her, and criticize. No mocking words or sneers. She would pour her love  out for him for the last time. She would tenderly anoint his beloved, broken body with precious perfumed oils. This time, however, he would not smile at her. His scarred face would be still. His extraordinary eyes would be dull and closed forever.

She didn’t know how she was going to get past the guards, hadn’t a clue how she would move the stone with which they they had sealed his tomb. Nothing would stop her though. If it was the last thing she did, she would say her goodbye, and prepare his body properly for burial. That was the least she could do. What more had she got to lose?

Finding her way to the place she had seen his body hastily dumped, before the onset of the Sabbath, she was stopped in her tracks. They had taken even this last goodbye. Guards gone, the tomb gaping in yawning emptiness. They couldn’t even leave his body to rest in peace. Anger and confusion spurred her feet as she ran back to tell Peter and John of this final desecration. They ran too, looked and left. Unable to deal with themselves, unable to deal with her. She was left, and like at the foot of his cross, she couldn’t tear herself away, even though there was nothing to stay for. Nothing to live for. The tears flowed, as she wept for all that might have been. She had never known love and acceptance as this Man had showed her. Never experienced forgiveness and heartbreaking mercy that lifted her out of the dust, and breathed new life into her beaten down soul. She had watched him do it for so many others too, but now all that was gone.

The tomb was empty. The beloved body stolen, who knows where. She shuddered to think what they might have done with him. As if they hadn’t done enough. She looked again into the hollowed out space in the rock, wondering if she might at least gather his grave clothes. There were two men sitting in there, where his head and feet would have been. She couldn’t take in who they might be or why they were there. They asked her a stupid question.

“Why are you crying?”

“ WHAT ELSE DO YOU DO AT A GRAVE?!” she wanted to shout at them- “ isn’t it obvious?!”  “They have taken him away, and I have lost- everything”  She turned away – unable and unwilling to engage. Lost in her loss.

The sun was just rising, lifting over the city and bathing her in light. The light hurt almost more than the darkness. Another day. Another day he would never see. She folded in on herself.

There was a sound close by. A footstep. Suddenly concious of another person , who as she looked up, was standing in the brightness of the dawn. She could only see his outline, framed with light, and blurry with her tears.

“ Why are you weeping?”  the same question.

Gently and compassionately asked with a voice that sounded as if it cared about the answer.

“ Who are you looking for?” 

He could only be the gardener, but the question  reached right into her being. Right into the depths of her pain. Somewhere deep inside, in the darkness, there was the faintest glimmer of light.

“ If you know where he is, if you have moved him- tell me”  she pleaded. There was just a whisper of a chance she would find his body, after all.

He didn’t answer and she still couldn’t see his face, or read his expression. Silence. A pause in which the world turned, and her heart lifted towards hope, against herself.

“Mary” 

No one else said it like that. No one else had ever put such unconditional love into the simple saying of her name. That beloved voice called her a second time out of a nightmare     of darkness, bringing her back to life.  It couldn’t possibly be – and yet it was. She had been looking for a corpse, and she had found a living Lord, who knew her, and called her by name.

“Rabbouni!”   was all she had breath to say. She fell at his feet. The feet she had anointed with her tears; the feet she had seen hammered to the rough wood of the cross. Reaching out to hold them – she wanted to stay in this moment forever. Be sure it was real. That he was real. That her teetering mind hadn’t tipped finally, over the edge.

Gentle hands lifted her up. His smile was as wide as the sea, and the eyes she thought had closed for ever, twinkled with life and laughter. A name, a smile. A smile that reached out and found all the shattered pieces of her heart, and drew them together again, into a new whole.

“ Now go– and tell my brothers who you have seen”  he asked of her. Be the one to tell them I am alive. Be the Hope Bearer. Turn their lives upside down, as yours has been.

She didn’t hesitate. Carrying the good news- she ran with joy, in the glory of the rising sun, that was lighting up the world.

Slaughter of the innocents

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A journey through Holy week  is not an easy one. The realities of the journey are harsh. It is easier, sometimes to let the familiar stories  slide off , as it is a risky business to go deeper. Sometimes a fresh angle takes my breath away. A new connection. An unexpected twist.  The following poem was one such angle.  Having known several years of infertility myself, it hit particularly close, when I came across it one Easter many years back. It is one that has stood in my memory since, retaining it’s power, and relevance.

 
 
How long we waited for a son, my man and I; 
Four times the seed miscarried, half formed the babe was cast away;
But to my anguished prayers at last, Jehovah bowed his head.
And beautiful as gold, my child lay curled within my arms
curving his tiny fingers round my thumb, laughing, crying,
his infant breath was mine and mine was his.
Deep the delight, the quiet joy of tiny mouth
seeking my breast, fulfilment for us both
as he fed there and I knew peace.
 
So blind and deaf with happiness, I did not hear of the decree.
Knew naught, until they came and dragged him from my arms,
raising the sword; there in our home
beside the fire, where late I suckled him
they slaughtered him, his radiant young blood outpoured in death.
 
The long grey years slipped by like ghosts.
Never again quickened my womb with child,
nor woke my heart to life nor love again.
 
And now I stand upon the hill called Golgotha
to tell you why I hated you, young Galilean.
For it was you he sought, that butcherer, that Herod.
Because of you, my babe was killed.
You, Jesus.
All through the years I hated you, I hated you
Til now, when as I heard them shouting  ‘ Crucify him!’
My heart sang loud with joy,
my babe, at last avenged
I cried, and took a stone to throw
but you fell, low beneath the burden of your cross.
And suddenly I saw your face, and looked into your eyes.
 
My suffering was there, engulfed in understanding
Lost in pain beyond the compassion of a human heart
You bore the burden of all other’s grief
and as you went, I knew you meant to die, for me.
 
It was as if my child were suddenly within my arms again
seeking the comfort of my breast.
The empty years were fled away
I thought I heard his infant laugh, who died for you
But now, as you too, walked the way of death
We shared the cross you carried,  part of a mighty pattern
you, my babe and me.
 
I knelt, a woman brought to life from death
as you passed by to Calvary.
 
Joan Brockelsby 
 

 
 

Matthew 2: 13-18

The Escape to Egypt

13 Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.’ 14Then Joseph* got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, 15and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfil what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I have called my son.’
The Massacre of the Infants
16 When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men,* he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men.* 17Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah:
18 ‘A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.’
 

Luke 13:31-35

The Lament over Jerusalem

At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, ‘Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.’ He said to them, ‘Go and tell that fox for me, “Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed away from Jerusalem.” Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” ’
 

Looking up

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I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

Soaring mountains. They draw out the superlatives in us. Majestic. Awe- inspiring. Scary, even. Living among them briefly, last week, did me the power of good. What is it about such stunning beauty that lifts the heart and refreshes the spirit? For me, it is because they shout the glory of the God who made them. They feed my soul. I don’t want to conquer them or climb them. Soaring around their heights would be more my style. I watched hang-gliders do just that, and looked on in wistful wonder. But I was also happy just to sit and feast my eyes on the ever changing lights and shadows and colours. It is a view I would never tire of.

Looking up is always good.  It changes my perspective. Reminds me how little I am, and how big God is.

David ( who wrote alot of the Psalms) and I are old mates. We go way back. A shepherd boy poet/musician who poured out his heart and soul to the God he knew and loved. I could wax lyrical about many of the Psalms he wrote, but I’ll restrain myself to one . Psalm 61. (It is also about mountains.) It burned itself into my consciousness in my early teens.

Hear my cry, O God;

Listen to my prayer.

From the ends of the earth I call to you , when my heart is faint.

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. “I” …such a little word. But it can tower over us,  It can block our view of others, and of God and it can certainly dominate our inner landscape.  Whether we view ourselves positively or negatively, self absorption is a habit that is ridiculously hard to shake off.  Young children go through a wonderful stage of unselfconsciousness. They just are. Like flowers or stars or mountains.   Then they start comparing themselves to others ( or are compared) .. and the trouble starts. Before they know it, puberty has hit and self consciousness goes through the roof.

The big ‘Who am I? ‘  questions really  start.. something I think we go on answering for the rest of our lives.  I had a strong sense of self from a very early age. I was one very stroppy toddler I am told ! ( individuating is the child development term… “I can decide things for myself and know where I begin, and others end” or “I can flex my will” )  I didn’t need to be a rebellious teen, I had done it all at 3!  My early teens, however coincided  with me being introduced to the Holy Spirit for the first time. ( God the Father and Son, I had been familiar with since birth). This encounter was in once sense, very ordinary and un-dramatic, and simultaneously, totally life changing. Perhaps I will make that encounter the subject of a blog post one day. The purpose of describing it here, is more about one of the effects.

It made me review myself with fresh eyes. I recognised the strength of my will, and personality, and wanted to reign myself in.  I was too big for me to handle, if that makes sense. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I . I needed to look up. I needed to know that my life rested in bigger, wiser hands than mine. Someone who knew me better than I would ever know myself. Someone who had loved me from my earliest beginnings, and had called me by name.

External pressures can be overwhelming at times, but internal pressures can be even more so. The deep, half hidden pressures we put on ourselves, to perform, to be perfect, to live up to whatever we think or have been made to believe we should be/do… these are just some of them. These are the real stressors, in my experience. They can be what takes the load to breaking point. “From the ends of the earth I call to you when my heart is overwhelmed. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

I long to dwell in your tent forever, to take refuge in the shelter of your wings.” Sometimes we need to take refuge from the world, but more often I think, we need to take refuge from ourselves. Our wills, our self consciousness, our inner drivers and pressures. I know I do.        I need to look up . I need to get myself in perspective, and lose myself in the vastness of God.

I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth. ( Psalm 121)

 

Paul Baloche has interpreted Psalm 61 in a song. From a CD called Compassion Art.