One of my favorite songs from The Way of the Cross (again) this year:

Mercy

Susan Bentall Boersma

Craig Courtney

I dare not lift my guilty eyes
I hide my lips in trembling shame
And in the darkness of my soul
I shrink from Your rekindling flame

Kyrie eleison.
Kyrie eleison.
Have mercy.

In mercy cover me with grace
and blot out my iniquity
Renew my heart, and wash me clean
Grant with Your pardon purity.

Kyrie eleison.
Kyrie eleison.
Have mercy.

In equal measure of Your love, You promise mercy

Tender compassion to the one who seeks Your face

A broken heart, a fainting soul, a contrite spirit

together cry for Your forgiveness

Against You only have I sinned

My deeds are evil in your sight

Of Your forgiveness let me sing

And in my singing take delight

Kyrie eleison.

Kyrie eleison.

Have mercy.

Have mercy.

Have mercy.

Thank you, Susan and Craig, for this incredible song.

More strange glory

In the cross we see that of which humanity is capable: self-transcendence in surrender to the Other. All the evidence to the contrary, we are capable of love. The sign of shame and death becomes the sign of cosmic possibility. - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

It is certain that I am again not going to complete this book this Lent, even despite having very few times I have been inspired to write about new passages on which I haven't previously reflected. Taking two weeks off will do that, I suppose.

Fr. Neuhaus speaks of the strange glory of the cross. Even before first reading this excellent book, I was in agreement with him, as I spoke of the cross in a specific context. Considering Ephesians 5, I have often referred to a paraphrase I once read of the verse Husbands, love your wives as Christ loves the Church, which was rendered, Husbands, go the way of the cross for your wives. I would tell my fellow married friends how we consider the cross something to be avoided, but Jesus shows us that it is something to be embraced, that there is in fact no love without sacrifice. Love is selfless, and avoiding pain is not.

In the midst of a hurt, we can have trouble thinking of the harm that someone has done to us in such terms. It can seem unhealthy to keep leaving ourselves vulnerable. But I have seen, even recently, how the right focus on the other in the context of what I have been forgiven can serve to bring healing. It isn't easy, or natural, but it can be a glorious thing.

Living the Way

At the foot of the cross, there is sorrow;
At the foot of the cross, there is love;
Flowing down together in a river of salvation,
Covering all the world with grace. 

At the foot of the cross, there is sadness;
At the foot of the cross, there is hope;
Flowing down together in a river of forgiveness, 
Covering all the world with grace. 

This is where I have, ultimately found myself this Lenten season.

There is deep sorrow when someone you love hurts someone else you love.
There is great sadness when that person is non-repentant of their actions.
There is hurt when that person has intentionally hidden their actions from you, then lies to you about it even when you try to be gentle in your confrontation. (The person has since apologized for the deception.)

But there is love and hope at the foot of the cross. There is salvation, and forgiveness.

And I hope that there is healing and growth.

After all: I have been forgiven a greater debt.

More on The Way of The Cross

I had hoped to share this evening with a friend who is leaving, but it wasn't to be. In fact, none of the people I personally invited came.

I felt so humbled to realize how the prayers and reflections which I was blessed to play a role in writing still continue to resonate even eight or nine years later. I don't remember exactly when we rewrote our service, but I know we did the new version for at least two seasons before our friends Matt and Ellie left.

Several songs really struck me this time. I can't believe I never really paid any attention to the Latin lyrics to Adoramus te Christe, which of course we repeat in English at the beginning of each station: Adoramus te Christe, et benedicimus tibi, quia per santam crucem tuam redemisti mundum. We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you, because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

I love singing the Chanticleer Ave Maria, and especially having enough strong men's voices to do it justice.

The pieces that most "hit me where I live" seemed to be Mercy (by Craig Courtney), and Song of Surrender (Hodge, Lantz).

It felt as if I finally reentered into the season of Lent. I'd allowed personal events this season to really knock me off course.

A favorite thing

Praying The Way of The Cross with Jubilee tonight. I love this.

Taking our nourishment

Mary chose the "better part," as Jesus described it, a part that shall not be taken away. Jesus' words tell us to stop and take time to be quiet, listen and enjoy His presence. Mary reminds us that the secret place at Jesus' feet is also time at the Father's table, feeding on His warmth, His words and His love. - Neal Lozano, Abba's Heart

Too often we try to feed others without first being fed. This never works. Elsewhere Jesus says, You have received freely; freely give! (Mt. 10:8) Until we have sat as His feet and eaten His banquet, we have nothing to share.

In the book, this discussion is in the section about what happens after the Prodigal has returned home. We sometimes get the impression that once we've been restored to our relationship with the Father, the hard work is over. Alternately, we think that the hard work consists of the sort of thing Martha is about. But the lack of real time with the Father is what makes us prodigals to begin with, and we shall wander off again without it.

Some parents obsess over getting the perfect family pictures. They get the picture, but they miss the moment.  - ibid.

This has been me. Sometimes we are more intent on presenting an image that is not true than enjoying the reality that is. I so hope that I am finished with this dynamic.

I love the words that Jubilee prays on the tenth station: "Strip me of my illusions to know that my true dignity far exceeds any image I might present."

We cannot sit at Jesus' feet, nor partake of the Father's abundance, if we are hiding behind a mask of self-sufficiency.

The Way of the Cross, 2016

It seemed like longer since we'd been together, but Jubilee just completed our first Way of the Cross season since 2013. It was an abbreviated season, two services on one weekend only, but what a blessing! So many new people, and the power and energy of the larger group was wonderful. The prayers and reflections were still very effective, even a half-dozen years after we updated them. My coworker who attended was deeply moved, and observed that she was surprised by how spot-on the text was: neither so deep as to be inaccessible nor too simplistic, and bringing the historical events into personal context.

I loved the new music that our director brought in. Song of Surrender was perfect for the third fall, and Mercy would have been a great selection even without this year being the Extraordinary Jubilee of Mercy.

Potential improvements: I was a touch disappointed to see that the program contained a (very nice) prayer in place of the translation of Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus, which we sang for the third station. And I didn't realize until Friday night that we'd selected three of the first four songs in foreign languages, the first station in Greek, and the third and fourth both in Latin.

I missed all those who couldn't join with us, but no one more than Loretta. Her last gift to Jubilee was our reunion in ministry.

Conforming (phase 2), The Value System of Jesus Christ - A Summary (step 12), session 1

And he lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said: "Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.  Blessed are you that hunger now, for you shall be satisfied. Blessed are you that weep now, for you shall laugh.  Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you, and cast out your name as evil, on account of the Son of man!  Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven; for so their fathers did to the prophets.  

"But woe to you that are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you that are full now, for you shall hunger. Woe to you that laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep. Woe to you, when all men speak well of you, for so their fathers did to the false prophets." - Lk 6, 20-26

Everybody seems to prefer (and to be more familiar with) the formulation of the Beatitudes from St. Matthew's gospel. This one has been chosen for the summary meditation because of how it contrasts the blessings and woes of the two values systems, the two standards, on which we have been focusing. But there are many ways in which the value system of the world may be expressed and lived out, and I am a bit disappointed that this retreat seems to focus so much on the values of wealth and esteem.

I'm feeling particularly torn between these two value systems right now in another way, as two beloved members of our family seem to be making daily decisions according to their own whims and disregarding the effects of their decisions on the family around them. How can I be an instrument of God's voice calling them to decide differently?

But I see another way in which the standard of the world takes root in my life when I look to comparative ways of evaluating my own morality and worth. (comparative vs. contributive identity, a la Fr. Spitzer, whom I have often invoked) This may include when I judge others, and may include looking for an opportunity to do so - for instance, looking up a list of athletes who have been the biggest problem in the locker room.

"For whoever would save his life will lose it; and whoever loses his life for my sake, he will save it. For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses or forfeits himself?" - Lk 9, 24-25

I suppose there are different ways of saving our life. If I try to preserve the pleasures of life the way that I want to live them, rather than taking up the cross (v. 23) of living as Christ calls me, is that not an effort to save my life? Again, I have written before in different contexts about our insistence on seeing the cross as something other than the glorious thing that it truly is, and about our misunderstanding of what is truly glorious. We know that, in his humanity, Jesus begged the Father that the cup be taken from him, yet I also believe that he embraced the cross with more than resigned obedience, but rather with trust and love that outweighed his fear and human misgivings. What would it have profited him to avoid his cross, and what do we think it will profit us to avoid ours? The life that we have in its stead is no gift to us.

As they were going along the road, a man said to him, "I will follow you wherever you go."

And Jesus said to him, "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head." 

To another he said, "Follow me." But he said, "Lord, let me first go and bury my father." But he said to him, "Leave the dead to bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God." 

Another said, "I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home."  Jesus said to him, "No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God."  - Lk 9, 57-62

These can sound harsh, but they underscore what I think the Lord would have me hear in this session.

Holy Thursday/Good Friday adoration reflection, 2013

(The time indicated below is for the benefit of one brother who might like to know a specific time that I was lifting him up in prayer, and others who are also praying for him. Also, this color text was in my mind but not on the paper.) 
With Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel at St. Helen Parish:

Usually, Lord, I am here at a later hour, and my meditations have moved on to the events of that holiest Friday when you finished pouring out your life for me. Perhaps I have given this time with you in the Garden short shrift, so maybe it is appropriate, Lord, that I am here earlier this year, at the conclusion of a Lent in which I have frequently fallen asleep, as (if I may be so bold) my fellow disciples are doing this night.  You have called us to keep watch, and though you have gone off to pray, Lord, where I can't see you, I will wait this night with Peter, James and John, and await in prayer what is to come.

After night prayer:

Fr. Satish, our associate pastor, has encouraged us to view the Triduum through the eyes/perspective of one of the witnesses of these events. I am finding myself drawn to Peter:

"I would go to jail or even die for you!"
"You will never wash my feet!"
"I do not know the man!" 

Lord, you know how like him I am anyway: rushing into commitments I don't understand; thinking I've "got it" in one moment only to have you remind me in the next that I will never in this life be able to fully "get" all of you there is to be gotten. And how many times have I denied you with my own decisions? You don't rebuke me harshly in any of this, Lord, unless I get stubborn about it.

Take this first Eucharist that you shared with us tonight, Lord. Even with two thousand years of perspective, even as deeply as I think I've entered into and experienced it, I know I have only begun to feast on your Presence. How much more confusing it must have been for Peter and the others who partook of this Paschal meal with you while your Passover was not yet complete! No wonder we celebrate these three days as one event of salvation. You give us your Body and Blood in the upper room, but the giving isn't finished until tomorrow when you die, or fulfilled until Sunday morning when you rise again, or completed until we are transformed in you. Just as each Passover your chosen people celebrate their own delivery from slavery, so at each Eucharist we are present with you in the upper room, and at Calvary, and at the heavenly banquet we will celebrate with you for all eternity. Then we will get it.

But now I just hunger for you, Lord, that the infinite, eternal, holy You which (whom) you give us will take hold of my limited, time-bound sinful self and transform me as you long to, for my sake.

And like Peter, Lord, I often don't fully get the fullness of this foot washing thing. I keep feeling as if being yours carries with it some sort of perquisite, some benefit that I can get puffed up about. I sometimes feel "above" being served and so miss the crux of really laying down my life and serving. Of course, tomorrow you're going to show what that really means, but we're still in the Garden, and I think I shouldn't rush ahead just yet. Let me realize for a while that I'm still confused, I still don't "get" all of it. And though I've fallen asleep at times this Lent, Lord, I know you're going to use even that for good, somehow.

How often, Lord, we eat of you without allowing you to fully transform us into you.

11:07 p.m. (which is 8:07 where a dear brother is who is on my heart:)

As I sit here in your Presence, keeping watch, I am reminded both of my unworthiness of you and of the wrong ideas I've had of my unworthiness. I've had the idea that it is either something that disqualifies me from you or something I must amend. I know that this thing you're doing for me, Jesus, is exactly to address the whole issue of my sin, to teach me the full extent of love. I'm so grateful to be here with you, and pray that my brother has a deep sense of being with you, too, this night in the Garden and throughout the sacred Triduum. Bless him, Lord, with a deep, peaceful awareness of being in your Presence, of being in You.

Has Simon Peter drawn his sword yet and cut off Malchus' ear? So many of us who follow you are trying to defend you rather than lay down our lives with you! We think we're doing right, but in getting militant we fail to love, fail to allow you to love through us. Help us instead drink the Cup you have given us, the cup of your Blood.

later:

As I sit and struggle for alertness, for focus, I'm struck by how judgmental we can be of others' shortcomings. How often I hear people put down the apostles for not quite "getting it," failing to see how inadequately we ourselves have gotten it so far. Likewise when we spout the phrase, "There but for the grace of God go I," we too often mean something more like a Pharisaic prayer: "Thank you, God, that I'm not like that wretch!" It is an odd and great blessing to know my own wretchedness and be transformed by Jesus out of it.

My Jesus, you're about to be betrayed by someone you love. Too often it has been me. I pray tonight that  instead of abandoning you, denying you, or betraying you, I might instead walk along your way.

Love and the cross

I have noticed that spending time with our grandchildren who are far from us causes me to miss them all the more when we must again separate.

I'm noticing this is true more generally, too, for people I love.

This Holy Week, it occurs to me that this is a form of embracing the cross, and is but a pale, revelatory shadow of the abundant love of God for us.

My Substitute

A basic part of Christian theology is the idea of sacrificial substitution: Christ bore the burden of our sins so that we could be set free from it.  Some of us come to a personal understanding of this concept that fills us with an abiding gratitude to God for his gift of atoning salvation, which drives our life in a very different direction.  As a result we begin to participate with the movement of the Holy Spirit in our lives, who directs us into very different pathways than we'd otherwise follow and transforms us into very different people than we would be on our own.

I'm getting a different glimpse into this than I've ever had before, one with which I must be very careful because of its potential to lead me back to an emotionally unhealthy place. Yet I think it is not only worthwhile to give it appropriate consideration, it may be a gift from God in this season of Lent.

Seventeen years ago, I received mercy I didn't deserve.  At the time, I didn't really recognize how true that was.  At first, at least, it felt unfair that my own actions to address the wrong I'd done led me at all into the legal consequences of my wrongdoing.  I came to understand that entire cause-and-effect much better.  Now, however, I find myself appalled by the sentence handed down against a dear old friend, especially in comparison with my own, when my own actions were so much more damaging than his were.  When I was discussing this with my bride the other evening, she expressed how she is likewise taken aback, and couldn't help but point out the undeniable truth that what I did was so much worse than our friend's crime.  She wasn't putting me down with that; it's just that the severity of our friend's punishment is more along the lines of what I deserved than what he did.  Now as we exchange correspondence and I read his wife's posts of his e-mails detailing his experiences in prison - which is coincidentally located on what was part of an Air Force Base on which he once served at least a TDY - I can't help but get a clearer picture of what I deserved.

I know he isn't there in my place - I completely know this.  As much as he loves me (and I him), I know that my friend would not have chosen to bear my penalty for me had he been offered the opportunity to do so.  I'm confident that he doesn't blame me for the position he's in; when he expresses his anger about his current situation, it is anger at himself for the choices he has made, not over the social climate that played a role in his punishment being so much more extreme than he really deserved - a climate which one could argue all offenders have played a role in creating.

Yet still it feels as if, as a result of his incarceration, I am getting a deeper insight into and understanding of what it really means that Jesus accepted the penalty for my sin.  The pain and humiliation of a crown of thorns is foreign to me, but my friend's separation from his family is real, and something I have experienced to a lesser degree.  The flogging that Jesus experienced for my sake is a pain unlike any I have ever known, but my friend's fear of what his experience in prison might become is frightfully familiar.  And the burden of bearing the world's guilt in the gruesome crucifixion on that cross is utterly alien to me, and so the idea that Jesus bore it for me has always been a little distant, but this feeling that my friend's place should have been mine helps me to feel more grateful than ever to Jesus for taking my place.

Wounds that heal - a thought from Thursday night

Our theme was Healing in the Precious Blood of Jesus.  Fr. Angelo mentioned reference after reference describing the understanding of blood in ancient cultures and its significance in ancient ritual.  Then he talked about Jesus' healing ministry, those who were made whole through his compassion and care.  He talked about how much of Jesus' healing was rooted in correcting one form of blindness or another (which I found a particularly fascinating tie-in with Fr. Bramlage's healing ministry, which is so deeply rooted in the damaging effects of unforgiveness in our lives).  I wish I'd had a notebook to capture more of what he shared. He moved on to discuss the redemptive and healing nature of Jesus' sacrifice, and introduced two words together that just struck me: Healing Wounds.  I immediately knew I'd want to reflect and expand on his comments about this idea.

The natural effect of wounds we receive is to tear apart, to destroy, so most wounds are therefore destructive by nature.  While our bodies are equipped to heal in remarkable ways, the wounds themselves are a cause of damage.  This is true of emotional wounds that we receive, as well. Interestingly, the more compromised we are physically or emotionally, the less able we are to heal.

And yet the way we respond to harm we receive - indeed, our willingness to embrace them rather than resist them, in some cases - can cause the resulting wounds to be healing instead of destructive.  As we assume an attitude of grace and forgiveness instead of clinging to the hurt we receive, our wounds' harmful effects in us are diminished, and their redemptive, healing effects are magnified in our own lives as well as the lives of those around us.

For instance, when I focus on how unfair a situation in my relationship with my wife may be, our marriage is undermined and wounded.  But if I instead view that exact same situation as an opportunity to love my wife, it becomes a cause of growth for us.  This is true for each situation in which we decide to respond with an attitude of grace rather than focusing on ourselves.

Jesus' wounds remain visible in his resurrected body because they have lost the power to hurt him while taking on the power to heal us.  His wounds were healing for Thomas, who had declared that he could not believe Jesus was risen without their evidence, and they are healing for us.  This becomes true for the wounds we receive, as well, when we offer forgiveness and mercy rather than retribution in response to them.  Our woundedness can be a source of healing, and inspiration for others who need to experience healing as we have.

A long night, not alone

There I lie in the dark, determined to stand my emotional ground but also trying not to harden my heart.  I feel resentful and hurt by how things have gone between us, and stupidly disappointed over the sports results.  I'm on my side, facing you, a pillow between my legs, my knees and elbows protecting my physical space as a means of honoring my emotional state.  A few minutes ago I woke up from a dream, you still not here beside me, the closet light still on, confirming my aloneness. You've come in, since, and I can tell you want to pick up where our banter had us this morning, this afternoon.  I just can't.

Can you not tell how much your single-mindedness hurts me?  Haven't I told you enough?  Do I have to communicate it every time?  Wednesday morning you are leaving for six days that I envy, while I'm also glad for you that you can go.  Tomorrow night will be filled with my prayer meeting and your packing and early bedtime, so tonight was our last shot at time together.  Yes, we had the weekend, mostly on your terms, though you did acquiesce to my movie choice.  But every. night. of television: it has gotten ancient and seems eternal, though I should know it's only temporary.

I can't go back to sleep.  Finally I roll over away from you, silently allowing you into my space again, though only physically.  I can tell your wishes, but am unable to respond to them.  It seems I can do no more than this as I continue to lie there awake, frustrated by my inability to sleep even in my determination to not harbor and nurture anger but rather to merely be.  Suddenly and unexpectedly I awaken again, not sure at what point in the past two hours my still wakefulness passed into uneasy dreams.  Arising to relieve a bit of physical waste, I am surprised that biology has begun to stir me in spite of myself, and I allow my emotions to join and encourage my physical response and your presence, to become our presence together.

It is a wonderful thing, and yet there lingers something for us to deal with, to grow from.  I don't believe this is something for me alone to lay down, though I must do my part of that.  We are going to need for you to do your part, and it is going to have be more than just choosing what you always choose in a way that happens to include me if I want it to.  I do want it to, but I want more.  There has to be room for more of me, too.

I want to cry out with Jesus: may this pass?  Must I die?  Oh, I know I must, and if it is your will, Lord, I will.  But in your dying you fulfilled yourself, your very purpose for being here.  I know it is my purpose, too; still I long to selflessly be who I am with her, for there to be room for me to embrace who she is while being embraced for who I am.

Passage, continued

I can't seem to recall the specific moment, near the end of the program, that I offered a quiet "thank you" to God for the privilege of proclaiming his love, a response which grows out of the more fundamental privilege of being his adopted son (or daughter).  I never got choked up on Yours is the Kingdom before, though.

As I abide in you - as you live in me - may others see your glory!

What a gift, to be part of such a powerful ministry, but God Himself is the greater gift, and the more deeply we receive him the more we realize this is a gift too great to be kept to ourselves, and yet the act of sharing him becomes another gift, or perhaps more accurately is the means to more fully receive him ourselves.  

It wasn't until later that the emptiness began to take hold.  But I receive this, too, as a participation in every disciples' experience of Christ's passing, knowing that there is no death in him that does not bring a greater resurrection, even if our three days in the tomb can seem to stretch into timeless eternity sometimes. 

I don't know what God is going to do next - even when we have an inkling of what comes next, we rarely know what it truly holds - but I trust it will manifest his glory in some marvelous way.

A passage

Tonight will be bittersweet, and we must be careful.  Jubilee's final Way of the Cross service, the end of my fifth season with the group, has the potential to get focused on the wrong thing.  What we pray about with reflections and songs is more important than the fact that we are concluding this service tonight.  We have shared a great privilege together, and yet the truth we have acknowledged each week of Lent over the years is a far greater privilege.

Christ has delivered us from death, has redeemed our lives with his own!