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Christ is risen, clearer, hope, hope for the resurrection, Mary Magdalene, The Sophia Center for Spirituality, transformation, trust, truth, waiting
Last night I went to bed worrying that the torrents of rain would surely mean our rivers overflowing their banks by morning. I went to sleep – surprisingly – to a roll of thunder (did I dream that?) and the cacophony of wind and water against glass and roof shingles. I thought the uneasiness would keep me awake, watchful – maybe like Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Jesus. But no, I could not claim that kind of fidelity. I went to sleep.
This morning is a bit of a surprise. I have not solicited information about water damage in our village or beyond but the rainstorm has worn itself out, having cleansed everything sooner than expected. One could say that all earth’s tears have been shed and now we have only to wait in hope for resurrection. I am sitting in the same stillness as the tree across the yard, waiting…feeling spent and not ready to move forward with the day. Jesus remains in the tomb.
What will it take for me to recognize the transformation that is resurrection? Can it be done in me by nightfall? What will I know tomorrow (“the great feast of Easter”) that will be testament to this process of Holy Week? Will I be clearer of purpose? More dedicated to mission? A slight breeze ripples through my bedroom curtain and is mirrored by the tree outside. Can I take that as a sign, a conviction that tonight’s ritual will let me know that Christ is risen once again in my heart and in the world?
I recognize that now it is up to me to answer my own questions, to be the catalyst of my own truth and trust. Each of us must know that and come to stand ready for what is to come in the light of Christ’s return.
On my bedroom windowsill I have a rock that I found on the shore of Skaneateles Lake during a retreat many years ago. It really looks like a miniature mountain and on an outcropping sits a tiny statue of an owl looking out. The composition is a sign to me of God’s strong, wise and ever-watchful presence, a metaphor like that of today’s psalm that sings: Blessed is the Lord, my rock, my fortress, my stronghold, my deliverer, my shield in whom I trust. (PS 144:1-2).
In his small book, Praying with the Earth: A Prayerbook for Peace, John Philip Newell writes each morning and evening of the week a prayer for the life of the world. Brief as they are, they are compelling in their depth and intensity, calling out to God with vision and yearning, always capturing quickly and quietly a trust of the God that will never disappoint. Here is what he offers on this – and every – Saturday morning.
I’ve been engaged in a number of conversations lately where the topic has been the need to let go of what we can’t control – like the weather and the march of time (specifically our aging process). This morning I opened Meg Wheatley’s little book, Perseverance, to a page called “Life Is Life” and found there some words worth my time and reflection. Perhaps we can all benefit from her wisdom.
It’s raining again. This week we have had a taste of the destruction that has been rare for us, caused by soaking rains and flash-flooding. It’s as if the earth cannot take any more pain. Having cried too long, her tears now overflow in a mud bath on the streets and structural damage to homes and other buildings near our two rivers and the many outlying creeks. Today the rain feels soft and my desire is to go outside and stand, then walk in it, to listen and accept what is happening, to be washed clean of all distress and the insidious doubt that can invade the soul at times like this.
There are two adjacent ranch-style houses on our road whose owners each planted four trees in a row across their front yard. I have watched them grow over the years and sometimes wonder if it was the desire of the owners to have a lot of shade, to hide from the road or just to satisfy their love of trees. They have seemed to me as they’ve grown like a line of sentinels from one yard to the other. Because I am always driving when I pass them, I really don’t know if they are the same kind of trees; I just admire their beauty and their strength.
Today we have an appearance of those two outspoken disciples, James and John, the sons of Zebedee. We first meet them in the gospel of Matthew as they are with their father preparing their nets for fishing. As with all the others who left what they were doing to follow Jesus, one wonders about the reaction in their family. We never meet the father again but their mother shows up in the gospel of Matthew asking for privilege for her sons (MT 20) and today we have Mark’s rendition of that event (MK 10:32-45) where the brothers speak for themselves. It’s a rather shocking passage but maybe understandable if you consider the haughty behavior of their mother recorded elsewhere. Asking Jesus that they be “seated one at your right and one at your left in your glory” is not at all in keeping with the humility expected of the closest followers of Jesus. Even worse is the fact that Mark pairs that conversation with Jesus telling the Twelve what was going to happen to him in Jerusalem – his suffering, death and resurrection.
It is interesting to me that today’s psalm response from the lectionary is part of 119 – the longest psalm of all in the Bible. Fitting, I thought, after a week away that held so many diverse moments, including childhood memories as well as experiences of new places and events. Commentary says that “each segment of Psalm 119 could be read as a separate voice from individuals praying out of their various perspectives” or “one individual experiencing all the various perspectives that one knows along the path of life.” I’m not sure I have integrated all the impressions, information and feelings of the week as it was so full and far-reaching. One thing I do know is that it provided an opportunity (as most events do if we are awake) for self-reflection and gratitude. Thus, I pray this morning with the psalmist as I return to my blessed “normal” life.
Dawn is breaking. It is 13 degrees Fahrenheit outside and the snow continues to cover the land. The psalmist cries this morning, O Lord, hear my prayer and let my cry come to you. Spring is scheduled to arrive today at 12:15PM EDT – the moment when the sun is directly in line with the equator. “It’s hard to believe,” I say to myself, considering the lack of signs of spring. But then I think of the faith of the psalmist whose trust is in the willingness of God to hear the voice of those in distress. There’s lots of distress in the world today and I am drawn to question the faith quotient of those of us who now send out prayers for better times – myself, I mean.