On Being a Desperate Woman

Jesus traveled the Sea of Galilee often, taught in the area, perhaps even had a home for awhile in Capernaum, a town at the northwest edge of the Sea. When I got to stay a couple of days at a kibbutz there, which now caters to the tourists who flock to the beautiful sand of the beaches, the blue, blue water of that big scenic lake, our group rode one of the tourist boats called “The Queen of Sheba.” It might as well have flashed a neon sign, “TOURISTS! TOURISTS!”

Our Israeli guide said to us at one point something along the lines of, “You wanted to walk where Jesus walked. Well, look out here,” and waved her arm at the water of that picturesque Sea, “there you are.” I saw in my mind Jesus walking on that water heading to the terrified disciples in their boat, Peter stepping out, heading to his Friend and Leader, looking down, crying out, and Jesus taking his hand, the both of them stepping into the boat.

What I would give to be back in that same spot again, walking that sand, breathing that air!

Of course, now modern conveniences like air conditioned cottages and umbrellas with beach chairs dot the beach landscape. But not far away, ancient ruins also lie about like reminders of the times before, the times when Jesus’ sandals marched the nearby roads, the sands of those beaches, calling men from their fishing boats. “Come, follow me! I’ll give you a new job—to fish

for men!”

One day as he emerged from a boat after crossing the Sea, the crowds waited. His reputation had spread, stories of healing in the day when doctors no doubt tried their best, but the words “medicine” and “modern” meant very different things than they do today. Even now, if, truly, the touch—merely, and truly, the touch of a man could heal us from the dread diseases that modern science cannot fix--we would travel far and drain our resources to reach that one. At one time in Capernaum, at what may have been His home, four friends cut a hole in the roof to lower a friend to Jesus, as the crowd would not let them through to reach Him, desperate for the healing of their friend.

Sometimes I tell myself I am too tired even to get in the car to drive the few miles I live from church. And, yes, I know Jesus does not reside in a building. But, His people meet there. How often does He speak from those people, from that pastor? How desperate am I to hear from Him and what have I missed in the not going?  As I key these words, in my ears I hear Michael W. Smith sing those moving words in the worship song, “I’m desperate for you.” Even so, Lord……

On that day so long ago, a woman, herself desperate and despairing, placed herself in the crowd to try to get to Jesus. She had what the Bible calls in some translations an “issue of blood.” The New American Standard translates it a “hemorrhage.” However you translate it, she had been bleeding for twelve years. Twelve. Years. Twelve years. Without stopping.

In that culture, that meant far more than just the monthly (and for her yearly) inconvenience almost all women of all cultures know. It made her “unclean,” meaning no one—NO one—could touch her AT ALL. Perhaps she had come from far away (we don’t know) but she so despaired that even knowing that she made all those in the crowd around her who so brushed up against her unclean just by her inadvertent movements, still she came to try to get to Jesus. Could Jesus really heal her? The Bible tells us that already she had spent all the money she had going from doctor to doctor. Probably they had tried, truly tried, to help her. We will think the best of them; but they could not do what they could not do. After twelve years, all their efforts came to nothing.

Not only had their efforts taken all her money, but by this time, she likely was anemic from the constant bleeding. If she had a husband, quite likely he was gone, unable to touch his wife at all. Maybe not—but, really, how many men in an age when women frequently were viewed as objects to bargain for and with rather than as equals would stay with a woman they could in no way touch? If she had not married, well.  Desperate.

Also present in the crowd that day, a high synagogue official, Jairus by name, came to Jesus, falling at his feet, also desperate, and begged for his daughter, ill to the point of dying. “Please come and heal her! She is about to die!” And so Jesus, ever compassionate, started off with Jairus. Why did Jesus leave the crowd to go with Jairus? That can be explored.... and should be. The Jairus is not our central character here. It is the woman. The desperate, despairing, frantic woman.

Back in the crowd that woman, so longing for Jesus healing touch, saw them starting to leave and  pushed forward through the men and women there, thinking, “I don’t need to talk to Him, don’t need Him even to see me. If I can just touch the hem of His robe, that will be enough! If I can just touch him!”

And so she did, hardly got close enough to barely brush the hem of His robe, just a soft…….. bare……. touch…….

And IMMEDIATELY she was healed!!! And she knew it!!

Then, suddenly Jesus stopped!

Because of the way my mind works, I see in my mind the disciples bumping into the back of him—bump-bump-bump-bumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbump!!! Kind of like the seven dwarfs into the back of Snow White in the woods for some reason. I have no idea why.

But, once they sort themselves out, Jesus said, “Who touched me?”

The disciples looked around at the throng of people closing in on them. The anxious father, worry for his ill daughter at home, no doubt, just wanted to be on his way. Maybe, maybe he had enough belief in Jesus to be patient. Either way, Peter spoke up and said, “Who touched you? Who didn’t?”

But Jesus waited, and, finally, said, “Someone touched me. Power left me.”

Because when a woman of faith touches the Living Son of God, they both know it.

I want to touch Him that way.

The woman—our formerly bleeding woman, her name never given here, her story told in three gospels, her boldness passed on to us to give us courage over our hurts and fears to brave what we must to push our way through the crowds of daily life, through indifferent, uncaring throngs of circumstance and barricades--turned and threw herself at His feet, telling Him why she had, in her anguish and misery, reached out to the only Hope she felt she had left, and immediately felt His healing touch.

And He gently responded to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

Jairus’ daughter also gets healed, and though that story is as dramatic as the woman’s, deserves the telling on its own.

We do not know any more of this woman’s life after this. I would like to think she had a man who had waited for her, as miraculous as that would have been—a man like Joseph who had taken Mary, Jesus' mother,  as his wife in such sacrificial circumstances. Well, it could have happened. Or perhaps she married later, had children. But, maybe not.

Maybe she didn’t want a man and a family; I may just be projecting all over the place there. We don’t know of her life after this in Scripture.

At least we don’t know yet.

But, someday in Heaven I want to find her. And I will tell her what an impact this brief day in her life made on me, how I thought of her so often, how her faith so moved me. I will ask her to tell me her version—what it felt like when, after so many years, she felt whole and well again! Did she run home? Did she again hug her mother—an action denied to her for so long? If her mother was still alive?

And I will now try to use that story as inspiration for my own life. I want to touch the Living Christ with a faith recognized by both of us. I want to be desperate enough for Him that when I reach for Him, I can brush His robes, and we will both know it.

Even so, Lord Jesus.

Hearing God

Back in the day, before Mega-churches sat on so many corners in cities, many churches, especially in the Southern towns where I grew up, had on Sunday morning Sunday School at 9:45 or 10:00 then church at 11:45 or 12:00, and that was Sunday morning. Almost always after that 11:00 service, the pastor of the church (and his wife and family) went to Sunday Dinner with one of the church’s families. Frequently, the wife of said family, and, often, the grandmother who lived with the family, missed the church service to go prepare that dinner so as not to keep the pastor (and wife and family) waiting after church ended. It might be 1:00 before everyone arrived for dinner, but then, quite a bit of food had to be prepared.

Frequently fried chicken sat golden brown and steaming in the middle of the table, maybe with chickens that till Saturday afternoon had pecked around in the yard out back. At that time the term “free range” would have truly meant the chickens ranged around freely—at least until they didn’t. The vegetables, depending on the time of year, came fresh from the garden or from the home-canned goods stored from that garden. Biscuits wrapped to keep warm in a basket, potatoes mashed and piled high in a bowl, gravy made from the chicken drippings—Southern food at its finest—helped complete the meal. And dessert—on, my. I have my grandmother’s cookbook, a source of riches not often seen anymore, at least anywhere in my house.

At one of these meals, chicken on plates, and all the accoutrements, led to conversation. The pastor talked, as pastors do, complimented the women (certainly then the women had done all the cooking) on the food, and said, oh, pastorly things. Among them, he began a comment, “The Lord told me…….” And went on to share what the Lord had told him.

After the meal, the pastor (and his wife and family) left. The grandmother and mother began to clean up, packing up the leftovers to be the family’s supper, washing dishes (dishwasher? Pshaw!), and generally get ready for an afternoon nap. At one point, the grandmother stopped and softly said, “I wonder why God never talks to me like that.” Then that sweet, Godly woman, a woman who prayed every day of her life for her family, her church, and her pastor, read her Bible every day at some point, continued with her work and went on with her day.

I have no doubt that God spoke to that pastor. There are some folks today who would have us believe that He does not interact with His children in that way—that individually we should not expect to receive from Him a message intended just for us.  What I do not know is exactly when that idea took root among God’s children—and why?

For, we are His children.  As a parent, I know that I want to hear no voice more than that of my son, and I know that I’d like Him to hear my own voice once in awhile. Even as he is a grown man, I assure the world, he benefits from my motherly, er, wisdom. What if we said to our children, once grown, “Okay. You’re grown now. I don’t want to see you or hear from you anymore.” And I just pick the grown part at random…… pick an age. God is our Father and all about relationship. Redemption of the Cross gives the relation of adoption to us as His children. And, if God and His Son went through that experience of that brutal, bloody, truly inexplicable to us Cross to have that relationship, how can we think He doesn’t want any interaction with us?

And so, how do we hear from God? Books line whole sections of book stores on just that topic.

Peter Marshall was the Chaplain of the Senate just before World War II. Born in Scotland, he had to apply more than once for his American citizenship after living here for years before he could bring himself to go through with it, so much did he love his home country. But, eventually he did, and so, Chaplain of the Senate. He told the story of himself in Scotland as a young man, walking in a foggy night, cutting across a moor to save time, then hearing someone call his name. He stopped, turned to see who had called him, but heard only wind. He walked on a bit and heard, “Peter!” again, but again could find no one. Taking another step, he stumbled, fell, and his hand reached out and found only empty air. He had reached a deep stone quarry. If he had continued on without those cautionary halts, he would have fallen into the deep hole, into a certain death. He never doubted God had called his name.

I don’t know that Dr. Marshall again believed he heard God talk out loud to him; that is, of course, an exceptional example. I would wish that the pastor at the chicken dinner that day might not just assume that everyone heard from God as easily as he seemed to do and not unintentionally caused that sweet grandmother such heartfelt pain. But I also would want this sweet grandmother to know that God does, indeed, love her and value her as much as He does that pastor and wants to talk with her.

And He left us a Book.

Paul told Timothy, “All Scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness;  so that the man of God may be adequate, equipped for every good work” (2 Timothy 3:16-17). The literal translation for the word “inspired” is “God-breathed.”

Imagine as the men who penned “all Scripture,” the Holy Spirit within them, beside them, behind them, breathing the words onto the pages of the Bible. Inside those Scriptures, the verses themselves describe the Scriptures’ objects that lead to some kind of action.  Hebrews 4:12 tells us Scripture is living, active, sharper than a sword. Ephesians 6:17 says that the word of God is the sword of the Spirit; in Isaiah 55:11, God uses Isaiah to say his word will go out only to return having completed its purpose; in the gospel of John 6:63, Jesus says that His words are life. Those are just a few…… Scripture is not meant to just be read on Sunday or sound good on holidays. It is meant to be taken internally and to affect daily life.

God can communicate with us however He wants, of course. But, for sure, God talks to us through His Word.

I love to read Scripture, then grab a verse and take it apart word by word, mining it for meanings missed in light readings. Though not a true scholar, I have had some good teachers, and there exist good tools available to those of us amateur Bible students, lots of good commentaries, different translations freely available online, Bible dictionaries, and Strong’s Concordance, that takes every word in the Bible, shows the original word in the original language (as if I could read the Hebrew or Greek), gives a meaning, then shows all the ways the Bible translates that word in different places.  Comparing those various words and meanings gives shades to the words and points of view in a verse; lets me see it differently than I may have done previously.

Or not. Sometimes it is just fun.

But I know this:  when I have needed to hear from God, if I have given him a chance, He has not failed me. He is faithful, in spite of my own vast shortcomings. Sometimes He uses other people. Sometimes He smacks me more in the face, metaphorically, of course.

A few years ago a friend betrayed me. The betrayal was deep and hurtful and long term. Forgiveness was not the issue; I do forgive. Forgiveness does not automatically restore trust, and I wait for the growth to trust again. For years I struggled with this situation. I didn’t see my friend often, but when I did, it always seemed like a fresh pain. I forced myself again to purposefully forgive and pray blessings for them.

In Israel, at that beautiful, ancient Wailing Wall, I put my palm on the precious stones and prayed for my family, my work, my closest friends, and then, “God bless this friend who so hurt me; bless them big.”

Then one day as I drove, oh, somewhere, I said, “God, if you do not help me with this, I do not know what I will do. Please help me! My heart feels shattered!”

Not long after that I listened to a Bible lesson online. The teacher read from the Psalms. I don’t remember the lesson; I don’t remember if she spoke on this verse or not, but somewhere in the lesson she read Psalm 34:18:  “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted And saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

When I heard that verse, I felt in my inner spirit what is sometimes called a “quickening.” And my sore, sad, crushed broken heart knew that God had heard my prayer, and that Still, Small Voice repeated silently in  my spirit, “I am near. Let me restore your spirit.”

I looked up the verse and saw what it did not say. It did not say, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted as long as it’s not your fault at all.”

It did not say, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted as long as you do what He says 24/7.”

It did not say, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted as long as you ask Him to be.”

It did not say, “The LORD is near to the broken hearted if you feel Him there.”

It says He is near, a concept, of course, presented from Genesis to Revelation.

When I tried to come up with how I felt when my friend so turned away from me, the old John Denver song came to mind:  You done stomped on my heart, and you mashed that sucker flat.  You just sorta stomped on my aorta………”

My spirit crushed, my heart broken, my aorta stomped. But God…….

Those two words truly do turn around the world.

But God is near. He is near because He is my Father, and if I am broken hearted, He is near because He said He would be. I am not alone in this struggle. 

Here’s the deal:  God loves my friend who hurt me just as much, just as deeply, just as truly as He loves me. He stands up for them just as strongly and just as squarely and just as fervently as He does me. And, that’s okay. Because He is God, and because Jesus died on the cross and then rose alive, He can be both things for both of us.

God is near to us both.

I have seen that friend since I found this Scripture verse, and it still hurts, with this different perspective:  I do not feel alone. I still pray blessings for them, and I know that with them, and with me, God will work the relationship towards healing, if not in this world, then the next. If circumstances happen that I see this friend again, I pray to have grace to look around them and see Christ, near to both of us. For certainly few need forgiveness more than I.

God is near…….

I do not think He wanted my heart to break as it has. But, Great Alchemist that He is, He took this situation and transformed it into a way for me to learn His presence, and the gold of hearing, through His Spirit, Him speak to me through Scripture.

I believe that sweet grandmother did at some point hear God talk to her as she read Scripture. What I also hope is that at some point that she recognized as His voice the words that so stirred her heart of a given morning, turning the worn pages of her Bible, underlined, written in, loved by a woman of God seeking to know her Heavenly Father and knew those words there, right there, would help her through that difficult time today.

Or, perhaps, she just heard her God say He loved her.

I so pray that for us all.

Forgive the Tweet

This was a real tweet……

by a “real” reporter who didn’t even let the dust settle on getting all the news out about the tragic news out about the shooting at the newspaper the other day before he knowingly sent out this false tweet.

He no longer works at The Republican, a small newspaper outlet in Massachusetts, having  sent out a tweet about how his 21-year-career was torpedoed by one very foolish tweet and apologizing graciously to all hardworking reporters and POTUS supporters. (He did not mention President Trump in his apology, but, maybe he thought that was covered)

“Folks, My 21-year career as a “journalist,” a fancy term that makes my skin crawl, frankly, came to a screeching halt yesterday with one stupid, regrettable tweet,” Barry wrote. “Can’t take it back; wish I could. My since apologies to all good, hardworking reporters and to POTUS supporters.” …

Obviously he should have thought again, then again, before hitting the tweet button on that original,  offensive tweet. It is not clear if his employer fired him, suggested he resign, or if his resignation came at his own request.

Another tweet came out in the past few days, a troll tweet from, supposedly, the Mayo Clinic, a fake doctor bragging that he tells Trump supporters there is a problem with their pregnancies and they must terminate their actually-healthy babies because of this false condition. The Mayo Clinic has gone all out to assure everyone the tweet is false, and even when I first saw it, I could not believe a doctor—even if he/she would do such a thing—would be stupid enough to put it out on twitter. But, how sad that some person, because of political craziness, has taken the time of a medical facility to have to defend themselves from such a heinous act.  Before someone jumps in and says, “But Trump,” I’m not going to begin to go there. However one feels about their political opponent, no two wrong, cruel acts can make a right, and how on earth can assigning a murderer with an ax to grind against a business a false political motive or the equivalent with the Mayo Clinic going to help one’s cause?

And, my Conservative Friends, reverse the actions and answer the questions the other way.

I KNOW it is possible to get along with people with whom you virulently disagree politically; two of my closest friends are 180 degrees different from me politically. We care for each other, will defend each other to the death….. and know (we KNOW) the other one is wrong—and it doesn’t matter. Because we know the other one is precious and important and valuable.  I have been called a Nazi and a racist, and they have both been angry on my behalf over that, as they know I am neither. (A family member called me a racist).

So, this reporter…… he sincerely apologized. It was really kind of a big deal, but should he have lost his job? When are we ever going to get back to granting forgiveness? If he had said, “Take your MAGA hat and shove it,” it might be different. But, he didn’t. He really did apologize to other reporters for any way he denigrated their work and to people who support Donald Trump—which must have been very difficult for him. Why can’t we say, “You are forgiven; now go cover the news in a fair and more careful manner.”

Good grief, as I understand it, Michael Vick now has a dog. If THAT was allowed, we can forgive many, many things.

Please, let us turn down the rhetoric. Truly, no one wants to hurt children. Truly we must be able to discuss our differences without invoking Hitler and the Nazis. I promise you, if Trump says he is cancelling an election, I will march with you and make sure our Republic continues. If I remember correctly, Obama is the one who said he could be elected to a third term if allowed. Conservatives, while we quietly whispered, “Thank goodness he is NOT allowed,” we did not scream about our rights being taken away. We just did not elect Hillary Clinton after eight years of being unhappy with the way the government had worked. To those on the Right, they will not take our guns. We will fight and keep (because we will standing for fighting for) Second Amendment rights; Hitler may have taken the guns, but Hitler is not here. On the Left, you all keep saying Trump is going step by step to take rights away, but, again, no Hitler here. In 2024, at the latest, he will be gone because he cannot run after 2020.  The people of color who like him are not sellouts; they are Americans. The women who like him are not lesser; they are Americans. The gays and lesbians who like his economic policies are not crazy; they are Americans.

And, I know and cherish the fact that you all are Americans, too.

As was the reporter who foolishly sent this tweet.

I know some people are so hurt and angry on either side that they will not want to do this. But, it is a symptom of how frightening the rhetoric and anger is that I want to:  I don't mind a brisk discussion usually. But I lived through the 60's and 70's. I hope for calmer, more beneficial, more rational times.

Let’s forgive this reporter and let him talk with us. And let him tell all our stories—maybe without prejudice or point of view; just with interest.

It would be a start.

Happy Easter!

Mary Magdalene ran...and ran....until she found Peter and John. "They've taken Him!" she cried, "His body is gone!"

Gully Where Stone was Rolled
to Close & Open Tomb

Peter and John took off, running to the tomb where they knew Jesus had lain hours before. In his Gospel, John, the youngest of the disciples, makes sure to tell us that he got there first, outrunning the older, perhaps larger, Peter. But Peter is the one who went inside, through the miraculously opened door, who saw first the burial clothes of Jesus, the face cloth folded away from the rest.

The two men, not positive what it meant, went home. Mary Magdalene, forgiven, loving, frightened, anguished from the disappearance of His body, stayed.......and Jesus showed up for her, giving her the news to go and tell his other disciples.

Courtyard of Church
of the  Holy Sepulcher

And it began. Jesus talked to different groups of people at different times, in quiet rooms, on the beach, fishing, preparing a meal. I would love to have been with two of them walking to Emmaus where Jesus, hiding his identity from them, explained His appearance in Old Testament Scripture from Moses forward.....

Most of those men and women who saw him in those days after Easter before He left their sight finally for this life, most of them died gruesome, horrific deaths because they had seen Him--and told others. Those who heard them, worked with them, and believed, many of them also died cruelly. They did not die,

though, for a fairy story or a myth.....they died for the Christ whose tomb no longer held Him.

A bit of controversy hovers over the site of Jesus' grave. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher (the outside seen above) stands over one traditional site of the grave. Not far away, another bears a door that says, "He is Risen!" and looks inside like the description given in Scripture of the grave where Jesus was buried. There are, of course, some people who KNOW, but truly, no proof either place.

And the reason no certainty can, really, exist is....He is not there.

Second Possible Tomb

The Romans & religious Jewish leaders immediately started with, "Someone stole it!" That, of course, doesn't explain the people who, saying they had seen the Risen Christ, willingly lived harshly and died willingly in manners of nightmares.

He is not there.

And, that is what we celebrate this Easter Morning.

Happy Easter.

Holy Week, Saturday

How did they get through Saturday, those disciples of Jesus, after that horrific Friday afternoon when He died a criminal’s death, marked by the agony of physical suffering, and no spoken condemnation from that cross. Instead, on the cross, he spoke forgiveness for the ones who nailed him up there, “Father forgive them. They have no idea what they’re doing.”

And neither, truly, did the followers of Jesus. Sabbath started Friday evening, so they, like all good Jews, stopped work, prayed, no doubt stayed together as much as possible. 

Peter remembered his betrayal, three times denying knowledge of and friendship with Jesus…….

John contemplated taking care of Mary, the beloved mother of Jesus, such a responsibility given to him by Jesus in the final moments of His life……

The nine remaining men, strong fishermen, a tax collector, working men all of them, thought of dashed hopes…….

They relived the past three years, his stirring, triumphant words, his astonishing, inexplicable miracles, raising the dead, feeding 5000 men, their wives, their children, trying to figure out what went wrong……..

They prayed for, what? A sign? Another leader? A greater, bigger, grander miracle? 

Here is the Western Wall, the holiest site in the Jewish faith, last remaining part of the Temple in Jerusalem at that

time. No doubt, the Jewish leaders felt triumphant attending services that Sabbath.....back in charge, another minor trouble maker tossed aside by history. Before long, Jesus of Nazareth would fade to history, his followers scattered, his teachings erased.

The women and men who had followed Jesus, walked with him around Palestine, seen—and participated in—three amazing years of hope……now sat stunned, waiting, confidence crushed on that previous Friday afternoon, courage stymied. They had the Sabbath, the day set aside by God to rest, to refresh. Heartbroken and afraid, the followers of Christ huddled and waited.

Till, finally, in marched Sunday morning.

Holy Week--Friday

A trial for the ages……and to placate the Jews. Pilate’s wife warned him, “Do not do what they want you to do.” What did this ‘local’ matter really have to do with Rome anyway. Except, of course, all matters had to do with Rome if it kept those under Roman rule from becoming unruly.

The Jewish high priest, Caiaphas, had passed Jesus along to Pilate. After all, the crowd screamed for Jesus’ blood, and after Jesus answered an important theological question (“Are you the Son of God?”) by denying them a denial but, rather, by quoting scripture at them, Caiaphas, and the other priests, scribes, and all Jews with any interest in the status quo screamed for Jesus’ death. The mighty Roman Empire alone, though, could exercise state-sanctioned capital punishment. So, off to Pilate they went.

And Pilate’s wife shared her dream. “Have nothing to do with that Righteous Man.” And why? Did she know something Pilate didn’t? Had the servants been talking?

No. Rather, “.....for last night I suffered greatly in a dream because of Him.” (All italics mine).

Pilate had such trust in his wife that, while he didn’t believe the angry mob in front of him would allow him to just release Jesus, he came up with what he believed an out for himself. He gave the crowd a choice. Before Passover, Pilate traditionally released a prisoner.  “I’ll release this man Jesus……or that no good thieving, scoundrel Barabbas.” One of the Gospels called Barabbas “notorious.”

And the crowd cried, “Release Barabbas!”

“And what of Jesus?” You can almost hear Pilate’s voice quiver. There was, after all, his wife with whom to contend. But, no hesitation or softening of sound from the mob watching. “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

Pilate washed his hands. “I am innocent of this man’s blood!” Oh, is it that easy to pass the buck? “I COULD stop this wrong…..but, on your head be it.”

And the throng howled, “His blood will be on our heads,” and, then, if already we do not wonder at their frenzy, if we are not shocked at how lightly they toss aside the life of a Man from whom they had taken teachings and miracles and bread and healing and love and life, hear the horde bawl, “on our heads……and the heads of our children.”

I do not know, of course, we cannot know. But this Christ who so loved children (“Do NOT stop little children from coming to me!” He had commanded His disciples) must have felt His heart, already so broken and battered from a night of betrayal and rejection from people He had loved so fiercely at the cry for the curse falling onto innocents—people so consumed with hatred of a blameless man, the Son of God, that they easily and gladly passed blame to their children, must have felt the break in His heart grow even bigger.

Some of the Caves from
Sign above

Pilate, then, having whipped Jesus earlier, handed Him over. In such caverns as shown here, the Roman soldiers—egged on, helped?, by the frenzied Jews—stripped Jesus, put on him a royal purple robe to mock that title “King of the Jews.”  Taking a plant like a vine of thorns, they constructed an artificial crown and rammed it on his head, blood now coursing into his eyes, so much

Caves from Sign Above

so that they thought beating Him about the head would make some kind of point, all reason well gone by this time.

And, finally, Jesus carried the cross bar of His crucifixion down that Via Delarosa—“The Way of Suffering”—the traditional path He walked out Jerusalem to Golgotha, “The Place of the Skull.” The picture of that spot here was taken in the 1960’s. In that picture, a skull can still emerge from the hillside as you look, though certainly blurred after 2000 years of elemental wear. Imagine the reality of that skull face looking out on the road in the First Century. In the 21^st Century, the face on the hill has faded away, or I could find no outline of it. But that place still stands there, a reminder of that Friday afternoon, of that one particular, significant execution.

Calvary, 1960's
"Place of the Skull"

The beautiful paintings show Jesus high up on a hill, His cross above those of the two men crucified with Him. Probably, though, the men were nailed to crosses on the road, visible to all who walked within sight of that Skull Hill and those three dying men. “Let this be a warning…..Mighty Rome could do this to you as well……..” No beauty in that scene.

Watching along the road, Mary, Jesus’ mother. How did she bear it?

The soldiers whose job it was to carry out this execution mixed with sightseers. Public executions happened in all kinds of cultures word wide until recently, it seems.

Other followers of Jesus watched their dreams fade as His blood drained down that cross, down a hill, down the road. We know John, that youngest of the disciples, watched with Mary, Jesus’ mother.

Even then, Jesus saw to the needs of those around Him. His beloved mother now would live with that young disciple, John. If, as Protestants believe (and I am a Protestant) Mary and Joseph had other children after Jesus, He did not trust the care of his beloved mother to them.

Jesus also looked to His side, to a thief being crucified at the same time as Him, one who recognized the difference of Jesus and other men…..”Today, you and me, in Paradise.”

What a wealth in that sentence.

And then, from that despicable, appalling, shameful, vile cross, the Son of God cried, “It is finished!” Even now, we do not understand completely all the work completed on that cross.

And from a Roman soldier, “Surely this was the Son of God.” Such was the impact of His death.

I wonder, as Jesus’ spirit left His poor, broken, scarred body, I wonder if angels in Heaven heaved sighs. “Finally!” What did Heaven look like that day when Jesus and the thief from the other cross met again—Jesus’ promise kept. “Today, you and me, Paradise.”

I wonder how God the Father held back the archangel Michael, that mighty warrior, from coming to wreak havoc and revenge on those mere humans who had so wickedly handled the body of the Son of God……..

A First Century Tomb
with  Ossuaries

Because they wanted to bury the body, not for altruistic reasons, but to be sure it was buried and so that no one could say anything crazy like, oh, Jesus had risen from the dead, the Jewish leaders made absolutely sure Jesus was dead on that cross.  Then, a wealthy follower, Joseph of Arimathea, provided a nice grave—much nicer than anyone in Jesus’ earthly family could have given.  They prepared the body as best they could in the time they had—Sabbath began at sundown—put Him in that cave, rolled a huge stone in front of it, a stone like a big disk pushed along a small gulley in front just for that purpose, persuaded  Rome to position guards, and went away satisfied their work was

done, complete.

If they only knew.

The disciples and followers of Christ went away….to hide, to pray, to cry, to grieve. He had told them, but who could understand what He truly meant by “resurrection”? By “be not afraid?” All their dreams and hopes for overthrowing Rome, all their aspirations for helping Jesus rule over their hated enemies. They went away, some together, some alone, as their world fell apart……

If they only knew.

 

Calvary Today

Palm Sunday--Holy Week Begins

Yesterday was Palm Sunday. Ah, I knew this time would draw me back to last June, those too-few days in that enchanted, mysterious, captivating country of Israel.

2000 years ago, the Gospels tell us, as they walked towards Jerusalem, Jesus sent a couple of his disciples ahead of Him to borrow a donkey. Some scholars believe the donkey to be a beast of peace, as opposed to my beloved horses, often depicted as animals of war.

Other descriptions of Christ in the New Testament have him riding a white stallion, indeed, leading the soldiers of righteousness to a final battle. But, before that victory, the humble donkey carried the Lamb to the city where His sacrifice would happen.

The disciples said to the donkey's owner, who, of course, had questions about people just taking their donkey away, "The Lord needs it." Apparently, that's all it took.

Jesus rode to the city via the Mount of Olives. You can see the Mount of Olives

from about anywhere in Jerusalem, or anywhere I was, and certainly from the Old City. And the people put palm fronds in front of him, calling out praises, crying over him, making the religious establishment lose their minds. It seems from the back of this humble donkey, Christ wept over Jerusalem, heartbroken for the fate He knew to come, distraught at their lack of belief. After Jesus entered Jerusalem (a model of ancient Jerusalem shown here), he dismounted the donkey, entered the temple, and threw out all the merchants there using a Holy place as a place for stealing. He had no patience for misuse of His Father's house.

This is the holiest week in Christendom. No doubt, pilgrims walk those cobbled streets this week in Jerusalem reliving those last earthly days of Christ, hearing men (and some women) with descriptive gifts far better than mine bringing to life the places and the time from 2000 years ago, crossing the years, making history present, as that ancient land so easily does.

After His

triumphal entry into Jerusalem, after His tossing merchants and money out of the Temple like so many miscreant shopkeepers, the religious leaders of His day wanted to kill Jesus even more than before....and not long afterwards, one of his closest friends betrayed Him over disappointment of expectations and the lure of silver, and those envious, ungodly religious leaders got their wish.

Or so they thought.

I wish I was there in that land that draws me back....but, even now, I close my eyes and see the desert, feel the heat, dry, dusty, ageless, reach my hands to caress the rough, ancient stones, walk the narrow streets--the very streets Jesus walked. I quietly sit.....shut out the world.....close my eyes.....remember......and I am there.

Remembering Israel-Holy Thursday

After Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem on what we now call Palm Sunday and His clearing of the Temple, scholars believe Jesus returned to Bethany, thought  to be about a mile and a half distance, on what is now the West Bank. Walking didn’t require a fit-bit in those days; to get from here to  there, frequently you just walked, and Jesus and the disciples likely hoofed it along quickly. We know Jesus taught that week, maybe back in Bethany, maybe both or other places.  A walk of a mile-and-a-half would not merit a gold star in a chart on the fridge. It would just be a Tuesday—or, in that Holy Week, perhaps a Thursday.

For sure, Jesus returned with his disciples to “the Upper Room” for the Passover meal—a Seder Meal—with these disciples, most of whom He knew would eventually die for

Stained Glass of Last Supper
 (on top)
Jerusalem

their devotion to Him. He wanted to prepare them, to not have them be shocked by His death, to, again, assure them He would never truly leave them, convince them of His love, of God’s providence, that, no matter what circumstances might appear to be on the cusp of drowning them, overwhelming them, in that “dark night of the soul,” they actually, truthfully, really would not be alone, even if they could not see and touch Him as at that last Seder meal. John, the youngest of the chosen 12, would ask the traditional questions of Passover, beginning with, “Why is this night different from all others?

After they asked these questions, Jesus, that Hebrew boy who grew into the Hebrew man, answered

those same traditional questions being asked and answered all over Israel, particularly Jerusalem, at that same time. They ate the Passover meal, the tradition begun hundreds of years before Christ celebrated with his disciples, begun on that very first night the angel of death passed over houses marked with lamb's blood when the Israelites prepared to leave Egypt, the traditional meal that continues today. For Christians this foretells of the sacrificial Lamb whose blood would redeem, that Lamb even on that evening 2000 years ago concentrating on the Passover meal with His friends, not distracted by the dread to come or, it appears, the redemption worked by His sacrifice the next night. Jesus lived for each day on the day. During that meal Jesus sent Judas off to commit his treasonous act. “Hurry and get it over with.” How His heart must have broken to have this man, his follower—his friend—betray him so cruelly.

Before Judas met those conspirators against Jesus had time to return and find Jesus to turn Him over to those who wanted to kill Him, Jesus took his disciples to the Garden of Gethsemane so He could pray. He left them, went a bit further, begged to find another way—any other way—than the path He knew to come, and returned to find the disciples asleep. Well, it was late, they had just eaten a big meal. He wanted them to pray as He was praying.

Garden of Gethsemane

But, if the disciples had managed to pray together as Christ prayed farther away from them that night, would Peter have acknowledged himself a follower of Jesus a few hours later rather than betraying Him three times before that crowing rooster sounded the soon arrival of morning? Would a prayer at that time have mattered, and did Jesus, wanting to spare them more fear and shame to come, encourage them again and again, “Pray…. pray……pray.”  But, He would not force them. God will not force communication with His children.

Then Judas appeared,

performed with the kiss of friendship the deed for which he would not later seek forgiveness. Judas could not have known the series of events his one act of perfidy would beget. But, Jesus knew…..and if Judas lived to mourn that act, he didn’t live long, not able to bear the repercussions, not capable to deal with the guilt. Even so, Jesus never gave any other idea but that He could, at any time during that Thursday night have stopped any of these steps towards that monstrous death to which He steadily headed. As Peter grabbed a sword and cut off the ear of one of servants of the High Priest to try to protect Jesus, Jesus gently scolded him, returned the ear, likely before the servant realized exactly what had happened (did it really get cut off and put back on?), and assured them all that He could call legions of angels--if he wanted. 

What must all those men have thought upon seeing this? As the story moved among them ("Did you see that? What? Really? He did what?") what must that crowd of cruel, hardened soldiers thought. 

And, what did those legions of angels think from Heaven? The song says, "Angels from Heaven up  yonder watch with amazement and wonder to see the Son of the Highest treated so."

Indeed.

A great irony is that the purpose for which Jesus allowed Judas to betray him, so that Jesus could make Himself that sacrifice on the cross, that ransom Jesus paid after Judas’ betrayal, covered and absolved even the monstrous duplicity of a follower of the Son of God by a loved friend. Judas did not find final destruction from the guilt and grief because of his unfathomable betrayal ; his ultimate downfall was, as for so many humans throughout history, that he could not, he would, not accept forgiveness from the act of Sacrifice Jesus performed that Friday afternoon. Judas refused pardon freely offered to us all.

That cross, truly, is enough.

Periodically, when I heap upon myself condemnation for the sins of commission, omission, permission, all kinds of –mission, I have to stop and say, “You’re not the one…..you’re not the one the cross doesn’t cover.” Judas could not believe because he would not believe Jesus’ words from those three years he had lived and worked with Him. Even the other disciples, after Jesus’ death, cowered, hid, fearful of the coming days, weeks, months, of the unknown future. Judas, feeling responsible by that time for the loss of everything, all he had hoped for, all he had thought he hoped for, killed himself after throwing the silver, the price of his duplicity and disloyalty, back in the faces of the men who had paid him and who, by now, could have cared less. They had what they wanted, believing themselves free of this rural rabble rouser, this Nazarene preacher who threatened their authority.

The mock trial (millions of others’ words explain the bogus actions of that trial well past what I could explain), Peter’s betrayal—Peter, who during that Seder meal had sworn his loyalty could not—WOULD not be in any way questioned—Peter could hardly warm his hands fast enough to swear and deny Christ with his own words and actions. As his final denial ended, Jesus, in the middle of a trial for his life, being accused of false actions and intent, turned and looked at Peter. Brown eyes met brown eyes, and Peter’s shame stopped his words as he turned and ran in disgrace from the courtyard where so many watched to see just what would happen with this preacher, prophet, perhaps faker, on trial here.

Statue of Peter's Betrayal

Thursday night, the trial of Christ continued. The Jews felt pressure to hurry, because the Sabbath, a day on which they could not do any work—like burying someone—would soon be upon them. A Roman Caesar, his wife, Jewish religious leaders, and a mob pondered Jesus’ fate as He stood quietly, so few words, having made His peace with what was to come.

Ready for His purpose and His part in history, Jesus patiently waited for the humans around Him to play their roles. A Roman Caesar, his wife, Jewish religious leaders, and a mob….and Thursday crawled into Friday.