Stay With Him

I watched with all my might for the moment when Christ’s life would slip away at last. I expected to see his body quite dead, but it did not happen. Then, just when I thought his life could not last a minute longer, and that this showing was about to reveal his final end, everything shifted. As I gazed upon the same crucifix, his facial expression suddenly changed to joy. The transformation of his blessed countenance transformed mine. I became as glad and as merry as I could be.

And then our Beloved cheerfully suggested to my mind, Is there any point to your pain or your grief, now? And I found that I was completely happy.

I realized that what Christ meant to show me is that we are hanging on the cross with him right now—in our pain, in our suffering, even in our dying—and that if we willingly stay with him there, he will, by his grace, convert all our distress to delight. He will suddenly change his appearance, and we will find ourselves with him in paradise. No time will elapse between the sorrowful state and the state of bliss. Everything will be reconciled in joy. This is what he meant when he asked me what the point was of my pain and grief now.

And so shall we be fully blessed.

Then I realized that if he were to show us his most blissful countenance now, no pain on earth (or any other place) could possibly trouble us.  We would experience everything as joy and bliss. But because he showed us an expression of the suffering he endured in this life, our fragile human nature causes our hearts to be troubled and demands that we labour with him on the cross.

Do not forget, however, that the reason he suffers is because, in his goodness, he wishes to bring us into his joy. In exchange for the bit of pain we endure in our lives, we will receive a transcendent, boundless knowledge of God, which we could never have without that portion of tribulation. The more intensely we suffer with him on his cross, the greater will be our glory when we are with him in his kingdom.

Revelations of Divine Love - Julian of Norwich

This is Holy Week. A week we are invited to ‘stay with him’, as Jesus walks towards the cross, towards death, and towards a transformation. It is a walk he must take alone, but he need not be lonely. We can stay with him, watch and pray, we can keep vigil. Keep your gaze fixed on him, his feet, his hands and upon his face.

His suffering, his death, his sorrow is for our sake, our grief, our joy, “Everything will be reconciled in joy. This is what he meant when he asked me what the point was of my pain and grief now”.

This past year has certainly brought unforeseen grief, sorrow, and even death to much of the world. Sure, there have been moments of joy, times for gratitude and opportunities for new things, but, by and large, the tone of our world has been one of grief and our posture as one of sorrow. 

In my job, at times, I sit in the most sacred of spaces as a person walks their final journey towards death. Like Jesus they must do it alone, but they need not be lonely. I can watch and pray and keep vigil. When it appears the time is very close I sit with them, take hold of their hand, and stroke their hair. I pray with them, letting them know they are not lonely, I am there, and there is one waiting for them, one waiting to take their hand from mine. And then I sing to them. As I sing, I watch their face relax, and I hear their breath calm until it stops. I sing them to death and into the arms of the one who knew them first. I stay with them.

This is what Julian of Norwich is inviting us to do this week with Jesus. Stay with him.

Lazarus Saturday

The Saturday Before Palm Sunday; 

The Eastern Orthodox Church marks a Holy Day on the day before Palm Sunday. Palm Sunday is this coming Sunday.
For the Eastern Orthodox Church, the day before is referred to as “Lazarus Saturday”.

The raising of Lazarus from the dead is one of the last actions of Jesus described in the Gospel of John before the events of Holy Week.
The Eastern Orthodox Church observes what they call “The Great Lent” as 40 days of fasting leading up to Lazarus Saturday. The final week of what many other Christians call Lent is a separate time for Orthodox Christians and Lazarus Saturday and Palm Sunday Sunday are feast days.

I like the concept of Lazarus Saturday.
We could use such a holy day this year. Even amidst so much loss and pain and uncertainty, there are marks that life overwhelms death in Christ Jesus.
The Orthodox Church observes the feast of Lazarus Saturday by breaking a special kind of bread in shapes resembling the shapes of people. The faces of the spiced bread are decorated with almonds or cloves and the bread is wrapped in cloth resembling burial cloth. There is music and sometimes dramatic performances and even something like caroling from door to door. Children are given cookies and eggs and candy.
I think that this year, 2021 I may observe a modified “Lazarus Saturday”.

Christ's Magnetism - Will Willimon

“And when I am lifted up, I’ll draw all to myself.”

The Gospel of John loves irony. Jesus says to his disciples, “And when I’m lifted up,…” and of course we think to ourselves, “Finally, Jesus is going to step up, act like a Messiah, take charge, raise an army, run out the Romans, and set up a new Kingdom of David government.”

Of course we know that the deeper, ironic meaning of “lifted up.” He’ll be lifted up alright, but not on a high and mighty throne. Jesus will be hoisted up on a bloody cross, the lowest depth to which a human can be cast down.

And in this passage Jesus speaks of his cross, not as the instrument of torture that it is, but as a vast, cosmic magnet, God’s wondrous means of drawing all to God.

Here deep in the season of Lent, we look to the cross and see God somehow, someway using it to finally get what God wants. All the world – we sinners, rebels and deniers somehow being drawn toward God in spite of ourselves. See them all, the whole world, all of humanity, sometimes gradually, every now and then jerked and pulled toward a God who, in the cross of Christ, has turned toward us.

Therein is our hope.

Excerpt from Will All Be Saved?

Cherry Blossoms

I saw them today. The first ones of the year. They were not perfect or full yet but still they were there. They were only on one side of the tree, one of those valley trees, trimmed through the middle to make way for power lines. I do not know if the other half of the tree was still asleep or dead. But in that moment, on this morning it did not matter.

Those early, young cherry blossoms, so delicately pink, immediately filled me with an overwhelming sense of joy and hope.

Winter was coming to an end.
The thaw was here. 
Spring is on its way.

It has been a full year since the blossoms made an appearance and oh, what a year it has been. But I was reminded that they have no knowledge of what has transpired. It is not that they are foolish or even ignorant, in the pejorative sense, it is that they are indifferent. Beautifully and blissfully indifferent, to me, to you, to all that has happened. 

Do not confuse indifference with not caring though. They have a totally different role to fulfill in this world. They are some of the earliest reminders of resurrection and beauty. Their vocation is to remind us that death is not final, that our hope rests in the restoration of all things. 

“I am making all things new!”  

They also carry a message telling us that God is aware of our condition, our suffering, our fears, but God is the God of the universe, of all things made and that there is more in creation than you and I. God can, and does, keep his eye on the sparrow, his hands on the galaxies, and his gaze on us all at once. We are not alone but, also, we are not the only ones. 

As I pulled into my parking space, I held all these thoughts and feelings at once. I was grateful, thankful, humbled, grieved, and joyful all at the same time because even though spring is coming, winter still holds a grip. Restoration is taking place, but the aroma of loss and death remains in the air. 

Then I thought, “This is a lot of weight to place on a delicate cherry blossom on what might yet be a half dead tree.” But then, as I walked past that same tree, I heard a whisper, “It’s alright, I can bear it because I know how it ends.”

A tear formed in my eye and slowly made its way down my cheek. I have never been so grateful for indifference.

March 12 - The Blessing of Affliction

Saint Isaak of Syria asked and answered the following question;

Q: “What is a merciful heart?”

A: “It is a heart on fire for the whole of creation, for humanity, for the birds, for the animals, for demons and for all that exists. At the recollection of the sight of them, such a person’s eyes overflow with tears owing to the fervor of compassion that grips their heart, as a result of their deep mercy, their heart aches, and cannot bear to observe any injury or slightest suffering of anything in creation.”

Poet Scott Cairns reminds us that Lent is the season of self-assigned affliction. We voluntarily quiet and soften our hearts. We prayerfully consider that through the affliction of Jesus, all things are made new.

Amen

Entering the Third Week of Lent

We are now in the in-between.

March is beginning to settle in, but as only March can. “In like a lion, out like a lamb” I remember hearing when I lived in Ontario as a child and March was cold and mud and melting snow before it was light and any warmth at all.
Lent is an in-between. We know that Jesus is headed to the cross. We await Good Friday and we anticipate Easter Sunday. We remember our frailty. We have known since before last Easter, the limitations of humanity as perhaps we had not seen before. In Lent we recall our own limitations and frailty and we hold in mind the frailty and limitations of the world.

There is an Orthodox expression that works so well for Lent and so well for this time in which we live. The word is “harmolype” and it refers to a disposition, an attitude, a way of seeing things. Perhaps the best translation is “bright sadness”.
And here we are, part of a world that is beginning to open up again. There will be joy, but there will be sadness, too. The losses can only be counted after the time of loss. We were frail before COVID and will be so after. We carry with us a “bright sadness” that helps us to know what it means to live. We are grateful for this life. Grateful for the love of God for all people and for this whole cosmos. Every bit.

From the Orthodox church;

The elder Paisios once said that for love to blossom in the heart, we must pray with pain of heart. In explaining this he noted that when we hurt some part of our body — our hand, for example — all our attention and energy focuses on where we hurt. So too it is a hurting and broken heart that focuses our spiritual attention. When asked what can we do if, in fact, we are not suffering and our heart is not hurting, the elder replied: “We should make the other’s pain our own! We must love the other, must hurt for him, so that we can pray for him. We must come out little by little from our own self and begin to love, to hurt for other people as well, for our family first then for the large family of Adam, of God.”

Amen.

Wednesday March 3

The following is an excerpt from Walter Wangerin Jr'.’s Lenten Devotional, Reliving The Passion.

Mark 14:22-25

And as they were eating, he took bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them and said, “Take; this is my body.” And he took the cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, and they all drank of it. And he said to them, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. Truly, I say to you, I shall not drink again of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.”

The Lord Jesus, the same night in which he was betrayed -

When is a mother more inclined to cuddle her children? When they’re a nasty, insolent brood, disobedient and disrespectful of her motherhood? Or when they are cuddly?

When will a father likelier give good gifts to his children? When they’ve just ruined the previous gift, by negligence or by downright wickedness? When they are sullen and self-absorbed? Or when they manifest genuine goodness and self-responsibility?

But the love of Jesus is utterly unaccountable - except that he is God and God is love. It has no cause in us. It reacts to, or repays, or rewards just nothing in us. It is beyond human measure, beyond human comprehension. It takes my breath away.

For when did Jesus choose to give us the supernal, enduring gift of his presence, his cuddling, his dear communing with us? When we were worthy of the gift, good people indeed? Hardly. It was precisely when we were most unworthy. When our wickedness was directed particularly at him.

Listen, children: it was to the insolent and the hateful that he gave his gift of personal love.

“As they were eating, he took bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them and said -“

With the apostle Paul the pastor repeats: The Lord Jesus, the same night he was betrayed, took bread. Oh, let that pastor murmur those words, the same night, with awe. For who among us can hear them just receiving the gift of Christ’s intimacy and not be overcome with wonder, stunned at such astonishing love? The context qualifies that love. The time defines it. And ever and ever again, these words remind us of the times: The same night in which he was betrayed -

“While we were still weak,” says Paul, “at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.” Not for the godly and the good, but “while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.” Then! That same night! When absolutely nothing recommended us. When “we were enemies.” Enemies! In the night when his people betrayed him - the night of intensest enmity - the dear Lord Jesus said, “This is my blood of the covenant, poured out for many.” Then! Can we comprehend the joining of two such extremes, the good and the evil together? In the night of gravest human treachery he gave the gift of himself. And the giving has never ceased. The holy communion continues today.

But in that same night he remembered our need. In that same night he provided the sacrament which would forever contain his grace and touch his comfort into us.

Oh, this is a love past human expectation. This is beyond all human deserving. This, therefore, is a love so celestial that it shall endure long and longer than we do.

This is grace.

Behold, Lord, I am of small account:
What shall I say to thee? I lay my hand upon my mouth. Your love is too wonderful for me; it is too high; I can’t understand it. But this I do: I dwell within it, silently, gratefully, faithfully, believing in it after all.
Amen.

Hugs & Kisses

I wish I could write something meaningful right now that does not mention Covid. But I’m not sure that is possible.  Everything of significance seems to have to be seen through that lens right now. It’s also difficult to think of anything new to say about Covid or offer a new perspective. To say everything has changed because of Covid is unnecessary because it is so obvious. 

Covid has shone a light both on the fragility of the human condition and the resilience of it. Almost everyone I know has been brought to the brink of breaking at some point in the past year. And yet if you had said a year ago that for twelve months much of the world’s travel would grind to a halt or that virtually everyone would be wearing masks in public or that major league sports would be being played in empty stadiums…people would have thought it was not possible. Yet, here we are, a year later. The way people attend school has completely changed, restaurants that never delivered now excel at takeout, millions of people have given up daily commutes and are working from home, whole new companies and industries have emerged out of the pandemic, and a vaccine has not only been developed and tested, but nearly a quarter of a billion people have received a shot. 

Perhaps the most impactful effect of Covid though has been to our social practices. Gone are nights out with friends, worship gatherings, concerts, dinner parties, birthday celebrations, family gatherings, BBQ’s on the deck. Gone too are handshakes, hugs, and kisses. Everyone is aware how this has had an effect on long term care homes where family visits stopped for a while and even still are largely limited to once a week for an hour, six feet apart, masks on, and no touching. 

Turns out we are social creatures after all. We need to be with people. New research has shown it is not only close relationships like family and best friends, but the minor casual ones too, the checkout clerk, the barista, the person who walks their dog past your house at the same time you come home from work each day. A year of not being with others, not seeing smiles, not touching other people has taken its toll on us, on our mental, emotional, and spiritual health. 

But this week I heard good news, great news. Effective Monday, hugs and kisses are back! 

At least in care homes.

Now that residents have been vaccinated, their loved ones can give them a hug, hold their hands during a visit, and even give them a kiss (with observance of hand hygiene)! I assume handshakes are allowed too though it was not specified. This is only good news. 

As we journey through Lent on route to the cross, and as we navigate ourselves around loss, hurt, disappointment and grief, let us keep our eyes open to see glimpses of light and experience moments of hope. 

As a Lenten practice we invite you to consider not only your own loss, frustration, grief but that of others too. So, consider a group of people or industry that has been heavily impacted, for example: airlines, hotels, cruise ships, restaurants, schools, hospitals, churches, care homes, retail, entertainment, sports (amateur and professional), dentists, barber shops and beauty salons, community centres, artists of all types, and many more. How might they be experiencing grief and loss? What might they be afraid of looking forward? Then consider and look for the glimpses of light and glimmers of hope that you have seen or heard about. Give thanks for these. 

The pandemic may not be over, but hugs and kisses are returning. 

Spring Lament

I was cycling outside yesterday, February 22nd.  The afternoon ride took me across the Lions Gate Bridge and around Stanley Park. As I rounded the curve near the 9 o’clock gun I caught a sense, an unmistakable smell of spring. It was beautiful.
This year, though, it carried with it a reminder of sorrow and loss.
The emergence of spring and summer this year will be unlike any we have ever felt in our lifetime. Last year, as February turned into March, we were entering the pandemic. Somehow after a year, this spring, we are beginning to emerge from the pandemic.
In the evening I saw a news story in which President Biden and Vice President Harris in the United States marked the solemn occasion of the United States passing 500,000 COVID deaths. For perspective, that’s more Americans than died in World War I, World War II and the Vietnam War combined. For perspective, the North Shore of Vancouver, the three municipalities of North Vancouver City and District and West Vancouver, have a combined population of less than 200,000.

Lent is a season of knowing our limits, our mortality, our frailty and our sin. Lent is a season of considering that Jesus took on the grief of the world. So I pray,
“What does it mean that You took on the grief of each of us? What does it mean that You took on the grief of all us? I have been carrying the grief of losing my father to suicide. Have You taken on that grief? I know full well that You have. I am broken in grief that You are set towards the cross, but I am given life in this as well. I am not alone. None of us are alone.”

Give me eyes to see. Bless me with the painful gift of lament. As You told us;
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Amen

Thursday February 18

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. In the Christian season of Lent Ash Wednesday reminds us of our own mortality. We are from dust and to dust we return. Many of us have been more aware of mortality and limitation this past year than we have been at any other time in our lives. The world over, people have had to give things up. A standard practice for those observing lent is to give something up for the 40 days before Easter. People give up coffee or alcohol or television or some other thing. The idea behind the practice is to turn us toward a reflection around where our lives come from. God is the giver of life. Jesus has taken on all darkness. This year many Christian communities are turning the practice a little to encourage people to take up something rather than to give something up. Perhaps you can take up a practice of focused prayer for five minutes each day. Perhaps you can determine to read a devotional book or a book that offers spiritual guidance and wisdom. Perhaps you can determine to phone one friend each day to ask how they are doing. 

Reflector Project has been building many partnerships and friendships. We will include 3 brief Lenten reflections each week before Easter. We are also, with permission from St. Andrew’s Hall, offering a daily devotional guide put together by the professors, administrators and students of the school. 

You can find it HERE. 

May God bless you on this Lenten Journey.  
Each day already is getting brighter. What a blessing it will be to celebrate Easter and anticipate gathering together again.