And It Was Night . . .

You stumble unseeing from the upper room
and no number of lanterns and torches can dim
your darkness now, Judas. When did you let
the light go out? When did you begin
to guard the hoard and spend starry evenings
behind drawn tent flaps, running the coins
through acquisitive fingers while the company sat
in a circle outside, breaking bread
and talking of light in the crackling campfire?

When did you fine-tune your ears to the clink
of copper and silver and gold, letting
the words of the Master fade out unheeded?
When did you start to begrudge begging hands
and when did you welcome disciples more
for the treasures they gave than the treasures they were?

Now, in the dark of Gethsemane’s garden,
you touch greedy lips to the Master’s cheek –
a cheap giveaway to your cohorts of night.

Irene Zimmerman, OSF
Woman Un-Bent



Do this in my memory . . .

Painting by Fr. Bob Gilroy

used with permission

Dec. October 29, 2017

https://www.trinitystores.com/artist/fr-bob-gilroy-sj

 

 

Once upon a time when I was attending a Holy Thursday service at a nearby parish,  there were chairs set up in the aisles along with pitchers of water, basins, and towels.  So it was that when it came to the ritual of foot washing, everyone participated. I found myself entering into the movements and happenings with such emotion, I could feel it deep in my soul space.
During this time, I watched husbands and wives washing each other’s feet, their children washing the feet of their parents. I saw sons and daughters washing the feet of their elderly parents. Children washing the feet of their siblings.  It was oh so moving that I cried throughout the whole experience, and especially as my feet were washed. What a powerful act of intimacy - an act of sacred touching, healing, welcoming, and forgiving.

A Sorrowful Mystery . . .

A poem posted by Fr. Stephen Verbest . . .
https://newmelleray.org/Homily-Library
 
A poem by an unknown author, titled:
"Two Mothers", tells of their anonymous heavenly encounter as follows: 
 
A long time ago, so I have been told,
 Two mothers once met on streets paved with gold.
“By the stars in your crown,” said Mary to the other
“I see that on earth, you too, were a mother.
"And by, the violet-tinted halo you wear
 You, too, have known sorrow and deepest despair.”

“Ah yes,” she replied, “I once had a son.
 A sweet little lad, full of laughter and fun.
“But tell of your child.”
 “Oh, I knew I was blessed
 From the moment I first held him close to my breast,
 And my heart almost burst with the joy of that day.”
“Ah, yes,” said the other, “I felt the same way.”
 
The former continued: “The first steps he took-
So eager and breathless; the sweet startled look
 Which came over his face – he trusted me so.”

“Ah, yes,” said the other, “How well do I know."
 
“But soon he had grown to a tall handsome boy,
 So stalwart and kind – and it gave me such joy
 To have him just walk down the street by my side.”

“Ah yes," said the other mother, “I felt the same pride.”

“How often I shielded and spared him from pain.
 And when he for others was so cruelly slain.
 When they crucified him – and they spat in his face
 How gladly would I have hung there in his place!”

A moment of silence – “Oh, then you are indeed
 The mother of Christ!”; and she fell on one knee.
 But the Blessed one raised her up, drawing her near.
 And kissed from the cheek of the mother, a tear.

“Tell me the name of the son you love so,
 That I may share with you in your grief and your woe.”
She lifted her eyes, looking straight at the other.
“He was Judas Iscariot: I am his mother.”

A Week Named . . .HOLY!

A businessman known for his ruthless practices bragged to Mark Twain, “Before I die I mean to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I will climb Mount Sinai and read the 10 Commandments aloud at the top.” Twain retorted, “I have a better idea. You could stay in Boston and keep them.”
As we enter into this week named HOLY there is no need to make a pilgrimage to a far away land, or to climb a sacred high mountain, or shout out commandments once given to Moses!

The HOLY can be found within our own hearts and lives.  The land upon which we live, walk, and have our being is holy.  The "mountains" of joyful and sorrowful events in our everyday world call us to be open to tranformation.  And the Beatitudes of today invite us to live with justice, mercy, forgiveness, and compassion.  All is HOLY this week. 

previously posted

Moving from March Madness to April Gladness!

In March of 2013, we all with some form of technology or in person gathered around a little chimney to watch it produce white smoke to signal the election of a new pope.  Eventually, Francis appeared on the draped balcony amidst red robed cardinals and “priests in waiting.” The days kept building with March Gladness in preparation for the pope’s inauguration when he would be presented with the Pallium, the Ring, and the Book of the Gospels signifying the beginning of his pontificate.

His election became even more of a reality when throngs of people in the square outside St. Peter’s Basilica appeared including marching bands, Swiss Guards in their finest, clergy in their finest as well, with trumpets blaring, and with Patriarchs and Major Archbishops of the Eastern Rite Catholic Churches, heads of the official delegations from various countries, accompanied with vested cardinals in attendance. Again, this is the extent of my hierarchy expertise.  However, I believe this March Gladness was to be a clue as to what we would hear happen in the Scriptures during Holy Week.

Holy Week, beginning with Palm Sunday, presents us with the reading of the Passion after processing with palms. Then we listen to the reading of the Gospel of Mark. He does not have the parade of peoples as Luke, but we celebrate this threshold as we enter deeper into the Paschal Mystery.  Here begins the March Gladness which will eventually be turned into March Madness on Good Friday . . . These readings are filled with much symbolism. I suggest you consider reading a biblical commentary, i.e., Preaching the New Lectionary by Dianne Bergant, Year B. 

Jesus enters Jerusalem riding upon a colt, no Popemobile for him. He will meet throngs of people cheering Hosannas now and later hurling shouts of “crucify him.” Religious and political leaders presently puzzled now, already plotting in their hearts how to get rid of this “presence that disturbs.” No banners, no bands, no ring, no Pallium of lamb’s wool. For you see, he is the “sacrificial lamb.” No Book of the Gospels - for he is Word;  he is the Good News that now comes in gladness only to enter into the Good Friday madness of darkness, anger, and hate. He will stare evil in the face – this, too, will be a legendary performance with a fantastic finish - alternating with the agony and ecstasy of predictions gone right - gone Mysteriously right!



Ready, Set, Give Yourself Away! . . .

 

 

 

 

Entry
( Matthew 21:1-11) 

The stage is set
and everything washed clean
in a rain of sunshine.
Hands reach out
to calm a skittish colt,
bewildered by its burden.
The Son of David
rides a rainbowed road
that rocks with hosannas.
(Irene Zimmerman, OSF)

 

Living Holy Week again and again . . .

O God, we pray for all those in our world

who are suffering from injustice:

For those who are discriminated against

because of their race, color or religion;

For those imprisoned

for working for the relief of oppression;

For those who are hounded

for speaking the inconvenient truth;

For those tempted to violence

as a cry against overwhelming hardship;

For those deprived of reasonable health and education;

For those suffering from hunger and famine;

For those too weak to help themselves

and who have no one else to help them;

For the unemployed who cry out

for work but do not find it.

We pray for anyone of our acquaintance

who is personally affected by injustice.

Forgive us, Lord, if we unwittingly share in the conditions

or in a system that perpetuates injustice.

Show us how we can serve your children

and make your love practical by washing their feet.

                                                             Mother Teresa