Posted on 03/24/2005 7:50:16 PM PST by Knitting A Conundrum
Meditation on Christ's Passion
When you prayed in the garden, Lord,
and the heaviness pressed all around you,
as the full moon's light peaked through the olive trees,
and your apostles snored in the shadows,
and you sweated blood in the depths of your grief,
how heavy did today weigh on your shoulders,
with a war-torn world,
mad with bloodlust,
despising your peace,
hot with hatred and selfish fulfilment
sometimes done in the name of God,
or done in the name of self,
careless with all you have taught?
When they tied you to the pillar, Lord,
and scourged you in the Roman way,
a beating so severe that it alone could take a life,
as the weights at the ends of the whips,
and the heavy slap of the leather tore your flesh,
did you see the babies ripped for profit,
the innocents blown up to make a political statement,
the slaughtered millions killed
because they belonged to the wrong class,
or bloodline,
or culture
or faith
or country?
Which gave you the most pain -
the cruel leather,
or the knowlege how we would reject you?
When you walked that long walk
with the heavy crossbeam tied to your hands
as they paraded you and the others
to the Place of the Skull
amid a phalanx of proud and hard Roman soldiers
who hated the noise and the crowd and the foreignness of it all,
and took out their spite by tugging your bonds
and watching you fall with arms extended,
and when you saw your Mother there,
and the aching pain passed between you,
did you see all the other mothers
aching in their pain for what evildoers would do
to their sons and daughters in the days to come,
mothers of the disapeared,
mothers of political prisoners,
mothers of those slain by bombers,
mothers of the beaten and kidnapped,
mothers looking for children buried in mass graves,
mothers who watch their children starve for others' gain?
When they nailed you to the cross,
and hung you up to die the slow death
reserved for slaves and foreign traitors,
gradual suffocation
in hot, aching, painful breaths,
did our evil make the pain that much harder?
Did our lack of mercy and love
echo down the centuries like a pressing weight
making your sacrifice all the more painful?
And yet, still you managed to love us,
and gave us all you had left,
your mother,
your compassion,
your heart's blood.
Dear Lord,
Forgive us!
Please feel free to post your own additions to this thread!
May you have a blessed Good Friday.
Prayer and Meditation Ping!
This is a special prayer and meditation ping for Holy Thursday and Good Friday.
Meditation on Gethsemane
How slow the moments must have seemed,
there in the garden,
among the olive trees that moonlit night,
as the trees uplifted their branches
in the dappled light and shadow
like arms uplifted in prayer.
Only they managed to stay and watch with you.
The garden grew quiet as your followers fell asleep
one by one,
unable to keep vigil,
even though you asked,
you wanted,
you needed.
Their gentle snoring was almost the only sound.
Did you see Peter
struggling to keep his eyes open,
John nudging him to stay awake,
only to succumb himself?
Was this, then, how it was to begin,
the isolation of the sacrificial victim,
The Father requiring you to give up everything that comforted
as you gazed into the gathering darkness,
even your companions in this long journey,
the witnesses to a loving God's concern.
No crutches or helpers then,
just you and the night.
How quiet it all was.
Did you begin to strain your ears
listening for sounds
of the gathering mob?
Two Gardens
In one garden,
the lie was chosen
over the will of God,
and nature
groaned under the curse
and the grief
and the countless tears
of mankind
that followed.
In one garden,
quietly,
one full moon night
the will of God was chosen
over the lie
and nature knew
the promise of healing
that would free a woeful mankind
of its tears
had begun
in the unfathomable grief of
the one who said yes.
Regarding your first meditation, thank you for putting my formless thoughts so beautifully! This thought that He was agonizing over our rejection of him haunts my meditations...
I pray that you and all who frequent this forum have a fruitful Good Friday.
The Arrest
How hard was it then, to gather the mob?
Did not the law require
that those who accuse
to go forth and arrest
the one they accused?
But with time, they were gathered,
and there they went,
across the valley and up the hill,
with torches and swords,
some with fear,
some with envy,
some for the excitement.
Some no doubt believed they were right,
but he came, though,
because he had to,
having tested the truth of his Master,
then turned away
into the darkness.
What did they expect to find there
when they reached the garden,
besides an olive press
and trees
under the full moon?
Were they looking for outlaws,
armed with swords and knives,
plotters of inssurrection,
or theft, or
rebellion?
He thought he knew what they would find,
sleepy men, maybe,
or praying, keeping vigil in the night,
men who thought that he was their friend,
unaware of the moment of truth he was bringing,
sitting with their teacher.
Perhaps the thought of His face
gave him a twinge,
but he walked on.
How hard was it then, to enter that garden?
The gates were unlocked, and the crowd
pushed through with ease.
He came through first,
with a soldier behind him,
stepping around the sleepy forms of men he knew so well.
Andrew wiping the sleep from his eyes,
Matthew and James,
who started to call his name in greeting,
then noticed the crowd behind,
Thomas who became instantly alert,
Peter and John, standing in front of the man he had come to see.
Pushing them aside, then he found Jesus.
Was this the man he left, just a few hours ago?
His clothes were damp, like sweat, on this cool spring night,
but there was the smell of iron in the air,
a smell like blood.
So tired and haggard he had grown in just half an evening,
reddish rivulets had trickled across his face,
pale harbingers of what would come in the morning,
blood like sweat.
Looking at Him there,
Perhaps he wondered at his own audacity,
wondered why he had found it worth following Him,
wondered what he would think tomorrow,
wondered if he could change his mind.
With a sigh, Jesus looked up, and met his gaze.
No anger there, nor fear, but awareness of it all,
Love and a sad determination.
Perhaps it felt like a knife going through him.
"Master," said Judas, and moved forward to seal his fate.
Thank you for this thread. May the Lord have mercy on us.
Peter in the Courtyard
A nightmare night,
a night of shadows,
he sat there by the fire,
cold,
alone,
afraid,
yet drawn to this place of danger
by a desperate desire to do something.
The darkness of his soul
how it matched the darkness of the night
as he sat by the fire
not listening to the jibes
of those who sat near him.
He stared into the fire
and waited.
His world falling apart,
he thought there was nothing left but fear.
"No, I don't know him," he said,
the words escaping his lips
in an unstoppable reflex
of self preservation.
Fear and anger and anguish,
the darkness of the night,
the pain of waiting,
"No, you are mistaken!"
he chokes on the words, perhaps,
torn in two.
The third time with curses,
and then he sees
the eyes that know,
the eyes so tired, so sad,
the eyes touch his
with loving forgivness
and his soul plunges into the final darkness
as the cock crows.
Then those who had seized Jesus led him to Ca'iaphas the high priest, where the scribes and the elders had gathered.
But Peter followed him at a distance, as far as the courtyard of the high priest, and going inside he sat with the guards to see the end.
Now the chief priests and the whole council sought false testimony against Jesus that they might put him to death, but they found none, though many false witnesses came forward. At last two came forward and said, "This fellow said, `I am able to destroy the temple of God, and to build it in three days.'"
And the high priest stood up and said, "Have you no answer to make? What is it that these men testify against you?"
But Jesus was silent. And the high priest said to him, "I adjure you by the living God, tell us if you are the Christ, the Son of God."
Jesus said to him, "You have said so. But I tell you, hereafter you will see the Son of man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming on the clouds of heaven."
Then the high priest tore his robes, and said, "He has uttered blasphemy. Why do we still need witnesses? You have now heard his blasphemy. What is your judgment?" They answered, "He deserves death."
Then they spat in his face, and struck him; and some slapped him, saying, "Prophesy to us, you Christ! Who is it that struck you?"
Matthew 26:57-68
Prayers offered up for the health of Pope John Paul II.
Lovely poetry. Thanks for posting.
The First Blow
The whip travels in a descending arc,
three thongs carrying weights of lead
double headed cargo
to increase the impact.
The hand that wields is,
the rough and calloused hand
of a soldier doing a duty,
unknowing,
uncaring
of whose back it was in front of him.
Perhaps as he swings,
he thinks of all the looks of disdain,
the women who turn away,
the men who spit when he passes
and they think he does not see,
this strange people
with their strange hates
and strange language
and strange god,
and in retalliation,
he swings harder.
Yet his hand is not alone
on the braided leather of the handle,
his hand,
shadowed by every hand,
my hand,
my arm swinging the leather,
my sin adding to the agony
of that blow,
my darkness slapping against his skin,
causing him to gasp for breath
as it bites
my weakness the lead gouges digging.
Mea culpa,
mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.
When morning came, all the chief priests and the elders of the people took counsel against Jesus to put him to death; and they bound him and led him away and delivered him to Pilate the governor.
When Judas, his betrayer, saw that he was condemned, he repented and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders, saying, "I have sinned in betraying innocent blood."
They said, "What is that to us? See to it yourself."
And throwing down the pieces of silver in the temple, he departed; and he went and hanged himself.
But the chief priests, taking the pieces of silver, said, "It is not lawful to put them into the treasury, since they are blood money." So they took counsel, and bought with them the potter's field, to bury strangers in. Therefore that field has been called the Field of Blood to this day.
Then was fulfilled what had been spoken by the prophet Jeremiah, saying, "And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of him on whom a price had been set by some of the sons of Israel,
Matthew 27:1-9
Holy Thursday - When the moon is full
Catholic Caucus: Maundy (Holy) Thursday
The Fourth Cup: The Sacrament of the Eucharist [Holy Thursday] [Passover]
Divine Mercy Novena Begins on Good Friday
The Three Crosses: The Good Thief or the Cross Accepted
You stand there Lord,
before the haughty Roman judge,
bloody,
beaten,
abandoned.
Behold, says Pilate.
So frail you seem,
as you lift your bloodied head
and look upon this gathered crowd,
hungry as jackals.
Bruised and battered, the face
that looks out over the assembly
gazes not with hot hatred
or numb resignation of the broken,
nor self-pity,
but with love
and grief
and an unfathomable caring
that yearns to heal each of us.
Lord, I am not worthy to meet your gaze.
Have I not, like Peter,
denied you?
Or like Judas, betrayed you;
Time after time, have I not
added to your stripes,
pierced your head
with the hard thorns of an unloving heart?
And yet here you stand,
pouring yourself out like a drink offering,
letting the cup be drained
until nothing is left.
Lord, you said the word to heal me -
let me never forget the price you paid.
On this Friday morning, my Lord,
let me remember that sad Friday morning so long ago,
when Pilate presented you to the gathered mob,
bloody,
battered,
beaten,
a mockery of a king
crowned with thorns
meant to look small,
crushed,
contained.
Yet no mortal man could contain
the love that looked out over the crowd,
the love that heard the cries of hate,
and still forgave,
the love that waited patiently
as the executioners gathered
and sentence was passed,
the love that chose
this very path
to bring us life.
May I never forget
the gift you gave us
that sad Friday so long ago.
The Crowning
The dirty soldier's cloak,
a proper Roman scarlet
is draped over his bleeding raw back,
the fabric growing darker
wherever it touches
the handiwork
the soldiers left behind
in long red stripes
still bloody.
A game he has become in their hands.
For the soldiers
bored,
violent children of a violent culture,
he is a doll to take their frustrations out
against everything
they hate about this
dusty foreign place
filled with strange people.
They crown him with their
disdain,
hate,
fear,
wrapped amid the thorns.
And as they bow low before each blow,
they ignore the miracle in their midst,
the privilege they have been given,
to be the ones to stand in
for all the mockery,
all the disdain
of God and good
that we heap upon the head of Jesus
until the end of time
How thick the crowd must have seemed,
O Lady of Sorrows,
as you threaded your way
in that numbing timelessness
that comes with crisis,
each second seeming to last minutes,
your son,
your son,
his beautiful face,
swollen,
bleeding, battered,
breaking your heart.
How much you must have wanted to scream
NONONONONO!
Don't let this be today,
now,
at this moment,
ever,
even though you knew he was given to you
for just this purpose,
and the sword you felt
had been fortold long ago.
How hard it must have been
not to throw yourself at the guards,
to some how get them to stop,
to let him rest,
to give him a chance
to change his mind
and make this all a nightmare.
And yet, you merely told God
Your will be done,
and continued on,
giving all you had
until the end
and darkness fell.
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