Holy Week

How do you keep this week holy? What does it mean to walk the ‘way of the cross’ for you?

This somber week calls us to recognize our mortality, the quick passage of our time together. The tragedy of Jesus’ last days lies not just in the torture, the unfair condemnation, the name-calling, and the final excruciating hours of pain before death. It also lies in the isolation of his plight. Jesus walks alone, without friend or companion to help him on his way. Peter deserts him. Simon of Cyrene only helps him because he is forced to. Veronica is pushed away after wiping his face, and Mary can only approach in the final moments.

If Holy Week teaches us anything, it is to stand by our friendships to the end. Would all the disciples have been crucified if they had stood by Jesus? Or would the weight of their presence have changed Pilate’s heart?

Holy Week calls us to solidarity by showing us what happens without it. This week the students of my school will be showing their solidarity with land mine victims. They will be taking pictures of their lower legs and sending them to Mines Action Canada in a show of support for the victims of cluster bombs. It may not stop indiscriminate bombing. It will not solve every problem. But perhaps for someone somewhere, the weight of the cross will become just a little lighter.

Holy Week makes me ask, where can I show my solidarity with the poor, the lonely, the sick or the oppressed? Who is stumbling on the road to Calvary before me? Who is falling under the weight of their cross? And can I forget my own cross long enough to reach just a little further, just a little more to give them a hand?

Praying for Trayvon

We live in a strange world. Unprecedented violence appears commonplace, even acceptable. It has taken weeks for the Florida shooting death of 17 year old Trayvon Martin, an innocent unarmed teenager who’s killer wasn’t even charged, to attain the kind of widespread international public outrage that should have happened on day one.

The police believed Trayvon’s killer’s ‘self-defense’ excuse despite the fact that the teen was half his killer’s size, had no criminal history and his only ‘weapon’ was a packet of Skittles candy. But he was a black kid wearing a hoodie, so he must have been threatening…

I can’t get over this. I have a 17 year old hoodie wearing son. His friends come in all shapes, sizes and skin colors. Would it really be okay for someone in Florida to shoot them to death and pretend, without a trial, that it was just self-defense?? Would the police really not charge the murderer??

We let down God when we allow this kind of injustice to happen in the world. We let our kids down. We let ourselves down. From the execution of Troy Davis in the fall to the shooting of Trayvon Martin, we legitimize a culture of violence when we don’t speak up against it.

I am heartened by the current outcry by Americans from all over their country. I am so pleased that they have created such noise that they have caught the attention of the big news outlets that so often want to pretend that racism, sexism and other discrimination are ills brought upon the self, same as poverty. Laws that let killers walk without trial must be repealed. There is no justification for murder, not by the State as I wrote last fall in the Davis case, and not by the individual.

Like so many others, beyond signing the requisite petition, I feel helpless to do anything. I am not an American and my country is far from perfect too. But I can only imagine the hell the Martin family has traveled through these past weeks. I think of Mary at the foot of the cross, of the resurrection that comes after, but I know for the Martins it is too early, these are still the days of the tomb, of silence, of absence, of the horrific loss that as parents we can’t even let our minds touch.

But together, across this world we can do one thing: We can pray. I invite you to risk for a moment the belief that it makes a difference, that the Martin family will feel some warmth of comfort, and that they will someday find the stone rolled away from the tomb again. In an eternity beyond time may they find their son, hale, happy and surrounded by the love of God. And may all of us stand up peacefully against violence, so that no other family need walk such a painful road.

Hagar in the Desert

A little fictional exploration of Genesis 21 and 22 for our Lenten journey through the desert ... Longer version originally published in the Recorder and Times, March 2011

Tired, thought Hagar. I am so tired. The desert sand burned through her sandals, and the wind cut through her veil. Ishmael stumbled already, his legs not sturdy enough to keep up with his mother's stride. The heat was ruthless, the wind relentless, and the water nearly gone.

Soon Hagar would have to carry Ishmael again. She willed her legs to keep moving, her arms to keep holding, her breath to come in and out with the rhythm of her footsteps. And tried not to hate.
* * *
Abraham nudged her awake before dawn, in that silence before birds find their voice. Hagar thought at first that he wanted her again, a surprise at his age. Not so, thank God. He said little, simply commanded her to take Ishmael, all she held precious, and go.

Hagar forced herself to sit up, confused by the dream that still held her, one of cool branches and deep wells. Abraham whispered in her ear, "Have no fear, it is God's will." As if that made everything alright.

She rubbed her eyes, shook her head. Abraham's face glowed in the strange dark light filtering through the tent wall. He waited, head bowed, eyes down. She could not believe this was happening. Even if she was just his slave, she had delivered him a son, his first-born, his pride. But then the bent shadow of Sarah spread between them, filling the tent. The crone stood outside, listening, spying, demanding: Abraham's first choice.

And Hagar knew in her heart, suddenly, without hesitation, that she could not forgive them this.
* * *
That was three days ago.

Ishmael’s feet dragged, and Hagar, exhausted herself, reached down and gently picked him up.

The sun passed overhead, and began its slow descent. The wind which had cursed them with sand in their faces and under their cloaks, died down, leaving a leaden heat. Hagar's legs buckled. She stopped short of collapse and looked around. Up ahead a jumble of boulders surrounded by spindly thorn bushes promised some shade for the child.

Long enough for death to take him. Long enough for time to end.

She staggered towards the bushes, nearly dropping the boy. He gave a thin wail as she pushed him into shadow. She collapsed and felt the rush of heat from the ground hit her face. There was no room for her in the shade. Hands shaking, she unstopped the ever-so-light skin of water. Only a swallow or two remained. Gently she raised Ishmael's head and tilted the opening. She tried to sing to him but only a croak came from her own split and suffering mouth. Ishmael choked a little as the water hit his throat, then swallowed, grabbed at the skin for more. There was none. He cried then, tearless, voiceless, empty, defeated, and Hagar looked away.

"Sleep my child," Hagar rasped, and Ishmael closed his eyes. This alone frightened her, for her son was never willing to sleep, never willing to let life go by without him. She traced his cheek with her finger, stared down at his tight, suffering face, then bent and kissed him.

Ishmael whimpered as Hagar lurched away. The bow Abraham had given her jabbed insistently at her thigh. She knew what she must do.

She positioned herself an easy bowshot away. When Ishmael slept, when all hope was gone, she would do it. He would not suffer. She would not allow that. Before she was sold into slavery her brothers in Egypt had taught her to shoot, and she would not miss.

The sun was sinking lower now, and Hagar felt the relief of fading heat. Soon she would even be cold. She strung her bow slowly, bending the supple wood tenderly, and placed an arrow on the string. Her son would be the last thing she shot. She would wedge an arrow in the sand afterwards, if her broken heart didn't kill her, then fall on it and lie beside her Ishmael forever, letting go of every memory.

* * *
The women had been up since dawn, fetching, grinding, sweeping. The sun, well over the horizon, signaled that the men not designated as the day's shepherds would soon be up. The others had left earlier, so for now the day belonged to the women and children.

Abraham's s cry riveted Hagar. Sarah dropped the earthen pot she carried, precious water flowing everywhere, and moved toward his tent at a speed that belied her years. Isaac, barely walking, grabbed Ishmael, who in turn hung on to Hagar's dress. Both boys began to cry. Hagar deposited her own pot more carefully and gathered the children.

Abraham threw open the tent flap before the other men, rushing from their tents half dressed, could reach it. He stopped and whispered something to Sarah. She stumbled back, then grabbed his arm and her screaming drowned all else. Abraham ignored her and strode out toward Hagar, with Sarah still clinging to his arm.

Hagar held both boys closer, and then realized that Sarah was yelling at her.

"Run! Don't let him have him! Please!"

Hagar turned, confused. The men stood motionless, mouths gaping.

"Run!"

Hagar turned and ran.

The path serpented away from her up into the hills. Hampered by the boys whose wails now matched the adults, she forced herself to move, to fly.

It wasn't enough. The men caught her easily, and took Isaac. Abraham marched his son out of camp, impervious to Sarah's cries.

All day, the old woman keened and wept, and Hagar sat with her.

The horizon turned scarlet before Abraham returned, Isaac sleeping in his arms, safe, alive. And Sarah ran to them, grabbed her son, fell, kissed Abraham's feet, and spat on them.

The story came out over the next few days. The sacrificial command from God, the miraculous appearance of the scapegoat at the last minute, the horror, and the relief. Abraham seemed elated, drank more than usual, celebrated. But Sarah was forever changed.

Abraham had been ready to kill her son. Not Hagar's, hers. And as long as Abraham had an alternative heir, it could happen again.

* * *
A strange sound. Hagar looked up, around. A flock of birds flew across the sun. If they came near, she decided she would shoot one, for practice. She shuddered at the thought of injuring Ishmael, making his suffering worse, prolonging the inevitable.
The birds circled, then headed directly toward her. Hagar raised her bow, waited, prayed. Still they came, clearly unworried by the tiny woman who silently threatened them. Hagar pulled back, took aim, waited some more. Her hand shook.

The birds were lowering, approaching as if to land. They called as they came, singing, celebrating, and, before she could let the arrow fly, landed not beside her but behind the boulders, whose shadows now grew long and wide.

Hagar listened. Then frowned, wondered, listened again. The splash of water could not be real.

Dropping her forgotten bow, she crawled then, desperately, urgently, disbelieving toward the sound. Clambering over and between hot rocks, scraping knees, smashing toes, she saw at last the impossible pool crowded with impossible birds.

"Oh," she trembled. "Oh..." Wings flicked water towards her, beaks dipped, life called.

She rallied, turned and ran with strength she didn't possess back to Ishmael. He hardly protested as she grabbed him and tottered back. She knelt by the water, scattering startled birds, and cupped her hands to help her son.

The boy drank, and drank, and Hagar joined him and drank and stopped and drank again. The two sat, water dripping down their faces, birds circling overhead. Ishmael leaned against his mother, still exhausted, but Hagar knew that the incredible was credible, that hope was inexhaustible, and that God was present, here, now.

No more Abraham for her. No more Sarah. No more slavery. She was free. It was time to live, to eat, to drink, to celebrate, to believe, and maybe even, to forgive.

Desert Dreams

There’s something about the desert. It calls you to notice the trivial and immediate – a grain of sand, a single drift. And it calls you to notice the huge and everlasting – the horizon and the endless sky.

Many years ago, I backpacked across the Kalahari Desert in Botswana with two friends. We had spent Christmas in the Okavango Delta, exploring the wetlands in dugout canoes poled by local guides. It had been a tremendous experience, an overload of sensation, with abundant heat, greenery, water and wildlife. We had camped and celebrated the season under stars whose reflections shone out at us as much from the water as from the sky.

Emerging from the Okavango, the desert assaulted us with its aridity and hostility. We found a lift on the back of an open-backed truck bearing the road crew for a band from Maun, at the edge of the Delta, down to Francistown near the border of Zimbabwe. From there we could catch a train back east toward Malawi where we were all working as volunteer teachers.

Between delays and breakdowns the trip took all day, starting at 4:00am. Sitting with my head covered by my African cloth (chitenge) against sun and wind, I peered out at what seemed like an unchanging landscape of grey sand. A scraggly tree or some bushes would break the monotony here and there, perhaps a small hill, but my impression was mainly of endless emptiness.

Speech was impossible on the back of the truck as the wind whipped our words away, carrying them off into the dunes and sky. All we could do was gaze out at the infinite world. I don’t know at what point the emptiness shifted, but I do remember finding myself slowly captivated by both the stillness before me and the stillness within me. The desert became a meditation, a place to empty my heart into earth and sky.

And then I saw it. Against the horizon at the edge of a silvery salt pan, a creature stood - watchful, waiting – an ostrich. The magnificent bird turned its head sideways to observe our rumbling truck. I remember the simple sensation of awe. I had so emptied myself by now, that the vision of the ostrich filled me,and showed me the wonder of all creation, of life against the starkness of empty world, empty sky.

I remember feeling like I could hardly breathe from the beauty of it, wished I could share it, then turned and looked at my two companions. And they were smiling too.

I don’t know what Jesus found in his forty days in the desert. But I know it’s worth joining him there.

During this Lenten journey, may we each find the beautiful detail of the sand crystals in our lives, and the expansive and endless horizon of the love of our God.

Ash Wednesday and a Campfire Truth

Surprisingly, Ash Wednesday always fills me with a sense of hope, for all that it calls me to reflect on eternity, on sin, and on death. When I touch the ashes, I’m reminded not just of the mistakes I’ve made, and the people I’ve hurt, but paradoxically of all the ways in which God has been present in my life.

At the end of September, I spent a weekend at Algonquin Park in Ontario, a wilderness site largely deserted by that time of year. I was there with good people who knew how to camp and how to build a fire much better than I ever could. That night we sat around a campfire and talked and joked and watched the wood turn to ash as all the stresses of our work and our lives burned away.

The smoke of the campfire traveled up into a cloudless night, and after a while a few of us walked out on the beach to look at the sky. A slash of stars burned down at us, sprinkling us with blessings, even as our little fire reached up toward heaven. The energy of a billion galaxies laid itself before us, because, quite simply, we had taken the time to look.

There’s a burning for God that consumes the heart and opens the spirit. The burning bush is no metaphor, nor the flames of the upper room. The energy of the universe exists in a God that fills us, heats us, and burns away our pain and sorrow, leaving only ashes behind.

I think of the ashes in my life, the mistakes made, the friendships lost. Call it sin, call it human failure, the truth is if we dare to live, we will err sometimes, miss the mark, and hurt others as well as ourselves. But ashes are the price of living.

We light our little fires here on earth, in our hearts and in our lives, reaching out for an eternal God who can open our eyes to invisible truths. God burns in us as we strive to live for peace, justice, compassion and truth. In our friendships and our care we start small flames of possibility and hope. Only this can strip away the trivial and hurtful - greed, arrogance, fear, jealousy, war, injustice, hate - and so open our hearts to the most profound, the most real energy of the universe. Call it love. Call it God.

Welcome to Lent.

For Kieran: A Prayer Request for Valentine's Week

Andrea’s voice on the phone is ragged, fluttering away from exhaustion. It’s exactly a week since her son Kieran was airlifted to the intensive care unit at Ottawa’s Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario (CHEO). I drove up with her husband Mike in the dark of that first night, making conversation, keeping time, while Andrea flew with Kieran.

No parents could love more than these two. They would give anything and everything for their five year old son. The rare and overwhelming seizure disorder that has complicated their lives since his birth and repeatedly hospitalized him has done nothing but bring into focus their love for him, even as they usually celebrate his upbeat and brilliant personality.

Seeing them love him opens up a pathway for me, a sideways vision of God. Faced with their anxiety, I feel helpless, inconsequential, and yet totally open to a palpable presence that alone can surpass the enormity of their worry. I am reminded of all the parents in the bible who threw themselves before Christ, before God, for their sick children. Sometimes it’s the only thing we can do.

Andrea tells me that Kieran is doing a little better. He no longer has the breathing or feeding tube. But he’s not eating, and can’t seem to concentrate. After a week he’s still spiking inexplicable fevers. He’s so bruised, they can no longer find a vein for his IV. He cries and complains when he’s awake, not his usual funny happy self. She hasn’t really slept in days. They don't have any answers. And she doesn’t know how much longer she can go on.

But she will go on. Whatever it takes, for however long it takes, she and Mike will be there for Kieran. Because this is true love and in the end, it’s all that matters.

If you have a moment this Valentine’s week, please send a prayer out for Kieran and for all those who suffer.

Surfacing

The soul cries 'Where is God?', and does not always hear the answer, or see the truth. But God lurks everywhere, in grieving hearts, sudden smiles, and resurrected friends; in burning bushes, broken hearts, birthday parties, late nights and early mornings. Those times when we gasp and see the eternal and the divine are not moments when God surfaces. They are moments when we do.