"[H]is
living, active word is to me a kiss" (Sermons on the Song of
Songs, St. Bernard of Clairvaux).*
* *
Helping to set up for Mass this morning - when I went to place the crucifix in its stand a brad fell out. As it was, the crucifix was already missing the nail securing the feet of Jesus. Thus, losing one of the two remaining fasteners, Jesus hung off kilter.
The brad hitting the altar and bouncing was consciously recorded. However, as I did not continue to hear a dissipating series of ricochets, you know, in a way which would lead one to believe the object in question remained on a hard surface, it became evident that such was somewhere on the floor. A carpeted floor.
Laying the crucifix on an adjacent table I proceeded on hands and knees, face to the floor, doing my best to discern the location of a tiny, brass nail. In the process an early arriving congregant inquired as to what I was doing - "a newfangled form of adoration" is what I wanted to retort, but chose to hold my tongue. After all, his question was fair; moreover, the chapel is not the place for buffoonery. In lieu of using words, I simply grasped the crucifix and held it out as though I was trying to fend off demons or vampires. Ahem, that was not the effect I was striving for; it just happened that way. Drollery. So much for etiquette. To make matters worse, the corpus hung from the cross with one arm, looking very much like, excuse me, a swinging orangutan or sottish superhero! Immediately, it became apparent how much worse it would have been if Jesus had been crucified like this (not as though three points of attachment were any more agreeable). Sobering. With humiliation and regret I promptly laid the crucifix on the table and resumed my search of the missing brad, asking Jesus to forgive me for such poor thoughts.
Alas, the brad was found! Aligning the holes in preparation to push the nail firmly back into place, I found myself arrested in thought, apprehensive, paralyzed in horror. Albeit, a plain ol' cross adorned with a carved figure, a tool, if you will, I had been about to plunge a spike through the wrist of Jesus so he could be displayed as a reminder for all. At that moment, I was living it. Acutely aware, taken back two thousand years....
Time coming to a stop, I watched soldiers handle our Lord without regard for the dignity of human life, much less the reverence due to God. Did any of them secretly despise the task with which they were charged to carry out? Was it possible that even one of them suspected they were crucifying the Messiah? Were they afraid of peer pressure? Did they experience upheaval in their stomachs and feel compelled to refuse; however, proceeded because of inherent consequences?
The weight of such ponderings complicates the process of despising these pawns in history, systematically and automatically. For perspective, how many times have we engaged in activities which were in apposite to God's will but we were too weak to stop? What about those circumstances where friends (or bullies) led us down a path in which we were uncomfortable but lacked the confidence and fortitude to speak up?
Tentatively, I looked up. Perhaps to find my bearings. Maybe to ensure I was still where I was, confirming what I had been holding was indeed a crucifix and brad. Whatever the reason, I happened to notice another member of our community looking back, eyes alive with depth...we made a connection and I could read that he had similarly participated in these strange thoughts. Without so much as muttering a word, we bonded. "For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them" (Matthew 18:20 RSVCE).
Note: The corpus is now affixed to his cross with, of all things, bread ties!
Marana tha....
Helping to set up for Mass this morning - when I went to place the crucifix in its stand a brad fell out. As it was, the crucifix was already missing the nail securing the feet of Jesus. Thus, losing one of the two remaining fasteners, Jesus hung off kilter.
The brad hitting the altar and bouncing was consciously recorded. However, as I did not continue to hear a dissipating series of ricochets, you know, in a way which would lead one to believe the object in question remained on a hard surface, it became evident that such was somewhere on the floor. A carpeted floor.
Laying the crucifix on an adjacent table I proceeded on hands and knees, face to the floor, doing my best to discern the location of a tiny, brass nail. In the process an early arriving congregant inquired as to what I was doing - "a newfangled form of adoration" is what I wanted to retort, but chose to hold my tongue. After all, his question was fair; moreover, the chapel is not the place for buffoonery. In lieu of using words, I simply grasped the crucifix and held it out as though I was trying to fend off demons or vampires. Ahem, that was not the effect I was striving for; it just happened that way. Drollery. So much for etiquette. To make matters worse, the corpus hung from the cross with one arm, looking very much like, excuse me, a swinging orangutan or sottish superhero! Immediately, it became apparent how much worse it would have been if Jesus had been crucified like this (not as though three points of attachment were any more agreeable). Sobering. With humiliation and regret I promptly laid the crucifix on the table and resumed my search of the missing brad, asking Jesus to forgive me for such poor thoughts.
Alas, the brad was found! Aligning the holes in preparation to push the nail firmly back into place, I found myself arrested in thought, apprehensive, paralyzed in horror. Albeit, a plain ol' cross adorned with a carved figure, a tool, if you will, I had been about to plunge a spike through the wrist of Jesus so he could be displayed as a reminder for all. At that moment, I was living it. Acutely aware, taken back two thousand years....
Time coming to a stop, I watched soldiers handle our Lord without regard for the dignity of human life, much less the reverence due to God. Did any of them secretly despise the task with which they were charged to carry out? Was it possible that even one of them suspected they were crucifying the Messiah? Were they afraid of peer pressure? Did they experience upheaval in their stomachs and feel compelled to refuse; however, proceeded because of inherent consequences?
The weight of such ponderings complicates the process of despising these pawns in history, systematically and automatically. For perspective, how many times have we engaged in activities which were in apposite to God's will but we were too weak to stop? What about those circumstances where friends (or bullies) led us down a path in which we were uncomfortable but lacked the confidence and fortitude to speak up?
Tentatively, I looked up. Perhaps to find my bearings. Maybe to ensure I was still where I was, confirming what I had been holding was indeed a crucifix and brad. Whatever the reason, I happened to notice another member of our community looking back, eyes alive with depth...we made a connection and I could read that he had similarly participated in these strange thoughts. Without so much as muttering a word, we bonded. "For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them" (Matthew 18:20 RSVCE).
Note: The corpus is now affixed to his cross with, of all things, bread ties!
Marana tha....
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