Station Fourteen, Jesus is laid in the tomb

At my mother's grave-side internment, there were about two hundred people present when a train suddenly passed by on the tracks which ran near the cemetery.  The priest paused for a moment as he waited for the rumbling  giant to pass by.  I wondered if anyone on the train knew who we were, why we were there, who was being buried, or, did they even notice that we were there.  How I wanted to be on that train.   We then retired to my Mom's home to begin the arduous task of clearing out a lifetime of memories. How cathartic to see her home empty and devoid of identifying belongings.   

Shortly after two hurricanes only a week apart struck our area, a woman called me at the suicide hotline.  Not only was her house destroyed, but her mom's graveside in the local cemetery was flooded and the area where her mom was interned had washed away.  The hurricane took this woman's present, future and past.  She was living in her mom's home which was paid for long ago, she didn't have a job, nor did she have insurance.  We discussed whether this was the end or a beginning.  I wasn't there to solve her problems, just to help her get through the moment.

I ascertained that she was a religious woman so we talked about the two Mary's who kept vigil at the tomb of Jesus and how they discovered the tomb empty three days later.   What could those women have been feeling at the thought of Jesus' body being stolen?  Later, when Jesus appeared to Mary, she didn't recognize him until he called her by name.  There is much power in calling someone by name.  At the suicide hotline, I always get the name of a caller, even if they want to give me  fake name.  I then make it a point to use a caller's name throughout all phone call.  It is often the difference between life and death, hope or despair, simply calling someone by name. 

I read in the paper this morning about a principal at an elementary school in Alabama who wrote a letter to the office of parole in support of a convicted felon's pardon.  It was unbelievable how many people were appalled at his action in an attempt at trying to help a man resurrect his life.  Due to the outcry and demands from a victims of crime group, like a blood thirsty crowd demanding the release of Barabbas, there were demands to the school board to remove the principal from his position.  No good deed goes unpunished.

Joseph of Arimathea risked his own life as he accepted Jesus’ body for burial.
 He laid his body there in a cave and rolled a large stone in front of it, then went home. What a sad day it has been for so many people. 

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
by Mary Frye

    Do not stand at my grave and weep,
    I am not there; I do not sleep.
    I am a thousand winds that blow,
    I am the diamond glints on snow,
    I am the sun on ripened grain,
    I am the gentle autumn rain.
    When you awaken in the morning’s hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circling flight.
    I am the soft starlight at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry,
    I am not there; I did not die.

Mary Frye, who was living in Baltimore at the time, wrote the poem in 1932. She had never written any poetry, but the plight of a young German Jewish woman, Margaret Schwarzkopf, who was staying with her and her husband, inspired the poem. Margaret Schwarzkopf had been concerned about her mother, who was ill in Germany, but she had been warned not to return home because of increasing anti-Semitic unrest. When her mother died, the heartbroken young woman told Frye that she never had the chance to “stand by my mother’s grave and shed a tear”. Frye found herself composing a piece of verse on a brown paper shopping bag. Later she said that the words “just came to her” and expressed what she felt about life and death.

Indeed, finding leads to losing, but losing lets you find.

O God, your blessed Son was laid in a tomb in a garden and rested on the Sabbath day: Grant that we who have been buried with him in the waters of baptism may find our perfect rest in his eternal and glorious kingdom; where he lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

The Thirteenth Station, Jesus is taken down from the cross, by Joanne.

Jesus is placed in his mother’s arms.  A mother receives the body of a son.  Was it a senseless death, helpless, hopeless.  The grief is the same.  The wars continue.  Today, another Gulf war mother will receive her son’s body.  Helpless. 

My son has just finished his third tour in the Middle East.  I am so thankful that he will come home safely to my arms.  There are many mothers who will not be so lucky.  Their last visions of their sons and husbands will be in a morgue where the touch will be cold and the loss senseless. 

I knew an elderly woman who was dying of cancer.  When I visited her once, she said to me, if you come here and feel sorry for me, I don’t ever want you to come back.  Feeling sorry for someone is pity, not compassion.  Pity puts one in a stance of looking down upon the sick one.  Compassion (with - suffering) puts one side by side.  This elderly woman had found that the only healing possible in this world of medical miracles is the ability to accept one’s death even as one fights to hang on to life.  With this healing comes hope.  With this attitude comes compassion.  With this inner peace comes resurrection.  When this woman died, I was there holding on to her hand.  At her funeral, I was there holding her as a pall bearer of life. 

In the Pieta, Mary holds her Son on her lap as though he were again a boy she would comfort after a fall.  This gives me the inspiration to comfort the mourning, to minister to bereaved families, to keep vigil with those made homeless, orphaned or widowed, disabled or powerless by their experience of war.   Unlike many other mother's I will get to hold my living son.

Jesus, how brutally you were put to death. How gently you are taken from the cross. Your suffering and pain are ended, and you are put in the lap of your mother. The dirt and blood are wiped away. You are treated with love.

Sometimes we seem to be kinder when someone dies. If only we could learn to see the good things about them while they were alive. If only we would tell those around us how much we love them, while we still have the opportunity to do so.

Help us look for the good in those around us, especially those we love the most. Help us live each day as if it were the last. Help us become more gentle and loving people through our greater appreciation for those around us.  Amen.

The Twelfth Station, Jesus Dies On The Cross

It is finished.  Death by violence.  It wasn't the first time and won't be the last.  Across the country each day, people are shot, stabbed, starved, frozen, they die in auto accidents, they die from disease and, for many, no one cares.  Jesus said "I am thirsty."  and everyday there are many who thirst for the uncommon wine of compassion and relief from suffering.

I know a Deacon who used to serve the Roman Catholic church. When his son, the church organist, contracted HIV and developed AIDS, he and his wife were ashamed and told no one.  Eventually their son died and everyone in the parish found out as word spread faster than the Good News being shouted from the roof tops.  The deacon and his family felt no compassion or support from their parish nor their priest.  People didn't even want to receive Holy Communion from the Deacon because in those days, people were ignorant about how HIV was transferred.  The Deacon left the Roman church and for the longest time he didn't attend anywhere.

He and his wife are no longer ashamed of their gay son, nor of AIDS, nor that he died, nor for the secret they kept for so long.  Now they are very proud because the death of their son has empowered them to do volunteer work helping men to get tested regularly and promoting safe sex.  Out of their son's death has come much life, love, support and compassion for others.  They have refused to allow differences to destroy life but to save lives.

Father in heaven above, as Jesus hung on the cross, he forgave the soldiers who had crucified him, and prayed for his mother and friends. Jesus wanted all of us to be able to live forever with God, so he gave all he had for us.  May our lives drink in the wine of your compassion for, in the cup of suffering are mingled all our tears and fears.  Help us to pass this cup around.  Amen.

Station Eleven, Jesus is nailed to the Cross

The soldiers take big nails and drive them into Jesus' wrists and feet.  He has done nothing but good, yet they crucify him.  The soldiers have their counterparts today.  Some countries torture, brainwash, water-board, beat, electrically shock and humiliate their political prisoners and seldom do the people protest too strongly.   Instead, many people turn to Facebook where they can spew venom, invectives and callous hate with seeming impunity.  Torture doesn't have to be as deliberate as driving nails into someone's flesh.  It could be an ill chosen word, a thoughtless action, a comment on a Facebook page, or, sometimes not to act is to act. 

Sometimes we discriminate against others. Even without thinking, we judge others because of their color, intelligence, income level or name. We forget that we are to live as a brother or sister to all people. Sometimes we use harsh words when we speak to our children and family members. We can find it easy to look for something that isn’t very important and make it very important.

An organist for a local Roman Catholic church was living with a secret:  He was gay.  He was a dynamic musician and brought much life to the church liturgies and was an instrument for growth in the parish.  When he contracted AIDS and became too ill to continue serving his parish, he quit, word spread quickly and the church was scandalized.  The priest said "If I knew he was gay, I never would have hired him."   There was no forgiveness or compassion.  His father was even the deacon for the parish.

Sister Karen Klimczak of Buffalo ran a halfway house for ex prisoners.  She took in a new resident who was struggling with drug addiction.  His name was Craig Lynch.  It was Good Friday, 2007 and when Lynch saw Sister Karen's cell phone on a table,he strangled her and took her phone to sell for drug money.  Sixteen years earlier Sister Karen predicted her murder and wrote a letter forgiving the person who would one day take her life.  The letter was found in her belongings after her death and read in court at Lynch's sentencing:

“Dear Brother, I don’t know what the circumstances are that will lead you to hurt me or destroy my physical body.  No, I don’t want it to happen.  I would much rather enjoy the beauties of this earth, experience the laughter, the fears and the tears of those I love so deeply!  Now my life has changed and you, my brother, were the instrument of that change.  I forgive you for what you have done and I will always watch over you, help you in whatever way I can. . . . Continue living always mindful of His Presence, His Love and His Joy as sources of life itself — then my life will have been worth being changed through you.” 

Deputy District Attorney Frank A. Sedita stood up afterward and said, “There’s been talk of forgiveness, but, Judge, forgiveness is for God. Sentencing is for court.”  Lynch received the maximum of 25 years to life.  At that, the other nuns and co-workers of Sister Karen stood up and hugged the family of Lynch. 

Forgiveness can be hard, but, forgiveness is also very easy; Living with hate is very hard.  It is an endless downward spiral with the gravitational pull of a black hole but, it is surprisingly very simple to step out of.  Just like the cross - a symbol of death can be a symbol of life, compassion and forgiveness.  But, only to those with eyes to see. 

Almighty Father, help us look again at the people around us. Help us see the hurt and pain in others. Help us make amends for the harm we have done.Clothe us in your Spirit that we, reaching forth our hands in love, may bring those who do not know you to the knowledge and love of you; for the honor of your name.  Amen.

Seek Ye First

I sketched out this little improvisation with the intention to transcribe it but got lazy half way through the first verse.

The Tenth Station of the Cross; Jesus is stripped of his garments, by Maggie

His clothes are stripped away and he is left naked before the crowed.  Stripped of the little that is his.  Stripped of dignity.   Forced to feel shame.  Humiliated. 

I had a normal and happy childhood, I thought.  I didn’t know I was different until other kids told me.  I was adopted by an American couple.  They came to Korea and chose me out of a nursery of a dozen other children.  Children can be merciless and hurtful.  They made fun of my slanted eyes and made up names about me and my heritage.  I felt my dignity was being taken away from me through emotional assault and humiliation.   I am able to forgive the mindless abusers who reduced and denied my humanity.   They didn’t really know what they were doing, they didn’t know the scars they were creating inside me that would last a lifetime.   They did however teach me to have a profound respect for those who are different.  Jesus didn’t allow evil to strip him of his dignity on the cross.  He has taught me to honor this humble house of flesh in which God is at home and we are garbed in spirit-strength and dignity. 

God, help us to keep ourselves pure and clean. Help us say things that build up the people around us. Help us overcome worldly desires that we may become more like Jesus. Help us set a good example for others to follow.  Amen.

The Ninth Station; Jesus falls the Third Time, by Mary.

At one time, I had everything and my life was filled with happiness and promise.  Then, one day I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.  I fell the first time.  Eight months later my husband left me because he was afraid that in time he would have to take care of me as my condition worsened.  I fell the second time.   Later that year a mugger outside the hospital slashed my palm with a knife, I had to have surgery and it took a long time to heal.  I fell the third time.  I even fell a fourth time when I became addicted and dependent upon pain killers.  During this time however, I discovered a purposeful religious life.  I found out that I could help other people and that by sharing my story, I could inspire others.  Wrestling with my grief, pain and anger, I found my destiny.  The old saying goes three strikes and you’re out but not for Jesus.  He got up and kept going.   I too had to keep going.  I discovered that life is to live intensely.  It doesn’t matter how many times you fail or fall, or even how many lives you touch.  No matter how many times you fall, courage is found in getting up again.  The road of life may be long and hard and strewn with pain and suffering, but the destination and destiny is in living life to the fullest.    I thank God that I have the strength to keep getting up and going on because with every turn in life I discover beauty and something worth living for, especially when I discover it is in living for others that I discover that life is worth living. 

Thanks to our beautiful prison ministry here at our loving church, I can forgive the mugger, I can forgive my husband, I can even forgive myself for blaming God for the MS.  They were all blood stained gifts to the discovery of love, compassion, mercy and forgiveness.  They have made me a better person and in turn, helped me to make other people, better people.

O God by the passion of your blessed Son you made an instrument of shameful death to be for us the means of life: Grant us so to glory in the cross of Christ, that we may gladly suffer shame and loss for the sake of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.