Lenten Meditation
March 25, 2009
Fifth Word
John 19.28, “I am thirsty.”
There are few moments so intimate and difficult as accompanying someone who is about to die. The voice fails. The breath labors. The vision clouds. The mouth dries. For those who have been there at the bedside, a haunting dismay arises, peaceful and painful, inevitable yet tinged with anger, not forgotten ever, but in time, endured. It is among the most cherished of moments as whatever it is that gives life evaporates, and words fail to make anyone understand. Many who die have stopped taking food days, even weeks earlier. But once it becomes impossible to drink, it may be only hours or at most a few days. That Jesus would thirst before he dies is understandable. He was human. That he might not be able to drink what is offered is painful to recall.
We’ve made the ones who put the sour wine to his lips into monsters. But perhaps it was not so. In Mark he does not drink; in Luke the wine is offered, although mockingly; in Matthew it is simply offered, without opinion; but in John Jesus receives the wine. John is the only one who hears in Jesus’ death his thirst.
The one who soaked the sponge makes me wonder what Jesus thirsted for in life. In death, certainly, the thirst was real enough, a thirst like any other. Psalm 22 puts it well:
I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint;
my heart is like wax;
it is melted within my breast;
my mouth is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to my jaws;
you lay me in the dust of death.
In life, what do you thirst for? Personal gain and fulfillment, an economic cushion, a good grade, employment that is meaningful, relationships of comfort and of trust, success for your children, a retirement cottage on the lake? Not bad things, not in and of themselves. But even so, the things we thirst for will not satisfy the thirst of Jesus on the cross. Living water carries no mortgage. The bread of life does not charge a value added tax. Unity in faith is not exchanged for entrance to the ball.
In life, what did Jesus thirst for? Unity, to be sure, “that they may all be one,” and justice. Righteousness that rolls down like rivers, and love. When life is near its end, by which I mean its purpose, its goal, its reason; when we walk the Way of Jesus and take up our cross; when we feel poured out like water, and the veil of eternity is lifted, and God delivers up our soul, may Jesus’ thirst become our own. On the cross, he thirsts for water, yes, but also for everlasting peace on earth, for justice, for unity, and for love. May our lives do what sour wine cannot, and satisfy the parched and dying longing of Jesus’ soul.
[We each received a cup of water to hold during the extended silence following the spoken meditation, with the instruction to meditate on how Christ's living water quenches our thirst, and how our lives can quench the thirst of Jesus for unity, justice, righteousness, and love.]
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Seven Last Words of Christ #4
Lenten Meditation
March 18, 2009
Fourth Word
Mark 15.34, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
To be forsaken, to feel abandoned or deserted, to believe even for a moment that in all the universe we are completely alone, may be one of the most awful experiences we know. Living alone is hard; dying alone is harder. We value independence, and at times we seek solitude. But not the sort of forced loneliness we call forsaken. You don’t have to hang on a cross to know what it means. A family member walks away. A trusted friend betrays your trust. A lover whose reality did not live up to your imagination abandons you. Your church doesn’t notice. To be forsaken is to feel surrounded by the torn places in the web of life and to hang on by a single, silken thread.
Jesus on the cross felt forsaken. Why else quote the line of lamentation that begins Psalm 22? It is a traditional lament, in that its meter is three-two, while most Hebrew poetry is three-three. There is something missing, incomplete, halting in the dance. Laments stop too soon, leaving empty space in the prayer where God ought to be. The words are honest. They plumb the depth of our darkest feelings. I cry but you do not answer. My ancestors trusted you, but I am despised; why do you not deliver me?
If I said, “Twinkle, twinkle,” you’d say, “little star.” If I sang, “O say can you see,” you’d sing, “by the dawn’s early light.” If I sang, “On a hill far away,” you’d sing, “stood an old rugged cross.” When Jesus says, “My God, my God,” his audience should suspect where he is going. When he continues, “why have you forsaken me?” they should know the rest of the tune. But for some reason, they do not understand. They think Jesus calls on Elijah, and the cruel ones wait to see if Elijah will appear. What we know, and what the early church remembered, is that Jesus was quoting a Psalm that, short of Rachel weeping for her children, wallows in the lowest lows in scripture. But it also has the highest highs. The Psalmist admits, “I am a worm, and not human.” Yet he commits his cause to God. Jesus recognizes that even on the cross, with his life seeping away, it was God who delivered him at birth, God who kept him safe so he could nurse at his mother’s breast, and, even now as trouble encircles him like charging bulls and ravenous lions, even now as he is poured out like water, even now as his bones creak and his skin wastes away and his tormentors laugh and divide up his clothing, God remains his salvation.
If Jesus identifies with being forsaken, he also identifies with the Psalm’s ringing song of praise. You and I who follow in the way of the cross may be tempted to flounder in our forsakenness. Jesus does not want that to happen. He knows we know the words that follow: From you comes the praise of the great congregation! The poor shall eat and be satisfied. Those who seek him shall praise him. All the ends of the earth shall praise the Lord. Jesus’ song continues in us as it reveals God’s purpose for the coming kingdom. As the dead bow down and generations to come will sing, as past and future ring with the songs of salvation, Jesus’ song resonates in our hearts, not as excuse or apology but praise proclaiming our place in the life to come, the dominion that belongs to God.
March 18, 2009
Fourth Word
Mark 15.34, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
To be forsaken, to feel abandoned or deserted, to believe even for a moment that in all the universe we are completely alone, may be one of the most awful experiences we know. Living alone is hard; dying alone is harder. We value independence, and at times we seek solitude. But not the sort of forced loneliness we call forsaken. You don’t have to hang on a cross to know what it means. A family member walks away. A trusted friend betrays your trust. A lover whose reality did not live up to your imagination abandons you. Your church doesn’t notice. To be forsaken is to feel surrounded by the torn places in the web of life and to hang on by a single, silken thread.
Jesus on the cross felt forsaken. Why else quote the line of lamentation that begins Psalm 22? It is a traditional lament, in that its meter is three-two, while most Hebrew poetry is three-three. There is something missing, incomplete, halting in the dance. Laments stop too soon, leaving empty space in the prayer where God ought to be. The words are honest. They plumb the depth of our darkest feelings. I cry but you do not answer. My ancestors trusted you, but I am despised; why do you not deliver me?
If I said, “Twinkle, twinkle,” you’d say, “little star.” If I sang, “O say can you see,” you’d sing, “by the dawn’s early light.” If I sang, “On a hill far away,” you’d sing, “stood an old rugged cross.” When Jesus says, “My God, my God,” his audience should suspect where he is going. When he continues, “why have you forsaken me?” they should know the rest of the tune. But for some reason, they do not understand. They think Jesus calls on Elijah, and the cruel ones wait to see if Elijah will appear. What we know, and what the early church remembered, is that Jesus was quoting a Psalm that, short of Rachel weeping for her children, wallows in the lowest lows in scripture. But it also has the highest highs. The Psalmist admits, “I am a worm, and not human.” Yet he commits his cause to God. Jesus recognizes that even on the cross, with his life seeping away, it was God who delivered him at birth, God who kept him safe so he could nurse at his mother’s breast, and, even now as trouble encircles him like charging bulls and ravenous lions, even now as he is poured out like water, even now as his bones creak and his skin wastes away and his tormentors laugh and divide up his clothing, God remains his salvation.
If Jesus identifies with being forsaken, he also identifies with the Psalm’s ringing song of praise. You and I who follow in the way of the cross may be tempted to flounder in our forsakenness. Jesus does not want that to happen. He knows we know the words that follow: From you comes the praise of the great congregation! The poor shall eat and be satisfied. Those who seek him shall praise him. All the ends of the earth shall praise the Lord. Jesus’ song continues in us as it reveals God’s purpose for the coming kingdom. As the dead bow down and generations to come will sing, as past and future ring with the songs of salvation, Jesus’ song resonates in our hearts, not as excuse or apology but praise proclaiming our place in the life to come, the dominion that belongs to God.
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