Station Seven: Jesus Falls a Second Time

photo by contemplative imagining/ flickr

"Is it possible that he who did not spare his own Son but handed him over for the sake of us all
 will not grant us all things besides?"
   --Romans 8.32

When the Church finally sorted out the Stations for holy use—they chose three Stations to tell of Jesus falling. It seems almost too much. Our Lord, the Savior of the world,  falling again and again.

I think the Church knew that fallings are part of every journey. Remember John Bunyan’s classic, Pilgrim’s Progress?  Christian is on his way to the place of beauty and delight. But he fell into the Slough of Despond—and he was afraid that he would drown there. It really was a terrible place to fall.

Most of us have known that Slough if we are honest. We stumbled into a dark wood. We failed—maybe from reaching too far. Perhaps we just tripped along the way.

Sometimes we are crushed by life. Cancer. Automobile accidents. Going into your 21 year old’s room to call her to breakfast and find her dead. She has taken her life. No warning. No note. Or you reach out year after year to a child who has turned away and nothing you can do will bring him back. And you feel like a failure. Life just tumbles in and everything seems hopeless. That’s the Slough of Despond.

So some of us give in or give up. We can’t take it anymore. And this is certainly understandable. Like that man who lay by the pool for 38 years hoping to find a way to get in the troubled waters. Somebody always pushed him away and got there first.

It is the dark side of life, this Station. And I think we need this second falling. For here, once again, this man of sorrows and acquainted with grief is one with us all. He always loved the broken ones. He reached out to the disgraced and despised ones. His great heart had room for those crushed by the systems the world erects. The poor...the Samaritans...even the Publicans and the Centurions. He reached out to the adulteress and the lepers who lived outside the gates. Whoever had a need so great that life just stopped. Jesus cared for all of these.

And it hardly mattered if was the physically broken, the emotionally shattered...the alcoholic or the drug addict or the financially disgraced. This Station reminds us that he is with all of us broken ones who wish life could be different than it turned out.

Maybe the Church put this second falling in to remind us that even the crushed can get up. Even the despairing and those outside the system are not lost. Grief might just find a healing.  Who knows—we, too might just find strength and hope and maybe even faith in the broken places of our lives. Christian in Bunyan’s story did not drown in the Slough of Despond. Someone called Help reached down and lifted him out. I think I know his name, don’t you. It is the one who on his own twisting, winding way fell and wondered if he could go on.

Maybe God can still write straight with we fallen...broken...crooked sticks. No wonder the Church gave us this Station at mid-point in the journey. For not only is it Jesus’ story—but it is our story too.

                                     --rogerlovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Open Letter from Fred Phelps' Son

 photo by holeephuk / flickr

Below is the letter that Fred Phelps' son wrote after his father's death. They had a long and turbulent relationship. Here are his words.

The website Recovering From Religion has issued a press release sharing Nathan Phelps' statement on the death of his father, Fred Phelps.

“Fred Phelps is now the past. The present and the future are for the living. Unfortunately, Fred’s ideas have not died with him, but live on, not just among the members of Westboro Baptist Church, but among the many communities and small minds that refuse to recognize the equality and humanity of our brothers and sisters on this small planet we share. I will mourn his passing, not for the man he was, but for the man he could have been. I deeply mourn the grief and pain felt by my family members denied their right to visit him in his final days. They deserved the right to finally have closure to decades of rejection, and that was stolen from them.

Even more, I mourn the ongoing injustices against the LGBT community, the unfortunate target of his 23 year campaign of hate. His life impacted many outside the walls of the WBC compound, uniting us across all spectrums of orientation and belief as we realized our strength lies in our commonalities, and not our differences. How many times have communities risen up together in a united wall against the harassment of my family? Differences have been set aside for that cause, tremendous and loving joint efforts mobilized within hours…and because of that, I ask this of everyone – let his death mean something. Let every mention of his name and of his church be a constant reminder of the tremendous good we are all capable of doing in our communities.

The lessons of my father were not unique to him, nor will this be the last we hear of his words, which are echoed from pulpits as close as other churches in Topeka, Kansas, where WBC headquarters remain, and as far away as Uganda. Let’s end the support of hateful and divisive teachings describing the LGBT community as “less than,” “sinful,” or “abnormal.”  Embrace the LGBT community as our equals, our true brothers and sisters, by promoting equal rights for everyone, without exception. My father was a man of action, and I implore us all to embrace that small portion of his faulty legacy by doing the same.”

                               --rogerlovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Women--Are They Equal With Men?

flickr photo

David Platt, Pastor of the Church at Brook Hills in Birmingham, Alabama recently told those at Southern Seminary that women and men have different roles in the church. We all know this. But he means that wives are to be subjected to the submission of their husbands. He says that the Biblical standard runs counter to the current focus on feminism in our culture. What about the culture in Iraq and Afghanistan today which was the kind of world Jesus grew up in? And what about those poor “daughters of Jerusalem” that never did find a husband then or now. What are they supposed to do since they have no man to tell them what to do. 

I thought even fundamentalists were further along than this. What message do we send to all the little girls in church when women are regulated to a role which is less in importance than men. Remember the old prayer from Jesus time: “I thank God I was not born  a woman or a Gentile...”

The Pastor in Birmingham has ignored the dignity with which Jesus treated all...and that, of course including women—all women. The gifts that women bring to the church—ordained and unordained—have made the church through the years have been invaluable.

Anything less than full participation and equality runs counter to the highest standard we have for Biblical understanding: the prism of Jesus Christ. Looks like dear Veronica that wiped the face of Jesus was way, way out of line. 

Station Six: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus

photo by rockface/flickr 

A pious woman wiped Jesus' face.
(Tradition of the Jerusalem Church.)

Veronica is the only character in the Stations who is not mentioned in the Bible. All the others’ names appear on the marquee. Not Veronica. Where she came from we do not know. Her personal history, if anyone ever knew, has faded over the centuries. But not her name. And not her deed. 

Picture the scene. Jesus staggered under his heavy load. He had already fallen once. The crowds have spat on him again and again. Soldiers kicked him and nudged him with their spears on and on up that terrible hill. And then, it is as if time stood still. From out the crowd a woman weaved her way through the mob. Nothing could stop her. Some tried, I am sure. And then she came face to face with the Roman guards. They protected their prisoner. Not from sufferings—perhaps to make sure he did not escape. All hell would have broken loose had this man called Jesus escaped. And so the soldiers made sure this crucifixion would take place as scheduled. But this woman, legend called her Veronica—pushed against the soldiers. Women were not supposed to do that. In fact, they were not supposed to be anywhere close—but back on the edge of things—out of sight and out of mind. Except of course, when men needed one for their own needs. But here she stood head held high, determined. Miraculously, the soldiers let her by. And then she saw Jesus up close. The wounds, the blood, the broken body nearly spent. She saw the eyes and the weariness that suffering brings. Spittle from a hundred mouths—ran down his face and body like a river. Time must have stood still for a moment. She took the veil from her face. Women were not supposed to do that. Unveiled in public. But she unwrapped the veil and reached out to Jesus. Did she know him? Who knows? We do not know if she was a follower or not. We only know she touched the face of Jesus, wiping away what blood and tears, perhaps, and the spittle—the parts she could reach. It must have been just a moment—but Jesus’ eyes met hers and he must have nodded or tried to smile. She knotted the veil up in her hands and the crowd parted as she turned away.

That’s all we know of this woman, Veronica. Interestingly her name means image or true icon. For in her action she reflects what we are all supposed to be as human beings. Courageous, compassionate, kind—caring for someone despite the consequences or inconveniences.

Did she make Jesus’ journey easier? Probably not. But this is not the point. She reached out and did what she could.  It wasn’t a man—Simon was forced to carry the cross. No. This was a woman, in New Testament times, who showed us what is the essence of the gospel. We keep remembering, as she reached out to Jesus, those last he gave us, “Inasmuch as you do it unto the least of these...you do it unto me.” 

We live in a strange time. We compassion-fatiguers pass by so many every day that suffer and need. Most of our churches spend most on ourselves. Yet out there in every neighborhood are the silent poor and abused and hurting—that need someone to reach out and care. Most of our sermons talk about our needs and our problems: our...our...our. Not many talk about those without insurance or those who can’t get green cards or those families split and divided by our laws. There is a new term floating around these days, “the selfies.” We take care of our selves and our own.  Listen to our pronouns. Me. Mine. Us. Ours. We.

Standing here beside this Station—we see a woman we know so little about. But we do know she risked so much to do what she could. She shames us all. For she shows us in this simple act what a human being...is supposed to be. I hope I don’t forget this woman and I hope I remember her, again and again, when I see the least of these in the grocery store and holding up a sign or weeping down my block.

Stories galore talk about the fact that when she pulled her veil from the face of Jesus—embedded in that cloth was the tortured face she touched. That doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that she took away more than she ever gave. I think even in her old age she did not forget that day when, as a young woman, she dared to do what nobody else did. Is that what Jesus meant when he said: Follow me?    

Compassionatebloggers / fllickr

Station 5: Simon Carries Jesus' Cross

photo by Eleisabelle/flickr

"As they led him away, they laid hold of one Simon the Cyrenean who was coming in from the fields. They put a crossbeam on Simon's shoulder for him to carry along behind Jesus."
    --Luke 23. 26

 We don’t remember the soldiers. Pilate is only named because he is a bit player in the Jesus story. We don’t remember that crowd that watched him on his via dolorosa—his way of sorrows. Only Veronica and the daughters of Jerusalem, Jesus’ mother and of course, Simon. All the rest have faded from history.

What we do remember in Simon carrying Jesus’ cross. Not because of what this man said. We have no record of his words, if any. We remember what he did.

The Scriptures say he was compelled to shoulder the cross. Never mind. What sticks in our mind is that Simon shared in Jesus’ suffering. He helped shoulder the load. What he did mattered.

What do we remember? The teacher in Junior High that said, “Have you thought about going to college?” Or that Scout leader who taught you to swim. The brother that taught you to drive. That crumpled fifteen dollars your mother sent week after week from her little paycheck when you were in college. The Doctor who made house calls when your daughter was very sick. The teacher who taught your little boy year after patient year and flew all the way to Chicago to see him graduate. The little handful—you still can call their names after all these years—of those who drove 200 miles to stand beside you at your mother’s grave. The Nurse that stayed all night when your wife was so, so sick. The Counselor who told you in a hard time: “You’re gonna make it.” Or that church member who came when all was dark and said, “I believe in you.” We all have a multitude in our balconies. They have stood by and whispered words of encouragement, and shouldered our loads, and cheered us on—and made a difference. No wonder we remember.

And so the church sorted out the stories and decided what would go into the good news. It is no wonder that along that dark road that they wrote Simon’s name in large letters. It was their way of saying God wants to be helped. In that last parable they must have remembered what Jesus said, “Inasmuch as you do it unto the least of these...you do it to me.”  And so we stand by this Fifth Station and we remember Simon. And standing here is it any wonder we remember our own Simons?

photo by compassionbloggers/flickr

                                         --rogerlovette/  rogerlovette.blogspot.com

                                                  

A Place Called Hope

photo by Cody  Rapal   

My writing-colleague JL Strickland responded to my blog piece about     winter not being the last chapter
with these moving words. Thanks JL.                

Having buried two of my children, I can attest that the green of spring always returns, life-affirming and welcome as always,  but a lesser shade of green, to be sure.

 

My youngest son Jason didn’t talk until he was almost three years old.  We despaired of him, even though the doctors assured us there was nothing wrong, Jason was just a slow talker. The doctors said, “He’ll talk when he gets ready,” and so he finally did.  Jason went on to become a star student, a marksman with a basketball and a great husband and father, beloved by all who knew him.  

 

As a small, still-silent child, when Jason suffered the usual childhood ailments and fevers,  it scared him.  He would, wordlessly, climb into my lap for comfort and snuggle against me, beating heart to beating heart.  The sorrow came later when I could no longer hold him until he was well. The not being able to embrace a lost child is the hard part. And the loss of the comfort and exchange of the wordless love that human touch creates for both parties, the giver and the receiver.  

 

But, I am convinced that the human heart, though wounded, is the most resilient living thing we are likely to see in this world.  We have to be strong to survive and complete our journey.  It is not easy, but it can be done – if you work at it.

 

(JL Strickland can be reached at his email: jayell@charter.net)

Station 4 : Jesus Meets His Mother

photo by contemplative imaging

"Near the cross of Jesus...there stood his mother."
   --John 19.25

Nothing is harder than to be helpless—

To simply stand and watch.

Hands tied, heart broken—no words come.

   No words.

Tears stream down her face—

But she is there. Good mothers are always there.

In hospital corridors...

Beside the plate-glass window of some prison...

Weeping over the tiny box of her stillborn...

She holds them close, her children—protecting them from

  abuse and foreclosures, unpaid bills--the harshness of life.

Her being there even through the pain—

 His and her’s—must have helped.

They always helps—these mothers.

William Muehl told the story.

A mother and father stood in the lobby of the nursery school.

They waited with the others to claim their child for Christmas break.

Their little boy came running out—

  holding a brightly wrapped surprise package.

He had worked hard on their present for weeks.

Trying to run, put on his coat and wave, holding his present—

he slipped and fell.

The present broke with a crash.

The child was dumbfounded.

He let out a wail deep and sorrowful.

The father ran to him, knelt and said,

“It doesn’t matter, son. It doesn’t matter.”

The mother ran forward, reaching her hands around her boy.

She said, “Oh, but it does matter...it matters a great deal.”

Mary stood in that crowd as Jesus staggered by.

She was there.

It mattered, it mattered a great deal.

It still does—this Fourth Station of the Cross.

               --rogerlovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com