Station 4 -- Jesus Sees His Mother

"There were also women present...
These women had followed Jesus
  when he was in Galilee...
Near the cross of Jesus
  there stood his mother.
   --Mark 15. 40; John 19.25

This may just be the most heart-rending of all the Stations. Surrounded by curses, spittle rocks and stones and jeers—Jesus sees his mother in the crowd. There are other women there but we will talk about them later on this journey. But first he sees his mother. He must see her tears. He must see in her face her anguish. And standing there amid all that hate she is one with her first-born in solidarity. Who knows? I think the memory of that face would follow him all the way to Calvary.

And so I hope that all those mothers in Newtown can stop at this Station.

I hope the mother of the mother that shooter in Newtown can stop at this Station.

I hope the mother of majorette Hadiya Pendleton in Chicago can stop at this Station.

I hope Trevon Martin’s mother in Florida can stop at this Station.

I hope the mother of Pakistani schoolgirl Malala Yousufizia can stop at this Station.

I hope that all those other mothers around the world whose tears and aches seem almost unbearable can draw strength at this Station.

For Jesus carries the heavy burden of this cross down whatever lane or project or door or apartment or mansion or hut in Africa there may be. For this is their Station.

He cannot stop the suffering in so many of these terrible places. But that Savior who takes away the sins of the world also brings mercy to all in need. I do not understand it. But somehow this is enough. 

(This series of the Stations were done by the African artist, Bruce, Onobrakpeya.)

Salute to a Sufferer

"Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm does bind the restless wave,
Who bids the might ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea."
              --Navy Hymn

Years ago Hazel asked me to speak at her funeral. And I come today to try to keep that promise. And I’ve wondered what I might say on this special occasion when we have come to honor a very great lady. And I remembered a book I read years ago called, Crossing to Safety by the Western writer, Wallace Stegner.

The book begins with an old couple married for over 50 years. They had traveled a long way first by plane and then a long drive by car to get to the summer cottage they had stayed in every summer with their friends. The book opens the first morning after they  arrive. The husband gets up early and makes the coffee. She sleeps late and when she does stir he comes and brings her coffee. He helps her put the braces on her legs and finds her crutches .She had been left crippled by polio years before. He helps her to the bathroom and leaves her until she is finished. With a tap-tap on the door he goes and helps her out of the bathroom. Puts her crutches down, takes the braces off her legs and slowly helps her put on her clothes. Then he helps her put the braces back on and hands her the crutches.  He helps her up and they slowly make their way down the steps.  He holds her arm so she won’t fall again. She had already broken an arm and a hip. Hand in hand they move down the walk to eat brunch with their friends. No wonder the writer calls his book, Crossing to Safety. He says that none of us move across the swirling waters to safety without somebody helping us. We can’t do it alone.

I couldn’t help but think about this story when dear Hazel left us Friday afternoon—surrounded by her family. On Friday they told her that they loved her. They kissed her. They prayed together and then they sang: “Amazing Grace how sweet the sound...” And not long after that she quietly she slipped away into the mystery.

She crossed to safety—across the swirling waters of so much pain and difficulty. And yet she made it, not alone. We can’t do it alone. She made it because of Butch—our hero that has given much of his life to help the woman he loved across the dark water. They were married for 56 years. 40 years of that time she was suffering from arthritis that got worse and worse. Somebody asked him one day: “How do you stand it? Why didn’t you leave her?” And Butch said, “I kept remembering those little words I said at the altar: ‘In sickness and in health...for better or for worse...’”He held on to those promises and they helped each other across the wide, wide river.

But there were others that helped her cross to safety. Renee and Jimmy and her grandchildren, Abby and Caroline and Bailey. And friends helped—she had so many friends. And Church helped—she loved this church with all her heart. And God, of course helped. She hung on to her faith and some days it surely must have been hard. 60 surgeries. All that pain. And yet she still believed. These—and many other graces got her to the other side.

And so we thank God today for many things. God’s faithfulness. The Holy Scriptures she read over and over in that worn-out Bible. We thank God for all those 20 years she taught at Daniel High School and Edwards Middle School. How many students did she help across the waters? She was an inspiration to all of us that knew her. And Butch too. And so first we offer a doxology for her special, special life.

 But there’s more. We can’t stop there. For in this place that she loved...under the shadow of this cross—we would remind the family here: Butch, Renee and Jimmy and all this family that the cross-beam comes all the way down to where you are. And the promises that Hazel found through her long journey she would want you to find too. “God is a refuge and strength in time of trouble...therefore we will not fear.” “In the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert.” “There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God.” “Even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death—I will be with you...” “I will not leave you comfortless...I will come to you...” “Let not your heart be troubled...” And then most of all we would remind this family:

 “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying: ‘See, the home of God among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things has passed away.’”

One more word. Hazel would remind all of us that have gathered to surround her loved ones to remember that cross-beam of God’s love comes down to all of us. And we, too who will one day cross the swirling waters—need to reach out to one another and help each other along the way. All the way through the Bible there is this word that comes like a tom-tom beat to all of us: “Do not be afraid...Do not be afraid...” And this is what we come back to today. We are not alone—Hazel, her family or any of us. And we thank God from beginning to end for those wonderful twin angels that carried her along—and us too. We know their names, don't we? “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives.” Praise God from whom all blessings flow.  

In loving memory of Hazel Trent 1933-2013

The Third Station--Jesus Falls

"We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness, but one who was tempted in every way that we are, yet never sinned." 
      --Hebrews 4.15

"We all play hard knowing that we live in a haunted house."

                          --Carlyle Marney

Standing here before the Church’s third station look closely. As two spectators watch and a Roman guard stands by—Jesus falls.

This Station, I think, is a mirror. We’re the spectators aren’t we? Standing by watching as Jesus falls. The Lord Jesus falls! It’s scary, isn’t it? We don’t often think of Jesus exhausted, lying in the dust. Why the Gnostics, then and now, have tried to erase this dark picture. But they are wrong. All his energy and resources really are spent. Jesus falls.

Here he is as human as he will ever be. More than that wilderness day when he was tempted. More, even than that pain-filled moment when he moaned: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me.” This is the human Jesus. Like the old woman in the TV ad: “I’ve fallen down and can’t get up!”

We know this woman, don’t we? We fallers. All our lives we have had to deal with limitations and frailties and a very basic humanity. On hospital beds or shuffling with vacant, empty eyes down some nursing home hallway. Or sitting across the desk from the man in a white coat who says quietly: “I have the lab results.”

This third station really is a mirror. Like Humpty-Dumpty we all fall down. Sometimes it’s an addiction or a strange virus that winds its way through our bloodstream. Sometimes it’s a broken, fractured relationship. It’s being gay in a very straight church. Or being clumsy in an athletic community. Or just peering into the mirror and knowing the whispers, “God, she’s just homely” really holds some truth.

And so some of us refuse to accept what we see in this mirror of the Third Station. And so we wait in some doctor’s office for botox or plastic surgery or testosterone patches in the hopes that we can slip by this third station once and for all.  Exercising like crazy—trying to forget what really cannot be forgotten: the limits of our lives.

Some of us face this third station with bleak resignation. We are the defeated ones, never Number One—Number One. We are the losers and we just slip into the background, giving up the fight knowing the old poet was right: “There’s nothing but the night.”

But some of us accept the burden of our finitude. We have come to know, like Jesus that we can’t do it all or have it all. Like Adam and Eve there is a wall around our Garden, too. We know that nothing can hold back the lines around our eyes and neck, the exhaustion that overtakes us day after day or having to just make do with a back that hurts and a child you cannot reach Is it possible that we could learn to accept our humanity, hard though it may be

And so this Third station is our mirror, isn’t it? Jesus falls. “He had to become like his brothers in every way...”(Heb. 2.17) But sisters too, I think. And standing here before this third station we cannot ignore that we are human beings holding in our hands our limits, our frailties and the enormous losses of our lives.

But let us remember that the church said this is Via Dolorosa, this Way of the Cross is a long and winding journey. This third station is not the end--for Jesus or for us.  

(The renderings of the Stations are done by the African artist, Bruce Onobrakpeya.  His work is found is museums and galleries all over the world. His limited edition set of 14 linoleum-cut prints of the Stations of the Cross were produced in 1967 for the Saint Paul's Church in Nigeria.)

The Second Station--Jesus Takes the Cross

"At the cross...at the cross
where I first saw the light..."
    --Gospel song

Pause with me and look at this second station: Jesus takes the cross. Pilate kept sarcastically saying to the crowd: “This is your King.” In mocking fashion they put a purple robe on this man with the blood-streaked face. The  robe stuck to the bloody lashes on his back, arms and legs. The crowd wanted blood as crowds often do. Pilate asks a last time: “Shall I crucify your king?” And the Chief Priests answered for the crowd: “We have no king but Caesar.” Y Tube would have a field day with this scene.

Where does the power really lie? In the pageantry and might of the great Roman Empire? Or could is possibly rest in this one who talks of another kingdom. There really are two kingdoms. A kingdom of power and might and there is a kingdom of power and glory.

Have you ever said, maybe not out loud but somewhere deep in your heart: “We have no king but Caesar.” Maybe you never said it but you have lived like it. Take away the economic uncertainty and all the talk and all the fear and there would hardly be any news to report. Money really does make our world go round. We have just come through another ugly election. We voted for power from either one candidate or the other. We want to get things done. And even after the election everything is in disarray because of what? Power. One of the movies up for Best Picture in the Academy Awards is a film about torture. It raises the question could we ever win this war of terror or whatever without torture. We gain so much this way, we are told. It is power over another. Ask those at Guantanamo Bay behind those guarded fences about power and torture. Our major discussion is how many troops do we leave in Afghanistan and how many drones do we send into Pakistan just to show who’s in charge. We could even mention the football fans that yell, “Number 1...Number 1.” Who wants to be Number 2?  What about guns—that’s a whole discussion itself. On the personal level some of us opt for success and others of us have given ourselves over a smorgasbord of addictions. The tail really does wag the dog, doesn’t it? “We have no king but Caesar.”  Was that then or is that now?

We know, don’t we? We know. But standing here before Jesus seemingly powerless, forced to take a cross we have to face a disturbing question. This Kingdom Jesus talks about what does it mean for you and me and us and the whole world?

So Jesus takes up the cross. And after all these years we still keep coming back to this Second station of the Cross. What does it mean to stand here and look, really look at the One who carried the cross? Where is the power? Where is our power? And we too must answer who is our king? Not an easy answer is it.

The First Station--Jesus Before Pilate

"Some time ago at the University of California San Diego, a  young woman raised her hand in the  middle of a seminar about the first century of Rome and the dawn of the Christian era. She seemed genuinely disturbed by something. 'I know you're all going to think this is crazy but I always thought Jesus was an American."

In this First Station of the Cross, Jesus stands before Pilate. His face is bloody. He is cross-eyed dizzy with the pain of the last night’s beating. He reels back and forth finding it hard to stand. And Pilate, sitting upon his throne looks down at the prisoner for a second time. The Governor leans forward and asks the prisoner, “Are you the King of the Jews?” “Is this what they say,” Jesus responds, “or is it what you say?” Furious now, Pilate bristles, “Am I a Jew? Your own people have handed you over to me. Tell me what you have done.” Jesus replies, “You don’t understand. Neither do my own leaders. My kingdom is not of this world.” And Pilate responds, “So you are a King.”

After all these years we still ask the question. Who is this Jesus? Oh we think we know. We have whispered his name a zillion times over the strangest of issues. We’ve made him white and brown and Southern and Tea Party and racist and liberal and defender of whatever status quo makes us comfortable. The Nazis painted him blue-eyed with blonde curls and of course Anglo-Saxon. They are not the only culprits. We’ve tried to drag him into whatever it is we wish or want or dream.

Some time ago an artist named Barosin painted a “Head of Christ” with a blue background. People complained that the background did not go well with strong colors in their educational buildings. So one Press obliged the complainers by offering Barosin’s “powerful” portrait in a neutral background. Christ was made to fit the environment around him. They said that he was whoever they thought he was.

 Not so says this first station of the Cross. Look carefully. He was a man. A man like us and yet different. The leaders if Judaism and Pilate and most of us have tried to force him into our molds. But it doesn’t work. Jesus is the sufferer. He bled like us. He was despised and rejected more times than not. He was love personified and yet the world then or now doesn’t understand this other Kingdom. “In Christ there is no north nor south, there is no east or west. But one great fellowship of love throughout the whole wide world.” Whatever happened to that idea?”

Carlyle Marney used to tell preachers, “ Boys if they ever find out that Jesus was a Jew we’re going to be in deep trouble.” And he was right. We want him to be like us. And he calls us to be like him. And so standing by this first Station of the Cross—Pilate washes his hands as the prisoner Jesus takes his first step toward the cross. Ponder the question as you look at this rendering. Who is He? Who is this Jesus?

Happy Birthday--Liz

Elizabeth—it’s your birthday and I raise a toast to you. You’ll kill me for blabbing it out—but when you turn 89 that’s quite an accomplishment. As you know you are one of my fav-o-rite people.

We began our friendship journey back in 1975 when I became your Pastor. From the very beginning you stood out. Well—you always stood out. You were a whirl-wind at church and just about everywhere else. Whenever I wanted anything done I called Liz. And then got out of the way.

You were married to Ed and you all had a great love affair. You were about as different as two people could be—left brained and right brained. An Engineer and an Artist.  But you made it work and had a great marriage and had three kids—Shelley, Dale and Jed. We drove a long way to get back to Ed’s funeral because we loved him as much as you. It was a hard time for you to say goodbye.  He died much too soon.

But you kept going. You taught art in the High School here to a zillion kids. You inspired my own son who learned so much from you. I wonder how many there are out there whose lives have been touched by you. Many, many. You give teacher and art a good name. You were elected the South Carolina Teacher of the Year—an honor that is about unheard of for an artist. Usually it went to Mathematics or English.  Your paintings have gone everywhere. I can spot your work a mile off—I recognize your distinct style. And your work is good—very good.

You never stopped. Still haven't.You built a new house in a wooded area with lots of light in your eighties! A couple of months ago I asked you if you had been sick and you said, “No I flew up to New York to attend a conference.” Pretty good for an 88 year old—but that’s only in body.

You called me one day and said you were getting married and wanted me and my wife to come.   I asked, you, “Liz, are you sure about this?” And in your wonderful Southern drawl you said, “Of course.” And that was that. Well—it was a wonderful wedding. You and your new husband Morris. He has been remarkable in his own right. When he retired at 65 from being Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences he went back to law school and practiced until his nineties. You all have had some wonderful years. And though Morris health has slipped you all are very much in love.

So I stop what I am doing and remember all the good times we have had and all the wonderful things I have observed in you. You’ve made life richer for so many of us. Tonight some of us will gather at a restaurant and lift up a glass to a very great lady. Happy Birthday, dear Liz—and I’ll say it once more: you are one of my favorite people.   

Ash Wednesday--Standing in Line

(Last year I wrote this poem about my experience on Ash Wednesday--and included it on my blog. It says what I want to say this Ash Wednesday.)

I stand in a long and winding line.

In some ways I’ve been standing here

  all my life

  waiting, waiting my turn.

I remember my terror waiting in line

  to get that shot in school.

I remember waiting in line with all the

  other scouts hoping to be picked to play.

I remember that line when, in cap

  and gown, I reached out for my diploma.

There have been so many lines—waiting to

  get baptized, to get my driver’s license,

  to get married—to wait with all

   the other men for the Doctor to come

   and say: “It’s a girl...”

All my life, it seems I have been waiting

   in some line.

Sometimes scared, sometimes bored—

  sometimes excited.

And today I stand waiting in yet another line.

Waiting for what?

 I do not rightly know.

To have someone mark my forehead

  with a smudge.

To hear those painful words: “Dust thou art

  and to dust you shall return.”

To remember moments ago we penitents prayed

  together: “Have mercy upon me O God...”

To move away marked by a smudged cross—

That wherever I go and whatever I do—

 I will remember that I will be

   kept

   or carried

   or loved

   or just forgiven.

And so, I stand in this long line waiting.