04/15/2022
Lynn Murphy Mark
Approaching the end of Holy Week I wonder what kind of Christian I am. The whole week has slipped by without much notice. Except first thing in the morning, when I start my day with Richard Rohr’s meditations. Every day this week he reminded me that love of God shone through the bravery of his son, who knew full well what was coming today. And he faced it mostly alone, as his companions scattered and hid. One of them denied knowing him. Yet his faith held him upright as he was beaten, spit upon, and made to carry his own instrument of torture.
I suppose I have a problem with the phrase, “ His only begotten son”. We are all made in the image and likeness of God and we are all born to the same air and water and earth and fire. Jesus arrived as all of us do, through a young woman having her first born and not really knowing what to expect as a new mother. Presumably he suckled and flourished and hit all the baby milestones that we parents love to witness.
I would be ok with the words, “His miraculously begotten son”. I understand that concept better. I think of human beings born with exceptional talent who go on to make breathtaking contributions to the arts, and music, and writing. I think of men and women born with minds that create deep spiritual and philosophic teachings. Jesus is one of those teachers whose thinking encompassed the Universal language of love and compassion and doing the next right thing no matter the risk involved.
Those people are holy beings, in my opinion. They stand in that liminal space that most of us don’t comprehend, or are afraid to venture into. They study terrifying thoughts and turn them into ideas that help us to grow and mature in matters of the spirit. They do the mental heavy lifting, for me, anyway, and turn the effort into words that come together in fabulous ways that I have some hope of grasping.
I know that Jesus is a man with solid connections to God, who took on the troubles of his time and taught people how to live in the present despite them. His advice was hardly ever easy to follow, but he put it in words that most people could relate to. He answered questions with questions sometimes, which is a tricky teacher tactic designed to make us think through what we are really asking. That’s an art.
He performed miracles in a quiet and unpretentious way. When people were surprised by what he had done, he reminded them that we have the potential to create miracles ourselves. Maybe not to the same degree, but still capable of doing so. With God all things are possible, he said, even sending a camel through the eye of a needle.
So, today is Good Friday and as the story goes, Jesus prepares to carry the heavy wooden cross through the streets of Jerusalem. The road is lined with people who believed in his teachings and people who denied his radical ideas. The hill is steep, and yet he climbs steadily toward his certain death. I think of his mother watching from the sidelines and this is when I feel my strongest emotion of the entire week. I think of her courage, staying as close to him as she could as his life ebbed away. This is when I believe in the power of Holy Week. The love that surrounded the brutal cross is the same love that powers the Universe. That’s what Good Friday means to me.