“Have you come out with swords and clubs
            to arrest me as though I were a bandit?”
                           —Matthew 26.55

I pray for you, Christ, arrested in the night.
I pray for you, held without bail.
I pray for you profiled, tasered, detained,
dragged out by force with my silent blessing.

I pray for you, Christ, tortured and beaten.
I pray for you Christ, held in my prisons,
my Correctional Facility, our Guantanamo.

And how many of you, Christ,
are in prisons without walls,
in cells of fear, of abuse, of shame?
How many innocent?
How many twisted not by your own choosing?

I pray for you, Curtis, and your children.
I pray for you, Juanita, and your baby.

You, too, are God’s Beloved.
You all are divine.
Christ, I pray for you all,
and whatever we do to the least of you,
in all of your shackles.

Today, we are with you, in paradise….
 

 

            Then he began to curse, and he swore an oath,
            “I do not know the man!”
            At that moment the cock crowed.
            Then Peter remembered what Jesus had said:
            “Before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.”
            And he went out and wept bitterly.
                           —Matthew 26.74-75

I deny you, Christ,
when I deny my own divinity.
I deny you when I deny
the divinity of those I condemn.
I deny you when I do not hear you
in the oppressed and rejected.
I deny you when I turn
from my glorious giftedness.
I deny you when I am afraid
to stand with those at risk.
I deny you when in my guilt
I doubt your love.
And still you love.

Let remembering’s bitterness awaken me.
Let my weeping be my wisdom.

To the frightening, to the infinite,
to the compassionate, to the holy,
help me say yes.

Let me die with yes on my lips.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net

Discuss this Reflection on Facebook

 

Cold and dark clamp down on us.
The Empire feeds itself,
human bodies as fuel,
boots tracking blood.
Rachel weeping for her children,
we’ve heard it before.
The man with the megaphone doesn’t care.
The emperor has spoken.
Only the most fragile voice
cries out for hope.
The gentle bear it,
weeping in our language.
Always the target,
amid the smoke and carnage,
the fallen stones,
the ruined toddlers,
the Beloved stands,
a little tree—
who planted you here?—
offering fruit to anyone,
blood-red and life giving,
arms outstretched,
quietly crying,
“Fear not;
it is I.”
 

 

Unless the seed dies

          Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies,
          it remains just a single grain;
          but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
                    — John 12. 24

What are you afraid of?
What are you holding onto?
What are you holding on for?

Let all things be,
let them be right there,
without having to hang onto them.

The last thing you let go of is your
self. This hard-shelled seed of who you are
you are trying so hard to build up

into something great and false.
Trying to build a fruit tree
out of sticks.

Let it go. Each moment, each breath,
surrender your favorite self.
Let it fall

into the earth of our being, the home
of our bones. All of our falling
is into God.

When at last the fist of your life
is opened, the grave of your heart
dug deep enough, and empty,

when you let the breathing darkness
and your unguarded nothingness
spill into each other

then something miraculous grows in you,
and out through every pore,
to the edge of the world:

a completely new and different life,
begotten, not made, that gives life,
that doesn’t look like a seed at all.

You don’t need to hang onto it.
It can’t be killed. Its roots
are in God.

 

 

            Could you not stay awake with me one hour?
            Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial;
            the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.
                           —Matthew 26.40-41

I slip into forgetting sleep,
a deadness I seek,
a trance of avoidance,
distraction’s pleasant coma.
I am numb to your world, O Christ,
to your suffering, your love,
unconscious of you here.

Awaken me.
Breathe yourself into me
and rouse me
from my fearful distance.

Let even pain keep me awake,
attentive to your pain
in all who hurt,
your love keep me alert
to love in all your forms.

Grant me this simple gift,
all you ask:
that I may stay awake,
trusting I am not orphaned,
and pray with you,
so earnestly praying for me
and all the world.
just stay awake my little time
and pray with you.

Let all my waking hours
be wakeful hours.

 

           He said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.”
           And they began to say to him one after another,
           “Surely not I, Lord?” …
           Then Jesus said to them,
           “You will all become deserters because of me this night.”
           Peter said to him, “Even though I must die with you,
           I will not deny you.” And so said all the disciples.
                           —from Matthew 26.21-35

Jesus, my Friend,
my Beloved, my Person,
I love you, and I will falter.
I will deny you. I will betray you.
Three times ten thousand times
I will deny you.
The silver pieces lie in my pocket.
I have the nails.
And you, knowing, invite me to your table,
to the place of honor even,
this seat of greatest grace,
beside you,
to share your bread with me,
and lay down your body for me.
I can hardly look into the sun
of such forgiveness,
love’s empty tomb
that defeats me,
re-makes me.

I confess. I return.
Knowing, I follow,
drawn in your grace,
this burden that is light.
 

             While Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper,
             a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment,
             and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table. …
             Jesus said, “She has prepared me for burial.
             Truly I tell you, wherever this good news
             is proclaimed in the whole world,
             what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”          
                           —Matthew 26.6, 12-13

In one long, miserable story of fear and denial,
betrayal, delusion and cruelty,
here is one kind thing
that someone does for Jesus.
It is not much.
But he treasures it.
Don’t underestimate the power of simple kindness.

             +

You need not be the Messiah.
It is enough to bring your simple gifts
and offer them for the sake of the One who Heals Us.
Even God needs healing.

             +

Jesus prepares himself for death.
He is continually pouring himself out,
emptying himself and receiving God,
dying and rising.
The disciples are clinging to survival.
Only this woman understands
and does not cling,
but in her own outpouring
empties herself in love and blessing
for Jesus’ sake.
She, too, is ready.
 

When Lazarus heard his name
he took a sudden breath.
With visceral trembling blood resurged.
But then, as when awakening some days,
he lay a moment, mired,
reluctant to rise from the familiar
swaddling of his death
Rising, even more than dying,
there could be no return:
for if he chose to stand,
all he knew would then be lost

And still now every morning,
each momentary wish for healing
is a risk, a wakening call
to change, to choose,
to leave so much behind,
and be again made new.

[1996]
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net