“I will pour out on the house of David
and on the people of Jerusalem,
a spirit of grace and prayers,
and they shall look on him whom
they have pierced and they shall mourn
as if for an only son, and they shall grieve
as one grieves for a first born…”
Zechariah 12:10
The familiar passages of scripture, the ones we hear over and over again—year to year—are often the most comforting. They show up, unannounced, like old friends or family –and (like family & friends) often just in time for the holidays. And, we know them so well everything feels automatic. We hear that familiar voice, the cackle of a familiar laugh, and we are suddenly transported. For instance, when my oldest friend (David) stops by for coffee, we almost immediately become a couple of 4th graders again—talking about teachers and kickball, St. Jerome’s and Ridgecrest Elementary, trips to K-mart and T,G & Y. We don’t think about it, we just fall right back into the old days and ways without even trying.
For me, it is he same with familiar sayings and bits of information. I can’t help but see the number 714 without thinking of Babe Ruth. That was how many homeruns he hit. Until Hank Aaron came along, it was considered the unbreakable record in baseball. For me, it is still the most important statistic in all of sports history. But is that because I see it through the lens of nostalgia? I read that number on a sheet of paper, a computer screen, and without thinking, automatically, I see Babe Ruth circling the bases on those impossibly twiggy legs of his.
I read these words from Zechariah and I immediately think of the Stations of the Cross. I picture Jesus pierced by the Roman soldier’s spear. And –to some extent—that is appropriate. The words evoke that image, and they are often read as part of the liturgy during Lent, often included as part of the Stations meditations we read, when we pray the Stations of the Cross. But, the other morning when I was reading these words, for some reason I paused for a moment and wondered: Wait a minute! Why? Why would the Israelites return from exile in Babylon, be restored to their homeland, have a spirit of grace and petition poured out upon them, and suddenly begin mourning? Who do they look at? Who have their pierced? Not Jesus, because these words were written at least 300-500 years before He was born. Who have they pierced, and who are they looking upon?
You see. When I automatically think of Jesus, I’m not really reading the words? I’m not really paying attention to the text (or the context). In a sense, I’m only reading what I expect to read—not what is actually on the page. And that’s not actually reading.
So I went back to the words on the page in my Book of Christian Prayer, and then I looked them up in my Bible. And when I did, two things stood out to me: first, the citation in my prayer book was wrong; probably a typo. It referenced Zechariah 10:10-11a, however, the words actually come from Zechariah 12:10-11a. That stood out to me, because it reminded me that even experts with all their degrees and training can make mistakes. Can get things wrong. Second, rereading the words in my Bible, I found myself struck by the context of the exiles returning to Jerusalem. God promises to smite their enemies and to pour upon them a spirit of grace and petition. So why does the author include those words about that pierced one and mourning as if for an only child? It sounds like it should be a time for celebration and cheers of joy, prayers of thanksgiving. But Zechariah speaks of mourning as if for a first-born child. Why had I never noticed that before?
Because I was blinded by prejudice—by pre-judgement. I had already made up my mind what the words meant, what they prefigured, and so I didn’t actually read the words, I read only what I expected from them. Sometimes 714, is just a number—not a statistic.
But this year, reading these familiar words with new eyes, I was astonished by their power and beauty and profound and personal message. And it all started with a bit of curiosity: Why do people who are being saved begin to mourn? And who, exactly, is this pierced one that they are looking at? And suddenly I knew. They are morning not for an only child, but as if for an only child. They are being blessed by God, and they are mourning because they know they do not deserve God’s grace. They are mourning because the one who saved them, the one who is blessing them, is the one they pierced—not with a lance, but with idols and betrayals and hypocrisy and sin. And I was stunned. Suddenly I remembered the times that I too had experienced kindness and generosity at the hands of someone I had betrayed or gossiped about, or just thought ill of. I felt again the shame and the sorrow of knowing my own failing, my own weakness and smallness. How little I deserved the generosity and kindness, and how ashamed (and yet grateful) I was to receive them.
And that image recalled to me the reason these words are so important to our reading for Lent, for Holy Week, for contemplating the Passion of Our Lord. Because they remind us, not just of the lance of the Roman Soldier, but of he lance of my own sharp tongue, the piercing lance of my own selfish heart, my self-serving pride, and of the one who poured out His blood for us anyway.
And so, today—as I write this—on easter Monday, I read these words and think not of Lent and the Passion, but of Easter and the Resurrection. I look upon the one I pierced and see Him resurrected, pouring His spirit upon me, upon us all, as He brings us forth from the exile of sin (and death), restoring us to life and opening for us gates of a new Jerusalem: His Blessed Kingdom.
Reading these familiar words, I had my eyes opened. I realized something about God’s word, that it requires vulnerability and curiosity—if we want to really read it, we have to open ourselves up to the risk of having our ideas and our hearts changed. A reading lesson for an old librarian—and a life lesson for all of us. Pre-judging something (or someone) can cause us to miss out on so much…
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