Mourning for the one we have pierced--Thoughts on Zechariah 12:10 (not 10:10)

 

“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 4^th 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…

The open door of Easter

 "On the first day of the week, Mary of
Magdala came to the tomb early in the morning,
while it was still dark, and saw the stone
removed from the tomb." --John 20: 1

“Anyone who does not welcome the kingdom

of God like a little child will not enter it.” –Mark 10:35

The last time I was at the hospital (volunteering with the chaplain’s office) I found myself standing at an open door knocking and even after I was greeted and invited, I was a little anxious about going in.  And I keep thinking about that moment and the woman who I was going to visit and somehow, this Lent, she has become for me an icon of Christ. And that is a story I need to share.

To begin with, when I volunteer, I get a list of names and room numbers. That is it.  Occasionally the chaplain will mark a name or two that he particularly wants me to visit, but most of the time it is just a list. I try to visit as many of the names on the list as I can, but often there is one particular person who really needs a visit and I won’t know who that is until they start talking… or crying. And 45 minutes later I know, that person was why God got me to the hospital that night.

But some nights half the names on my list have already been released, or they’re asleep, or they have family visiting and don’t want to be interrupted. And nights like that can leave a person feeling a little confused about their chosen ministry and a bit unnecessary.

This last time was more like that.  The first 5 rooms I visited were empty. The next door I came to required me to get dressed in a paper gown and latex gloves –to avoid carrying in germs. I knocked on the door; someone was there, but he didn’t speak English. I apologized for my lack of language skills and made the sign of the cross. He understood that and we prayed together anyway (the Our Father). And three minutes later I was out of the gown and throwing away the gloves and checking my list for the next name.  She was asleep. And the next was finishing a baked potato and watching NCIS reruns and didn’t really need anything (specifically not a prayer). But, thank you, very much.

After wandering the hospital for over an hour with about the same level of success, I came to her room.  The outer door was open and when I knocked I heard a voice, but couldn’t understand what they said. And there was a kind of porcelain or tile sounding echo in the sound, like the voice was coming from the bathroom. I checked the name on the door. It was the right person; the right room. So, I knocked again, and called her name. This time I heard that same echoing voice but much more clearly. “The door is open. Come on in,” she said.

But, I didn’t. I felt like it wouldn’t be right.  She was in the bathroom. What if she wasn’t fully dressed yet? What if, she thought I was a nurse come to help her –in the bathroom?

I peered into the room. A light was shining out through the open bathroom door.  I knocked again. Still standing outside, I called in an introduction and said why I was there. I was halfway hoping she would tell me to go away; Thank you, very much.  

            But instead –in a very welcoming tone—she said, “Come on in. It’s okay. Please come in.”  As I stepped into the room, she came out of the bathroom, smiling with her hair all up in a towel.

            “My first shower in over a week,” she laughed. “It felt so good to wash my hair. You can’t imagine.”  And I nodded in agreement[1].  As she walked past me to her bed, adjusting the towel, I noticed something else: tattoos up and down her arms. Not just a couple, but several on each arm; and on the back of her neck as she turned to move a pole with some tubes and a monitor.  And when she sat on her bed, ankles crossed, I noticed that her legs too were decorated with tattoos.

            Here was this woman, who looked to be in her late thirties, early forties; slightly heavy, maybe 5 feet tall, reminding me of a young Shirley Booth, with little about her to draw your attention –except that her arms and legs were covered with tattoos. And one other thing.  She had this smile.

            “Would you like to sit down?” Her smile seemed almost beatific. Perhaps it was the shower, or perhaps she had just received good news from her doctors, or maybe she’d just finished a very nice bowl of Jello.  

I pulled a chair over near the bed and sat down.

She rubbed the towel against her hair and it came undone.  Long, dark strands of still damp hair fell down over her shoulder and suddenly there was something else one noticed about this woman.  People are never as simple or as plain as they seem. If you really look at people, really open your eyes, they will always amaze you.  Always surprise you. Don't get distracted by what you see on the surface. Don't let the tattoos get in the way. We all have them --some are just more obvious than others.
Sitting on the bed, she dried the ends of her long dark hair with the towel and told me about why she was in the hospital, and about her family who took such good care of her and about how busy she was even here in the hospital.  And all the time she was smiling and laughing, and making me feel like I was someone she was so very glad to see.

After a brief chat, she told me she needed to call her husband.  “We’re very busy at work right now, and he called to ask me something but I hung up on him as soon as the nurse told me I could shower.”

I tried to make a joke about her husband being so busy because his best worker was in the hospital, but she laughed and corrected me. “I don’t work for him.  He works for me. And I gotta make sure he isn’t goofing off.  But, before I do, I would really love it if you would say a prayer.” 

Her words were so sudden and so sincere, I was stunned. I don’t know if I had ever heard anyone say that to me before.  Opening my Bible, I read her a few verses from psalm 63:1-8, and then closing my eyes,  offered a prayer asking God for healing, for consolation and for the faith to put our trust in His will, in His love, no matter what.  And when I was done, she said:

“That was beautiful. Thank you so very much.  I hope you’ll come see me again.”

She had her phone out and clearly, she was ready for me to go. She had a husband to call. Leaving the room, I was filled with a strange sense of renewal and rebirth. Though I had been with this lady only a few minutes, I knew she was the real reason I had come to the hospital tonight. But I also knew that tonight, this hour or so of ministry, had really been not about what I had to offer, but what I had to receive. When I came to volunteer that evening I was feeling a little useless, a little foolish, and yet a voice called out to me: Come in. The door is open. That is what the kingdom of God is, in a nutshell; an open door. That is the message of Easter.  Jesus opened the door for us. And I’m pretty certain God doesn’t ever close it. Not even when He is washing His hair.  Because of Christ, that door is always standing open. If we don’t enter, it isn’t because God doesn’t welcome us, it’s because we don’t welcome Him. Because we’re too busy being afraid or too busy being important or too busy judging others or judging ourselves, to welcome (like a small child) Him and His always open door. 

Lord, through His cross, Your Son opened the door of salvation.
This Easter, open our hearts to receive that saving grace
and give us the courage and the faith
to welcome that open door.

Amen.

---

[1] Going bald, I have noticed that hair washing doesn’t provide quite the same thrill (or comfort) it did during my hirsute youth.