Palm Sunday 2023--Why should we expect anything different? Thoughts on the Passion from the Gospel of Matthew

 

“And many women were there, watching from a distance;

the same women who had followed Jesus from Galilee

and ministered to Him.” –Matthew 27:55

 

 My usually approach to contemplating scripture is to see what stands out to me as I read it—what troubles me, or confuses me; what makes me pause and wonder why.  And this morning as I was reading the Passion narrative from Matthew, there were a few bits and pieces that caught me off guard. First this passage about the women, which makes me think about how often it is the women who remain faithful, who stand up when there is trouble and never turn away: mothers, wives, sisters standing by the bedside of the dying, visiting the sick, holding the hand of the prisoner .  Why is that women are the ones who so often show this courage (or faithfulness)?  Is it because women so often go unnoticed? That soldiers and guards don’t feel threatened by their presence, don’t even acknowledge it often enough.  Them—they’re just women.  That humility and that invisibility, is it something that women learn early in life and is it that abuse or that bias that gives these women the courage to remain close to Jesus, after all the apostles (males) have fled in terror and confusion?

 

I wondered about that for a bit.  And then I wondered about an interesting image from the Garden of Gethsemane scene.  What caught my attention this time was the three disciples that Jesus took with Him when he went off to be alone: Peter, James and John (cf. Mt 26: 36-46).  The same three He took with Him when He was transfigured on the mountain (cf. Mt. 17: 1-8).  I also noticed another similarity. In both cases a cloud comes over Jesus. On the mountain it is a literal cloud (the presence of God), but here it is a figurative cloud—a sadness and anguish.  And reading this morning, I wondered: Was this moment not another kind of transfiguration? On the mountain the disciples witnessed the Godliness of Jesus through a transfiguration, and here they glimpse (perhaps only for a moment) the fullness of His humanity through His anguish. He tells the three, “My soul is sorrowful to the point of death…” And just like on the mountain, the three friends are found on the ground, there in fear and awe; here in the garden they are exhausted and have fallen asleep.  So again I wonder, why?  Is Matthew trying to tell us something with these parallels, or am I just misreading these stories through my own idiosyncratic lens? 

 

But then something else occurred to me.  The story itself: the Passion and death of Our Lord.  What does it mean to us? What does it teach us about the Love of God?  And what does it teach us about what we should expect from a Christian life?

 

“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…”  sings the old hymn. And so we are reminded again and again of that call to follow Christ, and what it means to follow Him.

 

But still, we hear this same story year after year, over and over again.  For almost 2100 years, now.  And yet, we still seem to expect a different ending. Every year as we read this story—a kind of strange anticipatory hope comes over me, as if this time—perhaps—the disciples won’t flee, this time, the guards won’t abuse, this time the priests won’t spit, this time Pilate won’t give in, this time Judas won’t betray.  This time, things will be different.  This time victory won’t come in the form of a cross. But that is my way, that is our way; it isn’t God’s way.

 

“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…”  the old hymn sings. And yet we still look for another way, an easier way.  We look for a victory that feels more safe, that seems more comfortable, more to our liking—more victorious (by our standards).  But that isn’t the victory God chose, and it isn’t the victory He calls us to. 

Each time you look at the cross, you see the victory of Christ, the throne—so to speak—of God’s victory.  So why after hearing this story for 2100 years do we keep looking, hoping, expecting something easier, something different?  Why do we keep thinking we should be able to have victory without the cross? Hosannas without the Passion? 

 

Recently I read or heard someone talking about how anti-Catholic (or anti-Christian) bigotry was the last acceptable prejudice.  I don’t know if this is true or not, but the speaker seemed quite indignant about it. And this morning I am wondering –why not? If Christians are truly following their master, shouldn’t they expect to be rejected? Shouldn’t they expect that the only crown they will receive in this world will come with thorns, and it will be bejeweled only by the drops of their own blood.

 

Instead of demanding glory, or mercy or even respect, when faced with the brutality of sin, Jesus accepted the abuse and gave "[His] back to those who beat me/ [His] cheeks to those who plucked [His] beard;/ [His] face [He] did not shield from buffets and spitting." (cf. Isaiah 50:4-7). 

 

Why do Chrsitians imagine anything else? As Jesus warned us, if they treat the Master in this way, will they treat His servants any better? (cf. John 15:20) Instead of demanding respect, perhaps Christians should follow the example given in Isaiah; stop trying to protect our faces from the spitting and our backs from the beatings, and take up our Cross and follow our King--to His throne.

 

After 2100 years, there are still so many lessons for us to learn, and I fear—none of them will come easy.

 

I wish you a blessed Holy Week and I pray that you will find, as you take up your own particular cross, that you are not alone. There is someone’s shoulder lifting it right there beside you.

 

God Bless you, and I will see you the other side of Easter!

 

 

 

 

Confession and the Tranfiguration

“…he was still speaking, when…”

--Matthew 17:5

The other morning, I went to confession over at Our Lady of Czestochowa. It had been a while, and it is summer. I guessed it was time for my quarterly check in with the sacrament.  One interesting thing I think I know about this church is: there used to be a Charlie’s Hamburger there back in the 70’s. “Over two-dozen sold,” was their slogan. There were a few around town, but they are all closed now (I believe).  If I remember correctly, the restaurant was in an old two-story house that also sold antiques. Regardless, the fact that it was there tells me that this piece of land over on Blalock has always been a place that feeds the soul. It must be Holy Ground.

I like going to confession over at Our Lady partly because the priests are Polish and there is the strong possibility that they won’t fully understand what I am confessing, but also because of the old-fashioned confessionals. They have the kind with a kneeler and a screen; like in the movies. It feels not only private, but special, solemn; more real.  I know there are people who like going to confession face to face with the priest, but I have always preferred the idea of anonymity. Of course it may be a sign of spiritual (and emotional) immaturity, but I have never gotten comfortable with the idea of a priest knowing exactly how I feel about Doritos! Tree climbing! and Lana Turner!  Just the possibility…  It’s more than I can handle.  And, I must say I don’t like to see the disappointment in their eyes when I begin talking about my struggles the 10 commandments (at least 9.5 of them).  But that’s another story…

What I really wanted to talk about was my penance.  The priest recommended that I meditate on the Transfiguration.  He recommended either praying the fourth Luminous Mystery of the Rosary (the Transfiguration) or getting out my Bible and reading the gospel account (Matthew 17: 1-8, Mark 9:2-8, Luke 9:28-36) and spending some time quietly contemplating it.  Well, like any good and overly scrupulous sinner, I went straight home and did both… But nothing much happened.  I wanted to feel overwhelmed with grace and mercy and salvation and all kinds of luminous stuff like that. Basically I wanted to feel something transformative… but, like I said, nothing much happened. I read the Gospel account and sat quietly for a while, my mind wandering about like an owl in search of a cigarette.  Then I went for a walk to the park and prayed the rosary and picked up a dead fish that someone had left in the road… But, basically, I felt un-changed.  I was pretty excited about this penance and thought –Wow! That’s a cool one. Man. I lucked out. But, in the end –I prayed and I meditated and …nothing seemed to happen. I was still just me… and I was a little disappointed.  And that’s how prayer works most of the time (in my experience).

But… Later (this is almost a little postscript; which may –in itself—be a sign of some kind) I was sitting in a lobby waiting for my daughter, reading a book and having trouble keeping my eyes open; I heard the slapping of sandals coming down a staircase and I was kind of startled awake.  I looked across the lobby (a large one --with an indoor garden) and I saw these two skinny legs coming down the twisting staircase slapping loose fitting sandals with each step.  The steps sounded like those of a small girl, half playing with the acoustics; perhaps delighting in the clap of her shoes as she walked. From my angle and distance I could see a pink gauzy skirt that came down just past her knees. It looked almost like a ballet skirt my daughters used to wear when they were very young.  As she came around the landing where the stairs turned back toward the main lobby I could see it wasn’t a child. It was a young woman; early twenties –I would guess—and she was walking as so many of us do these days with her face peering into her phone. She came down the rest of the steps just as loudly, but now the sound had lost its charm.  Now it seemed like the thoughtlessness of a distracted young lady who couldn’t be bothered to care whether anyone else was trying to read (or sleep).  She was too busy staring at her screen and emojifying things! I guessed.

And now that I was awake and cranky I was also a little perplexed by her outfit. Why was she dressed like an eight-year-old?  And why couldn’t she just put that phone away and stop slouching, and walk like a normal person (whatever that means, Old Man Sutter!)…

I watched her walk to the door still staring at the screen in her hand; her shoes still slapping the tile floor. I watched her open it and step through, still staring at it.  I watched as she let it swing closed and kept going, apparently oblivious to the other people who were walking past her to come in.  And as I did –my first thought was: of course, she won’t hold the door for anyone. She’s too caught up in her own little virtual world to bother about anyone else.  I had made up my mind about this young woman. And then something happened.  As she was walking away, she suddenly stopped and hurried back. And opened the door. And just stood there… as a very large (overweight man) walked stiffly and slowly past and through the door.  He nodded and may have spoken to her. I couldn’t hear from my vantage point.  But I could see her turn her head up from her phone and smile before she headed on her way.

What I witnessed that afternoon in that lobby was a type of transfiguration.  Like those sleepy apostles who looked at Jesus and thought they knew who he was. They had been with him a while and seen how He acted and heard Him speak and even seen Him heal people, but… Then he revealed Himself in a way they had never imagined.  Me… I was looking at that young lady and after just a few seconds of observing her, I thought I knew who she was. I thought I knew what I was seeing.  And that judgmental voice in my head just kept speaking. But, then she turned around and opened that door and… I too saw something I had never imagined. 

Shut your mouth, Mr. Sutter... and open your eyes.  There is more to God's world than you could ever imagine.

In my experience with the Lord, that is exactly how He works.  If I am acting all holy, and looking for a reward, nothing happens.  But, just when I am feeling exhausted and ready to give up on God, He comes clumping down the stairs in a pink ballet tutu looking like an overgrown 8-year-old.  When the priest gave me that penance, I had been kind of excited. Because I thought it was a sign from God. And I guess it was. But, just not in the one I had expected.  And yet, if I hadn’t gone to confession that morning, if the priest hadn’t given me that penance, and if I hadn’t gone after it like a dog after a bone, I wonder --would I have been ready to witness what I saw? Would my heart have been open to that little quiet moment of transfiguration if the seed hadn’t been planted by a priest I never saw sitting behind a screen in a little old fashioned “closet” (with a kneeler), on a weekday morning, in a Polish church in Houston, Texas? I wonder…

One thing I know for certain; somewhere along the way, I must have been on holy ground.  But isn't that true everywhere? I mean, think about who made it.

The Tranfiguration: 2nd Sunday of Lent

“…when they looked around, they saw no

one with them anymore but only Jesus.”

--Mark 9:8

Outside my window, the branches of the oak in our front yard are being transfigured –metamorphosing—from stark leafless twiggy things, seemingly lifeless, icons of loss and sorrow, into budding branches almost literally bursting with life.  Images of transfiguration are all around us. But often we either don’t see them or don’t know what to make of them.  We rush on to our next appointment unwilling to stop and stare and really see what is right before our eyes.  The blessing that rises before us.

Looking at the readings for this Sunday, I quickly read the Old Testament passage –Abraham and Isaac and the sacrifice—and rushed past the psalm and the reading from Romans to look at the Gospel. Eager to skip over the side dishes and get to the main course, I guess.  And when I saw that the reading from Mark was the story of the transfiguration, I thought: Oh, that’s why we have the Abraham story! Perfect! Yes. Both stories have mountains and both involve beloved sons and both involve some kind of change or revelation. I got that. Easy. I wonder what’s next week?

I was treating these familiar readings with too much familiarity. I was treating them the way one might treat an old stain on the wall, or your 851^st bowl of oatmeal, or your wife’s hair… I wasn’t really looking at it, wasn’t really noticing it. I wasn’t really paying attention. Yeah, it’s fine. Looks nice. Tastes like it always does… I guess.  How would I know? Unless I take the time to actually taste it, notice it, appreciate it.

When I teach poetry (this is definitely an aside) I like to share with students a piece of historical prose written by William Carlos Williams as a kind of introduction. The piece is called something like “The American Background,” and I first came upon it in Williams’s Selected Essays (pg. 134).  It is a brief observation (less than a page) about the early American settlers from England and their misidentification of a bird. Williams tells us that these early settlers saw a bird that looked to them like something they remembered from their homeland and they called the bird a robin. But (according to Williams) what they were looking at was a thrush –a larger bird, a bird of wilder song and that even landed differently. It was a totally different bird with only similar coloring.  But instead of looking at it and seeing that this was something new, something they had never experienced before –they fell back on their past, retreated to what they already knew and missed the actual: Nothing new here. Just a robin –seen one, seen ‘em all.  Let’s go find some gold.

Instead of seeing the truth perched on the branch before us, how often do we rush past not noticing the gift God has set before us? How often do we look at a thrush, but see only what we think is a robin –because that’s what we are expecting to see?  How often do we read a familiar story and hear only what we expect to hear –never really what is on the page, never letting ourselves hear the story fresh, engage it anew?

Beginning to wonder if maybe I’d missed something by seeing only the familiar, I went back to look at the psalm (and possibly I was feeling sorry for it –who pays attention to the psalms?).  I wondered what it might have to say about the theme of transfiguration.

I was first struck by the words:

“I believed, even when I said:

I am greatly afflicted.

Precious in the eyes of the Lord

Is the death of His faithful ones.” (116:10)

And instead of trying to make that mean something about the Gospel or the story of Abraham, I simply heard it and felt the words begin to take root in my soul. Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of His faithful ones… In the midst of a culture that measures success and the value of a life by the amount of comfort and pleasure experienced, and by the amount of pain and discomfort avoided it is very troubling to hear of such preciousness. One might even ask: If the faithful one is so precious to God, why doesn’t God save him?

            Next the psalm speaks of being God’s servant, of being set free by God (“you have loosed my bonds…”). And then the psalmist sings:

“To You I will offer sacrifice of thanksgiving,

I will call upon the name of the Lord…” (cf. 116:16-17)

And I began to contemplate –what does this mean to me? How is God speaking something new to me through these ancient words?  And it was in that time of contemplation that I began to understand being transfigured doesn’t just mean a change of appearance.  When Jesus is transfigured, Peter, James & John see Him in a new way. But it isn’t just that Jesus has changed in appearance. In this story, in that moment, the disciples get a glimpse of the Truth… they have the mystical experience of seeing Christ in the fullness of His being.  But Jesus isn’t the only one who is transfigured on that mountain. Peter, James & John come down the mountain changed, metamorphosed by the experience. And then I heard myself asking: What about Abraham? Who is transfigured in that story? On the one hand there is Abraham who is challenged to offer his beloved son as a sacrifice, and in his willingness to do whatever God demands of him, he is transformed from a man who follows God in order to receive a reward (wealth, land, generations of children, and a lasting memory) into a man who “fears the Lord” [not afraid the way someone might be afraid of ghosts or the dark or nuns with yardsticks, but more like awe or a sense of being devoted to God] (cf. Gen 22:12).   Okay, so on one level there is a change in Abraham’s relationship with God, but there is something else; something that reminds me of the changed disciples coming down from the mountain with Jesus.  They now understand Jesus in a new way. They have heard God’s voice from a cloud proclaim “This is My beloved son. Listen to Him.” (Mk 9:7)

Abraham goes up a mountain following a God capable of demanding human sacrifice, but he comes down serving a God who refuses such a sacrifice.  Abraham’s very understanding of God has been transformed –transfigured. God has revealed something new about Himself to Abraham and be so doing He has loosed the bonds of superstition and set Abraham free.  But this freedom is not a freedom to lick the earth, to seek comfort and pleasure wherever you will. It is a freedom to serve God, a freedom to submit to God’s gift of the law. A freedom to offer our brokenness and our sin, our death to our longings and desires, our selfishness, as the sacrifice we place upon the alter, our living sacrifice offered in Thanksgiving.

Open your Bible, climb the mountain (go out in your front yard) and offer God the sacrifice of your attention. Give yourself to God with a thankful heart. And don’t be afraid. Just open your eyes and let yourself see. Really see. And don’t be surprised if what you see is something you have never noticed before; you may just find yourself transfigured.