Stations of the Cross

Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, our Stations of the Cross really came home (for more Q and A about them and where they came from and why, see this from January. For pictures from St John’s Bowdoin Street and the installation at Christ Church, see my own blog, SaraIwrites.

They are striking and surprising and brand new and at the same time look like they’ve been there since the church was built. They are, in fact, from the same time period—they’re dated 1888, but the woodwork that David Moseley created for them matches the church in a completely phenomenal way. (David is a longtime friend of Christ Church—he did the repair work in our new combined outreach space for Diaper Depot/Grandma’s Pantry and is married to Cathy Hughes’ older daughter Betsy). As happens so often, the thing that surprised was not the thing that I thought would be remarkable. I expected to react more strongly to the overall sight of them, but that’s not the most interesting thing.

This week I was here for Tuesday evening formation and had my kids along. For whatever reason, the only other person who came was Andrea, so we chatted for a while but by 7:30 figured no one else was planning to come. I told my kids to pack up their stuff, we were leaving, but 6 ½ year old Adah declared that she was not ready to leave church. I asked her if it was because she wanted to have communion and she said no, she just thought we should have church. So Adah and Andrea and I decided to do the liturgy for Stations of the Cross. (Older brother Isaiah decided to hang out for a while and play video games for a few minutes, but ended up joining us later).

So, so often, my children make me see things I wouldn’t otherwise, and that’s what happened that night. After having been dragged along during the installation of the frames for two hours on Sunday, they had already spent a lot of time with the pieces and they were over it. “Art,” Adah had declared on our way to Waltham that afternoon, “is boring.” I don’t know what it was that made her not ready to leave, but as we stayed and went around the church, I heard the words of the liturgy in a different way. By the time we got to the station where Jesus meets his mother, Adah was beginning to regret her desire to stay. At that moment, though, I became profoundly grateful to be there with them. To look at Jesus trying to hold both his cross and take his mother’s arm while my own kids bounced around, I imagined her thinking of the days when Jesus was small. I thought about her wanting to protect him and being unable to. The line “A sword will pierce your own soul, too” in the prayers made me think about how much all of those we love face, and how we can’t protect them. We can only trust God for them and on their behalf.

The thing about our particular stations of the cross that continues to show me new things is how they offer a wider lens on the events of the Passion. You can see the two criminals along side of whom Jesus was killed. You can see the detail of Jesus and his mother and all the people around them. There are people everywhere all around in them—how often have you thought about all the people who just were around when Jesus was on his way to the crucifixion? It’s not just him and the Romans and Simon of Cyrene.

The Stations of the Cross do change the dynamic of the space. I suspect it will take us a while to figure out exactly what they mean. I do know that in seeing the events of the Passion displayed as they are, that I also see the events of the Resurrection in a new way. The other thing in the church that is that same light color is the baptismal font. It no longer sits by itself in the corner, but ties in with the movement around the church. Also crucially, the Stations of the Cross circle the space, but the altar is still at the center. That’s the place where we still meet Jesus in the Eucharist. By seeing the crucifixion in a new way, by really seeing it, we see the Resurrection in a new way. They go together.

Again and again, that’s what I’m most grateful for about being a Christian. It’s not some happy pastel fantasy that everything works out in the end and we should just keep our chins up. Jesus weeps and suffers. He loves. He fears. The Stations of the Cross help me see all of those aspects. We are all here because we believe, or want to believe, in resurrection. But we all also know pain. Walking the events of Christ’s passion, we see where God has gone before.

Blessings,
Sara+

Miss the sermon on Sunday, March 13? It’s here.

More pictures from moving the Stations of the Cross from St John's, Bowdoin Street, to Christ Church, Waltham!

We Are Worthy

Dear People of Christ Church,
I recently had some time to spend with my kindle, and found Brené Brown’s The Gifts of Imperfection. I’ve read a lot of her stuff before, but hadn’t spent much time with this one. Brown’s research started out being about shame—our fear of being unworthy of love and belonging. Since love and belonging are two of the most central human emotional and spiritual needs, shame feels profoundly dangerous to us, and we try to avoid it at all costs. What’s worse, we have a tendency to further isolate ourselves when we feel shame, by bringing in secrecy, silence, and judgment of others to insulate ourselves from the pain. This then spirals out again, which leads to further isolating, further judging, and further suppressing of our feelings. The good news is that we can do things differently—if instead of nurturing our shame we nurture ourselves and remember our inherent worthiness, that cycle is broken. Reaching out to others, reminding ourselves that we aren’t defined by our failures, that we are worthy of love no matter what—Brown calls the capability for that work “shame resilience.”

It’s striking to think about shame in this way as we head into Holy Week beginning with Palm Sunday on March 20. Though we often forget it, Scripture can be profoundly psychologically insightful. Unfortunately we often do profoundly un-psychologically insightful things with Scripture!

In thinking about the crucifixion, we sometimes say that Jesus took on our shame and sin, to offer it to God, to heal us. The liturgy for the Stations of the Cross is full of this. That’s true, but Jesus didn’t do that as though we had a dirty shirt on and he took it off of us and put it on his own body. Instead. Jesus’ transformation of our humanity comes from the inside; his birth, ministry, death, and resurrection (yes, all four) symbolize God’s insistent, constant presence with us. It’s true that Jesus’ peaceful response to the violence he faced saved us. That’s true. In a very literal way, yes, we are saved by the cross. But we’re not “more saved” because it was “more worse.” We just are saved. Because God loves us. We just are worthy. Again, because God loves us.

Much is made of the crucifixion as being a particularly grisly and fear-inducing method of enforcing capital punishment. Many people were put to death in the Roman Empire, some by crucifixion, but by no means all. Crucifixion was a warning sign—it served to instill fear. That was its purpose. Yes, it was also shameful. But to say that Jesus’ death was uniquely shameful I think misses the point. The point is that Jesus’ death was not uniquely shameful. It was a way an abusive regime kept its people in line. That’s part of what’s salvific about it—that God experienced, from the inside, the worst of humanity. And God’s love would not be defeated.

We are all worthy—shame doesn’t have the last word for Jesus or for us. I’m getting ahead of us and close to Easter—there is a ways to go—but the resurrection is always true, even in the depths of Lent.

Blessings,
Sara+

"I Will Come the Rest of the Way to You"

Dear People of Christ Church,
This week I’ve been spending a lot of time with the prodigal son, part of our Gospel Passage for Sunday. On Tuesday nights our Bible study is on the Scripture for the coming Sunday, so we spent time listening for what this passage says to us now. Usually we read the prodigal son by itself, but in a happy accident we heard the parables it follows: the parable of the lost sheep and the parable of the woman who has lost a coin. All three stories, taken together, have a bit of a different sense than they do individually, which is how we usually hear them.

Hearing it as we did next to stories about lost sheep and lost coins, we have an opportunity to see the story as not being about the son’s repentance, but instead about the father’s pure love and forgiveness. A sheep can’t say it’s sorry. A coin doesn’t go off and enjoy itself under the couch and then “come to itself.” Is the son actually sorry? Maybe, maybe not. What’s at stake, if so? Maybe the father loves him so much it doesn’t matter. He “comes to himself.” But maybe it’s not his volition or his repentance that are the point.
The Jewish Bible Scholar Amy Jill Levine says that we get it all wrong when we read this text by itself, because that focuses too much on the son. Instead, it’s actually all about the father. What’s more, there’s also nothing especially Christian about how he reacts; it’s not like Jesus was reflecting some new innovation in the love of God, trying to set up the father as acting somehow contrary to how he’d normally react in his cultural context. Instead, Levine says, fathers love—that’s just what they do, there’s nothing unusual about it. She quotes similar rabbinic stories like this:

Pesikta Rabbati (184–85) recounts: A king had a son who had gone astray from his father on a journey of a hundred days. His friends said to him, “Return to your father.” He said, “I cannot.” Then his father sent word, “Return as far as you can, and I will come the rest of the way to you.” So God says, “Return to me, and I will return to you.”

Returning to God, allowing God to find us, being forgiven even when we don’t repent—one of the translations we heard on Tuesday night has the father calling for the ring and the robe before the son has even had time to say anything at all. It’s just his son. He just loves him and is thrilled to have him back.

I’m sharing here images from our own stained glass windows. Yes, it might not actually be “about” the son, but look at the suffering on the younger son’s face—look at the rage on the older brother’s, seeing the party in the distance—see how broken they both were, and in such different circumstances. More than one person mentioned how we remembered former beloved parishioner Marcia Luce’s frank distaste for the story, thinking the older brother go ripped off. Maybe it’s because I identify too much with the younger brother, but I can’t muster up too much sympathy for his anger. I just love this father too much, thinking about how much I need unconditional love like that, thinking about how far God has come to find me.

Blessings,
Sara+

P.S.—thanks to Heather Leonardo, who is offering the children’s sermon this Sunday!

Blessings,
Sara+



Miss the sermon from Sunday, February 28? It’s here.