I pray that I—that we—find courage and boldness both to speak these prayers and embody actions that fulfill them in the name of Jesus who journeys with us Holy Week roads.
Today is Holy Wednesday. The middle of a week. The middle of Christianity’s Holy Week. The middle of unrelenting messiness in our towns and cities—in our world.
Holy Wednesday is called Spy Wednesday in some parts of the Christian tradition because the day remembers Judas Iscariot’s despairing plans to betray Jesus. The betrayal is financial. Political. Spiritual. Personal.
The story of the betrayal makes me uncomfortable in all sorts of ways. Our world was and is already messy with betrayals of many kinds, and now our days are engulfed by a multidimensional betrayal called COVID-19 that threatens our collective existence, reveals yet again fault lines in our human institutions, and defies clear cut explanations and responses.
And yet—
The Gospel story calls us to hold steady in faith even when faced with fear and uncertainty. The arc of Holy Week is toward hope. In that hope, I pray that we come to terms with what it means to be in community with each other. I pray that God renews our understanding and our aliveness as people of faith. I pray for peace and healing across our world. And I pray that I—that we—find courage and boldness both to speak these prayers and embody actions that fulfill them in the name of Jesus who journeys with us Holy Week roads.
For We Who Are Alone Together
I sit alone together with the whip-poor-wills, watching
sunsetting shadows sneak across the front porch
where a bold squirrel has left her supper crumbs to
taunt my tiny terrier when she bounds out
the front door for tomorrow’s morning walk—alone
together with our neighbor’s eggshell poodle who answers
to Rainbow (why did I never follow up on my promise
to learn the neighbor’s name?) and presses
her furry body to the ground in timid joy
when she sees us, even if we are a street-crossing
distant from her. I hear a trumpet—or is it a trombone—
muted but clear down the street—or is it next door?
Hard to tell in these days of i-recorded Taps rising
like virtual incense up over the dust to which
we all shall one day return alone together. I walk
down the street as the ancient dogwood, whose
pink-tipped blossoms are unfurling one more time
like a thousand miniature Easter flags, keeps watch
by the front yard gate. The horn sounds clearer but
deeper—a trombone, for sure. Not Taps, then, bugling
alone that another day is done. Jazz, perhaps? Rising
up to caress unlit stars as though they are Aladdin
lamps hiding unspent wishes? A door to the neighboring
church is cracked open, a tomb unsealed: hark
the herald vibrates from unseen lips
as an owl in the loblolly pine responds—
Salt: Seasoned Theology 