Holy Week #4: Mary

The rhythmic pounding of the hammer drifting in from the husband's workshop seemed especially calming that day. The steady beat starkly contrasted the emotions I felt inside since John came and brought me the news.

I smoothed my hands over the fabric I had tucked away so many years ago as I felt the first tears fall down my cheek. It was the remnants of material I had used to make the robe the husband and I presented to him before he went out to the wilderness that day. After that forty days he spent in the wilderness, he came home to us on fewer occasions.

Since the day I knew he was being formed in my womb, I had known he was set apart. I will never forget the day the angel appeared to give me the news that I was with child. Everytime I recall the mystique wonder of that day, I still get a strange warm tingling sensation. There was a little guy growing inside me! But how could it be when I had not known any man? Some questions will never be answered I guess, I thought to myself.

Leaning out the window, I studied his silhouette for a while. There was the man I loved, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was just the two of us now, still he laboured hard for us. The last months had been especially trying but still he had been strong for us.

Reaching for a clean towel, I slipped outside, plodding softly on the dusty ground till I was beside him. Then gently, I dabbed his forehead with the clean towel. Putting his hammer down, he dusted his hands off on his workpants and turned to face me. "Hi love," I whispered as he reached out to embrace me. There was that far-away look in his eyes again. "You're thinking of him too, aren't you?" he whispered as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair off my face. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and rested my head on his chest with a sigh.

He led us over to the bench by the corner and for a while, he held my hand and neither of us said anything, allowing time for us to walk down that path in our heads again.

He had been a good son, but he never failed to surprise us. Remembering the day we found him in the temple amongst the teachers brought a smile to my face. He was only twelve, but he asked questions and talked with such authority that his father and I were left amazed. And then there was that incident at the wedding. They had run out of wine and for some reason I thought it would be good for him to help them out. Looking back now, I should have known he would have had a sense of when it was time for him to go about his Father's business.

After that day, he came and went even more -- more going than coming. Stories I heard about him came more from the town gossips than from him directly. Oh yes, so many stories we heard about him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. And each time, I would smile to myself while getting flour or picking out new material. Oh my Son, my precious Son.

And then the time came when they arrested him. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and allowed that scene where John came running in with the news to replay in my mind. They had arrested him for blasphemy. Blasphemy! My Son! He was no blasphemer! Why would they think that of him? Just a little while ago they had been celebrating him in Jerusalem and now they wanted him crucified! I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled watching it all unfold before my eyes. The path he took to Golgotha and the way they ridiculed him the entire walk there... The crown of thorns they placed on his head... The way they mocked him "King of the Jews" with that purple robe... My body trembled as that picture of him on that tree flashed before my eyes over and over again. Blood mixed with sweat, tears and water streamed down from his head, his hands and his feet. Oh my Son, my precious Son. What I would give to take his place!

And then that few moments I had with him... That few moments where he looked me in the eye. Even in all the pain he was in, there was still that look of love and respect he had always shown the husband and I. Then with all the strength he could muster, he whispered, "Dear woman, your son," and to John who had kept close to us while this all unfolded, he whispered, "Here is your mother."

He asked for a drink, and they moistened his lips with wine vinegar. And with that, he was... he was... I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips firmly together as fresh tears fell. My shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.

The husband leaned closer and put his arm around my shoulder. The pain in his eyes were as raw as if it had all been merely yesterday. He was weeping too and for a while we both sat, holding each other.

...

Their cheeks were moist as her fingers touched the Son of Man's face on the stained glass. They had heard the story so many times before, but it was not until they lost their own twenty-one year-old daughter that the pain of that story sunk in.

Someone knew. Someone cared.

"Come, my children," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who were they to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?

Then they saw them. Mary and Joseph. They were at the table too.

An interpretation of Luke 4:1-15, 1:26-38, 2:41-52, John 2:1-11 and 19:16-27

Holy Week #3: John

I found myself outside again this evening. It had been a long time since I last took a walk by the sea. As the waves came crashing on my feet today, I felt the dirt that had accumulated from the day's walking slowly erode away. Ahh, clean feet. I wiggled my toes just a little. Something about the salt in the air and the smell of fish not too far away brought a calming effect after a long day.

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him. That familiar silhouette out there on the water. Could it be? Had he returned? But no, it was all an illusion. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder. I guess this was what they meant.

I settled down on that one slightly bigger rock in the middle of the sandy shore. It had been a while since I last sat down and thought about him. But tonight, something about the sea, the fish and the water brought to mind so many of my favourite memories with him.

I remember distinctly that day when James and I were out at sea with Papa. It seemed like he had been watching us for a while before he finally came up to James and I. The words he said then did not make much sense, but for some strange reason, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people," seemed so much more appealing than spending the day out at sea with Papa. So James and I left with him.

He was a great teacher. He knew the Scriptures really well and even the other religious teachers started getting jealous of him. Me, I was just puzzled as to why he would have picked me to be one of his disciples. I was especially thankful to hear the way he taught through stories and performed signs and wonders that baffled everyone else. But from him, I learnt what the other religious teachers never taught us.

Our forefathers taught us to obey the Mosaic laws so that we may "live long in the land the Lord our God had given us." But the Good Teacher saw it differently. I remember that day when he healed the man of Dropsy and the question was raised about healing on the Sabbath. I guess I never really questioned how applicable our Mosaic laws were until that very moment when he showed a different way of obeying. No wait... He showed the true meaning of obeying.

And I'll never forget that day. It was Passover and he had given Peter and I specific instructions about that day's feasting. If I had only known what was about to happen, I would have made better effort to remember everything that he had said. All I remembered him saying was something about meeting a man with a jar of water. He dictated the instructions as if he already knew what was going to happen. Well... I guess he would have known. How many times had he tried to clue us in, but we never understood his "riddles"? Peter, James and I even once joked about his many riddles. If we had only known...

That night, we had all gathered in the room and were feasting. The Good Teacher was unusually quiet at Supper, but I had assumed it was because we had all had a long day. Halfway through the meal, he got up and left. Peter and I exchanged a look, but just shrugged it off as another one of his riddles.

When he returned, he had a towel tied around his waist. What happened next baffled me. We were still bantering back and forth about whether the bread should have been kept warm a little longer when the Good Teacher knelt down beside Andrew. Closing my eyes, I could still see the look of shock on Andrew's face as he looked between the Good Teacher and his feet, then around the table at the rest of us. He made his way all around the table and when he came to me, he looked me in the eye with his ever-patient gaze. And that was when I noticed his eyes were glassy. From time to time, he would look away, as if hiding his face from me, rubbing the sides of his cheeks against the sleeves of his robe. And was that a sniffle I heard? Something was up with him, but I was too exhausted that day to ask.

I allowed my feet to just graze the surface of the sea. It made me feel a little closer to him that way as I recalled the same clean feeling I had that night. As he slowly proceeded to wipe my feet with the towel around his waist and gently massaged it a little, I felt the aches and blisters being soothed away.

He didn't say much, but after he put everything away, he came back out and broke bread with us, saying something about eagerly desiring to eat this Passover with us before he suffered, and something about not eating it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God. I watched his hands tremble ever so slightly as he took hold of the bread, gave thanks then broke it and gave it to us. And as he lifted the cup and gave thanks, I was worried he was going to spill the wine from the goblet because he was shaking. Oh if only I had known the significance of that moment then, I would have been present.

Then he led the way out to the garden, he looked each one of us in the eye and embraced us. And I noticed again the tears in his eyes. Except this time he didn't look away when he realised I had noticed those tears. Instead, the look was one of... of... "If only you would understand."

Oh I wish I hadn't been that tired and had kept watch with him. I don't know how many times he returned that night, rousing us from our sleep and asking us to pray as his anguish grew with intensity. But no, rather than staying up to pray with him, we fell asleep. Time and time again. Oh, if only I had known.

We finally woke from our sleep when the fuss they made from coming to take him away startled us. But instead of staying to protect him or try to do anything, we each ran away, trying to save our own skins first. For all that he had taught us about love, we still ran away when we had the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that self-sacrificing love he taught us about.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The guilt and anguish from that night had been riding on my shoulders for a long time now. For whatever reason, they had started calling me his "beloved" but yet I failed him. I FAILED HIM.

A sudden gust of sea breeze swept by almost knocking me out. And all of a sudden, that same look he gave me that night as he stood by the door leading to the garden... Then that image of his face drenched with sweat, tears and blood flashed through my head.

And then I understood. The greatest love he taught was what happened that weekend. I was his beloved not because of anything I had done. It was because he chose it that way.

...

She felt a chill down her spine as she heard her pastor's voice in her head over and over again, "Beloved, I love you." The world saw her as the perfect Christian who never broke the rules and the worst thing she had done was forgetting to turn in her homework in class one day. But they would never understand all the emotions she felt inside about the way she had to deal with farewells said too early or the guilt she had about not being more real and more "Christian" with her God.

Then she understood. Her fingers traced the outlines of his feet as she realised that her belovedness did not come from anything she did or did not do. It was because the Good Teacher chose it that way.

"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?

Then she saw her. John. Resting on the bosom of the Good Teacher at the table.

An interpretation of Matthew 4:18-22, Luke 14:1-6 and 22:7-46

Quotesworthy...

"You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place."
- Miriam Adeney

Irony of Ironies...

Today I'm wondering why I gave up on a career in music.

I'm trying to write a paper on Bonhoeffer, one of my favourite theologians whom I will probably marry if I could be polygamist and also marry Nouwen at the same time. Well, it might help if they were both still alive.

Anyway. I've been sitting here for the last four hours or so, and I only have half a page written. And somewhere in the middle of writing that half a page, I was briefly interrupted for twenty-minutes to explain online, the differences between perfect, imperfect, plagal and interrupted cadences to my cousin.

And then it hit me. I could have made it big teaching music theory. (Ok, so maybe not THAT big, but still.)

So why am I doing this??

Sigh.

Holy Week #2: Mary Magdelene

The water jug felt a little heavier than usual today. As I lugged it along, a few droplets of water splattered out of the jug onto my skin. It was cool and so refreshing.

This was one of my favourite parts of the day -- coming to this well our forefathers built. There was something sacred about coming here in the middle of the day just to sit quietly for a little while and think. Mama said something the other day about what she had heard from the town gossips. Apparently I was not the only one who enjoyed this mid-afternoon time at the well by myself. Somewhere across town there was another woman who did the same, except her story caused a scandal. Apparently she had been going about her usual routine that day until she ran into a man resting by the well. Everything would have been fine if not for the fact that she was one of "the others." Or that she was... that she... she was... just like me.

And that man. What was he doing anyway? They called him Good Teacher, so how could he not have known that what he did that day would have caused a scandal? All this while I thought he would have been different from the other religious teachers. But yet he caused a scandal with a woman. A woman who was just like me. Did he realise the amount of embarrassment he would have caused her by what he did?

Naturally, I got curious. I started paying more attention to the crowds and when I finally saw him and his followers that day, I snuck in and followed them around. I could never let them find out who I was or they would have thrown me out. But I was certain he knew me. As much as I tried to avoid eye-contact with anyone, every once in a while he would look me in the eye, shaking me to my bones. Did he know? Would he give me away? But every single time that happened, it was a look of... well, something I could never really comprehend. He looked sincere, that much I figured out. But was that look of pity? Compassion? No one ever looked at me that way.

I had only seen that look on one other occasion. It was that day at the religious teacher's house. The Good Teacher had been invited over to eat. The food smelled so good that day and I was feasting till I could eat no more. That was when I caught the whiff of something. I can't exactly describe it, but I knew I liked it a lot. It was that perfume that came in an alabaster jar. I had been eyeing that jar for a long time but never found enough reason to purchase it for myself. And here I was in the middle of a feast and that fragrance filled the room. Naturally, curiosity got the better of me, but I had to remain undiscovered. So I sat quietly where I was, listening to the commotion all around.

Then I saw her. I couldn't see her face clearly, but her garments and her hair... She was... well, she was one of us. I had seen her around. Ahh, she was one of those. Some of us hid in the background trying to remain undiscovered. Others go around creating scandals. We were unclean women. We should know our place in society. The audacity she had to get so close!

I inched just a little closer to get a better view. My breath caught in my throat when I saw her standing behind the Good Teacher at his feet, weeping. Then she began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. I sat frozen, trying to make sense of what just happened as the buzzing of the commotion around me grew louder. I heard snippets of the conversation, something along the lines of "judged rightly," and "no water for my feet," and "bathed my feet with her tears," and "hair" and "anointing" and "shown great love." And that was when I saw that look again. Except this time, amidst all the commotion, I heard him whisper, "Your sins are forgiven."

Then he looked me in the eye as if he had always known I was in the crowd, and gave me that same look. That was when I realised my cheeks were moist. And then I understood that look.

Compassion.
Forgiveness.
LOVE.

It wasn't too much later when the events of that weekend transpired. When the earth shook as the other Mary and I got there, I knew in my heart then.

He saw me. He loved me. I was free.

...

He saw himself in her story. All that he had held in to shield himself was known. For so long he had hidden himself away. Society told him they had no room for his failed marriage and struggles with marijuana and pornography. He was "one of the others," and "unclean."

But the Good Teacher saw. The Good Teacher knew. The Good Teacher set him free.

His fingers traced the outline of the Good Teacher's arm stretched out on the stained glass.

"Come, my son," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who was he to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?

Then he saw her. Mary Magdalene. She was at the table too.

An interpretation of John 4:1-26, Luke 7:36 - 8:3 and Matthew 28:1-10

Holy Week #1: Nicodemus

There was a big crowd out on the streets that day. The sound of the children's laughter and the songs of the young ladies dancing caught my attention and drew me to the balcony. The greens of the palm leaves intermingling with the brightly-coloured cloaks... It had to be a celebration of some kind.

Then I heard it over the songs, the laughter and the tambourines.

"Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!"

I looked long and hard. And then I saw him riding on a donkey. Him -- the Blesphemer. The audacity he had to allow them to celebrate him like that!

Pulling my cloak on, I ran outside. Why hadn't anyone else stepped out to stop him? Had he pulled some kind of sorcery on the people that they did not recognise his blesphemy?

"Teacher!" I yelled, as I ran out in front of his donkey. "Order your disciples to stop!"

Ha! Looking back now, I should have known better than to act on impulse. I thought I could publicly embarrass him and did not even consider the possibility that he might turn violent. But instead, he calmly turned and faced me without stopping for too long, and whispered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."

The gentle night breeze greeted my face as I stepped back out on the balcony. "The stones would shout out..." The Blesphemer's voice haunted me as I stared after the dust tracks of the celebration party that had passed through earlier that day. "The stones would shout out..."

For a long time, I had watched and heard about his blesphemy. Who was he anyway, and who gave him that authority to speak the way he does? There was something about his behaviour that made sense even while it left me bewildered. And what about those "miracles" he had been pulling off? He had authority alright. But from Yahweh? The others had said time and again that he couldn't be The One who had been promised. But what if they -- we -- were wrong?

Pulling on my cloak, I grabbed the oil lamp that hung outside and slipped out into the darkness of the night. He was a good teacher, alright and he knew the Scriptures pretty darn well. Perhaps he knew something we didn't know?

From what the others had said, his dwelling wasn't too far down the street. Ahh, there it was! I reached for the door, and then hesitated. Would he invite me in after what I tried to do that morning? But I needed to find out. I reached out again but this time the door flew open before I even got to knocking and there he stood. How had I never noticed the meek, graceful mannerisms about him? And his hands... They were hands of a labourer... What was it they said about him? Ah, yes. Son of Joseph the Carpenter. And then he became a religious teacher?

"Nicodemus." His voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him," was all I could manage to blurt out.

He smiled a smile that spelled patience, warmth and... oh, words fail to describe all the sensations I felt inside. He welcomed me in and offered me a warm drink.

"I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again ..."

We talked for a long time that night. He opened my eyes to so many things that I had failed to see. The others talked about tithing and fasting and the Sabbath and Passover, and here was a gentle man who simply demonstrated love.

I did not see him again. Not till much later when Joseph came to inform me of the events that had transpired. Oh, he was a good teacher indeed. What a loss.

...

Her fingers found themselves tracing the outline of his robe on the stained glass. She wasn't Nicodemus, but she sure had her share of doubts and questions of the Good Teacher's authority in her life. All her years of teaching had trained her to know the rights and wrongs of religiosity, but how often had she completely missed the Good Teacher?

"Come, my daughter," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Who was she to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?

Then she saw him. Nicodemus. He was at the table too.

An interpretation of Luke 19:28-40, John 3:1-21 and Luke 22:7-28.

Holy Week Series

So Holy Week snuck up on me again this year. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes I just wonder if I even pay attention to what Holy Week means throughout the rest of the year.

Sitting in church today, I was suddenly reminded of the series I wrote last year. I think I'm going to dig that out and re-publish those. Especially since I never quite got around to write the concluding piece for last year.

So watch this space if you're interested.

Revelation on Love and the After-life...

I think I was hit in the face with a new revelation this morning.

I don't know much about the "after-life" besides what is found in the Bible. And even with that, the Bible may be the authority of my life, but that is because of my faith in it, not because of its complete historical accuracy. I could get into a debate about how some ancient mythologies parallel the creation story and the one about the virgin birth, but I won't.

Having said that, I can't claim that I will go to heaven or hell after my time is up with this physical body and place. Mostly because I don't know what I believe about heaven or hell anymore. Perhaps I haven't dug enough into the scriptures, so forgive me for that. But what I know about who I am, what I believe in, to whom I belong and how that relates to the physical place I live in has been slowly revealed to me. And that is what I hold on to. I have no control over my after-life either way.

And because of this, I am in no place to tell the next person about what will happen to them in their after-life if they don't share my beliefs. Revelation is personal - at least, that's what I believe for now.

So what about the Great Commission?
I can't say I know enough about "the good news of salvation." And to be honest, maybe I haven't read enough, but I don't find the word "salvation" used in either of the Great Commission scriptures (Matthew 28:18-20, Acts 1:8). But the good news for me is the knowledge that there is a Being whose very essence is love - for me, for my neighbour, and for the created world I live in. And this is the only thing I can bring to Judea, Samaria and the ends of the earth.

Eins, Zwei, Drei...

Alright, tonight I got my first round of fundraising stuff sent out. I don't think I realised till now that the last 2.5 years at Global Missions have equipped me really well for this fundraising and creating promotional pieces stuff that I'm working on now. Makes you really wonder if there's really someone up there moving pieces around for things to happen, huh?

Also, heard from Donna (from the Tri-S office) today about my ticket confirmation. Sechsundvierzig tagen! 46 days to Berlin!

Something that's been on my mind a fair bit the last week or so... I'm suddenly hit by an overwhelming feeling of appreciation for all the people in my life who give a hoot about what's going on. I know I cannot say thank you enough to each one of you who have come alongside the fundraising efforts in whatever small ways, but thank you.

Thank you to the Akan Datang band who have been faithfully rehearsing with me week after week for the last couple months or so. I know you're also having fun doing this, but... Thank you.

Thank you to Thonja Nicholson. You didn't have to do any of the stuff you're doing for the silent auction, but you're going all out, knowing that I cannot give you anything in return. No words, but thank you.

Thank you to all of you who have believed that Berlin will happen even in the moments that I stopped believing. To all the professors, the friends, the co-workers, the mentors... No words, but thank you.

Thank you to the coworkers for the encouraging words, and even your taunts of "quitter" to indirectly communicate your disappointment that my time at Global Missions wasn't quite long enough. For reminding me that my time there was a good thing... No words, but thank you.

And to all the other family and friends who have been faithfully praying and encouraging... No words, but thank you.

Thank you for giving to the Lord
I have a life that was changed
Thank you for giving to the Lord
I am so glad you gave

Brooklyn, New York

This past week was Spring Break at Anderson University. A friend of mine at the seminary had asked me earlier in the year if I would co-lead a Tri-S missions trip to New York with him, so of course I said yes. Anytime I get to go to a new place with people, I'm definitely up for it - and especially if it involved going there with a purpose more than just vacation.

So anyway, New York. The big city. Sadly, I wasn't as impressed with it as I thought I would be. I guess a part of it is that with all the hype you see on TV, all the glitz and glamour, my expectations for the big city were let down just a little bit. And I guess also having grown up in the big city myself, even THE Big City was just another city.

Having said that, the trip was still great. We went with an organization called Center for Student Missions (CSM) that basically hosted us and made all the arrangements for us to visit several different ministry sites in the city. For three days, we travelled around Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx and Harlem serving for a few hours at each of these ministry sites. If you're looking for an organization where your group can really plug into and serve on a more long-term, consistent basis, CSM is not what you're looking for. But for an introduction to urban ministry and homelessness, definitely go with CSM. They have a great program that includes a prayer walk/tour of the city that starts your entire week off with you seeing some of the different faces of the city and what you will be dealing with.

Probably the highlight of my week was seeing the group come together and watching the lightbulbs go off in their heads. Since this wasn't my first urban ministry experience, I'll 'fess up to being slightly frustrated at the little amount of time we got to spend at each of the sites we were at. But each night as we debriefed with the group and I was forced to answer questions like my highs and lows of the day, I had to reflect on the positives as well, which worked out really well. And as I heard about each of their reflections on thoughts, I was caught off-guard by how cynical and pessimistic I had gotten since my first urban ministry experience with Church on the Street in Atlanta. Being with the group this week restored some of the hopefulness in my own journey, and I think that will really help before I plunge into Berlin.

And probably the one thing that really frustrated me and is making me want to do something about is language - or my lack of it. There were a few occasions where either a better command of the Cantonese dialect or the ability to say more than "Dios le Bendiga" would have come in really handy. I've forgotten how much I take language for granted. And even though Arthur told me I didn't have to learn German to get around in Berlin, I'm realising that I really do want to be able to say more than "Guten Tag!" when I get there.

Something else that struck me was our group's concern with homelessness and the apathy of the more affluent city-dwellers towards that problem. Perhaps it's because I've been challenged to explain the idea of Gateway Berlin, my eyes were more open to the flip-side of the urban problem, this ugly word called apathy. Forgive me if I sound less than tolerant - I really don't mean to - but the homeless have shelters that feed them both physically and spiritually. And they have missions groups coming in to talk to them and walk with them. But what about the ones who are physically affluent but spiritually empty? Are our hearts broken for them as well, or do we judge them through our "better than you because I'm serving and you're apathetic" lenses?

Break my heart for what breaks yours
Everything I am for your Kingdom's cause