Mothers at the Cross

This year, Malcolm and I immersed ourselves in Holy Week services. Maundy Thursday we witnessed the altar being stripped of all ornamentation. A cadre of solemn, silent men and women systematically removed candelabras, chalices, and flowers. When Fr. Bob covered the crosses in sheer black shrouds and then methodically wiped the empty altar with a cloth, it was as though we were all being wiped clean, laid bare.

The next day, during the retelling of the Passion story at the Stations of the Cross service, I was struck by Jesus’ mother’s response to her beaten son struggling to reach Golgotha. Seeing him bear the cross upon his back, Mary broke from the crowd and reached out to Jesus in an attempt for a final embrace. Her overture was rebuked by a Roman soldier and she was denied this most basic desire—for a mother to hold her hurting son. Eyes closed, listening to the reading, for a horrible moment, I imagined what it would be like to see my son Brendan, a young man now, undergoing this same torture. My heart ached and I could not bear to stay with that brutal thought.

The Roman soldiers of Mary’s time were not known for their kindness. Breaking ranks and causing a disturbance took courage. Yet Mary’s need to simply touch her son and reassure him that she was there was greater than her desire for safety. Oh, how many mothers know this most primal of needs? How many attempts to reach out have been thwarted? This loving our children can be the most piercing of loves.

I thought of a friend whose son is in prison, accused of a heinous crime. She endures long stretches of time before receiving communication. Physical touch is non-existent. From afar she feels his loneliness, fear, and shame.

Parents who have watched their alcohol or drug-addicted children slip away from them came to mind. Many times they reach out to offer one more chance, one more solution, sometimes at great physical or financial peril to themselves.

Later in the Good Friday service we learn that Mary stood at the foot of the cross watching Jesus die. Most of Jesus’ followers were hiding, afraid for their safety. Apparently, for Mary standing witness, even when she lacked the power to change the catastrophic flow of events, was of paramount importance. Something in Mary knew that her standing witness made a difference.

I remembered the friend who watched her baby die in the neo-natal intensive care unit. I thought of the mothers who have lost their adult daughters to cancer. Their vigils included caring for grandchildren, driving to chemo appointments, listening to angry rants, and much more.

Sometimes we parents are called to take action, like Mary reaching out to her son. It may mean advocating for another test to be run, or for authorities to give a troubled teen one more chance, more support in school, rather than pushing the child aside for the sake of expediency.

Other times, we can only witness and hold loving vigil, like Mary at the foot of the cross. Mary’s broken heart is every parent’s broken heart when we come to realize that we cannot protect our children from harm. Sometimes, all we can do is trust that our witnessing makes a difference; and that we do not stand alone.

Reaching Back to the Future

A couple of Saturdays ago Malcolm and I heard Jerry Wright, a Jungian analyst and Presbyterian Minister speak on Celtic Spirituality and Jungian Psychology. It was exciting to hear about how some people in the "church" are trying to incorporate lost Celtic traditions.

Jerry spoke of the resurgence of an eco-spirituality that was part of the fabric of everyday life in Celtic culture; and an awareness of the interconnectedness of the physical and spiritual realms. It was a bit surreal to think that some of what is considered "progressive" thought today is really a reaching back to our pre-Roman roots.

Last week Phyllis Tickle, the Christian editor and writer who has documented the Emergent Church movement was in town, she too made reference to the "church" reaching back. However her reach seemed to be more recent--pre-Reformation.

In any case, I came away from these back-to-back Saturdays of sitting in hard chairs with a sense that perhaps the upheavals many of us in Christian churches feel today are more about healing and integrating that which has been lost, and less about splitting apart.

Could it be that the Christian, and for that matter human, family is birthing a new way of integrating the more feminine dimensions (eco-spirituality, non-dualism, radical imminence of God) of itself with the masculine dimensions which have dominated the last 1600 years? A psychologically healthy human is able to balance and appreciate both his or her masculine and feminine attributes. At best, one does not dominate the other. I guess it isn't a far stretch to imagine that balance as critical for the church family and the human family as well.

Could it be that the uncomfortable upheaval being felt in virtually all of the major Christian denominations is a reaching back for pre-denominational relations?

A mere mortal in the pews, I am not qualified to answer either of these important theological questions. However, I do feel a sense of hope rather than dread. Hope that we can find a way to chart a new course which honors the concerns of those who like things "just the way they are" and the needs of those who have found spiritual nourishment lacking in the traditional church experience. Hope that in our perceived sense of coming apart we will find wholeness. A wholeness that accepts the sacredness of all of God's children. How radical is that?