Good Friday: Sand and Stone

The story is told of a woman brought before Jesus and his being asked what should be done with her. She was a sinner, they said, and the on-lookers were ready to heave judgment upon her like rocks. Seated, Jesus doesn’t even look up. He speaks to the crowd while tracing his fingers through the sand. 

What was he writing? Maybe it was the word “sinner” or maybe a list of what she did wrong. Whatever it was, the words were written in sand. Later, after everyone left, the desert winds came and blew away the sand and the words with it.

Later, Jesus would communicate another message to an on-looking crowd. Not in sand, where winds erase, but in stone: “Father, forgive . . . You will be with me in paradise . . . It is accomplished.” Although delivered two thousand years ago, the words remain. They bring people to their knees still.

On Good Friday, it is fitting to reflect on the words written in sand and stone. In the sand are all the things we have done wrong, and, if your list is anything like mine, it is longer than we would like. Today, however, is a day to rejoice in the fact that such words are taken away by the winds of grace. 

It is also a day to remember the other words, the ones written in stone: “Father, forgive . . . You will be with me in paradise . . . It is accomplished.” They cannot be blown away, only read over and over again, for two thousand years and counting!

Thanks be to God.

Maundy Thursday: There's something about a meal.

Two friends met at the gym and talked about their golf game. When they saw each other at a cocktail party, they discussed their work. When sitting together at a meal, they spoke of their childhoods and the ups and downs of life.

There’s something about a meal.

Meals are intimate. They invite our souls to come out and play, or at least speak. When that happens, the meal becomes so much more, life becomes larger (or deeper), and a presence can be felt.

Two thousand years ago, in a room upstairs, some friends gathered for a special meal. On the one hand, they were happy to be together. On the other, they could feel a tension in the room. After the main course, the host took bread and wine, gave thanks and shared it with the others. The conversations were hushed as the assembled guests received the bread and wine. In that moment, the meal became something more, life felt larger, and a presence was felt.

It was the first of such meals, and each day since that meal has been re-created somewhere on this planet. Bread and wine await each of us every day. Yes, we can find them at the gym, at parties, but they’re particularly accessible when sitting at a table, sharing a meal, and giving thanks.

It is then, just as it was long ago, that a meal becomes sacred, life becomes larger, and a presence is felt. 

Multiplying Candles

(My apologies to my college philosophy professor.)

If I were to light a candle and place it on a table in the middle of the room, there would be one candle burning in the middle of the room. If I were to bring ten people into the room, asked them to gaze upon the candle, wouldn’t the candle somehow multiply? Each person would look at the candle in his or her own way, bringing forth memories which belong only to them, and dreaming dreams unique to their hearts. The light comes from one candle, but it now shines through ten people. Imagine if they took the light and shared it with others. Wouldn’t the candle multiply once again . . . and again . . . and again?

If a sole voice sings a song, it is but one person singing . . . but if people listen or join in, isn’t the song multiplied?

If one person dreams of building houses for less fortunate families, it is one dream . . .  but if others lift hammers and paint walls doesn’t the dream become larger?

And if a person brings a very special light into the world, one that can enlighten the entire world, it is but one light . . . but if others gaze upon that light and take it to others, doesn’t the light grow brighter?

Such questions inspire me to look at the world flickering before me in new ways. What if we took the gifts given to us and passed them along to others? Wouldn’t the gifts multiply? Such gifts could be as simple as kind or encouraging words or gestures, or as grand as wild and reckless dreams, but the question is what do we do with such lights? Do we take them into the world? If left under a bushel, or kept to ourselves, the flames remains small or go out. If shared, they can illumine the world.

Not a bad way to live one’s life, eh?