Lent daybook, 40: Who is this King of Glory?

A Lent daybook for these 40 days of prayer. Join me, won't you? (see all Lent daybook 2015 posts here.)

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look

1. The Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro, taken earlier in March - Christopher Simon/APP/Getty Images - source
2. At Pakarua Presbyterian the youth celebrate Palm Sunday in a traditional dance - source

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read

Psalm 24 / Zechariah 9:9-12: Who is this King of Glory? / righteous and having salvation is He, humble and mounted on a donkey

{all readings for the day: Psalm 24; Zechariah 9:9-12, 12:9-13:9; 1 Timothy 6:12-16; Matthew 21:12-17 }

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pray 

Almighty and everliving God, in  your tender love for the human race you sent your Son our Savior Jesus Christ to take upon him our nature, and to suffer death upon the cross, giving us the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. source

Hosanna, save us now, O Christ!

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listen

Hosanna
 Page CXVI

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Holy Week Lament: Kaley Ehret (Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.)

In this season that I do not have time to write, this is the idea God gave me:  Ponder and notice again the words I've already written once, keep praying the beads of memory to discover this sacramental life.  This Holy Week I'm sharing again the beautiful mourning stories six of my friends generously shared with us last year.  

An introduction to Holy Week Lament:

Jesus gave us a litany of last words as a Sufferer; we refer to them as the Seven Last Words of Christ.  The deathbed words of the Suffering Servant will serve as our framework for the stories of lament we share here this Holy Week.

I count it a high privilege to know -- at least in small part -- the mourning stories of the dear ones who will share here for seven days.  Their lives walk the path between celebration, yes, but also suffering -- illness, relational disillusionment, anxiety, joblessness, death of loved ones, death of dearly-held dreams.  Their stories have helped form me in my understanding of suffering and I believe they could also encourage you too.  

Relatives of shooting victims pray outside the American Civic Association
 on Sunday, April 5, 2009, in Binghamton.photo credit

I chose today's contribution in memory of five Palm Sundays ago when our small hometown turned in all our palm-waving for wailing.  Two days earlier -- in only three minutes time -- a gunman entered Binghamton's immigration center and killed 13 people and then himself.  He killed and wounded fellow immigrants, an English-as-a-second-language teacher, a receptionist.  

Today my mom and sister Alicia teach in that same building, some of the same students evacuated from closet and basement refuges four years ago.  They know the man who covered his wife's body with his own, hoping to save her, and losing her anyway.

visiting my mom's ESL class before we moved from Binghamton to Austin
August 2011

And five years ago another sister wrote words of response to the grief crushing all of us.

I'm sharing today these words from my beautiful sister Kaley Ehret (originally posted, April 9, 2009).

This past summer, I sat in an airplane across the aisle from a woman who was clearly distraught. After spending several minutes wrestling over whether I should speak with her, I finally did. I leaned over the aisle and whispered that I didn't mean to pry, but did she need to talk? 

She smiled grimly through her tears and shared with me that her mother was dying and that she was worried that she wasn't going to get there in time to say good-bye.  

As she opened up to me about her story, the tears began to flow...both hers and mine. As she wept, I wept. Her pain was raw and, in that moment, what I had to offer in response was my grief. The affirmation that what she felt was real and valid, and she was not alone. I wanted to do more, but I had nothing more to give. 

Last night, I attended the prayer vigil in remembrance of the 14 victims of this weekend's massacre. I saw your faces--the faces of the families of the victims. I marveled at the number of different hues of skin, all telling the story of your countries of origin: Haiti, China, Pakistan, Brazil, the Philippines, Vietnam, United States, and Iraq. 

I watched you as you passed by and wished I had something to offer. Although it was only a glimpse, I had the sense that you have felt this kind of pain before. That this kind of horror was much more familiar to many of you than it should be. 

But then, this time you are far from home. I tried to imagine how it must feel to experience such deep loss in a place that is not home. I wondered if you are longing for home now.

And I wept. All I had to offer in that moment was my grief. The affirmation that what you feel is real and valid. And that you are not alone. 

In the middle of the onslaught on Friday, there was a low, long rumble of thunder. Strange for this time of year. But for me, it was a reminder that there is a God who grieves with you as well. He has a Son who has experienced deep agony in a place that is not His home. He is fully acquainted with grief. He affirms that what you feel is real and valid. He has felt it too. 

And although I do not know you, I grieve with you. It is all that I have to offer in this moment. In this place that is not home, may you know that you are not alone. 

Palm Sunday candlelight vigil for the Binghamton shooting vicitms, April 2009
photo credit

A brief epilogue: 

As I think again about the event, think about Kaley's grieving words, imagine the unimaginable suffering of these victims (and so many more like them ) I weep again at the tragedy.  I browse back through the archived photographs and gulp down hostility when I see the photo of the shooter again.  What mania drives a human to destroy another human?

What suffering forces suffering on another?  

Jesus, a suffering human, described the humans killing him with the merciful verdict:  they do not know what they are doing.  He pressed no charges, only asked His Father -- the Judge of all humans -- to forgive them.

When I think of the innocent sufferings four Palm Sunday weekends ago in Binghamton, I think of justice rather than mercy.

But it is mercy that saves us all.



In mourning with the mourners -- both the grieving woman on the airplane and the victims of a man-made tragedy -- Kaley extended mercy, offered salvation.

Father, forgive us for we do not know what we do (and what we leave undone). Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us all.

Hosanna.  Save us now.

Kaley Ehret is my sister 

and my friend.  

She's married to Wes,

 a pastor in the 

Philly suburb of Telford, 

and they have 3 amazing,

 adorable sons. 

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What mourning stories have formed your life
 and your faith in the mercy-giving Jesus?
Tell us about it in the comments below.
If you've written your own post, share the link.

Living and Dying Palm, an addendum

Litania*

My name is Tamara.  It was my parents' choice to name me as this Hebrew maiden.  Tamara is palm branch, like we see in the triumphal entry laid at the feet of the donkey-riding Messiah.  Crushed under the feet of hopeful crowd and donkey- hoof, the verdant branches return to arid desert soil.  Become dust again. For centuries the Church ground up the branches waved in worship on Palm Sunday, lived the cycle of life and light again, and marked the foreheads with the charry cross on Ash Wednesday.  

Each year I've been able to attend an Ash Wednesday service, I watch the foreheads of our community go from shiny oil to blackened grit.  Each sign of the cross a mirror over bodies all-too-familiar with death, sin, decay.  Even the least among us, the babies carried to the priest, darkened with the visible sign of invisible truth.  From dust we came, to dust we return.  

In the past I've said  I find it strangely peculiar that the very people naming ourselves after the Christ who took on dusty flesh in order to redeem peoples from their flesh, try so hard to forget the frailty of their humanity.  Who long only for triumphal entries without crucifixion and death, which of course means no resurrection and life.  We keep trying to make the Church walk on coloured coats instead of ground, thinking our mass-marketed spirituality and worship noise will drown out the hungry rumbles in our stomachs.  The creaking of our broken hearts.  The rattly breath of death blowing on our necks.  

This year I need to make an addendum.  I realized today sitting in my Sunday row how much I am to blame for hating the Christ who rode the donkey, how much I've been offended by his humility to move toward the people He knew would betray Him.  How guilty I am of standing in judgement of His mercy-giving heart.

This morning I spent a few moments looking at this work from Giotto, The Entry into Jerusalem.  I subscribe to a weekly visual meditation from an organization called Artway.  Each Sunday morning an image and a few words show up in my inbox and I choose whether or not to engage with them.

Giotto

When I was walking toward our church building this morning, I wished I hadn't spent time with this picture.  I normally take pleasure in the choir of mourning doves in the trees that line the sidewalk to our building.  This morning I found myself wishing they'd tone it down a notch.  I was angry.  Angry because when I was a little girl my Dad made Palm Sunday a special day for me, because of my name.  Angry because I wanted to join in the Hosannas and palm-waving with joy.  But I spent time looking at this image this morning and all I could see was the difference in the expression on Giotto's image of the disciples' faces and the expression on Jesus'.   

See that gaggle of halos?  See the wary faces, the fearful faces, the you-can't-fool-me-I-know-you're-up-to-no-good faces?  That's me.  Or I should say, that's my learned-response, my sinful response to suffering and pain and abuse and betrayal.  The disciples had just spent the week trying to figure out Jesus' dire warnings about His upcoming death and, in Giotto's mind anyway, they were on guard.  They could not take pleasure in the Psalm-shouting crowds.

Living like Jesus would mean my face would change from guarded distance to a merciful moving-toward.  Knowing that it was His Father alone He could truly trust, Jesus rode upright and humble right into the very hands that would betray Him.

I do not like this truth.  My wounded and sinful self flails against it.  I want to save my Psalm-shouting for the triumphant, steed-riding Jesus.  I want to be the waving palm, verdant and lush.  I don't want to be the crushed, trampled palm.  I want to be the Living Palm, not the Dying Palm.  

Blessed is He who comes in the Name of the Lord.  Hosanna, Jesus, turn my face toward Yours.  Hosanna, Jesus, turn my face toward those You love, including my own sad heart.  Hosanna, Jesus, save me now.

*artwork credit: Litania, Created by Jen Grabarczyk and photographed by Ken Wagner
Creative Commons Licenses through By/For Project