Blessed art thou among women

Blessed art thou among women

Gamaliel Gamaliel, wherefore art thou? Where are you when we need you? You, speaker of reason in a season of contempt and self-pity, we need you now so much, friend Gamaliel!

Have nothing to do with these men, and let them go. If their works are of human origin they will destroy themselves. But if they come from God YOU cannot destroy them, and worse far worse, you may find yourselves fighting AGAINST GOD.

Ah so wise. And by George, they were persuaded by him.

Whip those boys and let them go. A little blood in their eyes, a little blood on our hands, and let them go.

And Peter and John walked away, rejoicing that they had been found worth to suffer dishonor for the sake of The Name. (Acts 5)

The name. The word. Logos at the source and center of us all. Oh, Lord, these words in the morning jump off the page.

So you like this Holy Book, do you? There are words here for you?

You have opened my ears and given me a well-trained tongue. In other words, you have shut my mouth and opened my mind. Thank you, Lord.

Well-trained. I guess so. What are you learning from, David?

From the birds, mostly. And from Margaret. And from praying in the midst of movies … last night I prayed Hail Marys while watching Mary at the foot of the cross in Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ. Earlier one of the soldiers asked another soldier, “Who is that?” The second soldier said quietly with deep heart and soft eyes, “That is the Galiliean’s mother.” And they let her pass.

I thought then and later of the pietas of my life, of the statues of Mary in churches, and especially the beautiful blue-painted statue of Mary overlooking the southern countryside, arms outstretched outside the church near Springfield, Kentucky (St. Rose Priory Church), which is reputed to have the ugliest Catholic art of any church in the Midwest, although I loved it, and the Mass was as powerful there as anywhere. Their Thursday morning mass on Loretto Road was halfway from the Abbey of Gethsemani and our week of silence, and to the Maker’s Mark Distillery, where I had the pleasure of sharing the samples of several Baptist ladies taking the tour with me, right smack dab in the middle of the Holy Land of Kentucky.

One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek, that I may dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of my life. This House not made of man, not his whisky not his name, this house of the Lord full of garish art perhaps but also of the greatest beauty of all, ancient stories of suffering and compassion, death, resurrection, freedom.

So often I climbed a concrete stair, wide enough for Sunday’s congregation to stand talking in the sun, pulled open the twice-my-height stained oak door and entered sanctuary. Entered narthex, really, so cool and dark with a row of coat hooks and a hat rack on the back wall. And on, through a silent swinging door into the church, cooler still and more silent, the stained-glass-morning sunshine pouring in. The pews are all stained wood, red hymnals centered in their racks, and the tilted floor draws me down toward the altar, toward the pulpit, toward the candelabras, toward finally the crucified Jesus, carved so carefully from a perfect piece of wood, hanging head, empty eyes, nailed hands and feet, barely covered torso. This Jesus, this man approved of God among us by miracles and preaching, stands forever captured on the tree, watching with … what, disapproval of our sins? … compassion for our weakness? … with judgment and wrath like was poured out on Sodom? I can sit, but my mind does not stop racing. What is Jesus thinking? What can I say to him? Lord Jesus forgive me, I have not known what I was doing.

I know you think your words are cheap and repetitious, David. You don’t have to think like that. I don’t. I love you, and I love you and I love you. I am not dissatisfied with your off and on worship and honor and praise. Do not be afraid. David. Look up at me.

Alfred Hitchcock told Eva Marie Saint, when she was about to act opposite of, and try not to fall in love with, Cary Grant (in North by Northwest), to stop using her hands and always, in every moment of every scene, look straight into Cary Grant’s eyes. And she did.

What does the psalm say?

Let me live in your house, it says, “so that I may gaze on the beauty of the Lord.”

You will find me when you seek me with all your heart. (Yes, and all your art as well.)

Jeremiah was going nowhere fast when you gave him that reassurance that reassures us all, all of us for so many centuries.

I have plans to prosper you, my son David. Not to harm you! Don’t stop looking straight into my eyes. The rivers will not overwhelm you. The flame, you may feel it burn your cheek and sear your soul, but the fire in my eyes will not burn you!

Wait for it, wait for it.

Wait for the Lord with courage. Wait for the Lord. (Psalm 27)

 

I want a piece of that! We have to find Jesus. Follow that crowd!

My well-meaning motive, to honor him and praise him, quickly fell under the feet of the crowd. What is that lowest common denominator thing? I lost something important when I joined the mob. Not always a mob, nothing violent, but even still. I heard whispering and innuendo and still-born curiosity, guesses and all about where we were going, who we were going to see, what is he up to anyway, and my mind absorbs those things and I lost track of the praise and worship I started out with and wanted to share. Let’s go get some of that bread!

Back stage in plain sight Andrew said to Jesus, “There is a boy here with five barley loaves and two fish.”

At least one of us is willing to share what he has. I was hoping to receive, that boy is willing to give.

“But what good are these for so many?” Ah, a rhetorical question about to be turned on its head!

Jesus responded, “Have the people sit down. All of them, the five thousand men and thousands of women and thousands of children, let them ALL sit down.”

All rhetorical flourish gone, Andrew says with the others, “What are you saying, Lord?”

So Jesus, you just ask the boy to come with you, and offer bread and fish to the ones on your left, and then you ask the boy to go with half to the right, and you continue down on the left. And it takes all day, really, to pass out those five loaves and two fish. Because they just keep showing back up in their baskets. There is more than enough for that whole hillside, and Andrew is amazed.

And Jesus said to his disciples, “Gather the fragments left over so that nothing will be wasted.” And the leftovers filled twelve wicker baskets and Jesus knew, then, that the crowd would carry him off and he withdrew.

Into the mountain.

Alone. (John 6)

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