Among Us Women

Recently, my mother-in-law, Irene, a devout Roman Catholic, passed away. At her viewing, I participated in my first Rosary service. The word rosary comes from the Latin “rosarium,” rose garden, and truly one is led from one fragrant moment to the next during this devotion.

The Rosary is made up of several sections, including the Lord’s Prayer, the Gloria Patri, and meditations on Scripture from Christ’s life (the Mysteries). Honor and appeal to the Holy Virgin Mary winds throughout:

“Hail Mary, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

As I sat before Irene’s casket in its rose garden of bouquets, two phrases of the devotion wafted fresh meaning to me.

St. Luke records that Elizabeth was the first person to say, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” After Mary accepted the call to bear the Son of God, she hurried to the best source of support and celebration she knew, her also-pregnant cousin. Elizabeth’s first glimpse of this young lady enveloped her with joy. So much did the Holy Spirit of God fill her that her own baby leaped inside her. She knew instantly that Mary was carrying the Messiah and burst out with praise for her and the new little life growing within.

Elizabeth’s praise declared for all generations the position Mary holds among humanity.

Above every one, God chose this woman in which to dwell in the fullness of his incarnation. She was ordinary in many ways. But unlike most of us, Mary was willing to receive devastatingly Holy Mystery unto herself although only God knew what would become of her in the process.

Elizabeth’s praise declared for all generations the position Mary holds among women.

I saw in my mind’s eye the Blessed Virgin standing vanguard at the front of ranks of women stretching for eons into God’s presence. Women two thousand years old walked with my grandmothers, mother, and now my mother-in-law. Behind these emerged millions more from all places and conditions, my living female relatives, friends, and yes, even myself.

Mary then moved among us, hugging this one, smiling at another, talking some sense into that one. She did not demand attention; she always pointed us to Jesus. Yet in doing so, she assumed a major role to bear us up, to strengthen our resolve to live, and die, in as full of the Holy Spirit’s grace as we could hold.

And we will die. There’s nothing like the funeral of a loved one to illuminate the fading blooms that we are. Death cannot hide itself behind flowers, satin, and lace.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death.”

Now is to celebrate Irene’s blessed life, however imperfect. Now is to grieve her earthly loss. Now is to glimpse our own imperfect but blessed lives. Now is to face our mortality.

At the hour of our death, there is no doing it over. We sinners being made into saints need all the appeals such a vanguard can bring to the Throne to help us be faithful to the end.

Mary is a woman like me, but a far stronger, wiser one, and sometimes I find myself shy to request her prayers. I am right there with Elizabeth when she followed up her ecstatic greeting with, “But why am I so favored, that the Mother of my Lord should come to me?”

Yet apparently this great Lady, the God-bearer, wants to come among us women. As our principal spiritual mother, she enfolds us in the wide reach of her supplications. Above all, she wishes us to be receptive to her example and make it our business to say to her Son, 

“O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray. Cast out our sin, and enter in. Be born in us today.”

Like the Thief

Of thy mystical supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a communicant…Not like Judas will I give thee a kiss, but like the thief, will I confess thee, “Remember me, O Lord, in thy Kingdom.”

From the Orthodox communion hymn, “Mystical Supper”

Barabbas the Bandit received a lucky break that day. Two of Barabbas’ henchman, Lestes* and his partner in crime, plus an itinerant teacher were not so fortunate. All four men were popular with the peasantry, so it took the chief priests and Pharisees some forceful rhetoric and crowd manipulation to help the governor decide which pairs of wrists to nail up. In the end, Pilate released the rebel leader in return for two minor insurrectionists and a non-violent rabbi.

Lestes suspected they traded the rabbi purely on trumped up charges, and while waiting sentencing in the Praetorium, he had heard Pilate say he found Jesus innocent of crimes against both Jewish and Roman governments. But the Jewish leadership eventually broke Pilate down with politically loaded words—“tax evasion,” “subversion,” “opposing Caesar.”

Sounded a lot like his own charges, thought Lestes, as he dragged his cross behind Jesus through the city. Everyone knew he and his partner deserved what any “robin hood” had coming. It was clear to Jewish aristocracy and the Roman tyrants anyway. Palestinian peasants themselves tended to appreciate seeing bandit groups lighten the pockets of the rich to pass some wealth along to them.

Jewish bandits were religious, too; they believed in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. As a child, Lestes had embraced his parents’ hope that a messiah-king would rise to fix their broken civil and economic world. Somewhere in his youth, the unending oppression and poverty set his cynicism ablaze. It had become time to take things into his own hands. He grimaced: Now others would take his hands and close them forever.

Death by crucifixion took hours because the soldiers attached a foot piece to the cross so that he would keep pressing up with his toes to ease the tearing of his lungs, heart, and gut. The idea was to keep the criminal from dangling and thus cut off his air supply before he has had enough time to suffer.

Torturous as it was, slow dying gave Lestes time to think. Although he wasted most of his effort on the instinct to stay alive, he still knew he could choose how to take his death. He could either rail against the injustice of Rome or acknowledge some kind of punishment was justified.

He had justified most of his actions as a robin hood, even in the Name of God. For the greater good, he could deceive, terrify, kidnap, muzzle, bind, beat, and cut. Long ago he had lost the inner nudge to ask permission for anything. The lines between yours and mine had blurred under nights spent in alleys and hidden spots along the roads. In that robber’s dark he could avoid the stare between him and his victims that exposed their common and futile grasp for gold.

Now under The Skull’s** noonday sun there was no hiding that futility. The notice fastened over his head was concise and true: Bandit. When his soul would finally land in Hades, this truth would forever seal his condemnation before God.

The only falseness to the day was that an innocent man groaned next to him. Bandits, highwaymen, rebels, and thieves Lestes knew plenty. From what he had heard about Jesus over the last several years it was clear that he was no insurrectionist; at least, nothing resembling one.

Yet here were Jewish leaders and soldiers laughing and scoffing, as if triumphant they had succeeded in killing the greatest criminal of all. “He saved others; let him save himself if he is really God’s Chosen One, the Messiah. If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!”

Then Jesus said something more shocking than the insults. “Father, forgive these people, because they don’t know what they are doing.”

Sweat and blood mingled in rivulets down Lestes’ body. If Jesus wanted and was able to garner God’s forgiveness for this crime against himself, even while dying, he might really have the power of a messiah. The notice above the man’s head, “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,” could be true. Lestes seemed to hear two hearts throb in his ears.

The criminal on the other side of Jesus broke into Lestes’ thoughts. Rage at their fate spat out of him. “So you’re the Messiah, are you? Prove it by saving yourself—and us, too, while you’re at it!” Lestes’ chest heaved for air. “Don’t you fear God even when you are dying?” he asked. He choked on the bile rising from his belly. “We deserve to die for our evil deeds, but this man hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Lestes’ throat was parched, for the effort to keep from suffocating had wrung the moisture from his body. Yet tears baptized his eyes as he twisted his head toward Jesus. For the first time in his life, he asked pardon and permission. “Lord, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.”

In answer, the King said, “I assure you, today you will be with me.” Before nightfall, Jesus threw open his palace doors, while angels craned their necks to see the first of many of us weeping thieves invited in to plunder paradise.

*Lēstēs is Greek for a robber, bandit, insurrectionist.

**The Skull is English for Golgotha.

“Today I Quit Being a Christian" – Part 2

In Part 1 of this post, I wrote that I felt both aversion and empathy reading Anne Rice’s choice to “quit being a Christian.” My third reaction was shame that the word “Christian” has been so co-opted in our culture that its meaning is diluted, if not distorted.

Since this nation was founded, a vast number of people have labeled themselves Christians simply because they attended church or tried to be nice. Meanwhile, they may not be terribly concerned to know Jesus and his Way on a personal level. Many from other parts of the world regard anyone in the Western Hemisphere who is not a Jew or a Moslem to be a Christian. The moniker is a way to classify a religio-political group, not to identify people as Christ followers.

For others, such as Ms. Rice, “Christian” has come to mean a person loaded with self-righteous rhetoric stripped of tolerance. She is not the first, nor will she be the last to take that view. As a kid on the Navajo Reservation, I was ashamed to admit I was a Christian lest I be met with the sneer, “That’s white man’s religion.” Some people believe Christian missionaries worked hand in glove with the imperialist government to stamp out the core of Native American way of life. Regrettably, there is validity in these accusations. It is not hard to understand why one might want to distance herself from a word used in contradiction to Jesus’ original intention when he said, “By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:35)

The word “love” brings me to my next reaction to Ms. Rice’s announcement. Frustration. Hers is one more example of how polarized we become when we ideologize our convictions. That is, we try “to make others comply with or yield to our set of beliefs (Webster).” In this country, we attempt to influence others toward our ideology either through politics or recruiting. Neither are wrong in themselves; we have the legal right to lobby for or promote what we hold dear. Some would say we even have the responsibility to do so.

What frustrates me is seeing how fundamentalism rears its ugly head in the process. Make no mistake, the monster leaps up from both conservative and liberal camps. It is the natural tendency of human beings to want to affiliate themselves. We like feeling right. It strengthens our sense of identity. The more shrill and extreme the rhetoric, the more we feel justifiably compelled to take a stand for the position closest to our own standards. All too soon, however, we become inflamed with anger and give into the temptation to slander, insult, ridicule, or denounce an opposing faction.

Jesus had no problem debating his opponents. He did not hesitate to call a spade a spade although it got him killed. What set him apart from most of us is that as they strung him up, he prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

It is an easy, short slope to slide from conviction to hatred. But at the bottom is Gehenna and death.

It is an arduous, long path to climb from conviction to love. But at the summit is Golgotha and eternal life.

To be continued

The last thing to go

Five years ago this month, my mom, Erma, passed away, and she left a memory of her sense of humor with us. Her family will read this and think, “Well, she was humorous in spite of herself.” It is true: Mom was born with an underdeveloped funny bone and had to rely on others to tickle that bone into maturity. She grew up in the farmlands of Iowa, where unfortunately for her folks’ humor could be as dry as the corncobs in the cattle crib.

When Mom married Dad, she discovered his sense of humor was also understated, so if she was not diligent, his wit could pass her right by. His quiet humor could not always penetrate through the struggle to raise five children on a country preacher’s income, and after one of my brothers died, followed by Dad fourteen years later, it was pretty hard for Mom to gather resources for hilarity.

Yet, she could be easily amused. Let a man, be it her sons, brother-in-law, or my husband, tease her, he could inevitably pull out a good laugh. Once she got a joke, which often flew over her head at first, she would titter—a few seconds behind the rest of us. She liked to recall stories from her past, especially about the time she and a fellow female pastor of a rural Iowan church fed the parish rats poison with a spoon. Humor bordering on the macabre, but hey, it qualifies.

She herself was a comedian without knowing it, and sometimes in a most impious way, which made her even more funny. She had a way of choosing the wrong word that sounded similar to the one she wanted, or slightly mispronouncing the correct word. To preserve the sanctity of her name, I will only give the mildest example of these. Never one to swear, nevertheless when she felt strongly about a subject, she would say in that voice which needed no microphone, “And I am a-dam-ant about it!”

Mom’s crowning funny story occurred just days before she passed away. Her illness had for months presented doctors with great challenges to keep her system in balance, and as she now lay in the hospital, they told her, “We are between a rock and a hard place.” She picked up on this idiom and said to my sister, “I wish that Moses would come and strike the rock.” She was referring to the Bible story in which water gushed out of a desert rock that Moses struck with his staff, bringing relief to God’s people. My sister reminded her that there was a verse in the New Testament about that rock being a type of Christ. The need to know where the verse was bugged Mom from that point on.

As soon as my sister-in-law and I walked in the next morning, she ordered us to find the reference, but we could not. As providence would have it, the chaplain on duty arrived, but before the woman could read a psalm and pray with us, Mom—from behind her oxygen mask—plied her with the verse reference question. The minister smiled and said, “Well since I’m a Jewish rabbi, I don’t know the New Testament very much. But after we’re done here, I’ll go right down and ask one of the other chaplains.” Mom accepted this; to her, being a rabbi was no excuse for not knowing the New Testament.

True to her word, the rabbi quickly returned with the answer. She said, “It took a rabbi, a priest, and a minister, but we finally found it—on the internet.”

At least the search had kept those three out of the proverbial bar.

We laughed over the story until Mom said, “Tell it at my funeral service.” She had come full circle and acquired an exquisite blend of a lifetime of faith in Christ, devotion to the Scriptures, and now at last a developed sense of humor.


*The New Testament reference to Moses' rock is 1 Cor. 10:1-4.