Keeping Watch, Bearing Witness

This is the final reflection of the Keep Watch With Me Lenten Reader for Peacemakers

We have been watching and witnessing together. We have read one another’s stories of hurt and hope, of suffering and salvation. We have practiced and prayed together, seeking love and light in the wandering of Lent.

On Easter, many of us read the John 20 narrative of the resurrection, Mary Magdalene’s story. Hers is the story of recognition that turns from Lent to Easter, from the quiet darkness of Saturday to the blaze of fire and light of resurrection Sunday, from death to life.

Mary keeps watch at the tomb, waiting and remaining in the face of death.

We keep watch.

We keep watch in the midst of grief and the darkness before the dawn.

We keep watch when we have no hope, we when do not understand.

We keep watch with questions, with doubt, with our whole selves.

We keep watch when others have given up, when it feels like there is nothing to watch for.

Mary bears witness, telling of the impossible and unexpected Life she has encountered.

We bear witness.

We bear witness to Christ present, alive, surprising.

We bear witness as we recognize God and are recognized by God.

We bear witness to the resistance of death, despair, and systemic violence.

We bear witness in our communities, that we might become a new kind of community.

We are invited with Mary, with all saints and people of goodwill, to bear witness to the mind-bending good news that Hope was in the graveyard, that Peace is on the move. The empire lost and the resistance is strong. Love is rallying us to the cause of creation, life, growth and movement.

So, let us go forth into our lives and work and the world, carrying the wisdom we have learned together in our watch. Let us go with the Light, bearing witness in our peacemaking, in our spiritual practices, and in our stories.

Good Friday

We’ve moved into Easter season, but I only just had time to edit and organize these jotted thoughts from Good Friday. Please excuse my disconnect from the liturgical calendar! 

During the last two seasons of Advent and Christmas, I felt connected to Jesus in a profound way. Not too surprising that I could meet Jesus as son—I was pregnant along with Mary through Advent, and the following year, supplied my own baby to be Jesus in the manger. What I didn’t expect was to see Jesus as my son this week, Holy Week. In church I sat with S. listened to the trial, the beating, the execution, the burial. An astounding sermon by a friend colleague who also did chaplaincy work in the pediatric ICU, bravely speaking about the dying children.

The beloved child is being killed. He didn’t outlive his mother the way he was supposed to.

The precious roly-poly manger baby grew up. He listened to your lessons and corrections, he paid attention in synagogue. All grown up. He took all the law and the prophets to heart, listened more than you anticipated, and gave up everything to go around, healing and loving and listening and preaching. You spent the last few years loving his loving heart, sending your prayers, shaking your head at his strange ways, worrying that he might be stirring up trouble with his strange friends.
The stakes were high. Too high. If it weren’t all so horrifying, you’d be proud, so proud and astonished that the little speck of cells in your womb, the toddler you spanked, the teen you grounded, is this grown, beautiful, brave man.

There is no resurrection today. No hope. There is only the echoes of pain in your own body as you watch his broken. That pulling knot deep in your belly—you haven’t felt that since those first days after you birthed your last baby, that painful jerk of womb and breasts at their little cries—it’s back and stronger and bringing you to your knees.