Keeping watch...with Jesus

On Sunday in unprogrammed worship, the gathering word was from Matthew 26:36-39.

“Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.’ He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’ Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.’”

As I sat there in the community of silence, I pictured Jesus agonizing in prayer, with his disciples nearby, supporting him (or not). The darkness of the garden matches his shadowed spirit. Sorrowful. Full of sorrow.

What I brought to my meditation that morning was a preoccupation with death. We just lost Hal’s 95 year old mother two weeks back, and then a few days ago we received news of the death of a close friend our own age, Dwaine Williams.

We had expected the one death and were privileged to be at her side when Mom gently stopped breathing and went home. We cried but we also experienced relief that the suffering was over. We felt joy in the sense of her home-coming. In a few weeks, family will gather from different parts of the country to share memories and honor her life.

But with Dwaine, it feels totally different, and our grief has a strange tenor. I’m having to intentionally affirm my faith in God’s loving sovereignty as a way of combating a sense of tragedy. And I struggle with knowing how to respond to Becky, Dwaine’s wife and my dear friend of many years.

So sitting in the silence of unprogrammed worship, seeing Jesus at prayer in the dark garden, my vision shifted to Jesus at the right hand of the Father, still praying, interceding for his people. I saw his eyes going throughout the earth, seeing deeply into the pain and struggles of all of us, and holding that pain tenderly in prayer.

And I heard him say to me, “Stay here nearby. Keep watch with me.” An invitation to co-labor with him in intercession. Even when I don’t know how to pray. Even when all I can do is hold the pain and lift it up to the One who does know how to pray.

This is Holy Week. This is the week we remember Gethsemane and Calvary. Dwaine’s memorial service is on Good Friday. That seems appropriate. And we know that Resurrection Day is coming.

The darkness of the garden will continue in the weeks ahead, but we do not grieve as those without hope. I’m comforted to know that I can keep watch with Jesus, join in his intercession for those who will experience pain in the weeks and months ahead. I will undoubtedly need help to stay awake, but my intention is to sit still, watch and pray. With Jesus.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us.

Poems of resurrection

John 20:1-18

Missionary, apostle to the apostles,
beloved friend of Jesus,
tears still wet on your face,
it was love that thrust
you forth, joy that gave
your feet wings, wonder
that filled your voice
with gospel. Woman of God,
pure and trembling one,
you will remember always
his voice, “Mary,” forever
calling your name, “Mary,”
causing you to run
from the garden to the city,
from Jerusalem to Bombay,
to Barcelona and Cleveland,
to Cochabamba and Kigali,
telling us all,
“I have seen the Lord!”

John 20:19-31

All doors being closed
you came and stood
among them. Even now you
defy our doors and doubts,
choose to stand
in our midst. Glory.

Holy Week poems

 “I am he” is the seismic center.
It spreads in expanding rings.
The bodies fall outward,
circle a setting sun.
Torches, lanterns, weapons,
a bloody face, arrest
and betrayals spin,
but the center holds.
Even so, night deepens.
Even so, this unbearable cold.
(John 18:1-27)

 
*******
“What is truth?”
the politician asks,
not sticking
around for an answer.
The question hangs
in the air while
the man born
to be king awaits
his coronation
in silence.
(John 18:28-40)

 
*******
Out of the pierced side
of the God who is dead
flow all the terrors
of all the nights
the rapes the abductions
the children lost and
the mothers mourning
sirens and sleeplessness
thunder in far off places
the confusion of the archangels
and all my tears, all my sorrows
carried in the stream
that flows from his side.
(John 19:28-42)

More lenten poems from the book of John

Day 29, John 14:15-31

How can you make your home in me?
I’m too small. There’s no space
for infinite Trinity in here.
The rooms are crowded, and some
of the windows haven’t been opened
in years. The air is stale.
Cobwebs hang in the corners of the
ceiling. The whole thing needs
a spring cleaning and a new
paint job. With my current means
and energy level, I can’t possibly
get it ready for you, Lord, even if
you could find a way to fit. I guess
you’ll have to do it yourself.

Day 30, John 15:1-27

How can I abide in you,
my Lord? I go for hours
without even thinking of you.
Prayerless days are not
uncommon, and if I’m
not in crisis mode, I find
my joy in other pursuits.
I don’t naturally turn to you
in my open spaces. I don’t
gravitate to the center.
Some kind of centrifugal
force spins me away,
in spite of my longing
to abide. Please help me.
Pull me in to you.

Day 33, John 18:1-27

“I am he” is the seismic center.
It spreads in expanding rings.
The bodies fall outward,
circle a setting sun.
Torches, weapons,
a bloody face, arrest
and betrayals spin,
but the center holds.
Even so, night deepens.
Even so, this unbearable cold.

Day 34, John 18:28-40

“What is truth?”
the politician asks,
not sticking
around for an answer.
The question hangs
in the air while
the man born
to be king awaits
his coronation
in silence.

Day 35, John 19:1-27

“Dear woman, here is your son.”

Even from the cross
you attend to the details,
express affection,
provide for your own.
It’s from the cross
that you provide for all
your own, bring into line
the messy details of all
our lives, say your immense
and costly I-love-you.
From the cross.

Day 36, John 19:28-42

Out of the pierced side
of the God who died
flow all the terrors
of all the nights
the rapes the abductions
the children lost and
the mothers mourning
sirens and sleeplessness
thunder in far off places
the confusion of the archangels
and all my tears, all my sorrows
carried in the stream
that flows from his side.

Day 37, John 20:1-18

Missionary, apostle to the apostles,
beloved friend of Jesus,
tears still wet on your face,
it was love that thrust
you forth, joy that gave
your feet wings, wonder
that filled your voice
with gospel. Woman of God,
pure and trembling one,
you will remember always
his voice, “Mary,” forever
calling your name, “Mary,”
causing you to run
from the garden to the city,
from Jerusalem to Bombay,
to Barcelona and Cleveland,
to Cochabamba and Kigali,
telling us all,
“I have seen the Lord!”

Day 38, John 20:19-31

All doors being closed
you came and stood
among them. Even now you
defy our doors and doubts,
choose to stand
in our midst. Glory.

"A strange bugle call"

It’s Easter morning. Resurrection day. I know my Redeemer lives.

But my friend has died. We received word over the weekend of Anita’s death, and the loss lies heavy on my heart. The poem that has been speaking to me is one C. S. Lewis wrote on the death of his friend, Charles Williams. This is appropriate as we spent many hours with Don and Anita discussing the works of C. S. Lewis. We’ve read this poem aloud together. I share it now.

“To Charles Williams”

Your death blows a strange bugle call, friend, and all is hard
To see plainly or record truly. The new light imposes change,
Re-adjusts all a life-landscape as it thrusts down its probe from the sky,
To create shadows, to reveal waters, to erect hills and deepen glens.
The slant alters. I can’t see the old contours. It’s a larger world
Than I once thought it. I wince, caught in the bleak air that blows on the ridge.
Is it the first sting of the great winter, the world-waning? Or the cold of spring?

A hard question and worth talking a whole night on. But with whom?
Of whom now can I ask guidance? With what friend concerning your death
Is it worth while to exchange thoughts unless—oh unless it were you?

A place where I belong

Early in Passion Week, Jesus said to his disciples, “I go to prepare a place for you.”

Last week we moved Jon, Kristin and kids into their new house. “Helped move” I should say, as many people from their church gave a needed hand.

One of the positive aspects of this move is more space—both outside and inside. And each child has their own room.

A room of one’s own. I remember how important that was to me growing up.

The rooms in the new house seem custom-designed for each child. Paige’s room is a sunny yellow, with a view of trees and flowers. As the only child with normal vision, she appreciates this. Reilly’s room is painted in different shades of blue and looks like the universe. He’s fanatic about space—and this puts him in the middle of outer space. The yard light shines through his window better than any little night light could do. He likes that.

But Peter’s room—that’s the wonder of this house. Apparently it had belonged to a teenage girl with an outgoing personality and a wacky sense of style. Painted in vivid primary colors, one wall is red, one green, one blue and one yellow. The ceiling has glow-in-the-dark stars, with footprints walking between them.

Two-year-old Peter loved it from the first. His bright multicolored rug on the hard-wood floor ties the colors together. He marches around the perimeter of the rug repeating, “Peter room. Peter room. Peter room.” And he loves to go to bed now, enchanted by the starry sky on his ceiling. He lies on his back, cuddles his silky star blanket, and points up, saying, “Star. Star. Star.”

Legally blind, Peter may never be able to behold a real starry sky, but at least for now, he has his own private universe to exclaim over. And a room of his own.

This is Passion Week and I’m reading through the appropriate passages in Scripture. My mind is on death. The culmination of the week is Jesus’ death. But I’m thinking more of the deaths of so many friends recently: Jan Gathright, Jolene Griffith, Mary Hadley. And on my mind more than anything else is my friend Anita and her apparently losing battle with cancer. We’ve been praying and believing for healing for a year-and-a-half now. These days it’s hard to know how to pray. Her husband Don continues to encourage us to pray for healing, but our level of hope is dimming.

So I pray in the Spirit, trusting that the Jesus who walked this same dark path will perfect my prayers.

“I go to prepare a place for you.” What kind of place is Jesus preparing for Anita? Surely it will be a place that’s green and natural…
• With trees, flowers, a singing brook, birds…
• A place of books and ideas and stories…
• A place of delicious food and fellowship…
• A place to share with Don, her kids, little Grace and, I hope, me.

As there is no mortal time in heaven (according to my limited understanding of this mystery), I suppose Anita will not experience separation from us. But we will experience separation from her. And experience it deeply.

Thank you, Jesus, that you prepare places of belonging for all your children. Thank you for Peter’s room. Thank you for the place of beauty and joy I know you’re preparing for Anita even now. And thank you for your promise to never leave or abandon me. To walk beside me now, on this pilgrim path. To bring me, at last, to the place you’re preparing for me.