by Stephen Hagerty

Psalm 130 or 31:1-5
Job 14:1-14
1 Peter 4:1-8
Matthew 27:57-66 or John 19:38-42

If you are a New Yorker, you may have had this experience. While riding the subway through a tunnel, the subway car suddenly stops midway and is stalled. There is complete darkness, a hurried announcement from the MTA, and then silence. It doesn't normally last long, but you notice very quickly that the silence is because no one is talking and that the wait is very uncomfortable — almost frightening. After a few minutes, your mind starts to wonder about whether you will remain there. I think this gives us a sense of the sacred unease of Holy Saturday.

The gospel of Matthew is filled with a plethora of details about Jesus' death. Joseph of Arimathea asks Pilate for Jesus' body. His request granted, Joseph "took the body and wrapped it in a clean linen cloth and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock"(Matthew 27:59-60). Notice how suddenly Jesus becomes his body, becomes an "it." But notice also the care taken with this body and the very touching remembering of Mary Magdalene and the other Mary "sitting opposite the tomb" (Matthew 27:61), not bearing to be separated from Jesus.

Now think of the last time you went to a wake, particularly if there was an open casket. You kneel in front of the casket to say a prayer, and, if you are like me, you stare a bit at the body. If it is someone you knew, you may wonder if they look like they did. These moments also make me wonder what it means to be dead. What if the departed were to suddenly open their eyes or exhale a breath? It can be a surreal experience to actual see a dead person, particularly if we don't very often.

Now imagine seeing the dead body of Jesus. Wouldn't this be overwhelming and shattering, especially if you had been in his close circle of friends, seen the energy of his life, and had yet to experience his resurrection?

Holy Saturday, this day of silence and darkness, asks something of us: we are simply to wait opposite the tomb of Jesus. No more and no less.

by Sister Linda Julian

Psalm 22:1-21
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Hebrews 10:1-25
John 18:1-40, 19:1-37

The Suffering Servant passage from Isaiah has always moved me deeply. One reason for this is that it is a magnificent poem, in whatever translation we find it. Another, deeper, reason is that the very beauty of the text brings me face to face with one of the great paradoxes of Christian, perhaps most particularly Anglican, faith. Central to the message the poem conveys is that "he had no form or majesty that we should look at him, / nothing in his appearance that we should desire him."

I have a potent memory of hearing, during a long-ago Tenebrae service in a Toronto church, the antiphon "Behold, we have seen him without form and comeliness," and being suddenly shaken. Did I want to know that? Was my faith based only on the desire to worship in the beauty of holiness? Was I unable to face the reality of holiness? I love the jeweled crosses, the elegant crucifixes, scorning the "gory" representations of the salvific act common to some other branches of our faith. By such means I try to evade the ugliness of dereliction and death, which is an all-too-real part of the life God saw fit to share with me.

Do we all have a secret dread of Good Friday liturgies? I know I do. As my remaining years become fewer, I try to remind myself that I must drink the cup, however bitter the passion it may contain, as must we all.

by Bérnard M. Douglas (from the 1998 Ascension Lenten Devotions)

Psalm 78:14-20,23-25
Exodus 12:1-14a
1 Corinthians 11:23-32
John 13:1-15

On the Night Before ... "It was as if a shadow passed across the floor in that upper room. I wanted to scream, to stop him, but my lips were fastened shut as if gripped by invisible fingers; I watched in mute silence, an inexpressible grief gripping my heart as he began washing our feet and wiping them with the towel he was wearing. Simon Peter had protested but relented: I too wanted to refuse him, to hold back my feet, thinking that if somehow I could stop him then all that he had foretold might be prevented; if I could cause one dot to remain absent from this script then I could change it. ... But when he came to me and looked up into my eyes, how could I refuse him? I could only weep; tears rolled down my cheeks. ... He looked lovingly into my eyes and met my tears with compassion, addressing us all saying, 'I have given you an example so that you may copy what I have done. ... You must love one another just as I have loved you. ... I will not leave you orphans.'

"Now we are frightened, and he is alone. ... I wish I could rest my head upon his bosom once more, once more listen to his sacred heart."

by Eve Beglarian

Psalm 69: 7-15, 22-23
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Hebrews 9: 11-15, 24-28
John 13:21-35

The gospel reading for today is the story of Judas' betrayal of Jesus. Reading it today, I noticed for the first time that John's telling of the story differs from the other gospels. Only in John's gospel does Jesus actually dip the bread in the dish and hand it to Judas after saying this action will identify his betrayer. And then John says, "After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him."

I can't help but connect the image of Jesus handing the moistened bread to Judas to the image of being handed the consecrated bread each time I receive communion. I believe that the writer of John's gospel wants us to make precisely that connection, because he wants each of us to identify with Judas, the evil betrayer of Jesus.

There is the idea circulating (made popular as few years ago by the Scorsese film The Last Temptation of Christ, and by National Geographic's questionable translation of the Gnostic gospel of Judas) that Judas was actually Jesus' closest companion and disciple, and that Jesus chose his most trusted friend Judas to betray him because Jesus knew betrayal and arrest was a necessary part of his sacrifice to save the world. These ideas are compelling, but I'm actually more interested today in imagining how I am like Judas the evil betrayer than Judas the secret trusted apostle.

I try to imagine myself as Judas reading the psalm for today: "Do not let the flood sweep over me, or the deep swallow me up, or the Pit close its mouth over me." I have certainly read that psalm when I have been in my own dark places, but Judas' darkness is almost beyond my powers of imagining. It's one thing to imagine being "the subject of gossip for those who sit in the gate, and the drunkards making songs" but quite another to imagine being completely beyond all possibility of rescue by God.

But that's the thing, isn't it? No human being is beyond the possibility of rescue by God. Not even Judas. Graham Greene has the old priest at the end of Brighton Rock say, "You can't conceive, my child, nor can I or anyone the ... appalling ... strangeness of the mercy of God."

I need to believe God's strange mercy can release even Judas from eternal damnation. I can't understand it, certainly the whole question of evil and mercy and forgiveness are beyond my powers to comprehend, but I don't want to believe in a God who will punish even Judas for eternity; I don't want to believe there is a soul who cannot be released from the enslavement of sin.

When I return to the gospel passage, I'm struck that immediately after Judas goes out into the night to betray him, Jesus gives his new commandment: "Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

I believe we are asked by Jesus to love even the evil betrayer Judas. Not rewrite him into the secret trusted good guy so that we can love him. No. We are to love the evil disciple who betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver and then went out and hanged himself in despair at what he had done.

by Lewis White

Psalm 71:1-12
Isaiah 49:1-6
1 Corinthians 1:18-31
John 12:37-38

"I have known you, and cared for you, and loved you since you were in your mother's womb" (paraphrase from two of today's scripture readings).

I think we have all felt at times there is something to be "done" to secure God's love for us — some right thought, right feeling, or right behavior or action. Having children has helped me to more fully understand this relationship and what is required.

My youngest son David's "terrible twos" were extending into his eighth year when I, one day, announced to his mother that "By God, this child is going to learn to behave!" So for the next two weeks I applied the requisite "consistent structure" necessary to secure this goal. One night, after a particularly heated reprimand, I went into his room to find him sobbing.

"Dad, I'm just a bad kid," he said. A wave of nausea and shame spread over me.

"David, my darling, darling child," I said. "We've had a huge misunderstanding, and the fault is mine. I'm going to tell you a parental mystic that a lot of grown-ups don't want to divulge to their children for fear they'll lose control. My wanting you to behave well is purely for our and your future convenience. No matter what you do, or how you behave, I will always, always, always love you. No ifs, ands, buts, or qualifications. No rules. Just because you're mine."

"I have known you, and cared for you, and loved you since you were in your mother's womb."

Amen.

by Jennifer Landis

Psalm 36:5-11
Isaiah 42:1-9
Hebrews 9:11-15
John 12:1-11


"Jesus said, 'Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial'" (John 12:7).

Mary's action in this story, preparing for Jesus' death, shocks those gathered at the home of Lazarus. I myself have a difficult time imagining doing such a thing or even witnessing it. Yet as we are at the beginning of Holy Week, we too have been preparing during Lent for Jesus' death. Be it giving up something like sweets or a bad habit; adding something to prayer life, such as reading these devotionals; or participating in a Lenten retreat — all of these are, for many of us, preparation for much of what we will encounter in the week that is ahead of us and for meeting God at the cross and crucifixion.

At church, we are surrounded with this preparation throughout Lent. The changes in our liturgy, the absence of flowers, and, generally, how everything seems to be stripped down to aid us as we reflect individually and as a community about our own efforts and struggles to seek God in our lives and in the people and world around us.

This week, we may fast on Friday, or leave work early enough to get our feet washed on Thursday, or get up earlier for prayer and reflection or participate in the vigil at the Altar of Repose. And we even may prepare ourselves in ways that we did not anticipate that, like Mary, might be the gestures or prayers that are our own unique encounters with Jesus Christ.

Today's Collect:
Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

by Vinh Do

Psalm 31:9-16
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14 - 27:66

This is the time of the year when I realize that I worship a man who died by crucifixion. Jesus' death on a cross seem ignominious to me. It is surreal really. In Matthew's rendering of the events leading to Jesus' last breath on earth, I see depictions of all sorts of human strengths and weakness. From those around Jesus, I see examples of friendship and treachery, kindness and cruelty, courage and cowardice. Jesus himself must have experienced love and enmity, obedience and betrayal, power and gross injustice, perseverance and despair. I wonder if Jesus despaired. Did he despair for being alone, for his life? He prayed alone in the dark garden while his avowed friends lay sleeping — it must seem his darkest hour. I believe he had a choice to walk away from the bitter path laid out for him, but he to chose instead to obey. So he walked into his crucifixion.

Jesus is some kind of anti-hero. He is the antithesis of what we expect our answers to be for anything. He didn't avenge. He didn't vanquish. He eschewed justice — our human understanding of it — for mercy. He dined with sinners and communed with the misbegotten. Then he rose to a kind of popularity among the masses. Then people deserted him. Then he died. What a dramatic disappointment it must have been to his disciples to witness all this! He was one short-lived celebrity. But to call him a celebrity is to not understand him. To despair of his death — and his crucifixion — is to not understand his purpose. Those with faith living in his time knew that Jesus stood for the life after — the kind of life that begins after physical death.

In this age we have the benefit of hindsight and the scholarship Jesus inspired. We know that the kind of victory Jesus achieved cannot be fully measured in human terms. We are asked to believe in compassion in the face of cruelty. We are asked to practice mercy and forgiveness. We are asked to believe, in short, in the example of the man named Jesus. And we are asked to entrust our life in one who lived this life and lives in one beyond.

by G. Jan Jones

Psalm 85:1-7
Ezekiel 37:21-28
John 11:45-53

There are so many times when I feel Old Testament writings are contradictory within themselves. They frequently give me the sense that more than one writer is being represented. Also, they do not appear to me to be talking about the same God who is portrayed in the New Testament.

Take our first reading, Psalm 85:1-7, for instance. The psalmist is saying to the Lord, "Thanks for restoring our wealth and grace. Ah, but that's not enough! We are still doubting you. This is a trust issue. We still can't rejoice in you until you take away your anger."

Hmm — just like severely disciplined family members.

I wish I could remember the author of the quote I heard as a teenager. I paraphrase it as: "You would like your children to end up loving you, but sometimes you have to settle for a little fear and a lot of respect."

The second reading, Ezekiel chapter 37, verses 21-28, pass on by the "dry bones" and the promise of joining the tribes of Israel under David by linking Judah and Joseph. (You will want to read these passages as well.) The day's reading just vaguely points to a union without hinting at the parties involved. (Although a party seems to be in the making in chapter 38 — a wave of terrorism planned out by a crafty God. These are scenes of epic violence.)

Our third reading is John 11:45-53 — Jesus has just raised the dead (Lazarus). But the miracle story here is not intended to leave us with wonderment or comfort. The reading today starts with the reaction of the Sanhedrin to tales of Jesus' miracles. They fear that if people are revved up by believing that Jesus is the Messiah, the Romans will take away their nation and their land. Of course this is where Caiphas tells the others that it is better for one man to die, rather than the whole nation. And "from that day on, they planned to kill him."

Just how a cleric comes up with a theme after reading these is beyond me. But they certainly got my attention.

by Carol Conway (from the 1998 Ascension Lenten Devotions)

Psalm 18:1-7
Jeremiah 20:7-13
John 10:31-42

"I love thee, O Lord, my strength" (Psalm 18:1).

These are words of joy — they leap out to me, and I am smiling as I open my arms to receive them. This is God! Perfect love!

Love has always been important to me. Knowing and understanding love is a lifelong project. As a child I used to watch adults and wonder what love was. Perfect love. How I longed (and still long) to give and receive perfect love.

Of course, as I am working in my classroom, I sometimes forget about love and God, and I shoulder the burden of the impossible job of teaching alone. In my distress, I don't call upon the Lord.

As I read Jeremiah, I wish I had lived in "Bible times," when God spoke to people. I want God to speak to me the way he spoke to the prophets. But of course, he does; and when I take the time to listen, I hear him.

That is what I love about Lent — the meditative inner nature of this season puts quiet spaces between all of my activities that sometimes overwhelm and consume my dialogue with God. Lent's quiet spaces create the loveliness of Lent — hearing the voice of God.

by Vin Knight

Psalm 105:4-11
Genesis 17:1-8
John 8:51-59

A few days before I sat down to write this Lenten devotional, I attended the Broadway revival of Stephen Sondheim's musical Sunday in the Park with George. The fact of neither event is especially remarkable — I've written devotionals in the past, and I go to the theatre as often as time and money allow. But a parallel emerged between the texts I was assigned and a recurring theme in the musical that I hadn't considered in quite the same way before.

The three readings all refer to God's covenant with Abraham that he will be "the ancestor of a multitude of nations" and "exceedingly fruitful." In essence, God promises — and delivers — to Abraham a kind of immortality through children he never thought he would have. In Sunday, the painter George Seurat fathers an unexpected child he never sees grow up and leaves behind an artistic legacy not appreciated until after his death. His daughter Marie explains to her grandson, also an artist named George, that children and art are two of the ways we live on after we die. Pointing to Seurat's masterpiece "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," she says, "This is our family tree." Part of Marie's — and the show's — lesson is that through each succeeding generation's new discovery of a work or art, the artist lives again.

This continuity of existence — through art, through children, and through many other things — reminds us, especially during this season, of the immortality offered to each of us by God through his son. In the gospel reading, Jesus says, "Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am," and "whoever keeps my word will never see death." As in his covenant with Abraham, God promises — and delivers — to each of us immortality through rebirth. We are his children, each a work of art, and he lives on in each one of us.

by Beth Ronsick (from the 1998 Ascension Lenten Devotions)

Canticle 2 (BCP, p. 49)
Daniel 3:14-20,24-28
John 8:31-42

Today's lesson from Daniel is the tale of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego that seemed so fantastical in childhood. As an adult, I have to wonder, "Why risk being hurled into a fiery furnace when you could just pretend to worship the golden calf?"

The unfortunate truth is that it's rarely the most attractive option. The passage commands us to leave the safety and security of where we are. To be strong. To risk being unpopular. And even to suffer.

Examples abound. Do you occasionally close one eye to unethical situations at work because it pays your bills? Have you laughed at a joke made at a friend's expense in order to fit in? Have you ever made up an excuse to a loved one because it seemed easier than hurting his or her feelings? Our ideals are constantly called into question. And the context is often far more subtle than golden calf vs. death.

But if we are to be martyrs for the truth, how can we be certain of the truth? John tells us that the word of God is a good place to start: "If you continue in my word ... you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free."

And so, my meditation for today is this:
God, grant me awareness. Keep my heart and mind open to your teachings. Let the division between truth and falsehood be markedly clear. And grant me the courage to cleave to the truth.