Hail Mary, Pietà

 When Elizabeth greeted Mary, she practically shouted her own version of the Ave Maria: “Blessed are you among women!” This is how we want to see her: Blessed, exalted, favored, chosen.  We dress her images in the finest gold, silver, fabrics and lace. She is the epitome of strength, beauty, and serenity.

We forget the elder Simeon’s blessing and prediction that a sword would pierce her soul. We forget the terror she must have felt when Herod’s soldiers came looking for her child, slaughtering so many children as they did so. 

We forget the horrors of this young mother who gathered up her newborn child in the middle of the night, her desperate flight across borders into an alien country, her becoming a refugee, a stranger in a strange land. We forget that, for years, she wondered furtively over Egyptian roads and countryside, struggling with language and laws, all the while seeking shelter and food.

We forget the panic she must have felt when Jesus went missing for three days, missing in a large anonymous crowd, missing somewhere in the tense urban streets and back alleys of Jerusalem; no one knew where he might have gone.

Hail Mary? We forget the apparent rejection by Jesus himself when she and her other children came to talk with him. “Who is my mother?” he said. Then, pointing to the crowd, he said, “These are my mother and my siblings. Those who do the will of God, they are my family.” Did this sword pierce her soul?

We forget her agony as she helplessly witnessed her child's arrest by brutal Roman guards, his trial in a sham court, and his scourging in a public setting while the crowds jeered and mocked. We forget her despair as Jesus staggered under the weight of his cross on the road to Golgotha. We forget, finally, that she watched life ebb from his suffering body, the same body she brought forth from her own.

Hail Mary? We forget that, as the sun descended in the sky, she accompanied his broken body to a borrowed tomb. We forget the heavy rock that barred her from giving a farewell kiss to her beloved child.

Alas! An even greater pain may have penetrated her soul. 

Did she ever know this child? This child who lived in two realities simultaneously? Do we ever really know the “other,” even when the “other” is our own child? 

Judith Dupré writes,

“We cannot know the inner recesses of another person’s soul, those mysterious gulfs that mark the inevitable distance between individuals. As parents or caregivers, we plan, hope, and nurture, but the day comes when our children let go of our hands and venture forth into the world to taste it on their own terms, and that world—their world—is not ours to know…”

Clara Park tells of her relationship with her autistic daughter:

“She moved among us every day, among us, but not of us... She existed among us, (but) she had her own being elsewhere…”

So, too, was Mary called to trust the ways of a child who was hers, but not hers… who drew his being from her and from somewhere else beyond her understanding.

Finally, we forget the survivor’s pain. “The path of the dead is in the living,” wrote Italian poet Giuseppe Ungaretti. Regardless of how we read scripture or what we believe, these memories would never go away. These sorrows persisted within her.

For all these reasons, we say to her most tenderly, “Hall Mary, Pietà, May God be with Thee.”

©Gilbert Friend-Jones

Thirty-four Years to Go, But Who’s Counting?

I am reprinting this in honor of a friend who recently celebrated her 40th birthday.

Thirty-four years. That’s approximately how long I may have left, according to a friend. Thirty-four. The “average” man who lives to be my age can expect thirty-four years more. Since I am neither more nor less than average in most categories, why should I be different in this?

Thirty-four. Depending on your situation that may sound like a lot, or a little. To me, it’s not much. Less than a “watch in the night” according to scripture. A “little day” according to a Jewish prayer. A raindrop falling ever more swiftly toward the sea.

It doesn’t help to be reminded of what other people have done in less than thirty years. Mozart, for example. Or the young Einstein. Or Jesus. I know what I haven’t done with more. I have more questions now than answers, more longing than satisfactions.

It’s not that I want to be president or pope. I don’t envy Bill Gates. I don’t want to trade places with Donald Trump. 

But Jimmy Carter has my attention. And Desmond Tutu. And the Dalai Lama.

I don’t want to be the mayor of a major city, but I’d like to help a decent mayor create a humane community. I can’t imagine being Billy Graham or Gardner Taylor, yet I’d like to speak a few original words that console or uplift. I do not aspire to the pulpit of a “tall steeple” church; I do hope that congregations I serve will come more closely to resemble the Beloved Community for which, I think, Christ lived and died.

As I face into what may be the last third of my life, this is what I know: Wisdom and wealth are not synonymous. Wisdom and poverty are not either. Power is neither evil nor good, but necessary for the realization of either. Silence contains more truth than many words. Sharing sorrow lessens it. Nice is not bad. Deep peace is possible in the midst of great suffering, yet a serene appearance may hide the deepest pain. Soul is real, but “real” itself is puzzling. Not one of us will be truly happy until all of us are truly happy. Grace is everywhere.

It isn’t much, but it’s a beginning. After all these years, it is  

© Budd Friend-Jones

Faith in a Minor Key, 2010

Posted: July 14, 2023

Rublev's Mirror: A Sermon for Trinity Sunday 2023

Rublev's Mirror: Dancing With the Trinity

According to the Orthodox Church, an icon is written, not painted. It is not art, but a window into another and sacred dimension of reality. Its construction must follow a rigid protocol by an ordained iconographer. It becomes efficacious only after it has received the blessing of a priest.

Some icons are intimate household items. Others are national treasures. Some are credited with healing and ending famines or plagues, while others were carried into battle to assure victory. When the Bosheviks came to power, they regarded these claims as mere ignorant superstitions. The radicals among them were energetic in their attempts to wipe religion completely from the minds and the communal life of the people. The Soviet regime aggressively destroyed churches, synagogues, icons, vestments and anything else relating to religion. Countless priests, nuns, monks and religious leaders were sent to the Gulag, or worse.

Some icons were too powerful to destroy. The Trinity icon, also called the Hospitality of Abraham icon, on the cover of the bulletin was one of these. Andrei Rublev, perhaps the world’s greatest iconographer, wrote this icon over 600 years ago. It depicts the three visitors to Abraham and Sarah recorded in Genesis 18 who turned out to be either angels, messengers of God, or the actual Trinity. For centuries devout Russians traveled many miles, often on foot, to offer prayers before it at the Trinity Monastery of Saint Sergius. 

Rather than destroy it, the revolutionaries removed it to the Tretyakov Gallery where it has remained since 1929. If you visited this Moscow gallery you would inevitably find burnt candles and incense on the floor where it was displayed. It may be the most precious icon still existing, but conservators tell us it also is among the most fragile. They have argued, unsuccessfully, against any attempt to move it, even to return it to its original home. 

But Vladimir Putin has other ideas. As his war in Ukraine falters, as the Russian economy sputters, as unrest in the population grows and spreads, he is looking for support wherever he can find it. Krilill, the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, is one of the few pillars on which he leans. Together, the two men are said to represent “the Mighty and the Almighty.” For decades the Russian church passionately denounced the blasphemy that their most sacred icon hung in a secular art gallery. They have always demanded its return to its rightful place. Who doesn’t see the justice of their demands?

Putin could do worse than to give in. So today  - today! - he is ignoring the world’s leading art conservators and experts, and many within the church as well. He knows the icon is extremely fragile. He knows it may be destroyed by such a move. Yet today the icon is being moved from Tretyakov to Christ the Savior Orthodox Cathedral in Moscow where it will be venerated by thousands of devoted worshippers. (Pravda)  In a few weeks, if it survives, it will be returned to its original home in the Monastery where it will undergo restoration.

Putin may be motivated by his own faith, but it is hard not to see a bit of political calculation here. For this brief moment, his gesture will be celebrated throughout Russia.It is possible, even likely, that people will turn away from the abject horror and suffering being inflicted daily on Ukraine. It’s not the first time that cynical leaders have used the cloak of piety to cover their nefarious deeds.

You and I might consider the Trinity icon to be an antique, a priceless item, perhaps, of Russian culture or spirituality, but of little spiritual value to us. We may see it as a historical memento that managed to survive the slings and arrows of an outrageous history. Some of us admire it in a curious sort of way, but most of us think nothing of ultimate value would be lost if it went away forever. 

Frankly, however, at least some of us consider the Trinity itself in the same way - an old, tarnished and cumbersome piece of theological furniture we’ve inherited and must accommodate. Distant and unknown ancestors in faith bequeathed it to us in languages we don’t even understand. We get lost in their logical labyrinths of Three-in-One theologies and One-God-in-Three-Persons explanations. We grow old with the tireless repetitions of the words, “Father, Son and Holy Ghost.” 

When St. Augustine tells us that the three persons of the Trinity are not the same, we get it. But then he tells us they are not separate, and it becomes confusing. Yet his final explanation is, shall we say, lovely. To Tina Turner’s great question, “What’s love got to do with it?” Augustine responds, Everything! God is the Lover, and the Beloved, and the Love they share between them. Not a bad beginning.

Joanne Woodward won an Oscar for her role in The Three Faces of Eve, but Christians say God got there first. If she could be Eve White, Eve Black and Jane at the same time, why can’t God be one, and three, at the same time? If I can be a father, a son and a husband, then why can’t God be Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit? This helps, but it doesn’t tell us very much, does it? Most of my colleagues and I just go about our work and quietly ignore the perplexities of our theological inheritance. 

Just as we are about to cart this theological contraption to the consignment store, guess who comes in the door. The feminists. The womanists. And those who would elevate hospitality to a spiritual practice. People like Dr. Karen Baker-Fletcher, Dallas;  Dr. Hannah Bacon, Chester UK; Dr. Catherine Mowry LaCugna, at Notre Dame until she died; Father Richard Rohr, Albuquerque; and so many more. Even C. S. Lewis is ringing the bell! These seminal thinkers are revolutionizing the ways we think about - and the ways we relate to - the Holy One. 

Without getting too technical on this fine Spring morning, let me just say this. For them, God is community. Fundamentally, God is relational. That’s why community is fundamental in Christian spirituality - the Beloved Community, the Church as Koinonia. The utopian at the end of time (Isaiah 25),  will be a vast, all-inclusive feast that encompasses the full diversity of creation. This is not apart from God or in addition to God. This is God. This feast is God!

C. S. Lewis once described himself as someone who “can dance no better than a centipede with wooden legs.” Yet he ultimately affirmed that God is not a static thing, not even a person, but a dynamic, pulsating activity, a life, almost a kind of drama. Almost… a kind of dance… The whole dance, or drama, or pattern of this (divine) life is to be played out in each one of us…  each one of us has got to enter that pattern, and take (our) place in the dance.” (Lewis, Mere Christianity, pp. 148-150)

Each of us has got to enter the pattern, and take (our) place in the dance.

This brings us back to Andrei Rublev and his Trinity icon, his Hospitality icon. Look at the image again, the one on the front of your worship folder. The three holy visitors are at table. Perhaps this is the eucharist, or communion. We can almost feel the energy flowing between these three rather androgynous figures. There is a circular movement in this triangular composition, If we spend time with it, the figures will almost seem to move toward each other. 

Now look at it more closely. Do you see a little rectangle attached to the front of the table? What is this? There are many people who know a lot more about this than I do: historians, theologians, conservators and others. They believe that Rublev had attached a mirror to this icon. (Richard Rohr, Take Your Place At the Table, Online) 

A mirror!

If that is true, whenever we might stand or kneel before this icon to pray, we would see ourselves included at the table. We would find ourselves as one of the participants, perhaps even an equal participant, with the Holy Trinity. We would be joining the dance and becoming a receiver and a giver of holy energy. This suggests a choreographer, but who could that be? It might be other than you expect.

Choreography suggests the partnership of movement, wrote the late Catholic theologian, Catherine Mowry Lacugna. It is symmetrical but not redundant, as each dancer expresses, and at the same time fulfills, themself towards the others. In their interaction and inter-course, the dancers experience one fluid motion of encircling, encompassing, permeating, enveloping, and outstretching. They are neither leaders nor followers in the divine dance, only participants in an eternal movement of reciprocal giving and receiving, giving again and receiving again… The divine dance is fully personal and interpersonal. It expresses the essence and unity of God. The image of the dance forbids us to think of God a solitary being.  (LaCugna, God For Us, 272)

I love it when she says that there are not two sets of communion or two separate dances – one among the so-called Trinity and the other among us human beings. Rather, she affirms, there is  only one dance, and one mystery of communion. God and we are beloved partners in this dance. (Lacugna, God For Us, 274)

To participate in the divine dance  is to participate in the transforming love of God. We become the Lover, the Beloved and Love Itself. In doing so we discover one another no longer as enemies, not as Russians and Ukrainians, not as Democrats and Republicans, but as brothers, sisters and siblings -  participants together in the life and love of God. Would that Vladimir Putin - and all of us - could peer deeply into Rublev’s mirror today. It would be a different world. 

 

© Rev. Dr. Gilbert Friend-Jones

Trinity Sunday, June 4, 2023

Peace United Church of Christ

Duluth, Minnesota

CHITSIDZO

 In Zimbabwe, Shona mothers sing a traditional lullaby, “Chitsidzo”, to their babies. While looking into her child's eyes, the mother has the sensation that the baby is older than she.

[1]

Bundled in bloody afterbirth

he came to us

a wet escapee

from the fluid flowing sodden belly shelter Mary.

Had he known before

before he took flesh

had he known this world

this womb

this lovely shimmering perplexing

world womb before?

Or did his eyes open that night

for the first time,

for the first time deep within

this enigmatic grotto of our universe?

Did air

heavy moist sharp air

vex soothe arouse his new raw skin

nostrils throat and lungs?

Did sounds stirring

first sounds

distinct, separate, clear sounds

moaning clucking hissing

rustling sounds

confuse frighten fascinate

his beginner’s ear?

Did new light

torch light star light

light of moon and lantern on lucent mother’s face

soft light of late night color

beguile enthrall bewitch

his seeing?

When for the first time he inhaled

the breath of night

did odors of beasts

straw wool fire

startle or please him?

[2]

By what means or mysteries

by what high ways or low ways

through what empyrean canals

do our children come to us?

Do they follow stars to find us?

Do faint remembrances resonate

within them?

Do they bear memories of dwellings

we know no longer of?

Do the angels sing their births?

Does earth tremble

before each child begins to cry?

[3]

Road-worn exhausted Mary

herself a stranger

made strange by the world

made strange by whims and winds of circumstance

made more strange by this birth

Mary took this child of blessing to her breast

felt the milk of life flow forth from her

and was content.

Content

and with wonder Mary caressed wee fingers

fingered damp midnight hair

brushed tiny cheeks

gazed into dark probing eyes

that searched her eyes

and knew already her heart.

© Budd Friend-Jones

December 28, 2018

(Photo collected by Ashley Harris on Pinterest)

©Budd Friend-Jones

Ave Maria, Pietà

 Elizabeth practically shouted her own version of the Ave Maria when Mary came to visit: “Blessed are you among women!”

This is how we want to see you: Blessed, exalted, favored, chosen. We clothe your images in the finest fabrics and lace. We dress you in gold and silver. We want you to be the epitome of strength, beauty and serenity for us.

But we forget the elder Simeon’s blessing. He said a sword would pierce your soul. We forget your utter terror when Herod’s soldiers came looking for your baby; they slaughtered so many children. We forget the horrors of gathering your newborn in the dark of night in a desperate escape. We forget the fear of crossing borders into an alien country, of becoming refugees, strangers in a strange land. We forget your years of wandering furtively over Egyptian countryside, struggling with language and laws, all the while seeking shelter and food.

We forget the panic your felt when Jesus went missing for three days, missing in a large anonymous crowd, missing somewhere in the tense urban streets and alleys of Jerusalem.

We forget the apparent rejection by Jesus himself when you and your other children came to talk with him. “Who is my mother?” he said. That must have hurt. Then pointing to the crowd, he added,

“These are my mother and my siblings. Those who do the will of God, they are my family.” Was this a sword that sword pierced your soul?

We forget the agony of watching helplessly by as your child was arrested by brutal guards, tried in a sham show trial, and scourged in a public setting while crowds jeered and mocked.

We forget your nausea when your son staggered beneath the weight of his cross on the road to Golgotha. We forget, Mary, that you watched life ebb from the very body you brought forth from your own.

We forget how, as the sun descended, you accompanied his broken body to a borrowed tomb. We forget the heavy rock that barred you from giving even a farewell kiss to your beloved child.

Perhaps you knew an even greater pain through all of this.

Judith Dupré once wrote,

“We cannot know the inner recesses of another person’s soul... As parents or caregivers, we plan, hope, and nurture, but the day comes when our children let go of our hands. (They) venture forth into the world to taste it on their own terms, and that world – their world – is not ours to know…”

Did you know this child? Really know him? Do any of us ever really know the “other”, even when the “other” is our own child?

Clara Park had an autistic daughter. She described her this way:

“She moved among us every day - among us, but not of us... She existed among us, (but) she had her own being elsewhere…”

So too, Mary, you were called to trust the ways of a child who was yours and not yours… who drew his being from you, and but from somewhere else as well.

Finally, Mary, we forget the survivor’s pain you bear.

The Italian poet, Giuseppe Ungaretti wrote that “the path of the dead is in the living.” Regardless of how we read scripture, or what we believe, your life went on. These swords pierced your heart. These memories left deep sorrows in you.

For all these reasons we say to you most tenderly, “Hall Mary, Pietà, May God be with You.”

The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner (1898.

©Budd Friend-Jones

December 11, 2022

Mayflower Church

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Maryam al-Mustafia, Twice Chosen

 This is the second of three meditations about Mary that I gave at Mayflower Church in Minneapolis, Minnesota on December 11, 2022.

It may surprise you to know that Mary – or Maryam, as she is known to Muslims – is highly revered in Islam. There is much more about Mary in the Qur’an than in the Christian New Testament. Allah (God) has preferred Mary above all the other women of creation. She is regarded as one of Islam’s four perfect women. She is the only woman named in the Qur’an. A whole Sura (or chapter), Sura 19, bears her name. It is recited by all Muslims, and especially favored by women. Its recitation is believed to impart a special blessing on both the one who recites and the one who listens.

Although she is the mother of Jesus, her importance in the religion appears somewhat independent of him. She is never called “the mother of Jesus,” but Jesus is always called “the Son of Mary.”

'Annunciation'
by Raphael Soyer, 1980

Maryam makes her first appearance in the Qur’an very near its beginning, in Sura 3. Her parents, Imran and Hannah, were old, childless, and far beyond child-bearing age. When Hannah watched a bird feeding her young, she decided she wanted a child too. She prayed. God answered. While still in the womb, the child was dedicated to Allah.

Maryam’s father died before she was born. She was raised in the Temple under the care of her uncle, Zachariah. If you are fortunate enough to visit the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, your guide may point out the room in which she is thought to have lived. She grew up on the grounds of the temple, which is now called al-Ḥaram al-Sharīf, the al-Aqsa Mosque compound, or simply the al-Aqsa Mosque. So did Jesus, Muslims believe.

Whenever Zachariah visited Maryam at the Temple, he always was surprised to see that she had baskets of food. Miraculously, it was out-of-season - summer foods in winter, and winter foods in summer. When asked who provided it, Maryam always answered cheerfully. Allah.

The angel Jibril (Gabriel) visited Maryam in an annunciation similar to the Christian story. But unlike the Christian story, there is no husband. She becomes a single mother. During her pregnancy, upright townspeople condemned and shamed her. Maryam left the Temple grounds and went into the desert.

When she went into labor, the pain was so great that she held onto a nearby palm tree. She nearly gave up. A voice came from the ground below. "Grieve not!” it said. “Thy Lord hath provided a stream of water beneath thee; Shake towards thyself the trunk of the palm tree: It will let fall fresh ripe dates upon thee."

As in Christianity, so in Islam there is a vast body of literature on the subject of Maryam, and many differing opinions. Some Muslims contend that the virgin birth should be taken symbolically while others insist on its literal truth. In this religion, so defined by its prophets, was Maryam also a prophet?  Muslims still argue about that too, since all other prophets were men.

Bishop Fulton Sheen once said that Mary might be the bridge that reconciles and unites two of the world’s great religions.

 Judith Dupré in her excellent book, Full of Grace, wrote that “(In) a time when the need to reconcile differing cultural traditions has never been more urgent, there probably has been no symbol… in Christendom that can mediate and build bridges with more success and amplitude than Mary.”

Hail Mary, full of grace. May it be so.

 

"The Annunciation" is by Rafael Soyer (1980).

 

©Budd Friend-Jones

December 11, 2022

Mayflower Church

Minneapolis, Minnesota

 

Why Mary?

 This is the first of three meditations I gave at Mayflower Church in Minneapolis on December 11, 2022. 

Snow fell all night outside the windows of the small octagonal oratory. The single candle illuminating the room cast an uncertain light on bare wooden walls. I had come to Saint John's Abbey for a solitary retreat. The Director of the Episcopal House of Prayer had welcomed me to this retreat house, but now I was alone. Enfolded within the warmth of this space, deep within the stillness of a Minnesota winter night, I began to cry. Icons of Mary – the Theotokos - emerged from the shadows. In a real and tangible sense, she had come to accompany me in my grief. She was my companion that night.

My mother died on the same day that Timothy McVeigh drove his truck to the federal building in Oklahoma City. I remember nothing about the bombing. I remember every detail of the phone call from my sister. I was born on my mother’s birthday; for forty-nine years we celebrated our birthdays together. But on this one, my fiftieth, she was gone.

The sun shone brightly on the next day. I trudged through deep snow to the Abbey Church for prayer. The guest master invited me to sit in the choir stalls; other guests guided me through several books of prayer, scripture and song.

Later in the day, I was drawn to a small alcove in the church. A Twelfth-Century wooden statue of Mary gently balanced her Child on her lap. In that dimly lighted space, she was not just the mother of Jesus. She was the Great Mother. She was not just a nurturing parent but the substance from which the Christ emerges. She was not just the vessel of divinity, but its throne, not just its bearer, but its expression.

My hand trembled as I placed a votive candle before her. My Methodist mother would never have understood, but this candle was for her, for us, and for all that had passed between us down through the years.

Years later I would lead pilgrimages of Muslims, Jews, and Christians to sacred sites of our religions. Our Mediterranean journeys always took us through Ephesus, an ancient center of the sacred feminine stretching back in time to the legendary Amazons. In Ephesus a modest stone house, known for generations as “Mary’s House”, is a bustling pilgrimage destination for Muslims and Christians alike.

A prayer wall stretches along a path leading to the house. Thousands of slivers of paper and cloth – the earnest petitions of Muslims, Christians, and a few skeptics as well - are tucked into its crevices. Muslims are praying. Catholics are celebrating Mass. Evangelicals are electronically amplifying their contemporary music. Nevertheless, contemplatives manage to find oases of quietude where they sit, meditate, and pray.

For believers and non-believers alike, the Annunciation discreetly acknowledges the mystery of conception. It celebrates the beginning of life and its holiness. Judith Dupré sees in Gabriel’s Ave Maria, in Mary’s response, and in Joseph’s commissioning, humanity’s transcendence of the idea of ourselves as merely mortal.

“Grace,” said Thomas Aquinas, “renders us like God, and partakers of Divinity.”

©Budd Friend-Jones

December 11, 2022

Mayflower Church

Minneapolis, Minnesota