Out of the Box: way of the cross devotion: station #1

Wednesday, June 4

way of the cross devotion: station #1

This is Station #1

Agony in the Garden

This is the garden where Jesus prayed, bled, agonized, wept, and plead with His Father. He was fully aware of what was ahead of Him—betrayal, violence, pain, and eventual separation from His Father. He repeatedly asked if this was really the path God wanted for Him.

He said: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” Mt 26:38

Author Max Lucado has written that in the garden Jesus was, “perhaps never more human than at this hour, never nearer to us than when he hurt.”

As your own journey through the next 8 devotionals begins, enter into this experience today by reading from Scripture, and with Jesus pray:

“My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will...may your will be done.” Mt 39 & 42

Pray again:
This is for me. Every step of suffering that day over 2000 years ago was for me. That I might be free. That I might have eternal life. As this journey begins I ask to be with Jesus. To follow in his footsteps. I follow with gratitude and humility.

(1) Gauguin
(2) Unknown artist, Africa
(3) Stained glass depiction of the "cup"
(4) El Greco
(5) Unknown artist

1 comment:

Kristin said...: beautiful art - thanks for sharing :) Kristin; June 5, 2008 at 9:46 PM

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What am I talking about?

There's something to be said about hard places, rocks and being stuck between them. Some people become stronger for the struggle - good things like patience and endurance grow while trapped between injustice and justice. Still, others simply saw off their arm in lieu of dying trapped and alone in the wilderness.
I think I need to stay in the struggle, because I think that is where we may finally see a very unpopular truth...that injustice may be the place we learn the most about ourselves~ on both the mean and right sides of the injustice. Think about it. Still, my God-given prerogative* is to also confront social injustice. One way is to write. It's one thing I can do.

Poetry for Those So Inclined to Read

Song of Us

Broken hearts
plucked like
strings on and old guitar~
played,
tuned,
busted ragged
and hanging
at their tenuous best.

Careless

Careless hand,
waving all in the wrong
directions.
Fingers framing,
always, the backside of
opportunity-
gleefully
glad-handing the charlatan;
the promise.

Learn magic
if you must,
to keep you busy-
a little trick or two
to lighten up your
moody disposition.
But don't you
break my heart again!
Not with your wanton reach,
and especially not your grasping.

Species Genus Family Order

Simple words for
simple men.
Complex words for
complex men.
Food for the lion,
shelter for the bird.
Food,
shelter,
hearing,
reading,
"I love you";
The lion and the bird
though never jealous,
are nonetheless
speechless.
And though
not really poorer
for it,
I have not the
words to say why.

Intermingle

Careening, side to side
with flowers and ashes
flying around me,
and I, without remorse
am finding my way.

Some give me a 10% chance.
I, however, raise my hands up
in jubilation; onlookers hold onto me
they raise me up on a wave
and they give me away.

Therefore he takes me up
because I have given in
so that ashes and flowers
lie around us
like a spent wedding party.

My love is weighing me down,
down around his feet,
in the sweet organic dirt of my birth.
I will not want to leave this place,
but he assures me I must.

Creed of the Albino Salamander

You can see what you like
with your steady eyes,
steady as a plank,
determining everything and giving it meaning.

The way you take all of it in
reminds me of a glutton.
Stop eating - your eyes are bigger than you know.
Use your finger like a stick,
quick, before anything hits your intestine.

Don't digest what you see,
just eat and vomit partially digested bits of ideas.
Don't follow the subtlety of what you can't see
through to its natural conclusion --
constrict -
depress -
don't put in anything real and complete.

Follow that hand with your eyes -
- no one else is observing this -
just as it reaches that place of discomfort,
turn away. Avoid guilt by association.

You cannot follow even the shadow, you cannot.
In that nether region is heresy and hearsay.
Stick with what you have heard,
you cannot know more or you would explode.

Avert your eyes, though you are blind,
especially when frightened.
Don't see scary things
so you can't know if you'll survive.
Keep your translucent hands up to block your blind eyes.

Keep still
Stay invisible
Don't make sudden movements
and, for God's sake,
don't say a word.
If you saw something different than what you know
just tell them you're blind
or don't talk at all.

The Great Plunge

When the air returned to my lungs
and my head got off the anecdotal ferris wheel,
dirty footprints led the way ---
"Good ridance"
I remarked to no one in particular.

There was no better time
to take inventory ---
count out authentic
(in lieu of habit and proxy)
like crisp dollar bills ---

and come up,
not just breathing again
but grabbing tight
holding on, and screaming airlessly
(while the ground flew out from under me)
"I have no idea why(?),
but give me more!"

Looking at me then
you would have thought
I owned the bank
cashed it all in,
bought the circus and
hung the moon.
But I straddled these empires
one hand holding the key
the other holding me.

Ancient Genes

You smell like the earth,
You smell like round and forever,
You smell of everything bright and dappled,
of crimson,
of India textiles,
and rain--
rain that's settled on waking grasses,
And you smell like that even in my head,
even when you've gone,
even when I've never met you.

You smell like wild strawberries,
You smell like my mother's milk,
You smell of gravel under my foot,
of smoke off a cathedral candle
and unpretentious incense
permeating, walking out with me,

And you smell like this
in my memory,
in my future,
my imagination,
in my skin and in my hair.

You smell like love's sweat,
You smell like old browned book pages,
You smell of everything that sits empty in my stomach,
of the dirt & rock & water of my mountain trail,

And you smell like
Ghandi,
Mother Teresa,
Johnny Depp--
You smell like late night,
minus the forgetting and the hangover,
just every part of me wrapped around you.

You smell like what I want--
What I want to call right,
want to call safe
and real,
salt and stone--Home.

I want you to waft and
settle into the fabric of my clothes,
and my skin's fingers can rest
even though there's no touching,
no speaking in your ear
like Saturday morning,
like NPR,
like laughing and fighting,
And even if I can't taste your trust,
your promise,
your electric and metallic
sweet self.

I want the idea of you
to fill the air around my head--
and I will take you in deeply,
move my hands to my face
in an act of spiritual consolation and grief
I will bring you close to me
I will let you settle on me
I will carry you around
like through the streets,
through the ancient paths
of Israel.

Stay with me now,
not so lightly --like the outside on a visitor,
like pine & cedar,
like clay resting in my fingers--until I get used to this,
until your familiarity nearly sounds.

You smell like ancient objects,
You smell like grandpa's garage,
You smell of a Bedouin's tent,
of belief,
of darkness without fear,
and skin--skin,
carrying the scent of water & earth &
other things I can't quite place.

(Suggestive of Song of Songs)

Out of the Box

Wednesday, June 4

way of the cross devotion: station #1

1 comment:

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