Reflecting in Holy Week

In this week between Palm/Passion Sunday and Easter, Christians all over the world contemplate the mystery of the last few days that Jesus spent in his earthly ministry. The moments are familiar – Jesus enters Jerusalem riding on a donkey. He has dinner with his friends. He is betrayed to the authorities by Judas. He goes to the garden of Gethsemane to pray, and is arrested and condemned. The next morning, he dies a gruesome death by crucifixion; then, his body is sealed in a cave as his followers grieve.

The sad story of these last days is repeated wherever Christians gather throughout Holy Week. On Thursday evening, members of my church will gather to wash one another’s feet, remembering that Jesus said, “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you too ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example – you should do just as I have done for you.” [John 13:14-15]  We will eat a simple meal of dates, figs, nuts, pita, and hummus together, remembering that Jesus said that the bread we break together is somehow also his body, broken for the sake of all; and the crushed, poured out fruit of the vine is his blood, poured out for the healing of the world.

On Friday, specific details of the day on which Jesus died are retold in many churches or enacted on city streets in a ritual called the Stations of the Cross. This opportunity for prayer and self-reflection has its roots in the Middle Ages, when the walls or gardens of any church could become a place of imaginative pilgrimage for those who were not able to go to the holy sites in Jerusalem. Over the centuries, many artists have been asked to create imagery to mark the stations where the devout would stop to enter into each moment of Jesus’ final earthly journey.

Several years ago, I was commissioned to make a set of such paintings. The organization that bought them has since been disbanded, and I have no idea where the artwork is. But wanting to resolve some of the artistic problems in a different way, I did a second set, which now hang in Oxnam Chapel at the seminary where I work. It’s more than a bit odd to worship each week in a place where I am surrounded by my own art, but today I was reminded of the meditations that grew out of the experience of painting them.

Although they have been published elsewhere, I offer them here again as an invitation to join me in my Holy Week reflections.

1. Jesus is condemned to death

Jesus is bound. His hands are tied. He can do nothing but accept what is coming. The word "passion," comes from the same root as our word "passive." The passion of Jesus is not so much in the agony that he endured, but in his acceptance of it, in his willing refusal to return evil for evil.

Where are my hands tied? How much do I struggle against what cannot be changed? How do I know the difference between what I can change and what I must accept?

2. Jesus receives the cross

Jesus lifts up his hands as if in prayer. He receives the burden of the cross as gift. He carries it lightly above his head, a banner proclaiming his solidarity with those who are outcast and forsaken.

What am I carrying, and what is its message? Is it a heavy burden? A gift? A banner? For whom, and to whom, do I carry it?

3. Jesus falls the first time.

The cross grows heavier with time. Jesus stumbles and falls. He puts one hand on the ground to steady himself, to find his balance, to touch the firm ground at his feet.

What trips me up? How do I react when I lose my balance, or when something gets in my way? What restores me to a firm footing?

4. Jesus meets his mother

Mary is helpless as she sees her son stumbling under the weight that he is carrying. Jesus sees her praying for him. He raises his hand in blessing and thanks. The knowledge of her love gives him hope and strength.

What are my parents' roles in my life today? Can I forgive their human frailty? Can I bless and thank them for their hopes and dreams for themselves, and for me?

5. Simon of Cyrene carries the cross

Jesus is unable to carry his burden alone. The soldiers press a bystander, Simon of Cyrene, to help him. Simon's strong hand lightens the load, giving Jesus a moment to catch his breath.

Why do I think I must do it all myself? Why is it so hard for me to accept help from friends and loved ones, let alone strangers? Why is it so hard for me to reach out and help others?

6. Veronica wipes Jesus' face with her veil

Jesus' face is covered with dust and sweat as he makes his way through the winding streets, upward towards Golgotha. A woman steps from the crowd and offers a piece of cloth. When he hands it back, she sees his picture imprinted on it-a vera ikon, a true image of Jesus.

Can I allow others to see my true face? Can I take off the mask that hides my real thoughts and feelings? Can I bear to see my own true image, the vera ikon of my soul?

7. Jesus falls the second time

Even with the help of Simon, Jesus stumbles again, burdened with the fear of what is to come. Dizzy and reeling, he reaches out with both hands, searching for something solid to lean on.

What or who do I lean on when I am weak? Where do I find the strength to go on when I am too tired to think or move? Whose burdens do I help to carry?

8. Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem

The women of Jerusalem greet Jesus with prayers and tears. He has lived with them in community, teaching them how to pour out their lives in love. They have believed in him, trusted him, and now he is to die. They feel bereft. He blesses them, but warns of more trouble to come.

It is easy to get swallowed up in grief. How shall I live when people I love leave me? What should I do when the morning news makes me weep? Will my sorrow and prayer heal the sorrows of the world, or only add to the anguish?

9. Jesus falls the third time

Unable to continue, Jesus falls to his hands and feet, kneeling in the dust of the street. He knows that he is made of dust, and to dust will soon return.

What does it mean to be a creature of the earth, finite and mortal? Is it giving in to know my limits, or is accepting them a sign of maturity? How does the knowledge of my death make a difference to how I live today?

10. Jesus is stripped of his garments

Jesus is left naked, exposed, and as vulnerable as a new-born baby. With no power, no ability to change the course of events, he blesses even those who torment him.

It goes against the grain to love my enemies. I want to fight back, to argue, to build a wall of defense around my vulnerabilities. How can I learn to love those whom I fear?

11. Jesus is nailed to the cross

As the soldiers nail him to the cross, Jesus opens his hands, accepting even this pain and indignity as gift. With no choices left, he chooses to love God and neighbor, saying, "Holy One, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing."

When someone hurts me, I lash out, wanting only to protect myself by building walls of rage. How would it feel to open my heart at that moment? What would happen if I simply accepted the pain with love?

12. Jesus dies on the cross

At the moment of death, Jesus makes a sign of blessing. His hands uplifted as if in prayer, with his last breath he yields his spirit to God.

What does it mean to pour out my life for my friends? Am I willing to give up anything at all for the sake of justice and peace? What am I willing to die for?

13. Jesus' body is removed from the cross

After Jesus dies, a well-connected friend gets permission to take his body from the cross. Tenderly lowering the body to the ground, he wraps it carefully in linen cloth, and takes it to his newly-prepared, rock-hewn tomb. Even in death, Jesus offers a blessing to the one who tends to his body, although this caring gesture comes too late to bring him any real comfort.

Why is it easier for me to mourn the dead than to bring comfort to the living? Why is it so difficult for me to call a friend who is in trouble, to give genuine assistance to someone who is ill, to give of myself before it is too late?

14. Jesus is laid in the tomb

Like a grain of wheat which has fallen to the ground, the body of Jesus is buried, hidden behind a large, heavy stone. Time has no meaning for the one who has died. Outside, his friends believe that all is lost, that God has forsaken them. In the shadow of Jesus' death, they wait for dawn, not believing that they will ever hear any good news again.

Even in my darkest hours, I believe that God is with me. Even in my darkest hours, I believe that God will heal the world. Even in my darkest hours, my hope is in the love of Christ. In a time of timeless unknowing, I wait with Jesus for Resurrection.

Burning Bibles

Paul Roorda, Silent Word, 2011, side view
burned Bible, egg yolk, beeswax, gold leaf

 As a teenager, I read with fascination and horror Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, a classic novel depicting a dystopian time in which dissent is so feared by a totalitarian government that all books are methodically burned lest they spread dangerous ideas. The image of burning books brings to mind fanatics of both the right and the left, their faces reflecting the flames of sacrificial pyres onto which they throw the physical embodiment of their ideological enemies. The symbolic meaning of burning books is so engrained in our culture that the mere thought brings shivers to any reader, and drives stark terror into the hearts of scholars. To burn a copy of a sacred text like the Bible can seem even worse, a deliberate affront to God.

Paul Roorda burns Bibles. However, he does so not as an act of defiance against religion, but rather as a way of honoring and preserving them, using a subtle alchemy to transmute them into art. On Tuesday, I (along with many other folks at Wesley) had the opportunity to hear Roorda speak about his work, which is currently on display in the Dadian Gallery. Roorda thinks deeply about matters of faith, manipulating not only Bibles but syringes, pill bottles, first aid manuals, and other found items to ask hard questions and expose both our hopes and our fears. One of the questions at the heart of his work is, what shall we do with Bibles that nobody wants or that have become so worn and tattered that they are unreadable?

Paul Roorda, Silent Word, 2011, top view
burned Bible, egg yolk, beeswax, gold leaf

There does not seem to be an agreed-upon answer to that in the Christian world. Some advise re-binding a worn-out volume so that it may be restored to use, or giving an unwanted copy to someone who might not be able to buy a new one, but neither of those may be practicable in many situations. Perhaps we might learn from other traditions, which have developed respectful ways to dispose of unusable holy texts and objects. For instance, in the Jewish tradition, a Torah scroll that is too damaged to use must be buried, just as if it were a person. In the Islamic tradition, an unusable Koran might likewise be buried, or placed in a flowing river or the ocean; or it might be burned, with appropriate dignity, so thoroughly that no words can be discerned.

Indeed, burning itself is an ambivalent action. On the one hand, many consider setting fire to a US flag an act of desecration. On the other, the US Flag Code, title 4, chapter 1, section 8(k) states: "The flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by burning." In many cultures the dead are ritually set afire on elaborate pyres, and increasingly in the US and other industrialized countries, cremation is considered preferable to burial.

All of these thoughts swirl through my mind as I contemplate “Silent Word” Roorda’s elegant black bowl made of the ashes of burned Bible pages combined with egg yolk and beeswax and lined with gold leaf. Less than eight inches in diameter, its shape echoes ancient shallow bowls made of stone or clay that similarly fit comfortably into two cupped hands.

I am also reminded of other objects that reek of smoke and age. The day before Roorda spoke about his creative process, I took a group of students to the Freer/Sackler Galleries, where the collections manager led us deep into the sub-basement storage areas. There, one by one, we were shown biblical manuscripts dating as far back as the 5th century. Many were only fragments; others were more complete, but showed the effects of age and wear. It is one thing to see such things reproduced photographically on the pages of modern books or digitally on a computer screen; another to see them carefully arrayed under Plexiglas in a museum display; and yet another to stand just inches away as a curator takes them out of their wrappings and lays them carefully on a special cushion.

13th century Syriac Bible
(photo courtesy Nick Works)

Towards the end of our visit, our guide brought out a rather undistinguished looking book. As he handled it, the smell of ancient smoke began to fill our nostrils. As I recall the story, sometime around 1250, a Christian doctor was living in what is now Syria, surrounded by three warring Moslem groups. All of the groups trusted the doctor to patch up their wounded, but any of them would have destroyed his Bible had they found it. So, when he wasn’t reading it, he hid it in the chimney. Now, over 700 years later, we could still smell the smoke from that chimney rising from the charred, discolored pages. It seems to me that this, too, is a silent word, saved not from, but by the fire. Like the Bible that is now Roorda’s evocative bowl, it is no longer read in the course of someone’s daily devotions, but rather treated as a relic, transfigured by the power of an idea.

Angel and Prophet

A number of years ago, an artist named Alek Rapoport was invited to come to WTS as Artist-in-Residence. Trained at the V. Serov School of Art and the Institute for Theather, Music and Cinema, both in Leningrad, he worked as a stage designer, illustrator, and book designer, while also teaching drawing and painting at the Serov in the 1960s and early 70s. In 1974, he joined a non-conformist art movement known as TEV (Fellowship of Experimental Exhibitions) and co-founded Alef, a union of Jewish artists in Leningrad. As a dissident artist who challenged official artistic orthodoxy, he found it difficult to exhibit his paintings, especially those based on biblical themes.

Born in 1933 in the Ukraine, Rapoport’s life was never easy. His childhood had been marked by the Stalinist purges, during which his father was shot and his mother sent to a Siberian labor camp for ten years. By 1976, his own anti-establishment activities made him a target for the KGB. Eventually, Rapoport, his wife Irina, and their son settled in San Francisco, hoping to find a more receptive audience for his paintings and his ideas.

Unfortunately, the San Francisco art world was not very interested in Rapoport’s tortured Biblical prophets, his deeply-impastoed reworkings of Byzantine icons, or even his expressionistic reflections on the local street life. As his dealer, Michael Dunev, wrote in the forward to Alek Rapoport: an Artist’s Journey (published in 1998 by Michael Dunev Gallery),

California, with its attachment to a “home grown” culture, was slow to accept his work. Those powerful expressionistic paintings, with their warped and elongated figures, were more in line with El Greco, Goya and Andrei Rublev’s icons than the light-drenched canvases of [Richard] Diebenkorn, [Wayne] Thiebaud or [Sam] Francis. Despite his enthusiasm for California’s Mediterranean light and its diverse ethnic mix, Alek Rapoport remained outside the mainstream of the Bay Area contemporary art scene. A loner, Alek remained a dissident in San Francisco, as he had been in Russia.

Shortly before Rapoport was able to join us, he fell ill, dying suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of 66. Grateful that we understood and supported his work, Irina donated Angel and Prophet to us in 1999.

Today, the painting hangs in Elderdice Hall, where its depiction of the struggle between an unwilling prophet and a determined angel seems fitting in a place where people often speak of both receiving and resisting the call of God. As I look at the tortured face of the prophet, who has been forced to his knees under the angel’s relentless insistence that he accept the unwelcome scroll filled with “words of lament and mourning and woe” [NIV, Ezekiel 2:10], it seems to be a self-portrait of the artist. In photographs, Rapoport stares steadily at the camera, his grey beard and furrowed brow mirroring that of the upside-down Ezekiel. As for many artists, there seems to be no boundary between Rapoport’s art and his life, no choice but to labor in the studio day after day, struggling to transmute his experience and understanding into paint on canvas.

It is sometimes said that God does not force us to do the divine will, that we are always free to choose. I'm not so sure that Rapoport – or Ezekiel, for that matter – would agree.