OPENING
PRAYER
O Tree of Life, Wondrous Mystery,
We gather before your glorious and
broken body;
O, you who are faithful to Abundant
Love,
Expose, our savagery, our wantonness,
our greed;
O Tree of Life, Tender Stem of Love,
Trained by us into contortions of agony;
O, you who are faithful to Glorious
Mystery,
Help us to wait with you in your hour
of need. Amen
Section
One: The Brutalised Body
PILATE
Life is a simple matter. It’s a question of knowing
what you can control and what you cannot. Of knowing when to bend and when to
be firm. That, I think, was this man's mistake.
He was immature. Naive. His politics, crude. I
guess this is what happens when simple folk get ideas. They don't know how to
wield them or negotiate. He's not stupid - indeed I believe he’s more than his
share of wit and talent. It's just that without an education these people tend
to lash out. Like beasts. They inflame a mob. Like a toddler, they lack the
character to be able to moderate or compromise. If only they'd pay more to
their leaders. Leave the thinking to the grown-ups. At least we can do business
with them.
Once, I asked a soldier to demonstrate a
crucifixion to me. It was...instructive. I can’t remember who the poor soul was
who we crucified. Someone. A criminal. A person. Does it really matter? I was
surprised by how quiet it all was. I mean, not that there was any lack of
distress. There was quite a lot of that. The nails elicited agony. Rather I
mean the skill of the executioner was impressive. He got it all done with such
little fuss. He knew his tools and task well. There was an understated economy
about it.
What I hadn’t expected was the intimacy, which I
guess reflected my own naïveté. On reflection, how could there not be? When two
men are drawn together in such proximity, one attaching another to planes of
wood, how could it not be intimate? In that moment, one man sees death in the
lines and wrinkles of another's face.
And there was something terrific - astonishing even
- about witnessing the scene. It made me realise that killing another might be
erotic. Exposing. I imagine that's how it feels to enter the arena, to fight
like a gladiator. Or go to war. It was revelation.
I can't tell you how glad I am that I asked to see
that execution close-up. It changed me. Changed how I dealt with people like this
Jesus and all the bruisers and revolutionaries and wanton holy men who’re sent
my way. It made me understand that it isn't the fact that we crucify them that
matters so much as how. That it is as much about aesthetics as punishment. I
think that’s made me better in my job. Though I might not hammer in the nails, I
strive for my own economy of action. An elegance, a gentleness perhaps.
So when I met Jesus I was calm. Considered. I like
to think he too understood the moment, for he didn’t speak. I simply explained
what we had to do and why it was important. And there was no snivelling or
complaint. I was impressed. If he had any majesty it was in his dignity and
control.
I know some men crave theatre and show. And that's
what so much of power consists in - the spectacle. That's why we have to
crucify them in a public space. But I’ve always preferred intimacy. That
moment when you meet someone face to face and you are yourself. And part of the
beauty and power of the moment lies in the fact you’ve acted with economy.
Because you’ve not made any fuss about an unavoidable act. That’s how it was
between Jesus and me.
And then we were done. And he was taken away to his
fate. And I washed and bathed – like people sometimes do after making love –
and I slept and I did not dream.
MARY,
THE MOTHER OF JESUS
Do you know what it’s like to hold
the most precious thing in the world in the palms of your hands?
All those years ago I held him - my
first born. My miracle. He was so tiny. So tiny, I thought, How could anything so delicate live and
breathe and be so hungry? My baby. My promise.
Look at him now.
Have you ever held the most precious
thing in the world in the palm of your hand?
I was there for him from the
beginning. I fed him from my breast, I taught him his first word, I held him
when he scraped his knee and cried. I
stayed with him even when he said those hurtful words in front of me, ‘Who is
my mother?’
I’m with him now.
Mothers, as a rule, don’t want to let
their children go. Not in their most secret heart. They want to keep her babies
safe. We hold them, but we have to let them go.
I held the most precious thing in the
world in the palm of my hand...
He said he was going to save us
all...
And I had to let him go...
How often have I wanted to hold him,
make him safe ...
Before this day is over I will hold
him again.
Section
Two: The Humiliated Body
THE
SOLDIER WHO PIERCED JESUS’ SIDE
I’m not a good man. Never have been.
I’ve been a soldier for twenty five
years and I’ve whored and drunk and fought my way all over the Empire. I’ve
seen stuff you can barely dream of: Celts running into battle painted blue, known
what the darkness of forests in Germania. I’ve picked up filthy diseases in
Rome.
I’m not a good man. I’ve done a lot
of nasty things. And enjoyed them. I’ve spent as much time on a charge as I
have following orders. Why do you think I ended up here, doing this? Nailing
fanatics up...half of them drunk on their god, the other half just criminals. The
one we nailed up today, they say, is a bit of both.
I deserve this job. When I started I
liked to look at them when I hammered the nails in. I liked them to know that
it was me who was killing them. That no matter how holy or righteous or tough
they thought they were, it was someone as ugly as me taking their life. I
wanted them to know that their god wasn’t going to protect them. I wanted them
to know that the world is ruled by ruthless men and the things we’re prepared
to do.
Maybe I just nailed too many of them
up. Maybe I got bored.
All I’ve ever wanted is to feel.
Isn’t that what everyone wants? I’ve spent my whole life doing this, that and
the other - mostly the other - just because I wanted to feel something. I want
to feel like they do – these idiots and fanatics and holy men. But I’m not a
good man. So what can I do?
There’s this thing that keeps me
awake at night. When I’m not showing the world what it’s got used to seeing. My
secret – my hate for it. I hate the pain and the screams. I hate looking at
their eyes.
I hated the one they call the King of
the Jews most of all.
The one they call the King of the
Jews. He looked at me. Stared. And he knew. I swear he looked past my face and
saw what I really am. He knew how much I hate all this. He knew how empty I’ve
become. I almost gouged his eyes out for that.
That’s what a bad man would do. And
I’m not a good man.
We were told to break their legs. For
the sake of the Jews and their festival. You know, when you break their legs
they can’t breathe anymore. They can’t push themselves up. They drown in their
own water and blood.
Sometimes I don’t mind breaking their
legs. It’s like I’m being merciful. Like I’m helping. It makes me feel good.
Better. That I can do something kind.
But I didn’t want to touch him. Not
the one they called the king. It was his eyes. The way he’d seen what I was,
but didn’t judge. He knew I wasn’t good. He saw I was nothing. And he didn’t
judge. It was…it was what I reckon love might be like.
I was glad when we didn’t have to
break his legs. But I had to shove the spear in his side. To make sure he
really was dead. They’d have killed me if I’d have said no. But he was already
dead. It was like he was being merciful to me. He gave up his spirit so I
didn’t have to hurt him anymore.
I think he was good that man. I met
him once that was all. And I was his killer.
I don’t cry. What’s the point? But
the water that flowed from his side was like all the tears I’ve never cried
pouring out. It was like all the pain I’ve ever caused flowing out of his side.
When I’m alone maybe I’ll weep
tonight. And I’ll pray that he – wherever he is – might find it in his heart to
forgive me.
MARY THE MOTHER OF JAMES THE YOUNGER & JOSES
Unless you become like little children you cannot enter the kingdom...
I never understood why Jesus said that. I always thought, what does he know? Sure, he was a child once, but you soon forget. Unless you're a woman and a mother. Then the world never lets you forget.
It sounds so simple, doesn't it? It almost sounds attractive...become like a child...Children are so full of life. I remember my boys, little James and his big brother Joses, sticking their noses in everything, buzzing with energy even when we had nothing...being cheeky and climbing trees. That's not so bad is it?
But that's not what he meant. Not if he's the person I think he is. He's not sentimental. He cares for proper stuff.
Unless you become like little children you cannot enter the kingdom...
I never understood why Jesus said that. I always thought, what does he know? Sure, he was a child once, but you soon forget. Unless you're a woman and a mother. Then the world never lets you forget.
It sounds so simple, doesn't it? It almost sounds attractive...become like a child...Children are so full of life. I remember my boys, little James and his big brother Joses, sticking their noses in everything, buzzing with energy even when we had nothing...being cheeky and climbing trees. That's not so bad is it?
But that's not what he meant. Not if he's the person I think he is. He's not sentimental. He cares for proper stuff.
What I think he meant was become a nothing, become a nobody. And you don't have to be a woman or a mum to get that, but it helps. I've seen how it works you see. I know.
I know how it's always the kids who pay the price.
How the soldiers and the fanatics make use of kids because they're naive and enthusiastic. I've seen fanatics using little boys and girls to set traps for the soldiers or make diversions. I've seen soldiers using kids as shields and hurting them to get at us. Both sides are as bad as each other. Both sides use kids for their own ends.
I've seen girls get used and then told to shut up.
Become like a child. Jesus might as well have said become like a woman. He might as well have said step into the shadows, lose everything...be despised...be nothing.
I wouldn't be stood here now if it wasn't for him. Jesus called James and Joses and me into another path. Away from the fanatics. He’s always treated women well. Has seen us. And I love Jesus for that. But I never got his line about becoming like a child. It’s like he sets you free, gives you a voice and standing, and then talks like we should give it all up. I never got it ...till now...
Today they’ve nailed him up and today I know he understands. Today he is truly one of us, today he is a child. Today he is a woman and a little boy and a little girl.
SECTION
THREE: THE HOPEFUL BODY
Jesus dies on the Cross
Wishing
he could nestle now
In crook
of mother’s arm – first-born,
Wonder, pearl unexpectedly found;
Or
further back, sea-being, smoke-eyed,
Dart
in shadows till trap is sprung,
Net
raised high, business quickly done;
But he
is last of his tribe,
Deaf
to secrets only he knows,
Gabbles
alone, mouth open, no song.
Mary Laments
Now I’ll
tell you things you’ve never known:
How
old age grows, a vine around the throat,
Of wounds that never heal, grain breaks,
Begins
again in the ground.
You
unlocked secrets with a clap of your hands,
Snapped
open eyes, loosened tongues, took spit
And
soil, kicked up crowds in dust you left behind.
If I
knew the trick I’d crumble earth, rub it in,
You’d
blink awake, I’d stare you down,
Tell
you the news, I told you so.
How
you’d smile and look away, walk off
As if
there were somewhere still left to find.
Joseph of Arimathea
How easy would it be to say
I gave what I gave for love;
to save his body from howls
How easy would it be to say
I gave what I gave for love;
to save his body from howls
and bones,
meat and dog,
endless
dark in the dawn?
How easy would it be to say
How easy would it be to say
I
came in search of festal lamb;
scrap
of understanding,
food for
escaped bodies,
beginning
and end and begin again?
How
easy would it be to say
I
sought soil for seed, land in storm;
some way
to fill cold room of want
with aloes
and myrrh,
an
offering to ripen ancient fruit?
Body
of Christ
Find me
when the journey ends and sun
bleeds
into night; and I shall conjure spelt's
wild
thunder, make bread crack and roar,
tear
stories with my hands, let grain shatter and fall.
And we
shall eat in the dark, mute in wonder,
understanding
or not; will walk softly in fields
as if we
still breathed, as if we knew company
of the
dead, our dreams tremble in the dawn.
And we
shall speak as if our mouths
are no
longer our own; I going on ahead,
if that
is what you need, learning secret tongues,
searching
melodies and chords for glorious song.
CLOSING
PRAYER
Broken
Bread, Living God,
in
the dazzling dark
you
give yourself to death,
and
we are afraid.
In
the daytime of our panic,
in
the bloody ground of our fears,
we
pray that we may trust
the mystery
of hope and glory
sealed
in your death;
may
we know your Passion is hope,
may
we find through the ruins of your Body
the
road to faith, forgiveness and love. Amen
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