Before
today, I had never washed Jesus. On Sunday, Palm Sunday, great guy and I hiked along
the narrow, rocky donkey’s trail (Eselspfad). I remember that at particular
uphill stretches, as we were slowly slogging one step after another, I thought
about another donkey trip that took place on this day (or round about) a couple
thousand years ago. So began my week; contemplating journey and sacrifice.
It’s a couple of days later and I’m standing in front of Jesus. I pour some water from the green plastic watering can onto a dry white cloth. Why great guy brought a white cloth along I don’t ask. As I stand inches away, I’m all of sudden greatly moved by what I’m about to do. Jesus’s head hangs down and so our eyes don’t meet. Not surprisingly, I’m taller than he is. His wavy brown hair and thorny crown are close to my face. The air is crisp, the wind sways through the trees as if it’s dancing, and the birds sing; but quietly, as if they’ve been told to keep it down. It’s Easter.
His skin is
cold and hard, but so smooth like porcelain. Gently (I have this overwhelming
need to be gentle) I start to brush the soft cloth lightly over his body. He is
dusty and dirty. In places I need to really scrub to get the dirt off. I run the cloth down his legs to clean his
tortured feet, leaving his face for last. As delicately as if I were cleaning a
newborn, I wipe under his eyes, along his nose and around his mouth. The pain in
his expression I’ve always found hard to look at, and now touching his sad, but
resigned eyes, I feel like I’m part of his pain.
I take a
few steps backwards. Great guy is busy hacking the bushes violently and swiftly
with a sickle; pruning. He doesn’t notice that I’ve been silent this entire
time. He’s busy. I look back towards Jesus hanging on the cross. He is clean
now. But, he still doesn’t look up. I know he’s thinking about bigger things; worrying
about another type of cleanliness - mine, yours, the world’s.
I’m preparing
for Easter: to welcome the father and maid marion home from their Spanish
winter hibernation, to sing in Easter services beginning this evening, and to
beautify the graves. I feel busy and expectant.
In Germany,
even on normal days, the graveyards are more like interesting gardens: tidy,
organized and taken care of. But, at Easter time the graveyards are a-bloom with
colours bursting out of almost every plot. The weeds are plucked, leftover
leaves are raked, flowers watered, headstones and statues polished, and unruly bushes
are shorn. As loved ones come to visit at this time, inevitably thoughts turn
to journeys taken together and journeys that have ended. To have a quiet
(except for birds chattering), peaceful garden to relive these experiences is
cherished here.
Today is
Gründonnerstag (Green Thursday), and in church services around the country
Christians will come to prepare themselves for tomorrow. I will be singing
parts of Rossini’s Petite Messe solennelle, as part of a small choir in a big
church. This piece is filled with repentant cries of Kyrie eleison (Lord have
mercy), exultant expressions of Gloria in excelsis Deo, sacrificial wails of Agnus
Dei (Lamb of God), and appeals for Dona nobis pacem (Grant us peace); all set
to mostly joyful tunes.
Rossini was a witty composer, and once said, “"Good
God, behold completed this poor little Mass. Is it indeed sacred music that I
have just written, or merely some damned music? You know well, I was born for
comic opera. Little science, a little heart, that is all. So may you be
blessed, and grant me Paradise!" (source: Wikipedia)
Whether we
choose to spend a few moments this weekend thinking about the journey we have taken
with someone who is no longer with us; or we choose to pray for those who have
or are sacrificing themselves so that others may live a better life; I feel
extremely blessed a) to have the choice, b) to have had the privilege of walking
with those who impacted my life in big ways, and c) to know the peace of someone’s
sacrifice - some large, some small.
This
weekend I will be thinking about the courageous ones who have, or have tried to
pave peaceful paths for others to walk on: a pastor in Homs, a woman in Egypt,
a teacher in Nigeria, a father in Calgary, a son on a cross.
At the
grave of his mother, great guy rolls a big rock away to make room for a newcomer
who will be laid to rest here next week. The letters ‘INRI’ are carved into the
wood above the cross. I’ve forgotten what they mean and ask him to remind me. He
says, without skipping a beat, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews’.
We are
clean. God, grant us all peace.