There simply was no way to know the way the first night of the processions would effect me. At first to view the beautifully robed Jesus who is processed Thursday night is to see a work of art that is both an antique and so relevant. For he is in such a humble pose cloaked in red, but with a cross of thorns as to be tragically wonderful to behold. With every step you are reminded that he was only named king while he was being mocked, and that he was so alone in the crowd.
The glorious lights, luminati, were in an array of color and the kids did a wonderful job distributing and the ladies worked hard to tend to each station well. The course of the procession allows for a certain number of the stations of the cross to be visited each night, just as the story unfolds in scripture. Thursday night Jesus sits to an abundant table, the feast of Passover, with his friends and by the next day he will be suffering alone. The work that goes into the planning of the procession and the excitement are so in keeping with the feel of expecting Jesus to enter Piegaro triumphantly. There truly is a desire for the arrival of the Messiah.
Yet the walk, even with the lumini, is dark, and the prayer repeated over and over is the Lord’s Prayer, a constant reminder of the essential spirit of the one who leads us to God. Although the procession is at a steady pace, it is not slow, it continues to move through the night, through the course, quite a distance from one end of town to the other, it takes over two hours. Guided by the words of my friend Maria to always stay Avanti, in advance of the procession, I came in shoes to run, but clothes that were dark, not only in keeping with the spirit, but to hide and not distract. I found it very hard, even after practice runs through the course, to keep a steady hand for photos, because the experience was so moving. Going through my mind when my hands first trembled was words I spoke to friends, “I would do anything for Maria,” if she would like pictures, or even thought I should take photos to share with the world of my blog, for her it would happen.
At each stop I could hear priest Don Augusto speak, I cried. The words of the betrayal of friends always touches my heart, much more than the thought of nails pounded in, or the piercing of swords, or even death itself. To love intensely and not feel the love in return to me has always been the greatest pain of all. Which takes me to one of my most poignant Church of Mary Magdalene stories: One worship day we had a guest pastor bring a “Christa” sculpture, a female image of Christ on the cross. One of the women, we will call her “Mary” came into the room lightly chatting away, took one look at Christa and broke into loud anguished sobs and went running out of the church. I followed close behind and asked what was happening. Between the tears she said, “Jesus is the only man who ever truly loved me, who would suffer for me instead of beating, raping and making me suffer, how can they take Jesus from me?” I cried with her and we went for a walk, my childhood story was so similar to hers and when she spoke the words they ripped at my soul.
For all the pain that has been suffered, it is so understood by those who have felt the pain of abuse that the greatest pain is not being loved, that another person, especially one you should trust, would not care about your suffering. So many, many women at Mary’s have felt the sting of domestic violence, have felt the horror of betrayal by those closest to them. To know that Judas would betray, that Peter would deny, that all the apostles would leave Jesus to suffer alone is agony.
By the last station before the final destination of the church, I was sobbing, it was here in my piazza, and I was sitting on my own terrace overlooking the procession. And as I sat there, grieving for the pain of Jesus, for the pain of all the women of Mary’s who experienced domestic violence, for all in the world who have felt betrayed, I shed tears for myself. I came to Piegaro to find healing, and healing tears were in order.
As I sat and cried, I prayed and listened to the comforter, the spirit’s voice reminding me of wisdom I knew so deep. For those who face repeated trauma, healing only comes through the making of “new” memories, when we get fed “reminders” of the trauma, the trauma simply repeats in our memories. Jesus did not suffer for years or even months, but for only days, and then it was time for something different. This first day was about betrayal, betrayal of friends, the betrayal of identity as a robe and crown of thorns are there to mock and not honor the King of Kings. Tomorrow, even with its own problems, was another day. I am here in Piegaro, Italy, the constant sharing of stories of trauma in my beloved community of Mary’s is not here to inform my own trauma. I now know I am called to help my precious friends and ladies, but not with my constant presence, for my time of suffering this angst is past, and it is time for a new day.
The healing tears, the glory of Jesus shone in my life that beautiful Thursday.
What leads you to compassion for others in a healthy, healing way?
How do you care for your neighbors and practice a love beyond betrayal?
How do you accept and embrace with fullness the healing love of others, of Jesus?
How do you see Jesus in a way that gives you strength for your journey of life?
No comments:
Post a Comment