When I was a little girl, the oldest of three girls, my parents made the mistake of starting to take us to the neighborhood Catholic Church not too long enough after they broke the news that Santa Claus wasn't real. I fell for it all - the North Pole, the one-night distribution frenzy, the be a good girl and you'll get what's on your list - but they weren't fooling me again, I determined.
I was a restless as they come but I managed to survive the torturous sermons by rolling my eyes and making snarky remarks to my sister. Somehow they shuttled me through first communion, but I refused to go back ever again shortly after. I'll have to ask my mother how I got away with that because my parents weren't the kind to ever give in to us kids.
Anyway, I find myself trembling in terror as I write this because it's not easy for me to refer to Christianity or Jesus in public. It's piece of cake rather to quote the Koran, the Gita, or any of the Pali cannon. Whatever it is about it is so much deeper than I'm breaking the promise to keep this a "chop wood carry water" kind of blog. I'd inexplicably accepted an invitation to participate in an interfaith national grid blog, Via Crucis, that follows Jesus' path through Stations of The Cross this Holy Week 2006 about a week or so ago. And now this terror clenches at my gut. I write anyway.
The Stations of the Cross today mark a pilgrimage route in Jerusalem that traces Jesus' path to his cruxification and resurrection. At station six, there is a chapel commemorating a woman. Pictured here is its doorway.
I have set before thee an open door,
and no man can shut it. - Revelation 3:8
"In an instant someone from the bystanders broke ranks. It was a woman. She came running to Jesus holding in her hands a piece of wet cloth. She wiped Jesus' face from sweat and blood. She did not bother to look at the soldiers, she did not care about her own safety. She did it instinctively..." - Franciscan Cyberspot, "Jerusalem The Way of the Cross"
No one knows for sure whom this woman was, but the veil she used to wipe His face, according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, was said to bear the likeness of the image of Christ's face, and the revered relic "was called vera icon (true image), which ordinary language soon made veronica." The Basilica of St. Peter's in Rome and a Capuchin monastery in the village of Manoppello, Italy both claim possession of the authentic veil. (More of Veronica's story at the Via Crucis grid blog).
The woman now known as Veronica knew a true image, vera icon, of God in human form when she saw Him: a human and a Being. His Presence was so radiant that it was not totally obliterated in her eyes by the current situation.
Unbeknownst to me, I started back on my own pilgrimage Home one afternoon in a log cabin. I had signed up for a weekend workshop where we were going to Manifest the Life of our Dreams, or some such thing. It actually was the culmination to a process that included life-coaching. The end result was to be a framework for a strategic five-year life plan.
Margie had us all lying down with our eyes closed. Her soothing voice guided us through a relaxation and visualization exercise. After a short relaxing meditation, she had us picturing what it would be like to be up on a stage accepting an award for some outstanding achievement. What were we wearing? What did we say? Why were we up there? Can you feel the audience clapping and their approval?
To this day I have no idea how I strayed so far from the exercise I should have been doing. The exercise I paid hundreds and hundreds of dollars for.
Somehow in my mind's eye when I got on stage there was another person there. Jesus. I didn't make any brilliant acceptance speech. I was swept by the intensity of what can only be described as unconditional love. Time stood still and I was dumbstruck when Margie brought us back into a log cabin in Utah. (Luckily we only had to jot down our visualization into a private notebook and need not share it with the group.)
This came back to me this morning as I thought about vera icon, true image appearing to me in that visualization now roughly six or seven years ago. In that moment of grace, I had seen truly. I thought of it this morning too because when I hit the snooze button, I smiled. It is so unconditional in its love, you can go on hitting the snooze button as much as you'd like, the thought popped into my head. It is simply there. Simply waiting.
And It is so vast in its embrace that it can absorb my energy of the terror that shot threw me. So all-encompassing that the terror feels the welcome and dissipates into particles of mystery too.
Living on Both Ends asks us to contemplate:
What could have moved Veronica into this hate zone?
Sit in Holy Presence for a few moments with this query and hear.
What could have moved Veronica? Spirit moves and you move with it. Sometimes it's that easy. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she really was seized by terror first.
I was reading in the April 7th San Jose Mercury News that a Gospel of Judas written in the Coptic language recenlty unearthed in the Egyptian desert dated back to AD 300. They speculated that copies of the Gospel of Judas were destroyed by early church leaders. Some scholars suggest that the "Greek word paradidomi which is normally translated to "betray", means "to hand over", indicating that Judas was simply doing God's will."
Hand over the terror, came the thought in her mind. Hand over my idea that I need to conquer fear alone. Hand over the desire to know why why why the terror seizes me.
You cannot understand because there is absolutely nothing finite to understand. - The Prajnaparamitra Sutra
An insight flashes: Oh, the terror is the fear of isolation. That I am apart! How circular the logic! I will hold on to these fearful thoughts and stand in them alone or I'll tackle them alone so I'll hold back this debilatating fear of isolation.
You may give them to me, He spoke, and the darkness will vanish as it always does in the warm brilliance of the sun.
The terror loosed its rein on her gut. A flood of gratitude welled through every fiber of her being. Her heart pulsed. Her brow danced.
The veil lifted.
She heard and saw and moved to wipe His face with this very same veil.
Station 5: Simon of Cyrene is made to bear the cross Preston, Annie, Elena, Martha2, PmPilgrim, Only Wonder Understands, Jimmy. Next, tomorrow, Station 7: His second fall Annie, Jonathon, Jason, PmPilgrim And along all the stations, others on the Way.
Well done! I have never been very inspired by this particular station, but you really made me think about it. I think it is love that made her move, of course. Only love can be so strong that it overcomes fear. (Just my humble opinion, even if I make it sound so sure.)
Posted by: Annie | Apr 11, 2006 at 09:43 PM
Love or spiritual strength? There are times when an inner voice becomes so strong that it is next to impossible to resist it. You just feel very strongly that you have to do what it tells you or regret it for the rest of your life. She must have been an extraordinary woman to go against the unspoken consensus of the crowd, that has declared Jesus untouchable and to be disposed of. It takes great courage to go aginst negative energies like that and to follow your inner voice (character, conviction) and do what you believe in, regardless of the consequenses. A renaissance woman, IMHO.
Thank you Evelyn for this post. I will be watching the Via Crucis in Rome (not in situ but via satellite) and will look upon station 6 with new eyes :-)
Happy Easter!
Robert
Posted by: qbic | Apr 12, 2006 at 04:11 AM