Sanctuary of Women: Blog

And so we come to Good Friday and to the cross that we have been moving toward throughout this Lenten season. Here at the cross we meet the women who did not leave Jesus in his suffering and death. I think again of Etty Hillesum, with whom we traveled earlier in this season, and how she chose with such intention to share in the suffering of her people and to bear witness to what she saw and experienced.

As we linger at the cross, and as we move through the coming days, where do you see the presence of the broken body of Christ in the world? Where do you feel drawn or challenged to stand with him and remain present as you encounter him in those who are in pain? How will you bear witness to what you see?

Texts

Mark 15:40-41 and John 19:23-30

The Women Muse

We bore wit-ness
we bared with-ness

living by our wits
living by our withs

wit to press beyond the lines
wit to improvise these lives

with our deepest selves
with integrity, with heart

Now we stand here
at wit’s end,
with each other
and with him.

To wit: was it enough?
To with—did it suffice?

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

The Daughters of Jerusalem © Jan L. Richardson

As Jesus walks toward his crucifixion, a group of women follow after him, wailing in their grief. “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me,” he says to them, “but weep for yourselves and for your children. For the days are surely coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breasts that never nursed.’ Then they will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us’; and to the hills, ‘Cover us.’ For if they do this when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

Text

Luke 23:26-31

The Daughters’ Reply

We weep
that we may have
the strength to live.
We wail
that we may have
the power to speak
of these things
in the times to be.

Let not the days come
when we will mourn
for having given life
for having birthed
for having hoped.

Let not the days come
when we bid
the mountains fall
or the hills
to cover us.

Bid them, rather, to dance
for having loved so well.
Bid them, rather, to fly
for having dreamed so long.

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

P. S. During Holy Week I’m also offering reflections over at The Painted Prayerbook and would be pleased for you to join us there. Today’s artwork originally appeared in my book In Wisdom’s Path: Discovering the Sacred in Every Season.

As we spend these days with the women of Holy Week and Easter, today’s reflection draws our attention to the wife of Pilate. We see her just this once, emerging from the background to speak an urgent word to her husband on behalf of Jesus.

Text

Matthew 27:11-19

The Dream

Send to those
on the judgment seats.
Tell them all
of visions,
of dreams.

Stand at their windows
with songs of hope.
Beat down their doors
with prayers for wisdom.
Cover their desks
with charms for justice.
Surround their meeting-rooms
with oracles of freedom.

Hurl prophecies of peace
at their tallest buildings.
Weave banners of healing
along their freeways.
Write this message
in the smog-filled skies:

tell them
we have suffered much
for the dreams we bear
and washing your hands
is not enough.

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

During Holy Week we are reflecting on some of the women whom we encounter in the stories around Jesus’ death and resurrection. As we move through this week, what do you notice about these women? Whom do you gravitate toward? Who gives you pause? What questions do they prompt for you?

Text

Mark 14:66-72

That Sort of Woman

She is that sort of woman
so annoying
not content
to let the shadows be
not content
to let the truth stay hidden.
Dis-covering
is her forte,
revealing the masks
that others choose,
reminding those
who dwell near the holy
fire will find them
shadows will take form.

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

Friday from Noon till Three (The Magdalene’s Lament)
© Jan L. Richardson

Invocation

God of the shadows,
you accompany us
even in our most painful times.
May I know the abiding passion
you have for me;
may I taste it,
drink of it,
feel it in the touch
of those who journey
with me.

Context

Passion. From the Latin passio, meaning “suffering.” The term denotes the suffering of Christ from the night of the Last Supper through his crucifixion. But the women who have journeyed with Jesus know the meaning of passion too. They have seen Christ’s pain—have held it, anointed it, felt it in themselves. And they know too the meaning of passion as devotion, as desire, as commitment, as love. Enflamed by his vision, healed by his touch, empowered by his friendship, the women who companion Jesus share his passion for wholeness, for salvation, for life. This shared passion prepares them for the Passion event. They do not leave Jesus alone during this time, not even at the cross.

In this week’s readings, we encounter the women who accompany Jesus in his Passion. With these women—those who are strangers to Jesus as well as those who are his friends and followers—we move through the shadows of his final hours. With them we break bread, ask questions, and dream; with them we grieve, bear witness, and wait. With them we experience the pain of having our visions doubted and the joy of resurrection. With them we pray for an end to suffering and for the healing of Christ’s body.

Monday

Text

Luke 22:14-20 and John 13:1-20.

I wonder if they came to this table—those who fed him, those who followed him, those who provided for him, those who birthed him in flesh and spirit, those who touched him. Were any of them there?

In Remembrance

When he washed
the feet of his friends,
did he remember
the one who anointed his flesh
essentially?

When he broke the bread,
did he remember the one
who opened her body
to bring him forth?

When he poured the wine,
did he remember the one
who poured out her blood
to give him life?

When he prayed for his friends
did he remember the women
who provided for him
out of their own resources?

When they sang the song,
did he remember the voice
of the one who rejoiced
with his family in the temple?

When they went out
did he remember the women
who had left everything behind
to journey with him?

Ah, I think the women feasted
here or somewhere,
bodies aching
as they broke the bread,
blood rising
as they shared the cup,
eating slowly
drinking deeply
for the days to come
for remembering.

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

For an introduction to the Lenten journey we’re making here at Sanctuary of Women, visit A Season of Spiraling. Today’s artwork originally appeared in In Wisdom’s Path: Discovering the Sacred in Every Season © Jan L. Richardson.

So what shall we carry with us from this story of a woman who anointed Jesus? What is the shape of the vessel she slips into our hands as she leaves the table, and what will we do with it? How does she inspire us to pour ourselves out in the days to come? As we enter into Holy Week and the drama that will ring loud in the coming days, perhaps we might also make a space for quietly brave gestures of beauty and grace, and for artful and intimate acts of compassion that become balm for a wounded world.

Sacred Worth

(For all who love
beyond the boundaries)

Your touch threatens
the way
they say
you must approach
the holy.

“Limits!”
they say,
“God lives
in these limits!”

But you dance
beyond the boundaries
to the center of your selves,
your lives like vessels
filling up
and spilling over.

“Waste!”
they cry,
“Shameful gift!”

But the broken jar
belies the grace within.

And we laugh sometimes
at the beauty that emerges
and we weep sometimes
for the jagged edges
for those who do
what they have the power to do
and are mocked
by the powers that be
for those who miss
the meaning of the act:

that this is essence
that this is all.

Closing Blessing

Blessed are you
who touch with
integrity and grace,
for you give flesh
to the good news
of Christ.

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

P.S. For a lovely meditation on the quieter side of Holy Week, and the “quotidian events” that lend beauty to these days, visit A Whole Holy Week by my friend Elizabeth Nordquist at her blog, A Musing Amma.

When I moved to Atlanta for seminary, I inherited Edward. Edward and my sister, Sally, had worked together when she lived in Atlanta. Sally had moved away by the time I arrived in Atlanta, and though I couldn’t step into her shoes, I had the privilege of being the resident Richardson sister for Edward. A gifted musician with a bit of a wild hair, Edward had a great gift of hospitality. When I think of Edward, I remember shared tables most of all.

A couple of years into our friendship, Edward learned that he had AIDS. At that time, AIDS was still in its early years, when less was known about it and fewer treatment options existed. We hoped, we prayed. And on a morning in Lent about two years later, we gathered for Edward’s funeral at the church where I had gone with him for evensong from time to time.

As we continue to reflect this week on Mark’s story of the woman who anoints Jesus, today’s reflection from Sacred Journeys comes from a letter I wrote to Edward during his illness. And though it tugs at me to read the letter, knowing now what would soon unfold then, what I find myself thinking of—besides those tables we shared—is the point in Edward’s funeral when someone stood and read the scripture Edward had chosen. Edward being Edward, it came from the Song of Songs: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. For now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come” (Song 2:10-12).

Surely I had read these words before, but their beauty and hopefulness struck me that day as never before. I tucked the words away in a corner of my heart and carried them for years.

When Gary and I married on a bright spring day last year (our first anniversary will fall next weekend, on Easter), this was one of the scriptures that we asked Gary’s son, Emile, to read at our wedding. This, and the passage near the end of the Song that tells of how “love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave” (Song 8:6).

We stand now on the threshold of Holy Week, when the forces of life and death come to the fore. Edward knew, as Jesus knew, that amid the raging of life and death, love finally holds sway. And while we have breath—and perhaps far beyond this—love bids us pour ourselves out to one another as balm for wounds borne and those yet to come. As did a woman who approached Jesus, just days before his dying, and gave her greatest gift.

Dear Edward,

There were no easy good-byes when I left Atlanta. But it was especially hard leaving you that last time we visited, especially difficult walking out of your hospital room filled with all the flowers and pictures and other gifts from the people who love you and who wish they could give you more. It was hard to hug you that last time while wondering how many more chances we’ll have to do that. I pray there will be many—every day I pray for that.

I know how strong you are—and I don’t mean the kind of strength that people refer to when they say, in awed tones, “You’re so strong” to people they perceive to be battling valiantly in the face of great adversity. I think that can be so distancing. It requires the other person to be so independent, so perfect, so superhuman.

In you, I see strength in your connectedness, both within yourself and with others in your large and incredible community of friends. I see strength in your passion—for your music, your friends, your play, for the things and people you care about. I see strength in your creativity—your desire to write and paint and give shape to what is within you. I see strength in your willingness to let others share this journey with you—knowing that we can’t quite feel your pain the same way you do or take it away but wanting to hold you and be held by you in the process.

Marge Piercy writes about strength as something that is not intrinsic in us but rather moves us as wind moves a sail. I have seen strength move you. You live strongly. You love strongly. You create strongly. You touch strongly. And I pray that the strength that moves you and those you touch may sustain you in these days.

When I heard your voice yesterday, I ached over the distance between us. You—and Ray too—were significant in making Atlanta home for me, and I miss being at home with you, at least at a closer range. Your voice prompted an overwhelming longing for home—for the chance to touch the faces of my family there.

In working on my book lately, I’ve been living with the woman who anoints Jesus’ head. I’m struck by the power of her gift, by the way she touches beyond the borders that her society considers acceptable, by Jesus’ receptivity to her—how he allows himself to be cared for (strength moves him too!). And I wish I had an oil that would heal you, would prepare you for the days to come. I wish I were close enough to touch you, to hold you, to share a meal with you. I wish that, like the woman who touched Jesus, I had something powerful and precious to give you. And I pray that somewhere in these words may be found a bit of oil to heal some wounds, and that somewhere in our connectedness lies a touch that spans the present distance.

I love you, Edward,
Jan

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

In her book Do What You Have the Power to Do, Helen Bruch Pearson reflects on this woman who anoints Jesus. She writes, “Jesus accepted her silent acts of intimacy and devotion with profound respect and reverent silence. Perhaps Jesus longed for the warmth and comfort of another’s touch. Perhaps the cool ointment cascading from his head over his face and neck was like a baptism of sorts.”

In today’s reflection from Sacred Journeys, I tell of a friend who, while I was in seminary, became a massage therapist. In that time that was so often marked by wondrous and draining intensity, Betsey became a minister to both body and soul as she offered the sacrament of touch.

Missing Betsey

I left her when I left Atlanta. I had scheduled one last massage with Betsey, but there was too much to do. I canceled. I wish I had gone. In the aching of those days, of that leaving, I wanted one more time to walk into her space. To stretch my body out on her table. To ease into the candle’s light, the quiet music, the sure touch of her hands. To be once more with this friend I had known since before she became a massage therapist.

Early on, the easing into was not so easy. To allow myself the time, the space to be touched. To risk someone’s learning her way around my body. Around me. To receive. But at Betsey’s table I learned. We learned.

She knows the spiritedness of flesh. She is wise to the connections between body and spirit and teases out the boundaries. She understands geography; that the body is the spirit’s landscape, which is not separate from it but both takes and gives it form.

She is a celebrant. She knows of broken bodies. Of communion. Of re-membering. At her table. She knows of pouring out. Of grace. Of integrity. Of mercy. At her table. She knows of sacraments. Of oil. Of flame. Of touch. Of heart. At her table.

I miss her touch.

Questions for reflection

Do you have a person in whom you experience touch as a gift for both body and spirit? How are you tending the connections between spirit and body these days? Are you in need of a space, a practice that will provide balm and healing? Where might you find this?

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

In my vocation as an artist who often works in churches and related settings, I often encounter the perception that the creative life is a luxury—that it’s what we do if we have time for it and money for it and the gift for it. Creativity and the arts are often considered tangential to the life of the church and the body of Christ rather than being part of its lifeblood.

I began to experience this perception and prejudice in a keen way when I moved from my position as a pastor in a congregation to become the artist-in-residence at a retreat center owned by the Catholic Diocese of Orlando. During my first few years there, many folks—most often my clergy colleagues—would ask me, “So, Jan, are you still on that sabbatical?” Some thought I was taking a break from my ministry rather than moving deeper into it—that my move was more of a vacation than a vocation.

It’s been more than a dozen years since I moved into this form of ministry. I no longer receive the sabbatical question, but I still encounter lots of assumptions and biases about the church and the creative life—as well as wonderful opportunities to work with people who are exploring the connections between art and faith. Along the way, I have found a good traveling companion in Mark’s story of the woman who anoints Jesus—an extravagant act that others thought wasteful but that Jesus welcomed. This woman helped inspire today’s reflection.

In 2009, Krista Tippett featured the work of the Hill Museum and Manuscript Library on her Speaking of Faith radio show (now called On Being). In conjunction with the program, titled “Preserving Words and Worlds,” the Speaking of Faith blog provided a link to a short video about the making of The Saint John’s Bible. I was struck by a comment that a blog reader left in response, stating that “the money would be far better spent feeding the hungry and homeless around the world” and that the Benedictines are “being selfish without realizing it.”

The comment illuminates a tension that has pervaded much of Christianity for centuries. We in the church often talk about art and justice as two options that we have to choose between, rather than being aspects of one action: our response to a God of grace and creativity who has placed us in a world that is both broken and beautiful.

We often forget that both the Christian tradition and the Bible itself developed and survived largely because people across the centuries transmitted the sacred stories in a variety of creative forms, not just in written texts but also in other media including drama, music, and liturgy. The stunning array of visual art fashioned over the centuries not only helped proclaim the gospel to those who could not read it (as well as those who could) but also became a gift in return to God: an extravagant offering, a gift that takes us where words alone cannot go, and an act of praise in response to the God who has lavished love, grace, and care upon us.

The fact that we live in the twenty-first century, when hunger, homelessness, and a host of other injustices continue to inflict deep suffering around the world does not diminish—and is not separate from—our need for beauty and the sustenance and hope it provides. I think of the story in which, as Jesus sits at table, a woman comes and anoints him with outrageously expensive oil. Mark tells us that some at the table were angry and said, “Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” Jesus, however, receives her lavish act with grace and gratitude. “Let her alone,” he tells those who scold the woman; “why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish, but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her” (Mark 14:3-9).

In saying that we would always have the poor with us, Jesus was not suggesting that we neglect to work to end poverty. Rather, he recognized that lavish acts of generosity, grace, and beauty, such as the woman offered to him, must be part of our response to him and to the world. It’s not just that art should come alongside our work for justice, but that they are part of the same impulse toward hope, healing, and wholeness. Jesus knew that choosing justice at the expense of beauty is just another form of poverty.

As an ordained minister as well as an artist and writer, I understand my call and my vocation to involve feeding people in both body and soul. One kind of feeding cannot long do without the other. I could not work for justice in this world without the creative acts that others have offered across the centuries and in our present time, not only because I could not live without their sustaining hope and beauty but also because they remind me that God desires us to give lavishly, generously, wantonly from the depths of who we are and who God has created us to be. Such extravagant acts can seem wasteful. By his response to the anointing woman, however, Jesus proclaims that such gestures of grace bring healing to the body of Christ and to the whole world.

Blessing

May we offer
bread and beauty
from the same hand.

Adapted from In the Sanctuary of Women © Jan L. Richardson.

Essential: of the essence. Basic. Fundamental. Necessary. Inherent. The woman who anoints Jesus knows what this means. She has sensed the need—the need of Jesus, her own need—and moves with grace to give what is perhaps costliest to her, perhaps the only thing she can give. In her hands she bears essence—perfume—but she also bears in her own flesh, in her own heart, her essence. That which is basic to her.

Her essence is a fragrance pleasing to Jesus. The others at the table dismiss and ridicule her beauty-infused act as frivolous. They miss the essence completely.

In defending her, Jesus does not intend to slight the poor or relieve the rest of us from our calling to be in community with them. Rather, he points out that acts of healing, of ministry, of hospitality can be beautiful. He honors the woman as a bearer of radical grace. In doing so, Jesus reminds us of what the woman already knows: that what is essential is the outpouring of ourselves, our essence, with as much grace as we can muster.

In her book Do What You Have the Power to Do, Helen Bruch Pearson writes of this woman and notes that “song, dance, drama, poetry, painting, sculpture, art, movement, gesture—these are not luxuries. They are essentials to the Christian experience…they take us to God’s heartbeat and the rhythms of all life.” Heartfelt, grace-filled offerings are not frivolous. They are of the essence—of ourselves, of God.

Questions for reflection

How can acts of artfulness and grace be acts of ministry and justice, and vice versa? Where have you seen this happen?

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson