Friday, April 18, 2014

Passion to Pentecost

The passion of Jesus was not in his death, but in his great love of life;
It was in his heart always open to the secret joys and sorrows of others.
It was in The Sacred Spirit energy that radiated from his very being,
Infusing new hope and joy into every human he encountered on earth.
It was in his disciplined devotion to the future fulfillment of the universe.

There are 365 days in the year and we concentrate our spiritual energy on so few.
Jesus is born. Jesus is tortured. Jesus is dead. Jesus lives, and we forget his life between.
Jesus lived for over thirty years as an example of sharing the Sacrament of life.
Jesus suckled at his mother's breast and had teenage power struggles with his parents.
He was poor, but very bright, and drew friends and foes like honey bees and flies.

He, like we, ate; he drank; he bathed; he relieved his bowels and bladder; he slept like we do.
Most of his life was not dramatic; it was the life of a boy well-guided by a family of great faith.
He, like we, knew that all of life is a gift of The Eternal Sacred Spirit back to the universe,
And that every encounter with others impacts the whole of the earth forever.
He, like we, at the very end, wanted a few more fond moments with his best friends.

He, like we, gave his life everyday in sharing The Sacred Spirit of his human, earthly joy.
It matters not to me whether he actually walked the earth, or whether he performed miracles;
What matters to me is the miracle that so many have been affected by the stories of his life.
What glorious stories there could have been told by his mother. What happened to these?
How I long for a woman's perspective on this man that so many follow as their Christ.

The women who knew him would have talked about the small signs of his friendship,
And of the daily challenges and joys they shared in feeding his huge entourage.
How many women did it take to cook those miracle fish and bake the miracle bread?
They would probably tell less of the storms at sea and more about his strong kindness.
They would barely mention his torture and death because their words had died with him.

They would have silently tended his broken body and washed it with their tears,
Knowing that his Sacred Spirit would live in them and their world forever.
The women would not have had to see a vision of his risen flesh;
They would have already continued to see him and hear his voice without this.
It took fifty days of mourning before they could open their broken hearts to new life.

When they finally came together, the women with the men, to share their faith,
They were on fire with how much Jesus's Spirit remained in all of them.
What a feast they must have shared while experiencing the light in each other;
The sounds of shared celebration must have been deafening to their ears.
Imagine the Jewish joy in hearing that all the rules came down to only two.

So many who have gone before me live more fully in me now;
They had become part of my marrow with their influence on my life.
I still see and hear them in my most cherished memories,
Though I do also still feel the pain of where we most disagreed.
Daily life, death, resurrection, and, hopefully, a personal Pentecost.

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