Waiting in Patience: God is at Work Fayelle Ewuakye
“Patience is an extremely difficult discipline precisely because it counteracts our unreflective impulse to flee or to fight.” (Nouwen, McNeill, and Morrison, Compassion, 93)
Halfway through Lent… how do we feel? Are we weary and confused? Frustrated and impatient? I have long wrestled with patience. I want things right now. I want unpleasantness to pass right now. I want broken things fixed right now. I want conflicts solved right now. I want comfort and peace. And I want it right now.
Halfway through Lent… how are we waiting? Are we trusting God’s work?
What I’m trying to remember is how patience can be defined during this time: to voluntarily stay in and embrace the place of not knowing how or who or when or what or why. But instead, remembering who God is, reflecting on what He’s done in the past, and trusting that He is at work now. And when I can, being part of that work.
I’m thinking of the Israelites waiting for a conqueror, a king. God was at work.
I’m thinking of Moses and his people waiting for the Promised Land while wandering for 40 years. God was at work.
I’m thinking of the disciples waiting to learn their own fate after Jesus breathed His last on the Cross. God was at work.
I am waiting for governments to put the health and well-being of the people in their land before their own interests. God is at work.
I am waiting for holistic peace and thriving to exist for every person in Palestine and Israel. God is at work.
I am waiting for Easter when I can celebrate Jesus’ resurrection, and be reminded that He is that conqueror, that king, that loving Shepherd who cares for every soul. God is at work.
“In the waiting The same God who’s never late Is working all things out.” – Yes I Will by Vertical Worship
Jehovah Shammah, You are the Lord who is THERE. You are watching, You are in the details, You are working. Help us to remember You’re always right on time and yet keep us yearning for more of You as our hearts cry out with longing. Open our eyes to what we can do while we wait, how we can be part of Your work. Amen.
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Fayelle Ewuakye is CMEP’s Communications Coordinator and earned her B.A. in Humanities at Jacksonville State University, in Jacksonville, Alabama with a concentration in Anthropology and Geography. She’s been the Social Media Curator for her local church in Northwest Georgia since 2018 and finds the gifts and benefits of social media to be great blessings toward any organization wishing to reach out to the masses. She wants to be a part of some meaningful work, both locally and globally, and believes peace and justice are two things the public at large needs to know more about.
Good Light Nicole Morgan, Executive Administrator at CMEP
My mother has a collection of potted plants inside her home and a garden full of flowers designed to attract butterflies and bees to her yard. She always has an aloe plant on hand for scrapes or burns. I didn’t know you could buy aloe gel in a plastic container until I was in college. My father grew up on a farm and can coax food out of the ground or mix fertilizer into the red Georgia earth to balance out the nutrients needed for whatever they desire to grow.
Me? I can’t keep kitchen herbs alive and once killed an aloe plant (in less than a week) that my mom had propagated for me. Recently I sat a vase of flowers in front of the window in my office, delighting at how the light shone on the small vase of delicate pink roses and small yellow wildflowers that looked like little puffballs. The next day I sat down at my desk and noticed that while the wildflowers were still strong and tall, the pale pink roses looked positively roasted – their petals wilted and withered. The light was good, or at least bearable, for one flower and absolutely crushing for another.
I often first think of light as universally good. And that its goodness exists on a scale of “the more light, the better.” So often when I think of plants and growth I think of the light it needs, not the need to protect it from the light.
But seeds start in darkness and some blooms are delicate.
The Psalmist exclaims: “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” (Psalm 63:1) A bright light is most likely to be detrimental to one who is already parched, in a dry land. The Psalmist continues: “My soul is satisfied . . when I think of you on my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night; for you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.” They have found comfort in darkness and shade. It is this cool and quiet place where they are able to find rest and express joy and satisfaction.
The harshness of all the injustices in the world seems ever more scorching and destructive: the pandemic still kills thousands a day, racial injustice is rampant, the economy seems designed to reward only a few and destitute others, wars begin and stretch on, people live without basic human rights, and our political advocacy on behalf of justice and human rights in the Middle East and elsewhere can so often seem like we are throwing drops of water at a plant that is wilting in this blistering heat.
I’m asking myself what it means to “meditate in the watches of the night” and to “rest in the shadow.” What does it mean for me as an individual human to acknowledge that at times I and my communities are more delicate blooms than hardy wildflowers and we can’t be in the harsh light forever without some respite? How do I resist the myth of a resilient people especially qualified to suffer and demand that we find a way to offer relief from the searing heat of injustice? What does it mean for all these hopeful seeds of justice we seek to plant? Where do I need to rest in darkness until there is good light and what does it look like to think about our work for justice and peace with a knowledge that darkness and soft warm light is part of the process? How do we shade those seeds and soft blooms of hope?
Each plant is different. Mature wildflowers and cacti exist. We are in different phases of growth. We are different seeds and blooms. The light that is oppressive or endurable is different for all of us and our work for justice.
Those are a lot of questions without any answers. But the questions keep me motivated in my work as they remind me of the possibility that darkness is good in the growing process. I was recently asked how we approach burn-out and despair in our work at Churches for Middle East Peace. My answer is that we celebrate small progress and we acknowledge that it won’t be bright and sunny and victorious looking often. This acknowledgment of small things is not a consolation prize. It is a vital way that plants grow and thrive. It is part of the process. We are planting seeds and they are resting in the cool darkness. They will find the light when it is a good light.
I’m giving my office window and its bright, harsh light another chance. I bought an aloe growing kit and dutifully filled the bottom of the container with small stones, topped with wet soil, and finally carefully buried a few tiny seeds just under the surface. The kit calls for the whole thing to be covered in plastic and sat in a warm place for a couple of weeks until it starts germinating. I sent pictures of my set-up to my mother, asking her about what would be a good light for this plant. She advised me on moving the table back from the window a bit, closing the white curtains to diffuse the light, and paying attention to which hours of the day the curtains are open or closed. Even this desert-dwelling aloe plant can be sensitive to the bright light and harsh heat of the direct sun, she said. If I want this plant to root and sprout, to grow and flourish – I’m going to have to be mindful of a good light versus any light. The seeds are covered for now under the dark soil. I’m going to try my best to ration out the sun and the shadow and learn what amount of each will help this plant to thrive.
Creator God, We thank you for light and we thank you for shadow. We pray that we will find respite in shadows and darkness. That we will not yearn to be in a light that will ultimately whither the fruit of our work, but that we will know what light is good for the work you have created in and for us.
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J. Nicole Morgan is CMEP’s Executive Administrator. She endures the bright summer sun near her home in Atlanta, GA but much prefers the shade. Her writing has been published in Christianity Today, Religion News Service, The Christian Century, Sojourners, and others. She is the author of Fat and Faithful: Learning to Love Our Bodies, Our Neighbors, and Ourselves (Fortress Press). Nicole earned her Masters in Theological Studies from Palmer Seminary at Eastern University.
Seeds Planted on Fertile Soil By Rev. Dr. Mae Elise Cannon, Executive Director at CMEP
“But the seed falling on good soil refers to someone who hears the word and understands it. This is the one who produces a crop, yielding a hundred, sixty, or thirty times what was sown.” (Matthew 13:23)
Many years ago, when I lived in Jerusalem, I was shocked that the Jericho Road into the “wilderness” was a desert full of rocky soil. I grew up on the east coast of the United States and our wilderness was wooded terrain with lots of trees and hidden beasts like black bears and wolves. Or at least that’s what I feared when I was a child! The soil of the Middle East shocked me. The rolling hills of the Judean wilderness do not have fertile soil, but rather rocky sandy terrain where it is difficult for anything to grow.
Some of you may be horticulturists who will challenge my assertion about plants not growing in the desert as there are some incredible desert flowers that defy the harsh conditions and bloom into beautiful colors and specimens – such as the crown anemone (most likely the lily of the field mentioned by Jesus in Matthew 6:28), the tumbleweed gundelia, or the toxic Golden henbane. Despite these exceptions, Jesus was clear in his parable of the good sower that seeds planted in good soil will “bear fruit and yield plenty.”
Clearly, in the Scripture, the parable of the good sower provides a metaphor for someone who “hears the word and understands it,” but what does this story teach us about our work for peace and justice in the Middle East?
I believe this parable is about what it means for us to be “good soil” – ready and prepared, in a posture of willingness to embrace God’s good news for all people – a message of love, acceptance, justice, and reconciliation. There are times in my life I can look back on and acknowledge that the soil of my heart was hard and rocky, unreceptive and not loving towards those who hold opposing views. What does it mean for someone to be loving while not compromising on holding fast to core values and practices of human rights and justice?
This question became very profound for me several years ago. I was working for an international development organization and often led multi-narrative experiences in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories for conservative Christians from the United States. We sought to have speakers and guests from across the spectrum related to Israeli politics and Palestinian perspectives. No one voice, thought, or idea is monolithic within either society. Our goal was to honor every person’s individual experience and narrative while still addressing the devastating effects of the occupation, the repercussions of settlement expansion, limits to mobility for Palestinians living in Jerusalem, the West Bank, and Gaza, and other such realities.
One speaker’s views and perspectives were antithetical to my own. I abhorred his politics and views toward the Palestinian people. At the end of his presentation, I couldn’t even shake his hand. My heart was hard, I was filled with rage and grief that Palestinians in the audience had been asked to listen to his racist stories and perspective. After the meeting, I was overwhelmed. First, I asked forgiveness from the Palestinians in the room. How could I have welcomed a speaker who reinforced so many false narratives about them and their people? My second thought was an overwhelming conviction that I was not living out one of the core teachings of Jesus. Love your enemy.
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:43-45)
This Lent as we reflect upon what it means for us to be fertile soil upon which seeds can be planted, and grow, and prosper – what does it mean for us to hear and do the word of God that calls us to “love our enemies?” What does it mean for us to love all people – even those with whom we completely disagree? I believe the transforming power of God allows us to transcend human limitations – so that we can become people who love boldly, while not compromising on pursuing truth, goodness, reconciliation, and justice.
I believe a part of the answer to what it means to love our enemies is to enter into the paradox of both loving people with whom we disagree while working to respond to injustices they may perpetuate. This can look like sitting across a table from someone who holds positions different than your own. This might mean acknowledging and seeking to learn from disparate narratives, while still advocating and working for policy changes that promote human rights. Loving your enemy might not have a visible manifestation, but could mean looking at them with compassion and not harboring hatred in your heart.
I have many friends who are Israeli and who are committed to spending their lives and resources to bring an end to the occupation of the Palestinian people. And I also know many Israelis who hold similar views to the man in my story. How do I respond to them? What does it mean, as Jesus calls us, to love them? I hope and pray over the past several years my heart has softened while at the same time, my commitment to justice and human rights has never wavered. I do not believe the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is a zero-sum game. But rather any solution to the injustices of the occupation will also be a solution that is in the best interest of Jewish Israelis as well.
This Lent, my prayer is that we at Churches for Middle East Peace (CMEP) might be a place of fertile soil – where love for all people is held as a core value as we seek to live out God’s love and justice in the Middle East and the world.
Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.
God, make us good and fertile soil. Soften our hearts and root out any hatred within us. Give us perspectives of love toward all people. Help us to hear your word and to understand it.
Help us to understand and pursue both your love and justice, To not be afraid, but courageous in our efforts toward peace.
Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Amen.
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Rev. Dr. Mae Elise Cannon is the executive director of Churches for Middle East Peace and an ordained pastor in the Evangelical Covenant Church (ECC). Cannon formerly served as the senior director of Advocacy and Outreach for World Vision U.S. on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC; as a consultant to the Middle East for child advocacy issues for Compassion International in Jerusalem; as the executive pastor of Hillside Covenant Church located in Walnut Creek, California; and as director of development and transformation for extension ministries at Willow Creek Community Church in Barrington, Illinois.
By Kyle Cristofalo, Senior Director of Advocacy and Government Relations at CMEP
“For we are co-workers in God’s service; you are God’s field, God’s building. By the grace God has given me, I laid a foundation as a wise builder, and someone else is building on it. But each one should build with care.” 1 Corinthians 3. 9-10
I do not have a particularly green thumb. One time when I was in Seminary, I accepted a plant-sitting job. The family had stopped their mail and brought their pet with them on vacation. The only task I had was to water their plants. If it rained enough (which it did), I only had to water the inside plants. One simple task. No problem, right? Well, the plants survived, but by the time I left, they were not looking particularly healthy. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I did not receive any future plant-sitting requests.
What does gardening have to do with Lent? What does it have to do with my work at Churches for Middle East Peace? During this season, I have been reflecting on a prayer written in honor of Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador, assassinated due to his criticism of a corrupt government that overlooked the needs of the people. One section, in particular, stands out:
“This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one day will grow. We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise. We lay foundations that will need further development. We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities. We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest. We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.”
In Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, he reminds the leaders of the community that while they play an important role as “co-workers in God’s service,” ultimately, God brings the results to fruition. In other words, “We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.” This does not give us an excuse to sit back and wait–indeed the work of being God’s field and building comes with great responsibility. Whether we are master gardeners or struggle to keep plants alive, is irrelevant. The seed is not good because we plant it. We can plant the perfect garden only to have our hard work undone by an animal or a particularly bad storm. It is good because it is part of God’s redemptive work for this world. Our role is not to do everything, but to be faithful to our call to help bring about God’s justice in a world that so desperately needs it.
“We plant the seeds that one day will grow….”
Every day we hear more news of death and destruction throughout the Middle East. In Yemen, 16 million people live on the brink of starvation as the Saudi-led civil war enters its seventh year. In just over the year since President Biden began his term in office, Israel has demolished more than 1,000 Palestinian properties resulting in the displacement of over 1,300 Palestinians. The economic crisis in Lebanon continues without indication it will let up anytime soon. We might be tempted to ask whether it is worth continuing to advocate if the facts on the ground continue to deteriorate by the day. Does our voice really matter? On days when I feel particularly helpless, I remind myself that I am a worker, not a master builder; a minister, and not a messiah. I am not responsible for “solving” all of the challenges faced in the Middle East. Yet, I am not absolved from doing my part, either. The results might seem small, but they are a step along the way, an opportunity for the good seeds planted to blossom into a future in which all of God’s people are finally free.
Creator God, on the days when we feel our work is for nothing, remind us that you have called us to be co-workers in the service of peace and justice for your creation. May we trust that the seeds planted today will one day blossom so that justice will prevail in the Middle East and throughout the world.
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Kyle Cristofalo, Senior Director of Advocacy and Government Relations/Special Advisor to the Executive Director. Kyle holds a BA in Peace and Conflict Studies from Messiah College and a Master of Divinity Degree from Emory University’s Candler School of Theology. Kyle was first introduced to Middle East advocacy work during a semester abroad in Cairo, Egypt. After graduating from college, Kyle spent 10 months serving with the Mennonite Central Committee in Bethlehem, Palestine, where he was seconded to work with Bethlehem Bible College.
Jeremiah 58:11 The LORD will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.
There is something very human about having ash smeared upon one’s skin. The charred remnants of a once green, living thing—when it comes into contact with our flesh—are intended to encourage us to inhabit a posture of repentance and remind us of the fragility of our short existence on this earth.
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
And yet, this brush with death and decay ought also to remind us of life and its persistence. Though ash is a product of fire, which has the potential to cause immense destruction, it contains some of the most vital nutrients for soil—calcium, magnesium, potassium. Ash is akin to compost in that way—both are composed of the decay of living things, which in turn, fosters fertile conditions for new life to spring forth.
Death, agriculturally speaking, is certainly a necessary precursor for new growth. Yet we must be careful in our desire to draw parallels and find hope amid desperation, not to erase the grave reality facing our siblings in the Middle East, whose freedom and right to life are under constant threat today. In the wake of an ongoing global pandemic that disproportionately affected those in the Middle East, the presence of death is all too familiar for those in the region. Amid the pandemic, an economic crisis rages in Lebanon, making everyday needs inaccessible to a majority of the population. In Jerusalem, dozens of families continue to face the threat of home demolitions and displacement at the hands of the city municipality and military. And the people of Gaza continue to face airstrikes and other attacks on the heels of one of the most brutal years of Israeli military attacks on Gaza in recent history.
So many lives have been lost, and so many more have been maimed, imprisoned, and deteriorated. For these injustices and so many more, we cry out to the God whose waters never fail.
And yet, in a season where we might be easily discouraged when it comes to the ongoing cultivation of peace and justice in the Middle East, might we instead learn about hope from ash and soil? In times full of mourning, though a faithful and healthy practice, might we find comfort in the mystery of the earth that brings forth life from death? And in seasons of loss and lament, might we draw hope from a God who tends to creation like a garden, seeking to water us well?
While mourning the immense loss of life and opportunities for peace, Churches for Middle East Peace (CMEP) is also celebrating the small victories and glimmers of hope that sprout up simultaneously. We celebrate alongside our dear friends and allies who are laboring for peace and justice in the Middle East, and we join in the work of hope together. Hope, not an empty platitude, but the work of cultivation itself. The Rev. Dr. Mitri Raheb offers that hope is envisioning a future beyond destruction, as the prophet Jeremiah did. He suggests that “hope is faith in action in the face of the empire. Hope is what we do today.” (Raheb 2014, 130).
Let us find encouragement in the God of Life, who tends to seeds planted, even in the midst of winter, even during the darkest of days. And let us be emboldened by our siblings in the Middle East, who have never given up hope, and join them in sowing faithful seeds. May we live into the tension between death and life, and nurture the conditions upon which hope can grow.
Living God, remind us, in this season, of the viability of prayerful tending to the seeds of peace and justice. As we contemplate the fragility of life and its interconnectedness with death and decay, let us be invigorated to tend to life amid the ashes. Oh God of soil and seed and compost, strengthen us to continue laboring for the life and flourishing of all our brothers and sisters in the Middle East, and for our collective liberation.
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Jennifer Maidrand is the Outreach Manager for CMEP. She is a Ph.D. candidate in Bible and Cultures at Drew University, where she also earned her M.A. Her research focuses on how biblical interpretation and archeology have shaped the contemporary land of Palestine-Israel and its geo-politics. She is a member of the UCC Church and is committed to fostering interfaith and intercultural community education and dialogue around sacred texts, the earth, and politics. Jennifer is grateful to have the opportunity to utilize and grow these passions, previously as a fellow and now as a staff member with CMEP. When she isn’t working, you can find Jennifer trail running, rock climbing, gardening, or playing with her cats, Peanut and Fig.
Raheb, Mitri. Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible Through Palestinian Eyes. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2014.
The pre-Lenten season of Shrovetide begins 49 days before Easter and culminates on Shrove Tuesday. For many churches, the tradition is for the palm branches used in the service the previous Palm Sunday to be burned in preparation for the next day, Ash Wednesday. Other traditions celebrate Fat Tuesday and mark the day with pancake breakfasts, or other sweets, such as Pączki (fried dough). These traditions embody the tension between death (ash) and sweetness in life (cakes).
As Christians around the world, including in the Middle East, prepare for Lent, all experience a sharp reminder of humanity’s mortality, finiteness, fragility, and our need for God. God who is love, life, infinite, and abundant. It also takes place at the time of year when those of us in the Northern Hemisphere experience the lengthening of days in the move from winter to spring. As you join CMEP and our brothers and sisters in Christ in the Middle East this Lenten season, I pray that you would not find yourself mired in despair for your humanity, but that the awareness of your need for God’s goodness, grace, and forgiveness would increase. We especially keep this truth in mind as we grieve so many realities affecting people in the Middle East such as the ongoing war in Yemen, the devastating economic crisis in Lebanon, and the humanitarian and human rights concerns in the occupied Palestinian territories.
Then I turned to the Lord God, to seek an answer by prayer and supplication with fasting and sackcloth and ashes. Daniel 9:3
From death, dirt, and ash comes growth, fruit, abundance, and life. May the light of God meet us in these dark days, watering our parched spirits, cultivating our souls, laid bare, with the seeds of awareness and future promise sown so that God may begin a new thing in our life.
God, I pray that you would meet each of us in our dark night of the soul to warm the coldness of our hearts and that while we reflect, examine, confess and repent we would be prepared for the new season you invite us to. Spirit, prick our hearts and guide each of us to a fuller, deeper, richer knowledge of your love, life, and the ultimate sacrifice of Christ Jesus, our Lord.
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Written by Rev. Aune M. Carlson, Director of Operations for CMEP. Aune earned her Masters of Divinity and Masters of Nonprofit Administration and graduate certificates from North Park Theological Seminary and School of Business and Nonprofit Administration. Ordained by The Evangelical Covenant Church (ECC). She is passionate about creating, defining, and refining structures to operate effectively and efficiently. A collaborative team leader, building a strong team atmosphere where tasks are met with close attention to detail and creativity.
***** Any views or opinions contained herein are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of Churches for Middle East Peace (CMEP).
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.
The dust of Holy Week turmoil has settled, but the grief of execution hasn’t.
Now there was a man named Joseph, a member of the Council, a good and upright man, who had not consented to their decision and action. He came from the Judean town of Arimathea, and he himself was waiting for the kingdom of God. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’ body. Then he took it down, wrapped it in linen cloth and placed it in a tomb cut in the rock, one in which no one had yet been laid. It was Preparation Day, and the Sabbath was about to begin.
The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.
Anyone who has spent a weekend in Jerusalem knows about Jerusalem’s Sabbath rotation: Friday in the Muslim quarter, Saturday in the Jewish quarter, and Sunday in the Christian quarters. Anyone traveling over these days must be careful to coordinate the different bus or train systems and their unique sabbath observances.
Sabbath observance varies between and within faith traditions but is often a joyful time of rest, worship, and family togetherness. Each tradition remembers God’s creation of the world and subsequent rest. Muslims observe Jumu’ah prayers Friday afternoon– “Jumu’ah” sharing its root with the Arabic words for mosque, Friday, and group/ gathering.
At noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. And at three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”).
When some of those standing near heard this, they said, “Listen, he’s calling Elijah.”
Someone ran, filled a sponge with wine vinegar, put it on a staff, and offered it to Jesus to drink. “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if Elijah comes to take him down,” he said.
With a loud cry, Jesus breathed his last.
The curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. And when the centurion, who stood there in front of Jesus, saw how he died, he said, “Surely this man was the Son of God!”
Some women were watching from a distance. Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joseph, and Salome. In Galilee these women had followed him and cared for his needs. Many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem were also there.
From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.
We began lent with this profound reminder of our mortality. You don’t have to be a Christian to believe we came from dust or dirt and can’t escape returning to our humble beginnings. Still, I feel the depth of this reminder’s meaning eluding me. Is there not more to me than the dust from which I came?
It was just before the Passover Festival. Jesus knew that the hour had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The evening meal was in progress, and the devil had already prompted Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot, to betray Jesus. Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” “No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.” “Then, Lord,” Simon Peter replied, “not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!” Jesus answered, “Those who have had a bath need only to wash their feet; their whole body is clean. And you are clean, though not every one of you.” For he knew who was going to betray him, and that was why he said not every one was clean.
