Fragility and Journeying
AM Psalm 95 for the Invitatory; 22 • PM Psalm 141, 143:1-11(12)
Exod. 9:13-35 • 2 Cor. 4:1-12 • Mark 10:32-45
On this Friday before Palm Sunday and the beginning of Holy Week, we find ourselves journeying with the disciples in the Gospel of Mark to Jerusalem. Christ is noticeably leading the way as those following him begin their ascent through the mountainous terrain that leads to the holy site. And it is here, where Christ offers a third prophetic word about what must occur in the coming days, that things begin to fall apart.
Fear permeates the journey. The disciples have already been made aware of the difficulties to come, and as they move closer, Mark says that those who followed Christ were afraid. This fear may be the impetus for James and John voicing their demand for power from Christ; they want assurance that what happens to Jesus won’t happen to them. They hope to counteract the fragility of life that we all face, to be spared of the grief, the powerlessness, and the possibility of abandonment. Psalm 22 forces us to consider this abandonment; Paul’s second letter to Corinth reminds us that those in apostolic ministry are clay jars, waiting to be broken. And that’s really the key for understanding this journey that Christ is leading us on; we must be willing to relinquish our hold on self-created conceptions of permanence and safety that do not exist.
Thomas Merton wrote that “the purpose of Lent… is above all, a preparation to rejoice in His love… fear narrows the little entrance of our heart. It shrinks the capacity to love. It freezes up our power to give ourselves.” Life is fragile. Life is not safe. But life is good. And life is better when there is trust that the griefs and hurt we experience can be reconciled and healed in the perpetual act of mercy in the crucifixion, and the glory of the resurrection.
Written by Rev. Dr. Nathan John Haydon
Nathan earned his PhD in English studying medieval literature and languages from the University of Arkansas. He’s an Episcopal priest, Benedictine oblate, lover of cats and coffee, and a transplant from Fayetteville, Arkansas to St. Louis with his super smart scientist wife, Kathryn. He also can’t seem to write a reflection without quoting Thomas Merton, and he’s learning to live with that.