The Passion of Joan

Good Friday 4/2/10
Holy Trinity/La Santisima Trinidad

It is strange, considering the horrendous nature of the passage we have just heard tonight, that the overwhelming message of John’s Gospel is that Jesus’ death is the hour of his exhaltation, of his glorification. He goes to his death of his own free will, and not as a victim. John’s calm beginning portrait of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane is in sharp contrast to the Jesus in the Gospel of Luke who literally weeps blood in his agony. And in the Gospels of Matthew and Mark, he pleas for God to take the cup of crucifixion from his lips. But in John’s version, as Peter, always the hot-headed one, tries to save him, Jesus asks, “Am I not to drink the cup the father has given me?”

And yet clearly it is a story of suffering. As in Matthew, Mark and Luke, we get the agonizing description of Jesus’ torture: the flogging, the crown of thorns, the soldiers repeatedly striking him on the face, the carrying of the heavy cross, the brutal crucifixion. And finally, apparently drinking with willingness the cup his father had given him, Jesus receives the sour wine, and gives up his spirit.

There is however, one great moment of beauty. Just before Jesus gives himself up to the care of his father, he gives his mother into the care of the beloved disciple. “Woman, behold your son” he says to his mother. “Behold your mother,” he says to the beloved disciple.

Since it was my mother who taught me about Good Friday, I always think of her on this day. I remember, when she told me the story, blinking out at the bright Maryland Springtime, wondering how the sky could ever turn black at mid-day. But there did come a time for me when the sky turned black in the middle of the day, and that was the day my mother died. There were lots of stations of her cross, but I was absent for most of them.


The first station would have been the accident, when she was struck by an out of control vehicle after her busy day of work as an executive secretary in Washington D.C. The first station was rendered almost immediately into scripture:

A reading from the Washington Post, Friday, Oct 25, 1974:

A Washington woman was injured yesterday when she was struck by a metro-bus as she was crossing Pennsylvania Avenue at 15th Street North West, Metropolitan police said. The woman was identified as Joan R. Gardner of 520 “N” St. NW, an employee of the Association of Registered Bank Holding Companies. She was taken to Washington Hospital Center where her condition was listed as critical.

Here ends the reading.

Everybody else got out of the way, but she apparently didn’t turn her head to see an on-coming bus. I always wondered: was she so lost in thought that she couldn’t turn her head and look up, even to save her life? Or did she make a sudden dash for eternity for reasons eternally known only to herself?

Station two would have been the arrival of the ambulance, and the rescue workers. They had difficulty identifying her until someone found her purse which had been thrown some distance away.

Station three was the waiting room where I sat with my dry-eyed siblings and my mother’s best friend who wept non-stop. I hugged her, feeling guilty about my own dry-eyed state. I was however, comforted by my brother when the doctor told me my mother would have no cognitive functions left.

Station four was the hallway where my father and I walked, meaning to see my mother in the ICU. Just outside of the room, at station five, a well-meaning nurse, playing the part of Simon of Cyrene, wrong-headedly offered to carry the cross for me. She had just seen my mother and she said, “Her blood pressure is dropping and her condition is not compatible with life.” I let her carry that cross and I fled, ever-after wishing I had stayed and been with my mother at the last station as she died. Instead I have only my brother’s description of my mother’s beautiful face. She was all swathed with white bandages from her head to her toe, he said. So all he could see was white with the exception of her very blue eyes which were open but unseeing. I have had a recurring dream ever since that she died peacefully in my arms, instead of all alone surrounded by doctors and machines.

I did make it to one more station of the cross for my mother, the station of ashes. No one else in my family wanted my mother’s ashes or knew what to do with them, so I brought them with me in my suitcase to California. I decided to scatter them in the San Francisco Bay, since I knew how much she loved it. I opened the container of ashes in the bright sunlight and I looked in. I saw a glaring bright whiteness- brighter than anything on earth could have bleached them. As devastated as I was I couldn’t help but see how beautiful they were. They looked like the ornaments of any sun-bleached shore- tiny fragments of seashells and delicate shards of the bones of fish and birds nestled in white sand. My mother had been transfigured, had been glorified, had somehow entered into the arms of all creation.

Even with that glimpse of glorification, of resurrection, I spend the next several decades in the tomb. I dwelt with death and with regret at my missed opportunity to be with my mother when she died for a very long time.

I once heard a wonderful sermon from Bishop William Swing and he talked, among other things about death. He said everyone seems to have something like a little bag of death inside of them, pulled closed with fragile threads of string. He spoke of the death of someone he loved and how the sound of earth thrown on the lid of the coffin loosened those strings for him and let death slowly leak out. The sight of my mother’s ashes, and the memory of them, beautiful as they were, seemed to loosen those strings for me as well.

Then, only very recently, I learned there was one station more for me to witness. I was asked to preside at the 7:00 AM Ash Wednesday service which is something I had never done before. A kindly altar guild member warned me about opening the container of ashes too quickly. Be careful, she said. The nice silver container sticks and if you just pull it open, the ashes will fly out all over the altar and all over your face and the mood will be altered in a way you might not want.

So at 6:30 AM, half awake but conscientiously trying to prepare, I decided to practice opening the container. Just before I did I remembered that container of my mother’s ashes. I wondered in the dim light of the chapel if I would re-experience my mother’s death- if the fragile strings of that little internal bag of death would loosen again. I slowly and carefully opened the container of ashes and was thunderstruck. What was in the container were not the ashes of death but the bread of life. I had switched the two silver containers and was now looking down at the communion wafers I was about to serve to the faithful.

I have had other experiences of resurrection in my life, but never so instant, so head-jerkingly sudden, so mocking of my tragic expectations. Rooted to the spot, I continued to stare into the silver container. I suddenly realized that this instant transformation had taken 32 years. Seeing that bread of life made real for me the answer my best friend had given me when I asked her why my mother had to die. “Este,” she said with great certainty and even joy, “Your mother is not dead.”

As I often have, I felt the presence of my mother there with me in the chapel on that Ash Wednesday morning and I realized that although I had not been there at the foot of the cross, I was somehow there at the resurrection.