Full to the Brim: An Expansive Life (Holy Week)
The theme of this year’s Lenten devotional, Full to the Brim, is an invitation into a radically different Lent, a full life. It’s an invitation to be authentically who you are, to counter scarcity and injustice at every turn, to pour out even more grace wherever it is needed. And so, this Lent, let us trust – fully – that we belong to God. Let us increase our capacity to receive and give grace. Let us discover the expansive life God dreams for us.
Palm/Passion Sunday
Read: Luke 19:28-40
Commentary by Rev. Ashley DeTar Birt
Living above a school is quite an experience. From the moment I wake up until the moment my workday ends, I am surrounded by the sounds of the school. The honking of the horns as cars and buses try to move down my one-way street during drop-off and pick-up. The screaming of the children as they run around excitedly outside the building. The faint caw of the school bell as the students change classes. The speeding footsteps and blaring whistles of recess. The exhausted yelling of parents trying to corral their kids to take them back home. It’s a constant source of energy and life. It’s vibrant and chaotic and, from my perspective, sometimes disruptive. I’ll admit that there are times I wish it would stop and quiet down so I can sleep longer or think easier while I work. Truth remains, however, that it doesn’t really matter what I want. Something important is happening below me, something that I can’t stop and I can’t silence.
When the Pharisees ask Jesus to order his disciples to stop their expressions of joy in Luke 19, Jesus tells them, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” What they’re feeling is too important, the kind of thing that just has to come out regardless of whether or not it makes others uncomfortable. The discomfort of others is often not enough of a reason to keep the silence.
Expressing our joys, telling our truths, asking the questions we need to ask, repenting and making amends, being our honest and authentic selves—these things are too important to be silent. We shouldn’t have to restrain ourselves because some may temporarily experience discomfort. Rather, we should be free, like the rocks, the disciples, and the school, to cry out, to be loud, and to make whatever noise we need to make to exist.
This Palm/Passion Sunday, may you cry out as your freest self.
Even the Stones Will Cry Out
The Pharisees found Jesus;
they said,
“Order your disciples to stop.”
It’s not the first time
justice was almost
silenced. People stood on the
sidelines shouting hosanna
which means, “Save us,”
“Save me.”
It’s not the first time we’ve
heard that cry from the street.
The Pharisees said
stop. They wanted the people
quiet, but some things can’t be
silenced.
Justice will bubble up,
hope will raise its head,
love will rise to the surface.
Hate and fear will try to
drown them out,
but you cannot silence
what was here first,
which was love,
and it was good.
It was so good.
So even the stones will cry out.
Remember that
at your parade.
Justice will bubble up,
hope will raise its head,
love will rise to the surface.
Amen.
Poem by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed
Even the Stones Cry Out | Lauren Wright Pittman
Digital painting with photo collage
Read: Luke 19:28-40
From the Artist | Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman
When I began this image, I wanted the medium to be the message. Initially I thought I might make a mosaic of stones, however, I was wisely encouraged by my colleagues to try photography and digital collage. I went out into my side yard and picked up rocks to take pictures of them. As I quickly scanned for interesting rocks, I was underwhelmed by what I was seeing. I had already decided that the rocks were going to be dull and boring. My color enthusiast self was annoyed by the prospect of dusty neutral tones and minimal contrast.
This was an interesting place to begin my process, considering the text I was working with. I was definitely underestimating what the rocks would have to offer the piece, and was preemptively disappointed about the mundane color schemes and textures I would have to work with from my photographs. Gosh, was I wrong. As I downloaded the images and began to edit them, a wide spectrum of color came into view. Most of the hues were entirely shocking and unexpected: periwinkle, magenta, turquoise, mauve, rust, orange, gold, and plum, just to name a few. It was as if God was saying to me, “See, even if you turn a blind eye, and your assumptions distract you, the stones will cry out.”
In this piece there are three stones bordered in gold to reference the voice of God, the truth that will not be quelled. Down the sides of the image are the Pharisees or the “silencers” in postures of quieting judgment. My hope was for the silencers to be completely visually enveloped and drowned out by the stones. I left the silencers simplified and unfinished to signify that their attempts at diminishing the truth would ultimately and always be in vain.
Pray
Breathe deeply as you gaze upon the image on the left. Imagine placing yourself in this scene. What do you see? How do you feel? Get quiet and still, offering a silent or spoken prayer to God.
Maundy Thursday
Read: John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Commentary by Rev. Larissa Kwong Abazia
The first thing I do when I step through our front door is kick my shoes off. Piles of boots, sneakers, dress shoes, and sandals litter the entryway. The minute my feet are freed, I swear I breathe differently. I feel the solid floor beneath my toes and the welcoming comfort of home. I’m ready to rest, relax, and rejuvenate.
Sometimes I forget to tell guests of this Chinese custom ahead of their visit. It results in an awkward, unspoken conversation as we negotiate their shoes joining the pile of mismatched footwear on the ground. Toes curl under feet as bare skin touches the floor. Fingers delicately shift socks to hide holes now exposed for all to see. It feels oddly vulnerable and unfamiliar.
Removing shoes is an invitation to enter the holy ground of our home. It means that we are settling in and committing to be fully present to one another. Everyone who walks through our door will be intimately aware of how we live, the beloved items that surround us, the ways that we have attempted to fill every corner with love, and the mess that dwells in the midst of it all.
There is a rich intimacy as Jesus moves from one disciple to the next to wash their feet. These feet carried them through a lot: miracles, political and religious disputes, despair, hope, weariness, joy, and confusion. These same feet will soon bear the weight of violence, death, and resurrection. But there will be time in those three days to become enfleshed.
For now, alongside the disciples, we are invited to surrender to the moment. Take our shoes off and feel the solid ground below. Rest our weary bodies and souls to be cleansed by the water splashing in the basin. Through these waters, we will become more deeply present to the days ahead.
Take Off Your Shoes
Jesus probably kneeled down.
He probably took Peter’s heel
in his hands
to wash his feet.
And I wonder if they both thought of Jacob—
the heel-grabber,
the trickster who wrestled
with God.
I wonder if it felt like a do-over,
a fresh start for creation.
I wonder if the basin overflowed
when Jesus poured the water out.
I wonder if it splashed,
leaving water marks on the floor—
proof that love was really there.
I wonder if I would have let Jesus do the same.
Would I have been like Peter and said,
“Not just my feet but my head and my hands”?
I suppose I can look at my life today
and answer the question.
Have I allowed myself to be loved?
Are there water marks on the floor?
Poem by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed
Threshold | T. Denise Anderson
Oil on wood panel
Read: John 13:1-17, 31b-35
From the Artist | Rev. T. Denise Anderson
“He loved them to the end.”
(John 13:1b, NRSV)
The hardest time of a loved one’s transition, in my opinion, are the moments right before it happens, when the family gathers to say goodbye and usher them into Life Eternal. It may be difficult or impossible to remember a time when they weren’t in your life. How will you go on without them? You don’t know what’s on the other side of this journey, which makes the moment particularly unsettling.
When I visited the Holy Land, I found myself regularly taking off my shoes and stepping into whatever body of water was there. For me, there is a liminality to standing with my feet submerged, not far from dry ground. Whether a boat ride or baptism, you’re going somewhere you’ve never been when you decide to take that step.
The disciples have no idea where their own journey will take them. Peter is at first reluctant to even dip his toes into the water—into the liminality. But they’re assured they’ll be with Jesus on the other side.
I used a photo of my own feet as I stood on the banks of the Sea of Galilee as a reference for this painting. Unknown to me at the time, the Golan Heights were about to be bombed later that day.2 But at that time, the water calmly danced over my ankles, making its own art as it bent and reflected light around them. I’ve signed the piece in such a way that invites you to turn it any number of orientations. What changes for you when the feet are facing downward, upward, or sideways? I invite you to embrace that disorientation, if only for a moment, and try to find your footing.
2 In May, 2018, Iranian forces in Syria fired rockets into the Israeli-controlled Golan Heights. To learn more about the event and the conflict that led to it, read: “Iran Fires Rockets Into Golan Heights From Syria, Israelis Say” by Isabel Kershner. The New York Times. May 9, 2018.
Pray
Breathe deeply as you gaze upon the image on the left. Imagine placing yourself in this scene. What do you see? How do you feel? Get quiet and still, offering a silent or spoken prayer to God.
Good Friday
Read: John 19:1-30
Commentary by Rev. Ashley DeTar Birt
I have worked in children, youth, and family ministry in some capacity for over twelve years. Young people ask a lot of questions that don’t have easy answers, and it can often take some time to figure out what to say when a question strikes a nerve. One of the more common questions I get is, “What does it mean for Jesus to be fully human?” I don’t think I even knew the answer to that myself until a few years ago.
My father died during Holy Week. We had a complicated relationship, and I knew he was sick, but the news stunned me all the same. When I had to preach the John 19 text at the end of that week, I remember relating in my sadness and anger. Everything felt so unfair. What was happening to me felt unfair, but what was happening to Jesus felt unfair, too. He didn’t deserve this! His family didn’t deserve to watch this happen! Why was this happening to him, to his family, to his body? None of this was okay! In reading the text, I broke down and mourned, both for my father and for Jesus, for both were fully human.
We live in a world that feels woefully unfair, that is woefully unfair. It is unfair that certain people aren’t seen in their full humanity. It is unfair that not seeing this humanity leads to suffering, mistreatment, lack of care, and loss of life. And yet, when we mourn these situations and honor humanity, we show that our capacity to love has not been taken away in all this. Good Friday gives us an opportunity to mourn Jesus in HIS full humanity and, as we do that, to mourn so many others in THEIR full humanity as well.
On this Good Friday, may you feel God’s love in any mourning and sorrow you experience.
It is Finished
One day,
one day
we will say,
“It is finished”
and not in reference to
the suffering that took place
in a school shooting,
in a police raid,
in a boat of immigrants
packed too tightly.
One day we will say,
“It is finished,”
but not in reference to
a fight against addiction,
another catastrophic storm,
a broken marriage that got
lost along the way.
One day,
one day
we will say,
“It is finished”
and only mean the
book we just read,
the cake we just baked,
the song that made us sing,
the meal around the table,
the familiar drive back home.
Until then
I will say,
“I am thirsty,”
but I still believe
in one day.
One day.
Poem by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed
Read: John 19:1-30
From the Artist | Carmelle Beaugelin
Posca is an Ancient Roman drink made by mixing acetum—a low quality or spoiled sour wine vinegar—with water, salt, and herbs like coriander seeds. Although despised by the upper class and nobility of Rome, it was the cocktail of choice for Roman soldiers and the lower classes.
Soaked in a sponge and attached to a hyssop branch, Posca was likely the drink offered to Jesus in response to his final statement before his death. Jesus’ “I thirst” statement, alongside the offering of this sour cocktail, has become one of the most famous last meals in the history of capital execution.
This despised drink of the poor, consumed by the soldiers of Rome, may offer hints to the social standing of the Roman soldiers performing Jesus’ execution in the hierarchy of ancient Roman society. We are reminded throughout the passage that, while it is the soldiers who are charged with the physical labor of carrying out the execution, they were performing as the muscle of the Roman state on behalf of the Jewish religious nobility—who indicted and demanded Jesus’ execution in the first place. Matthew’s account of the crucifixion recalls that it was one of the soldiers who testified to the truth of who Jesus was in the moments following his death, stating, “Surely he was the son of God!” (Matt. 27:54, NIV)
Posca offers us a symbolic moment of fleeting and subliminal solidarity. The action of offering the soon-to-be-executed Christ a drink from the personal flask of the executioner invites us into the complexity of the actors in the crucifixion: Jesus as a servant of God performing the will of God, and the soldiers as servants to Rome performing the will of the religious leaders. Two cups of power, divine and secular (albeit, religious), converge in the partaking of this final sour drink.
Pray
Breathe deeply as you gaze upon the image on the left. Imagine placing yourself in this scene. What do you see? How do you feel? Get quiet and still, offering a silent or spoken prayer to God.