Exposed. Almost Too Intimate to be Seen
Two years ago, I was invited to read the Passion in Palm Sunday worship (I am, after all, a good Anglican). Honored, I took the responsibility soberly, patiently, and with great care.
I was tasked with reading the words of Jesus.
I knew the story, and how it would end. That didn’t change the experience of reading it aloud, during worship.
I grew increasingly uncomfortable, feeling the weight of impending doom. The experience started out so well. A Passover with friends, and then,
When it was evening, he came with the twelve. And when they had taken their places and were eating, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.”Gospel of Mark 6:7
I felt naked, laid bare. This was a story I knew well, but my experience reading it in community was wrenching.
As those around Him began to question, I felt an uneasy heaviness. I know how this will end, but reading the words, with people around me, felt less and less okay.
Make. It. Stop.
How do you stop a runaway train? How do you catch the crystal globe that’s slipped from your grasp?
I don’t remember how it ended, only that I think I didn’t cry. It wasn’t easy.
It was so intimate, this recitation of the Passion. I think what I experienced was shame. How could we have done this thing.
God knew, and yet had redemption planned.
What vile manner creatures are we?
What could we possibly be called?