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?
Beloved.
Chelle A Wilson 