Passion Play Impressions

Yesterday afternoon I had finally found a few minutes to make a reservation for Passion Play. Unfortunately, it was sold out. Since then, I’ve been debating whether I should head over at some point today, and see if they have any extra tickets left. Eventually I did drive to campus. A kind and welcoming hostess gladly tied a band around my wrist (attendees needed that in order to participate), and invited me in. I was excited. Not only that, I happened to arrive there just a few minutes before one of the rotations started (they played every 30 minutes). I was ready for this story to unfold. Not that I didn’t know the story, I did. But it was precisely because I knew the story that I was so excited. I saw this as an opportunity for me to look at it afresh, to notice the details, to place myself into the shoes of those who lived to experience it first hand in the first century. My notebook was to serve as a medium for recording my impressions and reflections.

Here they are, developed, [but unedited] in the order I wrote them.

As we stepped into the marketplace, I tried to constantly look beyond the actors and actresses playing role. I tried to imagine what it was like to live in those times. I smelled the aromas and fragrances of the food, and I even tried some. I followed the details of the Jewish dance. I touched a lamb, and thought of how gentle it was. Then I touched another lamb. This one was with his mother. As I looked at him, I realized how tragic it must have been to be born a lamb in those days, especially to be one-of-a-kind, one without blemish. Those were born to be sacrificed. I looked at the lamb, and then at his mother. I wondered if their mothers knew their little ones were killed. I remember reading somewhere that cows know their calf is taken away, and they mourn the loss for days. I imagined it’s probably the same with sheep. The silent world of animals suffers, as well. I’m sure the sheep mourned the loss of their baby lambs. Considering how many sacrifices were performed in Israel, there’s probably been a lot of mourning among the sheep. I’d never thought of that before.

Then, I was touched by Jesus’ words: “Father, if possible, take this cup away from Me.” Jesus said: “Take this cup away.” The burden was too heavy. Jesus looked for another way. Yet there was no other way. He concluded His prayer: “Yet not as I wish, but as You will.” His words rang in my ears for a while: “Not as I wish.” Jesus wished something that was not according to God’s will? Apparently, He did. But He succumbed to His Father, by saying *Not* as I wish. This is where the victory is. This last part of the sentence assures us that, despite His struggle, Jesus was without sin: a perfect, blameless sacrifice. His struggle gives me hope. Jesus’ effort to remain committed to the plan of salvation, despite His wish to escape it is encouraging for me. Sometimes we may look for other ways, but if we place our will in the Father’s, we will have the power of victory. This also shows me that, indeed, there was no other way for us to be saved. Jesus asked for one, yet none was found. The sacrificial story went on.

I thought how sad that Judas hung himself, after admitting his sin. He could have asked for forgiveness. In fact, forgiveness is always before us, because God offers it to us as a free gift. He really only needed to accept it. How sad that he could not. It is not in our power to forgive ourselves, but in accepting God’s forgiveness, we can also forgive ourselves, and go on. Suicide is a sad solution.

As Jesus, surrounded by the Roman soldiers and the multitude, approached Golgotha, intense feelings invaded my soul. I did not want Jesus to die. I imagined that, if I had been then and there, when it all took place, I would have cried out to Him: “Don’t do it, Jesus! Don’t do it! It’s not worth! Please, don’t, go back to heaven. You belong there, You are a king, You shouldn’t have to go through this!” As I ruminated over these thoughts and feelings, I was startled at realizing that I was doing and saying exactly what Peter had. Strangely, this time I saw Peter’s words in a different light than before. Jesus rebuked Peter with strong words: “Get behind Me, Satan!” His road was the cross road. It was a road of death. Otherwise, we could not be saved. I knew that. Still, I felt it wasn’t worth. He should not have had to go through that.
Then, I thought of how thankful I was that this decision - the decision whether He should or should not die, did not rest on. It was God’s decision to die for us, and we could do nothing about it. I can’t imagine that it was an easy decision. I find it a relief that we did not have to choose whether or not He should have died. He did it, and we only have to choose to accept His substitutionary death as the price for our redemption.

Sometimes, willing - in the context of sin - is necessarily ambivalent. You will something, and at the same time, you don’t will the same thing. I did not want Jesus to die, because He suffered. Yet in some ways I wanted this plan to be carried on. No suffering and death, no salvation for mankind. Jesus’ suffering and death, salvation for mankind is possible. How strange to want, and not want something all at the same time!

I thought of Barabbas’s release. Jesus literally died in his place. This is such a powerful image of His substitutionary atonement for my sins! It helped me grasp more clearly the reality of Jesus’ dying in my place. I was Barabbas. I should have died. Yet He died instead of me, and that has set me free.

I wondered what Jesus might have thought of on his last road – the Via Dolorosa. I imagined He thought of me, and of you. Not of anyone, or everyone, but specifically of individuals, one by one. I imagined that gave Him strength to put one step in front of another. I imagine this road to Calvary, as a critical time, as the events grew in intensity. With every step, He was counting people in. With every step, He felt encouraged by the fruit of His sacrifice. He went on. He did not stop. He did not turn around, though at any moment He could have chosen to. His love for me, and His love for you carried Him on that road until the end.

Then, I wondered what the multitudes might have thought as they also advanced on the Via Dolorosa. Maybe some were discouraged; their hopes of finally finding freedom from the Roman Empire vanished away with every step this so-called prophet took towards His death. Maybe some felt deceived. Some felt confused, I am sure. Perhaps some felt the tension of how high is the cost of sin. I think especially of Mary Magdalene. She alone anointed Jesus’ feet. Did she know He was going to die? Had she accepted Him as the true Messiah - one who sought to deliver from sin, not from the Roman yoke? If so, maybe she had also understood the promise of resurrection. Still, death was ahead, and it was a road of suffering, no doubt. To see the Prince of Heaven bent under a cross, what a sight! The God of the universe, vulnerable, stumbling, falling, bruised, hurting, looking helpless, alone in his way, at the mercy of cruel soldiers and mocking multitudes! What a picture of God! Something that the entire universe had never before experienced. Something new, curious, and certainly overwhelming!

As crucifixion just finished, the soldiers rushed us away. I felt annoyed. I felt frustrated. I don’t know whether the scenario would have been the same at the time Jesus died, but one thing I know: I needed to grieve. A death had just taken place – the death of someone I loved. And I needed space and time to grieve. Then I thought of the time that passed from Jesus’ death until His resurrection. That *was* a time for grief. Not that it wouldn’t have been great if resurrection happened sooner. But grief has a lot to teach us. The moments of grief are moments of clarity. Who was this person to me? What did I cherish about the presence of this person in my life? What does life look like without this person? I imagine that this time when Jesus was in the grave was the most astounding time ever in the history of the universe. Not only human beings grieved his absence, the angels, the Father, and the Holy Spirit, no doubt felt it, too. When someone you love dies, nothing is the same. During the time of Jesus’ sleep in death, nothing was the same in the universe. The absence of Jesus was felt by all who loved Him.

The last scenes were those of burial and resurrection. This was so beautiful that it moved me to tears. As Jesus’ body was carried to the tomb, angles paved the way on each side. Having a glimpse into the unseen world at this moment in the history of the universe was fascinating and overwhelming. The atmosphere was one of sorrow and mourning. I thought of the fact that, even though the angles knew that Jesus would rise again – as Jesus himself had explained to them the entire plan of salvation beforehand – they still felt sorrow at His death. I thought of how, even though God knows that something much better than this world awaits for those who put their faith in Him, He still hurts when we do. This world is not done yet. The world to come is not yet here. The joy of the future cannot take away the pain of the moment. The angles could not watch this scene of profound suffering, and some covered their eyes. I thought of these angels. They were not strangers to Jesus. They had been with him for at least 2,000 years, probably longer; perhaps unimaginably longer. For them, to witness the death of someone whom they had known since their creation, and whose love they had cherished every moment of their lives, what a sight! No wonder they could not watch! I also thought of the fact that sin affected the entire universe. The angles are unfallen beings; they are still perfect, as they were created. Yet they, too, hurt. They, too, experience sorrow, because of sin. In a world of love, suffering is not only the part of the one who experiences it, but it’s also part of those who, though they don’t experience it as we do, feel together with us. Love works like this.

Satan’s presence on the scene in the moments between burial and resurrection was powerful. Right then, and there, there was a profound illustration of the great controversy between good and evil, between God and Satan. The devil thought he had won the victory. Yet by the very means he sought to win in his battle with God, he lost. The victory had not yet spoken its last word. The victory belonged to God. Then and there, at the moment of Jesus’ resurrection, the fate of men was determined once and for all. The atonement has been accomplished; the price of redemption has been paid. We CAN live again. We CAN be reunited with God again. And the fate of Satan was also determined in Jesus’ resurrection. He was a defeated foe. The power God had proved to be superior. And it can only be so, for God alone possesses life in Himself. God alone can create and re-create, and those who choose to not live in Him, cannot live at all.

The moments of Jesus’ resurrection, along with the simultaneous defeat of Satan spoke to me of a priceless hope. It is in the hope of what Jesus has done for us that we can live with joy and anticipation that death and suffering will, indeed, be done away with one day; that we will one day see Jesus face to face, never again to be separated from Him.

Before I left the house, I stuck my camera in the purse. I was pretty sure the battery would die at some point, but I did not care much. It did, and frankly, I am glad it did. I can easily fall into a taking pictures-mode and miss the weight of the moment. I did take a few pictures, though, and I think this one captures the essence of the most persistent thought and feeling I experienced today.

This balance makes me think of Jesus weighing all in His love and wisdom, and deciding that His love of us, for me, is bigger than anything else. I imagine Him saying: “Adelina, I’d rather go through this for you, than bask in the glory of heaven without you. I’d rather die so you can be with me forever, than walk on golden streets in your absence. Your presence matters. Your LIFE matters. I put everything in balance, and I thought the sacrifice is worth. It’s worth because YOU are worth.” How humbling, how beautiful, and how ennobling to know this!

The Scientist

This is not a typical scientist.

This is a scientist who experiments with his feelings and emotions. If you take this feeling, and mix it with that, what would result? If you dissect this emotion, what do you discover? If you discard this sentiment, what’s left?

This is a scientist who, utterly dedicated to his work, would gladly miss a gathering of souls to seclude himself in his laboratory, where he can examine in solitude the chill of an icicle smeared over his face, or the heat of desert sand burning his toes.

He explores with the stubbornness and wonders of a child, and seems to never think that one must ever swallow up the other. In fact, the more tension, the more material to work with. It’s exponential power.

He experiments with the uncertainty and fear of an adult. Despite that, he’d never admit it. He insists that everything is a clear-cut path, a string of objective things waiting to be discovered. Yet on this path to discovery, he ends up testing and trying, thriving at times, failing at others, and always falling short of the proverbial prophetic prediction precision (got that?).

And we, like faithful disciples, line up around him in the laboratory of his self-discoveries, and share his... well… his emotions: the joy and the sadness, the anguish, the despair, the anger, the hope.

One day it could be all centered around one feeling. As if you’d take despair, for example, and put it under the microscope, break it apart, and peer through its cellules and veins to see what it’s made up of (perhaps also to discover its cure).

Some other time, it could be a mix of emotions which - like a spring salad, are tossed together into a flask. (And you, like a courteous dinner guest, enjoy the taste of it altogether.) You can’t really tell whether it’s anger, pity, and hope, or whether it is a blend of disappointment, resent, insecurity, and obsession, for example. The painting is too blurred. The colors are mixed too well. The theme is too abstract. But the empty tubes lying around bear witness they’ve been spilled into research. Sometimes it feels as if you’re enjoying a wedding feast. Sometimes it feels like you’re scrambling into a dumpster. You never know what fragrances and flavors are combined.

Regardless, his audience is secured up every time. His ingenuity as a scientist is his authenticity. It gives you the feeling of being greatly honored. It stimulates your sensitivity, and it awakens your desire to protect. Plus, it’s enticing to see what’s on the table every once in a while when the door is open – especially since otherwise it is well locked up. An invitation that’s pretty hard to resist. Slightly manipulative, one could argue.

And you’d always get the feeling – when you’re exposed to one of his experiments – that you’ve learned so much. For example, I just learned a new list of emotions: calm and chaotic, confident, conflicted, confused, controlling, content, cruel, deluded, discouraged, disgusted, ecstatic, erratic, grateful, grief, hesitant, hopeless, idealist, inert, insecure, inspired, jealous, lonely, loving, lovable, loved. Also, mad, miserable, moody, noble, obsessed, open, panicked, passionate, passive, peaceful, perfectionist, pitiful, poor, possessive, powerful, preoccupied, procrastinating, punished, purposeful, reactive, reclusive, rejected, repressed, resentful, resigned, resistant, responsible, sad, secretive, selfish and all that comes with self: self-accepting, self-condemning, self-defeating, self-destructive, self-hatred, self-obsessed, self-pity, self-sabotaging. Sensitive, serene, shamed, shut-down, shy, sorry, stubborn, timid, understanding, unhappy, unresponsive, untrusting, vicious, victimized, visionary, wise, withdrawn, worthy.

In the end, though, it’s not the feeling that matters – he’d say, even as he spends inordinate amounts of time trying to get to its core.

The Tunnel (Part II)

Many times my patients and their families exclaimed, after we prayed: “So beautiful!” And while I don’t quite know what made them say that, often times I sensed that the surprising element was the freedom I displayed in addressing God directly, as one who truly IS, who is up there, and down here, and who is love and grace – yes, even in the midst of our unbearable suffering. I have experienced witnessing in ways I had not practiced much before. In a context where proselytism is legally inappropriate, what is there for me to do? A lot, I discovered. And maybe it was precisely this limitation that allowed me to explore more ways to bring God’s comforting presence, and thus to expand my understanding of ministry and of God’s resources, as well as our own.

When appropriate, I have had deep conversations with patients who hungered for spiritual food. It often felt like a two-ways street: I’ve learned from them, and they learned from me. They witnessed to me, and my presence witnessed to them. I’ve prayed for them, and sometimes they blessed me with their desire to pray for me!

I’ve seen people from many backgrounds, and I’ve learned to recognize God’s image in them, even as they felt broken physically, emotionally, or spiritually. Their feelings have poured into my ears times and again, and with every encounter I felt privileged to be called to such a time and space, and hear them. I’ve prayed holding a prostitute’s hands. I’ve shivered over the woman splintered at the knife of a man. I read the story of Job to a man visually impaired. I’ve been with the mother going crazy for losing her two little ones in a car accident – all in one night.

I’ve talked with the criminal whose room was guarded by police officers. I’ve acknowledged the loneliness and feelings of worthlessness suicide survivors had been through. I’ve challenged my boundaries as I bore witness to individuals struggling with mental health issues, or with addictions. I’ve hurt with the woman molested by her cousin at age five. And in all these, I’ve come to understand and appreciate more the ministry of Jesus on earth – the Jesus who walked among the sick, the broken, the simple, the sinful. And I’ve come to understand myself more in these roles: it wasn’t just them; it was me, over, and over again: the sick, the broken, the simple, the sinful. And so in ministering to them, I was blessed with a grasp of God reaching out to me. And I discovered the grace in all of these, perhaps even the need for them.

I’ve learned the crucial importance of sound hermeneutics. I’ve seen at work the gift of free will, teaching me the grace to listen to other theologies and practices, yet at the same time the joy I take in a strengthening identity and adherence to the Adventist teachings.

I have faced many challenges, both from within, and without. Often it was as a result of those challenges that I grew most.

Besides all of this, I have grown in my identity as a woman, a Seventh-Day Adventist, a professional. I have begun to grasp the concepts of pastoral formation, authority, and competence, and I celebrate seeing it at work - in me, as well as in others. I’ve sought to find the balance between lending a listening ear, empowering people, and calling them to more responsibility, all the while looking for the presence of God in their lives, and reminding them of His love, His grace, and His power of forgiveness.

Somewhere in between all these, I’ve taken joy in writing poetry, which pretty much decided to invade my world one day, settling in almost instantaneously. We’ve become good companions, and shared a lot with each other – my poems and I, and it does not look like we’re going apart anytime soon. :)

If I were to convert the time of this year into a spatial metaphor, I would resemble it to a tunnel I walked on foot, as cars shone their lights in their glide towards the other side of it, showing me the way out. And it was precisely because of the darkness that the lights were visible - lights bearing me unto this path, allowing me one-time experiences in the lives of those who passed me by in a moment, in a hour. Lights of grace from above, offering me the privilege of an empathetic presence near a young man breaking apart as his mother passing with cancer; the prayer over a child unfully formed, too early in this world; the calm and strength to not fall apart when walking among families grieving in tears or anger, gathered around an unsuccessful CPR, around the cold body of their loved one in the Death on Arrival room, in the morgue, in the trauma bay.

And as I near the end of this tunnel, and I approach the next milestone shaping clearly at the horizon bathed in light, I anticipate with a cheerful and grateful spirit the coming of a new experience with God, and the comfort in the surprises of a life abandoned in His hands.

I would not trade this experience for any other in the world. And if I had but one year to live, I would chose to live the year I just did. For I can’t imagine more growth packed into just one trip around the sun, one trip in which I treasured the light and warmth of the Sun Who never fails to show up, even in the most unexpected places and events.
Perhaps even more so in unexpected places and events.

The Tunnel (Part I)

I like to follow hand-written calendars. One of those you write, and re-write, over and again, as weeks pass by, taking with them a page, a column - witnesses of the events passed by you, and passing into your existence and experience.

Today, as I crossed off another week, I was startled at realizing how close I really am to a new end, and to a new beginning. This has been a long haul – a yearlong residency in hospital chaplaincy, something that was nowhere in my scope a few years ago, yet clearly marked by God as a mile stone in my path of growth and ministry. For those of you who’ve been through it – it feels good to know you’ve often walked in my shoes; and even though I see you only through a silent and shadowed memory, names and faces known or unknown, I am honored to join the most caring group of people I’ve come across so far; for those knowing less, or nothing about it – it is a truly amazing experience, for which intense would be too shy an adjective to use.
So, what am I talking about as I attempt to describe this experience?

Well, I know I’ll come short of bringing together all the facets and learning mediums of this concentrated year; nevertheless, here are some of them, as they randomly bridge the days past into my present moments of reflection:

I’ve learned that God is bigger than our church, yet I’ve been reassured that He has especially blessed it.

I’ve become familiar with concepts I’ve learned to integrate in my ministry, will continue to feed upon, and I wish I’d known and made use of before: victimization, power and control, anger, conflict and resolution, grief, loss, death and dying, family systems and group dynamics, triangulation, abuse, scapegoating, cultural formation, boundaries, addiction, codependency, coping skills and patterns, suicide intervention, disenfranchised grief, to name only a few! And I hate right now how each one of these, aligned here next to each other, sounds so simple, almost trivial.

The reality is, the few letters assigned to these concepts are completely incapable of capturing the heavy and rich content they carry - each one is a world in itself, a wealth of knowledge, knowledge of others, and knowledge of self. Learned in contexts such as this residency, where theory and praxis precede and follow each other in an insatiate dance, they become mirrors more truthful than I could have anticipated; not always easy to look into, but incredibly powerful as they unveil the secrets to myself; mirrors into my present, and the past that has shaped the present me, from early childhood experiences to the most recent hurtful experiences.

I have learned a great lesson of humility in that we, as chaplains, or other helping professionals, or simply as friends and companions, are not called to fix another’s issues, be it patient, friend, church member, or spouse; that fixing attitudes are really an ego-driven impulse. This has probably made the significant difference for me in terms of burnout versus empathetic detachment. It has given me insight into a different understanding of suffering, and even acceptance of suffering. I did not, and do not have to fix people’s problems - physical, emotional, or spiritual. God is at work through infinite resources, and I have learned the humbleness of accepting that I do not know all those resources, nor do I need do. Suffice to know He is at work, and my response to my role as chaplain is to walk with my patients in a specific moment in time, one that is truly part of a greater and much more complex tapestry.

I came to the hospital knowing very little about this environment. I’ve been in a hospital one night in all my life, and other than that, now and then for routine tests and such. Until last August, I was a stranger to the realities of this place. Being in a foreign country, I’ll add I was a complete stranger to the health system, not to mention utterly unfamiliar with the medical language. Not so today. I’ve learned my way around patients’ charts; I’ve overcome my shyness, and enriched the patient’s care with my perspective in the interdisciplinary team; I’ve continued the work of my forerunners in establishing a pastoral presence on the floors; and, most important, I’ve spent time with my patients and their loved ones.

This is where, I would say, words truly cannot capture the beauty of these encounters, the essence of the bonds I’ve created for a day, an hour, and sometimes even just minutes. I have listened to many people. I’ve often been invited deeply into their lives, into their pain, and their struggles. Whether I realized it or not in the moment, I’ve come out of many visits with a deeper sense of reverence towards those who suffer, respect for the vulnerable, and awe towards a God who deals with this closely, into His very heart. And I know I have made a difference. I know, because my patients let me know, and that is what kept me going.