6th Station: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus

The sky is grey and heavy with unshed rain… or are they tears? Perhaps even the sky weeps today? It would be appropriate. Is the dimmed sunlight, in reality, the half-closed eyes of the sun as it tries to come to terms with all that it has seen today? Will there be a full moon tonight? In reality, there should be one because Passover is timed according to the full moon, but will the clouds even obscure the face of the moon? Will the sky at last be able to cry when the sun has given up its attempt to shed light on this awful day? I do not know, and neither do I know if there are any answers.

I sit in my house, the door closed to visitors, even to family, and, in the gloom, there is little that I can see of my familiar and much-loved belongings, however poor they might be.

All that I can see is in the eyes of my mind, and those, I cannot close, no matter how tightly I screw up my eyelids. Yet I do not know if I want my mind to be blind. All that I have witnessed today has been horrendous, but, even so, it was the last that I would see of the man they call Jesus of Nazareth, but whom I know and love as the Master. His face has burned itself into my heart and mind.

I had not planned to be in the vicinity of the Via Crucis today. Certainly, I would never be there when someone is being taken to his execution. I hate the gratuitous violence that is unleashed on such occasions. For some reason, even though the condemned man might be a criminal and, in a sense, heading towards an end that he might have deserved, he is still a human being. He still deserves some dignity and respect, at least from the bystanders, regardless of the actions of the guards who have sometimes drunk themselves almost senseless in an effort to face up to the enormity of their brutal responsibility that lies ahead.

Why does a mob mentality develop amongst the crowd of bystanders? Who starts it and why does it spread so rapidly? Why do normal human beings become more like vicious beasts, avid to tear asunder a weaker and perhaps defenceless prey?

For sure, on the occasions when I have seen the ghastly procession making its way towards Calvary, the condemned man has sometimes shown a last attempt to hit back at the world. As the crowd has taunted and insulted him, he has retaliated, uttering vile threats and curses that would, perhaps condemn him to Hades were the Almighty not such a merciful and understanding God.

Sometimes the one who is facing his execution has protested his innocence and claimed that his death is undeserved and, sad to say, I am sure that these protests are sometimes true. Our justice is not always just. Political expediency can so easily reduce a human being to a gaming-piece in some dreadful form of play that satisfies the power-hungry.

Today, however, was different.

The Master was silent apart from his laboured breathing and the occasional grunt or groan of pain as he moved.

When I came upon Jesus, he had already been relieved of his part of his burden. Some of the sounds were made by a disgruntled passer-by who had been forced to help Jesus to carry the Cross, lest he die on the way.

I saw the wounds inflicted upon the Master and, when I noticed the thin trickles of blood on his face, leading downwards from the crown of thorns, it was my woman’s heart that started bleeding in compassion. There was so little that I could do.

It was then that his mother moved into my line of vision. A young man, who was trying to be strong, escorted her, but his own shock was obvious. Neither of them had truly expected to see the Master in such a terrible state. They were both pale and horror-filled, immobilised and therefore bumped about by the moving crowd as it processed along the road, keeping pace with the Master and his guard. The crowd did not mean to jostle anybody: it was just that people’s attention was fixed elsewhere and two stationary individuals went unnoticed.

The expression on the face of the Master’s mother was one of acute agony and helplessness. I have never before beheld anything like it and hope that I will never again witness such suffering as passed between her and the Master when they caught each other’s eye. It was strange: as if the Master had sensed that his mother had come and that, even in the midst of everything, drew some comfort from her whilst, at the same time, showing a bitter sorrow that she should see him min this way.

It was that look that spurred me into action. I pushed my way through the crowd, through the marching soldiers, pulling out the cloth that, until that moment, had been covering some vegetables I had bought at the market. The unexpectedness of my rush actually stopped everything. I suppose the soldiers might even have thought that there was a rescue attempt in process. In a sense, there was. I did the only thing that I could do: I wiped the face of the Master, cleaning away some of the blood that must have been dripping even into his eyes. His look of gratitude was indescribable, even for such a tiny action.

As the guard pushed me back, his mother looked at me and I wept for the thankfulness in her gaze. I had somehow done something that she would have liked to do herself. I had managed to tell the master that not everybody in the crowd wanted his death. There were some of us there who loved him.

Now, I sit in my house, the bloodstained cloth on my knees. There, plain to see, is the face of the Master. There are no bloodstained smudges, such as I had expected. It is his face, looking up at me.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

5th Station: Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus to carry his Cross

No. I do not want to pick up the Cross. What will people think of me? They will look on me as either a criminal on the way to execution, or else they will mock me for having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was obvious that Jesus of Nazareth is rapidly becoming weaker and would have no chance of reaching Calvary unaided. Many of us saw the soldiers looking for a man who could take on the burden of the Cross, taking it from the shoulders of Jesus so that he could still make it to his place of execution.

I must have just happened to catch the eye of the nearest soldier. I was trying to avoid exactly that. I was merely curious to see why so many people had gathered to watch one captive on his way to Calvary. It seems that my curiosity was enough for the guards to decide to satisfy it in the most humiliating way possible. Were they trying to assist a victim or to find a second whom they could humiliate?

This wooden beam is quite heavy but not unmanageable and will form the crossbeam from which Jesus will be suspended. I suppose it has to be reasonably lightweight because otherwise, how could one man even lift it, never mind carry it? But, then, I am fit and strong. I imagine that for someone who has been beaten and scourged, it must be an unbearable burden, and I mean that in every sense of the word.

His load has been passed on to me and I am not happy about it. I am not an unfeeling, selfish person, but what will people think when they see me trudging through Jerusalem, surrounded by guards, heading towards Calvary? It is all very well to help Jesus, but I do have my own reputation to consider.

Perhaps one of the reasons why I was selected for this job is because I am a foreigner. I think that the Romans would not have given the responsibility to a Jew in case there should be an outcry. The Romans are, after all, an occupying force and they have oppressed Israel for quite some time now, inflicting heavy taxes and exacting relentless obedience to a law that is not theirs. The Jews are tiring of seeing their own people injured and killed and so I think that, if the Romans had chosen to humiliate a second innocent Jew today, there could have been a revolt. Jerusalem is filled with people who have come to celebrate the Passover. Any uprising would spread like wildfire and soon become unmanageable.

No. It must be that the Romans actually needed someone who was not a Jew, someone on whom they could dump a job that nobody else wanted. Their action also saved the Temple authorities from the task of lodging a complaint with Pilate. It would not look good for them to condemn one innocent man and then, at the same time, to argue against the ill-treatment of another, all in the same few hours.

So, here I am, a completely innocent stranger, here only because I wanted to conduct some business in Jerusalem whilst there were so many people around the city. Even the soldiers laughed when they saw my disgust, not only at being forced to take up the cross, but to actually handle the wood, sticky with blood. That is why I was none too gentle as I took the Cross from the shoulders of the Galilean. I suppose I might even have added to his pain. After all, he was the cause of my embarrassment, shame and hardship, even if I need only walk a short distance to Calvary, a short distance that, to me, would feel considerably longer as I carried the unsought burden of someone else.

Yes, I was disgruntled and more or less dragged the Cross from Jesus. I heard his gasp of pain that gave way to a low moan. I saw that my roughness caused more bleeding, but who was I to care? It was his fault that I was about to suffer and so he must suffer the consequences. That is justice, is it not?

…and then, Jesus looked at me. I cannot describe that glance. It was an apology for the consequences that I must experience on his behalf. It was gratitude for having, even unwillingly, taken up his Cross. It was relief that at least part of his burden was removed from his shoulders. It was an agony of pain, desolation and loneliness: as if he felt that he had been abandoned even in the midst of the crowd. There was a strange determination to continue along the Via Crucis even to Calvary, at whatever the cost.

I can think of no other way to describe the effect of my taking the Cross of Jesus upon my own shoulders than to say that, even in his agony, he now walks more erect and more determined than ever to see this through to the bitter end. His head, though bowed by suffering, is not conveying subjugation so much as a sense of taking part in something far beyond anything that I, or anybody else, can either see or understand. In the midst of the rowdy bystanders, there is almost a pool of silence and tranquillity, which sounds a contradiction because the actual level of noise has not diminished for one instant. Quite simply, I have no words that can describe exactly what happened when I lifted the Cross from Jesus and took it upon myself.

Neither can I describe what is happening to me as I walk with him and, like him, stumble on the way. Yes. I feel ashamed, but no longer because of what others might think, but, rather, because of my earlier unwillingness to help and my desire to be anywhere other than close to Jesus. I am ashamed of myself, not for myself, and that is the difference. No longer do I care what the crowd is saying about me. I am merely sorry that I took so long to accept the Cross.

I will never forget this day. Jesus has changed me forever.

4th Station: Jesus meets his mother

I could not believe it when I saw him. I had not been present in the Upper Room when they went to celebrate the Passover. After all, it was a man’s occasion. I don’t mean that the celebration of the feast is only for men, only that Jesus was together with his closest disciples, who are all men, so that even though I am his mother, I would have felt out of place. It was much easier for me to stay in Bethany with Martha, Mary and Lazarus who are, by now, very lose friends. We had a peaceful, pleasant meal, only slightly tinged by anxiety caused by knowing that the clouds were gathering ominously around Jesus. He had stirred up such antagonism amongst the Temple authorities that we knew it was only a matter of time before they found some way of acting against him.

Of course, we knew that the High Priest would be forced to be surreptitious in whatever way he decided to remove Jesus from the scene. In daylight hours, too many people surrounded Jesus, finding hope and encouragement in his words. There were too many who wanted to see him perform another miracle.

No, Annas and Caiaphas would be forced to act under the cover of darkness against my Son, who had dared to describe them as ‘whitened sepulchres’ and a ‘brood of vipers’. They must also have been angry when Jesus disturbed the business of the moneychangers and the vendors of sacrificial animals within the temple precinct. This was such a source of income for them. No wonder I felt sick with dread when the tale reached me, describing all that Jesus had said and done. The one who related the event did so with huge enjoyment, not knowing the effect he was having on me as the mother of the man who had thrust himself onto the centre stage in righteous anger. The storyteller had only been aware of Jesus doing something with which he had been in full agreement. We all knew the corruption, as well as the sanctity, within the Temple walls.

It was John who came rushing to Bethany to tell me that Jesus had been arrested and taken to Herod. Poor man! He must have run the whole way, for it took a while for him to recover his breath sufficiently to tell us the dreadful news.

Martha and Mary were wonderful, immediately taking charge of everything. I was grateful because. For a short time, I was immobilised, filled with shock and terror on behalf of my son.

Lazarus could not come with us. Although he was now in full health after Jesus brought him out from the tomb, his celebrity status would hinder, rather than help us, once we reached Jerusalem. Everybody would want to see the man whom Jesus had raised from the dead.

John, Martha, Mary and I set out immediately for Jerusalem, calling briefly by the house where we knew Mary Magdalen had been sharing the Passover with some family members who live close to Bethany.

It was a terrible journey, even if not a long one. We were all so frightened for Jesus that there was very little conversation. Even if someone did speak, my mind and heart were so full of fear that I was not a good audience: the thoughts only echoed all that was already passing through my own mind.

As we drew near to Jerusalem, we could hear a low sound, almost a growl, of voices, with one voice periodically rising above the others. It was a sound that filled me with dread because it was one that I had heard before, but this time knew that it was directed against my Son.

The Via Crucis loomed into sight. There was a close-packed bunch of people and I knew exactly who was in their midst.

I have no words to describe my Son, no way in which I could describe what it was like when he looked up and saw me. He was a little boy again. All he wanted was his mother to kiss away the pain, but this time there was nothing that I could do.

The crowd parted to let me pass by. They fell silent, as if they suddenly realised what they had done. It was a silence of guilt and embarrassment. I knew that silence. I had encountered it on so many occasions in Nazareth when a child was bullied and a parent appeared unexpectedly on the scene. It was the same. The bullies surrounding Jesus knew exactly the dreadful suffering that they had inflicted on a man who was my child and would always be my child, even through eternity.

Jesus, my Jesus, for a few seconds, I held you close to me and I heard a single sob force its way to the surface. Was it yours or mine?

After those brief moments, the soldiers forced us apart. They were not rough, but they were not exactly gentle either. They had a job to do and our meeting was only an interruption on the road to Calvary.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

3rd Station: Jesus falls the first time

The horrible thing about torture is that it is gratuitous pain inflicted upon another person. There is often no escape from it except by divulging information that the victim cannot, or does not want to, give. It is suffering that just goes on… and on… and on…, often until death intervenes.

I do not feel good about all that we did to this man from Nazareth. It was a set-up from the start. He criticised his own people and for that, they had to get rid of him. Pilate colluded because although he saw an innocent man, he wanted to keep on the right side of Caesar.

The crowd joined in the condemnation and the sentencing to crucifixion, not because they had necessarily any grudge against Jesus, but because the Temple authorities had cleverly sited rabble-rousers in their midst. It is amazing how easily people will respond when there are troublemakers amongst them. They react even against their own normal thinking. I wonder how many of them, in the clear light of day, would have chosen to send Jesus to his death? I wonder how many of them would have freed a known criminal such as Barabbas? I wonder how many would even have agreed to having Jesus scourged?

Yes, the soldiers joined in the torture of an innocent man. We can make the excuse that we were following orders: after all, that is what a soldier is supposed to do. Yet there was more to it than that. We need not have scourged him for so long or so violently. We need not have woven a crown of thorns and impaled it on his head. We need not have mocked him for claiming to be a king… but our blood was up, do you see? We took out on Jesus our own anger concerning our own poverty and abuse at the hands of our senior officers. Perhaps, had we not ourselves been angry, we also would not have gone to the lengths that we did. I do not know and, at this stage, does it make any difference? Only Pilate now has the authority to stop this farce continuing to the bitter end… and the end will be bitter. Jesus will not escape from the shame or the agony of the Cross.

Calvary is actually very close to Pilate’s residence: only a brief walk, in fact. Yet I am not sure that Jesus will make it there. He is very weak and has lost a great deal of blood. In fact, I am quite surprised by his frailty because he is a strong man, a carpenter, who has lived outdoors for several years. Perhaps his weakness shows up our own brutality? Perhaps we inflicted more violence than even we had realised?

What will happen to us if Jesus dies on the way to Calvary? Will we be in trouble for preventing the spectacle that the crowd is expecting?

The road is not smooth. I had not intended to make a pun, but there it is: Jesus is making his way along a road made of large flat stones, but he is also experiencing great suffering that is making his life anything but easy as he moves towards his execution.

But back to the road. We Romans are excellent road builders. They are straight, never link more than two tribal areas so that the tribes can never unite in great numbers against the might of Rome, but they are also truly a marvel of engineering skill. Each road is built in several layers and must not need any maintenance for a period of one hundred years. In Rome itself, in order to ease congestion, only the Emperor may drive through the city by chariot, which, of course, does not mean that there is not a massive assortment of wagons. Here in Jerusalem, life is different, but the roads are still made in exactly the same way, with large stones making as even a path as it is possible for us to create. Yet, the road is not smooth. It is so easy to trip over the edge of a stone. I know several people who have broken an ankle in this way. For the elderly and infirm, a walk has many hazards.

For someone like Jesus, carrying his crossbeam, weakened by scourging and, I presume, dehydrated through blood loss and through shock and pain, it is inevitable that he will stumble on his way to Calvary.

Saying that, he has just fallen. It must have been incredibly painful, if not downright agony! He is trying to stand, but it is difficult. Some of my colleagues are beating him in an attempt to make him rise more quickly. It is futile. He does not have the strength. He is a brave man to even make the effort to stand. Some would have given up and would have died. It is as if Jesus is determined to reach Calvary.

Who is Jesus of Nazareth, I wonder?

God bless,
Sr. Janet

2nd Station: Jesus receives his Cross

Once upon a time, it was a seed, lying on the ground, shed by its parent tree at the appointed time. Kissed by the sun and the dew, it put forth a tender shoot, a tiny root, covered with hairs that would allow life-giving water to enter its hard coat, softening it and enabling life to burst forth.

Once upon a time, the small seedling uplifted its leaves to the heavens, carolled by birdsong, caressed by a passing breeze, and life was good.

Once upon a time, the sapling waved in the wind and offered its slender branches to passing birds as they rested from their long and tiring journeys in search of food. Small animals, insects, spiders and lizards found shelter amongst the ever-strengthening roots.

Once upon a time, birds chose to nest in the spreading branches from which arose strange twitterings as eggs hatched and young nestlings pushed their way from the fragile shells that had both sheltered and confined the new life.

Once upon a time, this was a beautiful tree that drew the gaze of passers-by for its loveliness. If trees can think, it did not spare a thought for the transience of Time that waited only for the moment when its beauty could be severed at the root, the graceful branches amputated and the unique tracery of its bark stripped and cast aside for ever.

Even in its naked loveliness, the tree was not left alone. It was torn apart until the delicate lines of the passing years were laid bare. Eyes that had no right to stare dispassionately, gazed at the dark and light streamers of the wood grain that stretched from the deepest roots to the highest branches. Rough voices complained about the splinters caught in their insensitive fingers and did not spare a kind word for the wonder that had just been destroyed.

Had those who felled the tree been carpenters, then the tragedy would have been less. They, at least, would have caressed the wood with loving hands, feeling its strengths and weaknesses, drawing new grace from that which was innately tantalising. Understanding eyes would have seen the unique essence of the tree and would have tried to bring a new beauty to something that was already beautiful.

Instead, the despoilers were brutish workmen, searching only for a practicality of horror: to bring death where there had been life, to create rough planks from that which its Creator had fashioned in love.

As it lay on the bare ground, one plank was selected, not for its loveliness, for little remained to it, but, rather, for its size and unevenness. It was cruelty designed to inflict cruelty.

Yet the calloused hands that took hold of the wood were the loving, sensitive hands of a carpenter. Within an instant, those hands recognised the name of the tree, had seen its age and known the good years and the bad that had imprinted themselves on the grain of the tree, lines no pen and ruler could ever hope to copy.

The hands that took hold of the rough plank knew its potential, both that which had already been realised through the passage of the years and also that which had been thwarted by the axe of those who cut down the tree before it reached full maturity.

Even as the wood was placed on the raw and bleeding shoulders of the Carpenter, he remained just that: a carpenter. Part of his life would become the instrument of his death.

The plank and the man were ruined. “There was no form or comeliness to attract our eyes”, wrote the prophet. Where they should have been venerated, they were mishandled and abused. Yet, in their degradation, the tree and the man came together, became one in a way that would never be repeated.

In the bloodstained hands of the Carpenter, a coarse plank achieved an incomparable beauty. It would never be thrown aside. Until the end of time, the wood and the Carpenter would be united as one, so that, where One was seen, so was the other.

In the bloodstained hands of the Carpenter, the tree blossomed far beyond any human imaginings.

As the Carpenter accepted a crudely-cut plank from a despoiled tree, he, too, set out towards his Destiny.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

1st Station: Jesus is condemned to death

You are a fool, Jesus of Nazareth. You stand before me and you say nothing. I could save you if only you would say something in your defence, but you have not opened your mouth. You are silent, almost like a lamb before it is slaughtered. I have the power to save you, and yet, when I challenged you, you merely replied that my power is delegated to me from on high, from the one who truly wields authority. That is true. It was Caesar who sent me here, but I have a feeling that your words held a deeper meaning than I could fathom. Even Caesar holds his power as a gift from Jupiter, so what are you really saying?

You are a fool. You spoke of a kingdom and when I asked you to explain, you signed and sealed your own death warrant because you said that you are a king, even if your kingdom is not of this world. Only an idiot would have made such a declaration. Caesar cannot allow a king to live in Israel. You have spent your days wandering through Galilee and Judaea with a band of fishermen. You are known as a carpenter. How can you be a king? Yet how can I explain your dignity and almost a regal bearing, even though I have had you chastised?

You are a fool, Jesus of Nazareth. You have been scourged. Your blood drips in pools around your bare feet and yet you still speak of your kingdom. It does not make sense. You speak of truth, but what is truth? Does not truth change according to the circumstances? Is my truth the same as Caesar’s? Is the truth of a Jew the same as that of a Roman?

I know that you are here because of the jealousy of your own people. They are trying to put the responsibility of your death (for, yes, you will die) upon my shoulders. You are not giving me the opportunity to put the blame back where it belongs. I can see that you have committed no crime worthy of the crucifixion to which I must condemn you if you continue in this silent stubbornness. Yet you are saying nothing in your own defence, nothing that would give me the excuse to liberate you from the agonising end that is waiting for you. Anybody else would be begging, clutching at straws, searching for any excuse that might save them from the pain and the shame of the cross. Why, then, are you so convinced of your own kingship that you are prepared to die such a death? I cannot understand.

You are a fool, Jesus of Nazareth. Your own words gave the soldiers the idea of making you a crown and of giving you a sceptre. But what king will choose a crown of thorns? For sure, government has its own responsibilities and forms of torture that any ruler would happily escape. I myself am wear of sleepless nights and seemingly insoluble problems, but that is a different crown of thorns. Yours is real. My own laurelled crown does, certainly, cause me to sweat from time to time as I ponder on all that it entails. Yours, however, causes droplets of blood, your own blood, to trickle down your forehead and your face, onto your robes, which are only kingly because of your willingness to die for something in which you believe.

You are a fool, Jesus of Nazareth. You have put me in an unenviable position. I have offered the rabble the choice of you or Barabbas. They chose the bandit and for that, I have no option. I must condemn you even though I think you are innocent of wrongdoing. Where does that put me? All history will remember me as finding against an innocent man. History will punish me and exonerate you.

You are a fool, Jesus of Nazareth. If you would speak, you could be free once more to roam the hills and to sail the lake as your fishermen companions pay out their nets for a catch. Yet you do not speak. It is frightening. It strikes fear into the deepest recesses of my heart. I am afraid that I am on the edge of something far deeper than my mind will ever grasp. There is a mystery here that is far beyond my comprehension.

Are you a fool, Jesus of Nazareth? Are you a fool, or am I?

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Judas’ agony in the Garden

Do you have any idea of the agony I experienced in the garden tonight? Can you imagine what it was like to hear his voice whisper gently, “Judas, do you betray your master with a kiss?”

I tell you. Those words pierced me to the quick. That is why, at this moment, I am sitting in the darkness of the night, hiding lest someone sees me and asks the same question.

Only a few days have passed since I was at the Temple, looking for someone who could lead me to Caiaphas, thinking that the High Priest might have the answer. Yes, he had an answer, thirty of them, jangling at my side, shining bright silver in the light of a candle.

I loved Jesus. Do not think, even for one moment, that I did not. He was compelling. His words were full of promise. I believed him to be the Messiah for whom we had all been waiting. I had given my life to further his cause and that is why they called me a zealot. I burned with zeal for the day when the Messiah would appear and show his face to Israel, leading us from our servitude to the might of Rome, out towards a day when Israel and the Kingdom of God would reign supreme.

Jesus talked continually of a Kingdom, describing it so clearly and beautifully that I felt I could almost reach out my hand and touch it. He would have made a good King, a great one, if only he had acted instead of talked.

It is not that he did nothing. He cured the sick. He drove out demons, claiming to be able to forgive sins. He spoke of God as his Father in such a loving way that I could believe him to be truly the Son of God.

But where was the might that would call us to gather together, to rise up against the might of Rome, driving the legions from our sacred lands? Instead he spoke of meekness and gentleness, of humility and of caring for our neighbours. He spoke to women, treated Samaritans as though they were important. He told us to become like children, declaring that if we were not children, we could have no place in heaven…but what child ever conquered an invading army?

I was frustrated. I was also angry when some of the Disciples began to accuse me of theft. How honest were they? Did they not also use some odd coins for their own purposes? I put most of the money that we received into the common purse, but I am also a good manager of money and because the purse was rarely empty, I was not praised for my astuteness and ability to drive a hard bargain. Is the bookkeeper not the first to be accused of theft? Was I always guilty? I promise you, I was not. The disciples often spoke from jealousy, not from knowledge.

I thought that, if I went to speak to the High Priest, I could move things along and force Jesus to declare his hand. If he were to be taken prisoner, he would have to speak out and summon help, would have to prove himself to be the long-awaited Messiah.

But it did not happen in that way.

He sent me away from the Passover meal. The others thought that I had been instructed to give alms to the poor. Instead, I went straight to Caiaphas.

Surrounded by soldiers and temple Guards, we made our way to Gethsemane. I knew Jesus would be there because we have rested there on many occasions. It is in the city, but is only a few minutes away from the wilderness. It seemed logical that I should point out Jesus to the guard. That would give Jesus the chance to summon his angels.

Only he did not call even to his Father. He merely whispered to me, ”Judas, would you betray your Master with a kiss?”

Mine is the agony in this garden. I cannot describe my despair, just as I cannot describe the hurt and the love in they eyes of Jesus as they led him away. I cannot carry this pain. I am weak. There is nothing I can do in order to undo my actions. I cannot turn back time. Jesus will die and his death will be because of me. He could have escaped into the wilderness, but he remained.

I cannot bear my agony.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Before You Lord

In this season of Lent, as we draw, moment by moment, closer to Holy Week and Easter, can I offer anything more beautiful and real than this prayer by Michel Quoist?
God bless,
Sr. Janet
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To be here before you, Lord,
that’s all:
to shut the eyes of my body,
to shut the eyes of my soul,
and be still and silent,
to expose myself to you who are here, exposed to me.

To be here before you,
the Eternal Presence,
I am willing to feel nothing, Lord,
to see nothing,
to hear nothing,
empty of all ideas, of all images,
in the darkness.

Here I am, simply,
to meet you without obstacles,
in the silence of faith,
before you, Lord.

But, Lord, I am not alone.
I am a crowd, Lord,
for people live within me.
I have met them,
they have come in,
they have settled down,
they have worried me,
they have tormented me,
they have devoured me,
and I have allowed it, Lord,
that they might be nourished and refreshed.

I bring them to you, too,
as I come before you.
I expose them to you in exposing myself to you.

Here I am, here they are,
before you, Lord!

Michel Quoist: Prayers of Life

God or King?

The mighty gates of Lambeth Palace swung open this morning as I passed by, enabling a glimpse of the courtyard within. It was not difficult to imagine the court of Henry VIII staying there when his ‘old’ palace at Westminster burned down in 1512. Neither was it hard to imagine the cavalcade passing through those same gates when the later Cardinal Wolsey was consecrated Bishop of Lincoln on 26th March 1514, Cardinal Archbishop of York on 10th September 1515 and then, on 24th December, Lord Chancellor of England.

The River Thames has continued to flow past the palace, today as then. It is easy to imagine Thomas More, summoned by Wolsey to discuss ‘the King’s business’ arriving in a boat paddled by one of the many who plied a sort-of water-borne taxi service up and down the river.

How did Wolsey feel as Thomas came up to those same gates? Did he half hope that his future successor would, somehow, have changed his mind and decided to support Henry’s wish to divorce his wife, Catherine of Aragon in favour of Anne Boleyn? Did he think that, somehow, his persuasive tongue had inspired in Thomas a desire to save his own skin and a great deal of inconvenience by throwing in his lot with those who had already opted to follow Henry? Did Wolsey think that, if the incorruptible Thomas were to change sides that the Cardinal’s own conscience would feel more at ease over the divorce proceedings and the subsequent petition to Rome to allow Catherine to be set aside in favour of Anne? Was Wolsey clutching at straws?

...and what of Thomas? Was he afraid as he walked through those gates of Lambeth Palace? He must have suspected why he had been summoned, yet again, and, even as his boat moved from its Chelsea mooring, was he rehearsing his arguments to be placed before Wolsey? How did he feel as one man against the authority and might of his king and a Cardinal? Did he already visualise his imprisonment in a bitterly cold, unheated cell in the Tower of London? Was he already preparing to say goodbye to the family he loved so dearly in order to remain true to his conscience? As the boat crunched on the stony shore outside the palace, did it make a strange, uncomfortable echo in his own heart?

At the end of his life, as he faced his death, Thomas More could write to his daughter Margaret, with absolute truth, "Mistrust him, Meg, will I not, though I feel me faint, yea, and though I should feel my fear even at point to overthrow me too, yet shall I remember how Saint Peter, with a blast of wind, began to sink for his faint faith, and shall do as he did, call upon Christ and pray him to help. And then I trust he shall set his holy hand unto me, and in the stormy seas, hold me up from drowning. Yea and if he suffer me to play Saint Peter further, and to fall full to the ground, and swear and forswear too (which our Lord for his tender passion keep me from, and let me lose if it so fall and never win thereby): yet after shall I trust that his goodness will cast upon me his tender piteous eye, as he did upon Saint Peter, and make me stand up again and confess the truth of my conscience afresh, and abide the shame and the harm here of mine own fault.”

By contrast, Wolsey, on his own deathbed, declared “Would that I had served my God as well as I have served my King!”

Where do I stand?

God bless,

Sr. Janet

Winter into Spring

Spring is just around the corner. In spite of frost and cold, delicate buds somehow manage to pierce the ground and produce flowers. Trees suddenly change from stark skeletons to magnificent bouquets of blossom. Bare ground is bare no more, becoming a carpet of yellow, white, purple, pink or whatever flower decides to paint the black soil or once-russet leaves. Birds change from concentrating on their own survival and instead consider the survival of the species as male and female show off to each other, displaying themselves to their own best advantage.

This morning, high up in an ornamental cherry tree, a blackbird opened his yellow beak and carolled to the dazzling sun and blue sky.

Winter is passing and Spring is approaching. Whatever weather might intervene to disrupt the sunshine and beautiful weather, there is a promise in the air of good things to come. The dark, dismal days are disappearing into history.

However hard life might be, there is always hope, always a suggestion that good times are ahead, even if sometimes only glimpsed through the darkness. Yet stars can only be seen when there is no moon. If there were no winter, there could be no spring. If there were no Lent, there could be no Easter, no Resurrection, no Pentecost.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Traffic lights

She was about eight years old, chattering to her mother, telling her that now she was growing bigger and her legs were becoming stronger, she could walk for any distance. There was no need for the child’s mother to worry that they had quite a long distance to cover before they could sit down and rest.

We halted at the same traffic lights, waiting for them to change. This was a good opportunity for a lesson. “The road is clear now, why are we still waiting here?” the little girl asked her mother. “Because the light is red. We can only cross the road when we see the green man.”

But the lesson had not finished.

“Please, always take care when you cross a road. If anything happened to you, my life would be over.”

One child learned a great deal more than her Highway Code as she waited by those traffic lights. She also learned something of her mother’s love.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

trying for podcast

Valentine’s Day

Every year, February 14th is celebrated at St. Valentine’s Day. When, at the time of the Second Vatican Council, the calendar of feasts was changed, St. Valentine did not appear on the calendar. Instead, we celebrate the Feast of Sts. Cyril and Methodius.

Unless someone happens to have been born in Eastern Europe, Sts. Cyril and Methodius have no meaning. St. Valentine is a much more appealing saint to honour, and yet we celebrate St. Valentine’s Day without sparing too many thoughts for the man himself.

There are all sorts of stories about St. Valentine, but it would seem that he was a bishop who helped three young girls to marry by providing them with the dowry they needed.

All over the world, the 14th February, Valentine’s Day, is celebrated as a special day for those who love another person. We see so many special decorations in shop windows, hear of so many special offers which will help business people to make money out of their customers. All of these offers are supposed to increase the chances of showing someone that they are loved.

Yet, when it comes down to basics, what does love really mean? Is it love to receive expensive presents? Is it love to give magnificent flowers or boxes of chocolates? Does love mean going out for a meal? No. We can do any of these actions at any time and they don’t necessarily mean love at all. They only become signs of love when they are given with love.

Not really. I think that each one of us would say that these might be appreciated signs of love but that real love is something much deeper. Real love is something we cannot put into words because no words can really express exactly what we want to say to the one we truly love. Real love is shown by signs more often than by words.

When there is real love, there is something that is too deep for words. In the olden days, when there was much more talk of “love at first sight”, people simply meant that they were attracted to each other. Attraction, however, is not enough to make a foundation for two people to have a long and happy life together.

Sometimes, when people talk of love, what they are really talking about is the passion that accompanies the first few days of a romance. Passion can be something warm and beautiful, but it is like a flame. It doesn’t last forever. A flame will die if it doesn’t receive a constant supply of fuel. Very often passion is so all-consuming it doesn’t give two people the chance to look more deeply into each other’s hearts.

True love is something that lasts forever. True love demands self-sacrifice, understanding, compassion, kindness, giving and receiving, forgiveness, listening and sharing at every moment of every day. The real demands of love are so great that they can only be fulfilled with someone who is loved totally and unreservedly. True love is a unique gift of God.


Lord, you are Love and the source of love. Today I pray for that most special person in my own life. I pray for all those others whom I also love, that you will be with them at every moment of every day. I pray that you will make me a loving person, so that I might give your love, true love, to the ones I love. I pray for all married couples and for those who are thinking of marriage, that they will know true love and forever. Amen

God bless,

Sr. Janet

The tugboat

It was only a little boat, a tug, chugging along the waters of the River Thames. Compared with the beautifully painted pleasure boats, the tug was very small and insignificant. Yet, as it emerged from underneath the bridge, so did three barges, each carrying ten heavy industrial containers. They must have weighed many tons and yet one little boat was able to pull them along, guiding them in its own path. The heavy burden did not faze the tug, nor was the presence of the larger boats in any way daunting. It simply continued upstream.

Have you ever noticed that it is sometimes ‘the power of one’ that can make a difference?

Without a spark, there is no fire. Without a raindrop, there is no rain, no waterfall, no river.

It only takes one person to create a little pool of goodness…Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Marie Curie… Where one led, others followed.

During this season of Lent, am I like the little tugboat? Do I lead others, perhaps bigger and more important in the eyes of the world, to a place that is more full of hope? Do I show them that life is worth living? Am I overawed by ‘bigger’ people and immobilised in the stream of life, or am I able to take a deep breath and carry on regardless?

Glancing through a booklet of Lenten reflections the other day, I read that the famous Jewish neurologist and psychiatrist, Victor Frankl, when a prisoner in Auschwitz, was forced to give food to his Nazi captors whilst naked and on his knees: yet he could forgive them for the indignity and humiliation inflicted upon himself. I am not sure that I could have followed his example. His was the goodness that showed the world that ‘the power of one’ is sometimes able to set an example for the rest of time.

Does my littleness shine in the darkness?

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Land of our ancestors

The world’s largest forest of River Red Gum trees was not far away from where I lived in Australia. The trees grew on the banks of the River Murray, a river which was about 40-50m wide at the point where I used to park the car.

I used to love to visit the Barmah Forest, as the forest was called. It was so beautiful and peaceful that I would regularly go there for a day, just to pray. It was easy to pray in such magnificent surroundings. It was easy to see why the Australian Aborigines, the first inhabitants of Australia, saw the forest as a sacred place. God just seemed to be everywhere. For thousands of years, Aborigines had done just as I was doing. They had gone into the forest to be close to God and their spirit ancestors.

The River Red Gum trees are very special. They need to be flooded each year to a depth of 1m. or else the trees die. So, every year, the forest becomes an immense lake, far too deep to enter with any degree of safety. The flood waters had travelled down from the distant Snowy Mountains in order to give life to the forest, the animals and the fish of the Barmah Forest.

The trees are also interesting because some of them bear the marks of where Aborigines removed bark in order to make shields and household items. They were very clever. They removed the bark in such a way that the trees were never damaged.

The Aborigines believed that the land did not belong to them. They belonged to the land, which they saw as their father and mother. They had no private property or land. Everything belonged to everybody and everything. Even a stone had as much right to its existence as the people who might use it. Therefore, everything had to be treated with respect.

Yet the Aborigines themselves, people who had lived in Australia for 40,000 years, were themselves hunted almost to extinction. They lived in perfect harmony with Creation, lived in an incredibly close relationship with God, and yet they could be murdered without a second thought.

Thank God, today Australians are trying hard to give every Aborigine their full rights as Australian citizens…but what happens in other countries across the world? Do we give every person we meet the respect and dignity they deserve? Do we treat each individual as someone created and loved by God? Do we respect their history and traditions if they are different from our own? How do we look at the land on which we have our houses or our businesses? Do we look on it as a sacred gift of God, to be cared for and passed on to future generations? How did our ancestors care for the land? Do we respect the teachings and traditions they have handed down to us?

Lord, today we thank you for the richness you have given to us through our own culture and traditions. We thank you for our ancestors who gave us life. We praise you for the beauty of your Creation. We ask you to help us to do nothing to disfigure your work. We thank you for the wonders of your Creation. Amen.

God bless,

Sr. Janet

Handcuffs

It had to have been a carefully planned operation, but one that happened calmly, peacefully and with only a slight disruption to pedestrians, who were guided around the scene.

It was Westminster Bridge during the Friday evening rush hour. With a background of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, with a foreground of the magnificent waterfront of the Thames, three police vehicles had surrounded a saloon car. At the head of the group was an ordinary patrol car. Inches from the rear of the trapped car, a small van, normally used for the Dog Squad, prevented any reversing. A large van for transporting prisoners prevented any of the car’s occupants opening doors and making an escape. There was only one exit for them, and the police were making sure that it was in their control.

The scenario was actually blocking my own path, so there was no point in complaining about a diversion, especially as it gave a better opportunity for seeing what was happening as I approached.

One by one, five men climbed from the vehicle, assisted by the police. Determined to ensure that nobody escaped, two men had already been handcuffed to the side of the bridge. One was being searched and two others were in the process of giving information to officers with notebooks whilst handcuffs were fastened on their wrists.

I still don’t know the cause of the arrests, but what struck me was the total lack of aggression, weapons or violence. I have seen higher levels of stress on market stalls. Presumably a crime had been committed and the arrests had been carefully orchestrated, but there was nothing even to cause anxiety to passers-by as the lives of five men were about to take a big change of direction.

Wrongdoing does not need to create a great deal of fuss and bother. Sometimes our misdemeanours are known only to ourselves and to God.

Lent is a time for saying sorry and putting things right without the need of attention-seeking. God is very calm, understanding and forgiving…and does not need to use handcuffs!

Godbless,
Sr. Janet

The Ugly Duckling

Once upon a time, an egg hatched and a very ugly baby bird came out of the shell. At first, it was damp and untidy. Then, when its feathers dried out, everyone could see that its beak looked too big for its head and its feet certainly looked far too large for its small body.

The mother duck was most unimpressed by her baby. For a start, it was much too big. The other ducklings were smaller and tidier. How on earth could such a large, ugly bird have come from one of her eggs? It didn’t look like either the mother duck or the drake that had fathered the brood.

Yet, the mother duck had to acknowledge that, even though her ugly duckling was very ugly compared to its pretty, fluffy brothers and sisters, it was a very good swimmer. As soon as they went to the river, the ugly duckling was the first to plunge into the water. It was a beautiful swimmer.

Still, the ugly duckling’s good swimming did not save it from the cruel comments made by the other ducks. Young and old alike, they made such nasty remarks that the ugly duckling was very sad. It was so ashamed of its ugliness that, in the end, the ugly duckling went away on its own. Sadly, it hid in a clump of reeds, only coming out when there were no other birds around.

From time to time a flock of large white birds, swans, flew over the reeds. The ugly duckling watched them. They were so beautiful, so graceful. It must be wonderful to be a swan.

One day, the ugly duckling emerged from the reeds to feed. Some ducks appeared. The duckling was afraid, expecting to hear more nasty comments. To his amazement, there were gasps of admiration. “What’s the matter?” “You’re a swan!”, the ducks exclaimed. “Me? A swan? Aah, go on!” “Take a look in the lake and you’ll see”, they replied. The ugly duckling looked into the water and saw his reflection. He truly was a beautiful white swan. He wasn’t a duckling! He was a swan! Somehow a swan had laid its egg in the nest of a duck and the ugly duckling was the result. The bird that had been so criticised for its ugliness was, in reality, the most beautiful of them all!

We all know an ugly duckling. We all know someone who is criticised or ignored by others because they are not quite like the rest of us. We see ourselves as better than they are, but that’s because we don’t see them with the eyes of God. Jesus ate with the tax-collectors and the prostitutes, saying that they would be the first to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Jesus invited the Good Thief to be with him in Paradise.

Perhaps I know the ugly duckling all too well. Perhaps I’m the duckling who doesn’t realise I’m a swan. Perhaps I’ve been so afraid to let people see the loveliness inside me that I’ve kept them at a distance. Perhaps I’ve been so protective of myself that I’ve not opened up the windows of my heart to let the light shine into its darkest corners. Perhaps today could be the day when I let the rest of the world and myself see that I’m not an ugly duckling. I’m a very fine swan indeed!

Lent is, perhaps, a time of moulting, of shedding some of the scraggy feathers that detract from the loveliness that is within me, that God placed there in his love for me. When I think I am the ugly duckling, he sees only the swan.

Lord, today let me see the loveliness that you placed within my heart. Let me celebrate your love for me. Let me sing a song of thanksgiving and rejoicing. Fill me with your gladness. Amen

God bless,
Sr. Janet

Launching into Lent

Ash Wednesday. There was a time when I was teaching in Nigeria and realised that there was a problem. The Christian girls in the school envied the Muslims for their fast of Ramadan. Their thinking was a bit convoluted, but they felt that sometimes there was a bit of one-upmanship: that the Muslims were somehow stronger in their faith because they were able to fast for longer.

A few days before Lent began, I had a flash of inspiration. Using the strongest expression of obligation in the local language, I told my class that not only was Ash Wednesday an important day, they absolutely, positively had to go to bed hungry that night. To my amazement, the faces of the girls were covered with beatific smiles. Here was one occasion when they could teach the Muslims a thing or two! Ouch! I’m not sure that had been my intention or that of the Church!

This is the season of conversion, of turning back towards God. We’ll hear a great deal about forgiveness and reconciliation. That can also be a big Ouch! It can sound so easy. It is not, at least, not for those of us who are not great saints and sometimes have a struggle not to say those few words that will mean that ‘I have given just as good as I got’ and made sure that someone else has been hurt just as much as they hurt me, if not more, so that there is a warm feeling of payback and of balance.

It can be all too easy to say the ‘Our Father’ and miss the words “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”. It can be all too easy to offer the Sign of Peace at Mass without a second thought.

Have you ever deliberately avoided giving so-and-so the Sign of Peace because you would prefer to be a million miles away rather than in hand-shaking distance? It has happened to me, I must confess.

Yet how can we ask forgiveness from God if we are not prepared to offer it in return? Can we pray the ‘Our Father’ and keep holding onto resentment, bitterness, anger and a desire to lash out for hurts received? Can we really and truly offer the Sign of Peace if there is actually anger?

I can think of one occasion in particular when I discovered, to my discomfort, that I was standing next to someone whom I thoroughly disliked (it was mutual) and that, although I had been on the receiving end of her nastiness, it would not be possible to avoid the Sign of Peace. At the time, I could have prayed for a paralysed right arm! Most of the Mass until the Sign of Peace was an argument with myself…and then God put in a little word. “Would you seriously wish for someone not to be at peace?” Guess what. My arm moved almost by itself …and what a difference.

During Lent, perhaps all we need to do for our penance is to take the Our Father and the Sign of Peace seriously. There is no room for one-upmanship, but there is plenty of room for reconciliation and for the healing that it brings.

God bless,
Sr. Janet

A true friend is a priceless treasure

People have different approaches to their relationships with others. I remember an Australian couple with whom I used to be friendly and whom I used to meet almost weekly. When they left the town they severed their ties with most, if not all, of those whom they had previously called friends. From the day they left, they didn’t write, phone or visit and yet their new home was only a three-hour journey from their old one. Strange. I didn’t even begin to understand their approach to friendship. What did they understand it to mean? Is friendship something temporary and disposable?

There are some people who call others their friends after only knowing them for a few minutes. They call a casual encounter that has no lasting quality a friendship. Here today. Gone tomorrow. I’m not sure. I think it is entirely possible to meet someone and to have a feeling, even after only a moment, that this person could become a friend, but this doesn’t happen very often. I’m not sure that a momentary, untested relationship is worthy of being called a friendship. To be a friend is not a trivial encounter, not something to be taken lightly.

Real friendship is something that stands the test of time and separation. It is a kind of loving. A true friendship takes a moment to establish and a lifetime to bring to fulfilment. It is a lifelong commitment to another person. It is a gift of all that I truly am to another individual, who makes the same gift of himself or herself to me. That is why, when someone puts his or her life into my hand in friendship it seems a contradiction if, after only a short while, I spread my fingers and let that gift trickle away like sand. That is why it is sometimes said that a friend is “a once in a lifetime experience”. It doesn’t mean that I have only one friend. It does mean that each friend is uniquely precious and irreplaceable.
Someone once said that a true friend is “someone who knows all of my shortcomings but likes me anyway”. True, but a real friend is also someone who notices “all the secret belongings that nobody else cared enough to notice”, the qualities that even I hadn’t known were within me.

Each of us is like a swimming pool with a deep end and a shallow end. Some of the people in my life are only allowed into the shallow end of my heart. Some are allowed into deeper water. A true friend is allowed to swim anywhere even though it means that my weaknesses and shortcomings will become clearly visible. Such a person will also discover and enjoy all the precious treasures that I don’t put on public display.

My friends change me, help me to become more truly myself, make me ever more beautiful and lovable. They help me to bring out into the daylight my best qualities. If my companions don’t do this and I become a worse person through being with them, then they are not friends. Changing for the better is not always comfortable and pain-free, but it is only someone who truly loves me, who is a friend in the best sense of the word, who will both challenge me to make the necessary changes and will accompany me on that journey.

Friendship doesn’t just happen. It takes commitment and time. It means sharing, not only laughter, but also tears. Anybody can be good company in good times. What about those times of pain, discouragement, failure, tragedy, sickness, when perhaps I’m not very good company?

Friendship means the sharing of values, not just superficially, but at the very deepest level of my being. Sometimes we don’t even have the opportunity to talk about those values: we simply recognise that they exist. In the last few days someone to whom I was saying goodbye made the comment “...but you don’t really know me!” Really? Do you think I’ve not seen the ease with which you can put a charitable construction onto a negative situation? Do you think I’ve not heard some of the words which you probably didn’t know that I’d noticed, words that showed me you have your values, your thinking and your judgement right? Didn’t you know that you let me glimpse a deeply good person? Somehow I think I know you much better than you realise!

Sharing of interests and concerns are an important aspect of friendship. We are not clones of each other, so there are areas where we will differ, but there is enough common ground for a relationship to grow, develop and flower. There is a determination to spend time together, perhaps not always talking. Sometimes it is necessary to share silence. It is because of the attitude of total giving, receiving and sharing that are the very fabric of true friendship that its highest human form is found in marriage, where two individuals give themselves heart and soul into each other’s hands in a lifelong commitment.

True friendship is a celebration of the life and goodness of another person. It is unselfish and outward looking. It helps to make life worth living, to make life an ongoing adventure of discovery. A true friend is a priceless treasure: no one can measure its worth.

God bless,

Sr. Janet

Chinese New Year

One of the advantages of living in a community in which there is a mixture of nationalities is that it is a learning experience.

Some people are dismissive about nationality and culture and say that these are unimportant, thinking that by taking up this approach, they are levelling out any possible sources of division or conflict.

But this is where such people are very wrong. My nationality matters very much as far as I am concerned. If, when I relate with you, I pretend that I am not English and that whatever nationality you are, we’re all the same, then I am blinkered. It is denying an opportunity for mutual enrichment. You can learn from me and I can learn from you when we acknowledge our differences. If there were no differences, then there would be nothing to learn.

Chinese New year is celebrated this week, inconveniently for Catholics, beginning on Ash Wednesday. That is why my Community, which boasts of a Singaporean, has anticipated the New Year and has eaten this evening. Thus I have just had the chance of renewing my acquaintance with chopsticks. I am no expert, but this evening I managed better, I think, than ever before… but had I not had the occasion to mix with Chinese people, chopsticks would have been beyond my experience. Had I not been given the opportunity of celebrating Chinese New Year, I would probably never have learned of its significance in reconciliation, healing of wounds and uniting families.

Culture, language and family ARE important. Let us celebrate our differences and enjoy each other.

God bless,
Sr. Janet