To be a chosen companion on the night before his arrest
To share in this one final meal: bread and cup and company
To notice the energy in the room – gentle and deep
To know and not-know how precious this time
To feel something quiet and brave, asking for trust
To worry anyway, about him and them and us
To be present, feasting on laughter that breaks through
To share in this love, as palpable as it’s ever been
I wonder: how might I live
to become the kind of friend,
the kind of kin and comrade
with whom such holy shelter can be shared,
with whom such honest vigil can be held,
as bombs and cages and crosses loom,
and the soldiers of the state lace up their tattered boots
mjk
Jesus had a felt sense of the closeness of his arrest. Like so many who agitate destructive systems, who refuse to turn their back on Love – of their communities, of Life, of neighbors, of their own created goodness – Jesus sensed the powers that be would soon strike. So he broke bread with friends. He encouraged them. He also grew increasingly anxious and afraid. And he asked for their support as he prayed in the garden, resisting the deepening urge to turn from his call.
This night reminds us how deeply we need each other in this work of Love. Bearing the consequences of living faithfully to one another despite the threats of power can be lonely and painful and destructive. Oppression depends on isolating us each in our struggles. We must hear and ask of each other: “will you stay awake with me?”
Will you companion me while the church persecutes me and my lovers?
Will you help me feel less alone as I confront the one who did violence against me and my body?
Will you also bear some of the weight – in material ways – of fighting white supremacy?
Will you hold my hand while I walk past the protestors at the abortion clinic?
Will you care for me after gender affirming surgery when my family turns me away?
It’s too much for one.
It’s always been too much for one.
Even one who is fully alive to the God in them.
Let us not fall asleep while our neighbors pray,
“let this cup pass from me!”
Let us not forget this faith is collective work.
Let us not be afraid to cry for support in the midst.
Tonight we hold Vigil with Jesus and receive the invitation – vulnerable, powerful, sacred – of those who need companionship because the destructive powers have drawn near.
To all who fall asleep from sorrow
weary from the tolls of violence
drained by betrayals, unforeseen or expected
exhausted by systems of cruelty –
Let yourself feel empty.
Stop, for a moment, trying to push through.
Allow your body to say ‘no more.’
We can only hold so much. This is not a weakness.
A heart hard enough to withstand all the world’s grief has already broken.
Yes, it aches when we can’t meet each others’ needs.
Yes, it hurts to feel helpless before suffering.
Yes, we show up anyway with all the love and offerings we have.
But as long as empires reign
they will carve their costly holes in
every web of care we weave.
What posture of grief can honor this –
that it is and isn’t enough?
m jade kaiser