Living Lent with Compassion
Maundy Thursday
Reflection By Dawna Wall
And I wonder, particularly in a time where everything seems urgent, what the role of pause and breath is, in this season, to help us gear up for whatever this transformational moment we find ourselves in is.
- Rev. Jen Bailey
Author Joan Didion has written that it’s important to keep our old journals so that we “stay on speaking terms with our younger selves.” It’s an idea echoed by Pádraig Ó Tuama in his poem How to Belong Be Alone: “What you need to do is to remember to talk to yourself between parties” ... because “who you are is such an interesting conversation.” One of the powerful aspects of Holy Week is the opportunity to con- sider the different selves we meet in the stories unfolding. The faithful, betraying, questioning, affirming, and denying that take place are familiar and sometimes frequent conversations we might have with various parts of our own stories. Sometimes when we’re heading into unknown territory—conversations that will be difficult, a diagnosis for which we’ve been waiting, a journey of one kind or another—we nourish ourselves first, gathering with those we love in person or in blessed memory, and cloak ourselves in love.
The upper room represents a sacred nourishing gathering space because it is there we are reminded that Jesus shares a meal with all who are gathered, expressing how deeply he desires that time of being together. And like that gathering, our coming together with friends and family, or with various versions of ourselves, can sometimes be complicated, dreaded, or anticipated, and our processing of them might continue for days or years as we continue to give thanks for bread received, broken, and shared. The daily bread of questioning and wondering and pondering and grieving, the daily bread of accepting how everything is woven together to form the perfectly imperfect healing that is part of the ongoing work of compassion.
Facing unknown terrors, Jesus drew near to those he loved, sharing a meal and conversation, and then moved to the garden for prayer and solace as danger drew near. His dear friends found their eyes growing heavy as they struggled to stay present with him while also processing their own unwieldy emotions. We all know that heaviness—how difficult it is to keep looking with compassion on that which breaks our hearts.
One prayer practice that can help us stay in the space is a threefold way of praying, its own kind of triduum (the three days that tell the story of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection that takes place from dusk this evening through dusk on Easter Sunday).
First, we pause and notice all the feelings: despair, fear, or discomfort, and then we welcome them for a moment, allowing them to abide with us, with kindness, in the tender way we might companion a frightened toddler. And then we receive the messages they share with compassionate love.
This practice echoes what I see Jesus doing this day: first pausing to listen to the present moment and all that it holds, offering hospitality and welcome to everything, and then receiving it all with love, even as he allows space for his own emotions. Today we witness his deep compassion for others, grounded and nourished by the compassion he was able to hold for self.