The Passion

St. Stephens Mission on the Wind River Indian Reservation, St. Stephens, Wyoming

Sunday is Palm Sunday, one of the two times during the year in which we hear the reading of the Passion of our lord Jesus Christ.  The other, of course, being Good Friday. It is likely there will be several readers taking on various roles as they present the Passion to those gathered.   The Passion, even in its grief and sorrow, is filled with hope as it leads to the Resurrection and the joy of our Easter greeting, “Jesus is risen, he is truly risen!”

I have been a reader at my parishes for many years.  It is both a great blessing and enormous responsibility to proclaim Scripture to my brother and sister parishioners.  Over the years I have read at Mass during every liturgical season, from Ordinary Time, Advent and Lent, to the great feasts of Easter and Christmas.  

Several times I was scheduled to be a part of the reading of the Passion. We are familiar with the scenario as the presiding priest takes on the role of Jesus, a second reader is the voice of multiple characters, and another reader acts as the narrator.  Finally, the voice of the crowd is supplied by the congregation.

One particular Palm Sunday I was assigned the part of the narrator.  As I was giving voice to the actions of the characters in the Passion, I became increasingly agitated at the terrible things that were happening to Jesus: the Apostles falling asleep while He prayed; His betrayal by Judas; Peter’s denials; the crowning of thorns and the mocking of the crowd.  As familiar as I was with the whole production, having witnessed or been part of it since my childhood, this time, as narrator, it got to me.

At one point during the Passion, Pilate poses questions to Jesus but does not get the answers he wants.  He then turns to the crowd and asks “What do you want me to do with him?”  We all know the answer to that question, so it was not a surprise to me when, reading my lines following Pilate’s question, I read aloud “And they answered Pilate, saying….” The crowd then responds “Crucify Him!”

I knew what they were going to say, as it was right in front of me in the script.  But the response “Crucify him” shocked me.   When those words came into the sanctuary, where I was standing, from all those people in the church, I remember feeling terrible fear and revulsion in their response. 

When Pilate asked his question a second time and received the same response, I felt crushed, as though I was completely powerless and there was nothing that could be done to change the monstrous course of action. 

As I continued reading my lines, the tale of Jesus carrying His cross, the nailing of His limbs to the cross and the cruelty of the Roman soldiers overwhelmed me and I was grievously sad.  After the priest read Jesus’ last words – “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani – My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” –I turned to my script and read “Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.” It was all I could do to get those words out of my mouth as I was overcome with grief.

We all knelt down at this point.  There I was, kneeling in the sanctuary of the church, tears flowing down my face over the death of Jesus.

Reading at Mass is part of my Catholic stewardship and it is usually an enjoyable experience.  But stewardship isn’t always sunshine and roses.  That Palm Sunday, I had to recount the cruel torture and death of my friend to hundreds of people sitting in front of me.  That was unbelievably difficult.

This Palm Sunday, as you listen to the Passion of our Lord, try putting yourself in the story witnessing your friend Jesus being tortured and killed.  Then, in the depths of your sorrow, remember that soon, so very soon, we will once again proclaim that He is risen, he is truly risen.

The Light

Many years ago while I was working for the Diocese of Cheyenne, I brought my camera with me to an event at a parish.  The bishop saw the camera in my hands and said “Matt, take some pictures.”  So I did.  What started out as a request for some snapshots to use on his blog turned into a full-fledged part of my ministry, where I use my photos in much of my work, as well as a most enjoyable and challenging hobby. 

Obsession might be the better word here, because that occasion tripped a creative lever inside of me that had never been tripped before.  Prior to coming to work for the Church, my business required that I pour over spreadsheets and investment analysts’ reports, which were not really right-brain activities.  Seeing the possibilities of expressing creativity through photography, I dove headfirst into the picture-taking pool.  Since that time of the bishop’s request, I have taken tens of thousands of photos.

Most of those photos have been deleted, however, because they were awful.  Out-of-focus, poorly composed, over-exposed – I believe I committed almost every photography sin.

One cannot become a better photographer by just taking more photos, as that approach just equals more junk. To become a better photographer, one must take a critical look at ones photos with the intention of learning from those mistakes. In my desire to get better, I learned that it helps to look at the masters of painting to see how they use light in their work.  Since photography is all about light, I thought that was a great idea.

In 2018, the Denver Art Museum had a show featuring sketches and paintings by Rembrandt, a true master of light in painting.  We lived close to Denver at the time and made the trip to see the show with some friends.  I took my camera with me so I could make a record of Rembrandt’s work for my study.

I took a photo of every piece in the exhibit.  I went home that night and downloaded everything to my computer, ready to make a detailed study of all that I had seen.

But I got distracted and they sat on my hard drive for 3+ years, never seeing the light of day. 

Recently, two friends, independent of each other and just a day apart, brought up Rembrandt’s painting of The Prodigal Son.  I was reminded of the photos I took and looked at them again in detail.   

Rembrandt’s use of light brings depth to the sketches and paintings.  The sketch shown nearby, Christ Crucified between the Two Thieves, uses light to emphasize Jesus and, peripherally, the two thieves, while clouding the others in shadows and darkness. It feels as though we are a part of the scene, not just viewing a flat sketch.

We are approaching the fourth week of Lent, a benchmark that may find us wondering how we fell so short of fulfilling our intentions of faithfully preparing for Easter and how we can get back on track.  This is a question I ask of myself, and this sketch brings me hope that I can salvage my commitments.

Darkness is the absence of light.  Rembrandt casts light from above upon the crucifixion, the cruel torture and death of the Son of God.  Without the light, there is darkness and no hope.  But the light, even in the darkest moments, gives us hope that this is not the end of the story, but the beginning.  Thanks for reading.  If you would like to see the photos of Rembrandt’s works, write to me at mpotter@evdio.org and I will send you the link.

My God Moment

Lent is a time of preparation which can lead to a heightened awareness of the presence of God in our lives, a presence that can go unnoticed when we have our faces buried in our work or our phones.  When we turn away from those distractions, we have a real opportunity to see God in our everyday.  Sometimes those moments are moving and powerful beyond description.  That’s what I call a God moment.

A God moment can be a moment, an hour, or an hour that seems like a moment.  Regardless, it is a very personal, deeply spiritual, and quintessentially moving experience. Mine has stayed with me for more than 40 years.

From the beginning:

I learned to play the guitar in high school.  I fell in love with the instrument and played every chance I had, often falling asleep at night with my guitar in my hands.

After graduation, I continued my schooling at the University of Wisconsin-Platteville. I attended Mass at the Newman Center – St. Augustine University Parish.  The year was 1976, and the church was new and lacked a lot of church identifiers, like kneelers (there were folding chairs), stained glass, or a permanent altar. Think of a parish hall with commercial carpeting, and an altar brought in for Mass. 

There was no organ, either.  Music was provided by a dozen students with guitars and voices singing and playing with great spirit and enthusiasm. The first time I saw them I knew I wanted to be a part of that group, with the connection being my guitar.  Following Mass, I walked up to the leader (she was a staff member) and told her I would like to join and I was in.  It was as good as it gets, playing an instrument I loved in a place I loved with people whom I grew to love. 

Our group made a Lenten retreat near the very cold and snowy Spring Green, Wisconsin.  This was no five star resort, and our weekend stay was a BYOB weekend – Bring Your Own (sleeping) Bag.  Floor space was abundant, as there were no beds. Or rooms, for that matter.  Just a big, open space that accommodated a dozen university students, a music minister, and a priest. 

What happened between Friday night arrival and Sunday morning Mass escapes my memory, but what happened during Mass is burned in my very being forever.

When we awoke early Sunday morning, it was so very cold that we could see our breath and nobody wanted to get out of their bag.  Our priest managed to coax us all into a circle where he lit a single candle and began celebrating Mass.

We were a group of students in our late teens / early 20s who were two days without showers or enough sleep, shoulder to shoulder in this circle, the candle in the middle, praying together – “Our Father, who art in heaven ….”

All at once the entire room and everyone in it was filled with a presence so powerful as to be both beautiful beyond words and frightening beyond imagination.  It was at this moment that I knew without any doubt or question that God was real, and He was sitting in that circle with us.  It was literally breathtaking and brings me to tears today as I retell this story. 

I remember this so vividly. It was so cold at the start of Mass because there was no central heat and nobody had built a fire in the stove, yet the presence of God’s Holy Spirit warmed the whole space and filled our souls.

Whatever words I use fall far, far short of the power, beauty, and fear that was among us that cold February morning in Spring Green, Wisconsin. 

This was my God moment.  I have been blessed with being able to go back to that moment many times since then and once again experience the absolute holiness of that Sunday morning long ago.

This Lent, as you prepare for the Resurrection of our Lord, pay close attention to how things around you change and you become keenly aware of God’s presence. Your God moment could be right in front of you. Have you had a God moment and want to share it?  I would love to hear about it.