Jesus and Me ... and the Cats

Matthew 18:26-34 I Corinthians 13:4 Author Elie Wiesel is a survivor of the Holocaust.  Born in Romania, he grew up the target of Christian anti-antisemitism.  During World War II, he spent two years in three different concentration camps -- Auschwitz, Bruna and Buchewald.  He was only sixteen when he entered the camps. After the war, Elie became a journalist for Jewish newspapers, but he refused to write about his experiences in the camps.  That is, until 1954, when he was sent to interview Francois Mauriac in Paris. Mauriac, a Nobel Prize winner and noted scholar of French politics, was a devout Christian.  Rather than his political views, all he did was talk about Jesus.  The longer he talked, the more he rubbed salt into Elie's open emotional wounds.  Finally, Wiesel could take it no more, and his temper boiled over. "Sir," he said to Mauriac, "you speak of Christ.  Christians love to speak of him.  The passion of Christ, the agony of Christ, the death

Luke 7:40-47 I John 4:19 What a contrast the two of them were! He, Simon, was a respected member of the community, a student of theology and a religious leader.  He made a living from promoting the standards of the Law and his community. She was a sinner:  a street walker, a prostitute, a whore.  Take your choice -- she had been called them all and far worse.  The community looked down on her because she made a living from breaking the Law and the community standards. He, Simon, was the host of the party Jesus had been invited to.  He treated Jesus like an unwanted relative, offering him none of the common courtesies of the day.  In our time, it was like no one opened the door for him, took his coat, shook his hand or offered him a cup of coffee. She, a sinner, was not invited to the party, yet she did everything Simon had failed to do and more.  She offered of herself extravagantly, lovingly and humbly.  Kneeling at Jesus' feet, she rained tears on them to wash them, w

I squat in silence on a cement slab over a dutch oven filled with blades of last year's Palm Sunday fronds.  I light them, stir, relight and stir again, repeating the process until they have all been reduced to ash.  Ashes for tonight's ash Wednesday service.  The smoke permeates my clothes and my hair.  Do I smell like repentance?  I'm tempted to not wash my hair so that I may carry the smell of the smoke with me into tonight's service. I have participated in a practice that is well over a thousand years old.  In these days of such rapid change, it seems almost ancient, primitive.  As I am warmed for a short time next to the small fire, I feel that I should not be doing this alone.  It should be something  done in community, together in silence, watching the short bursts of flame and the pinpoints of dying embers among the ashes.  It would be like another kind of communion, a connection with God through flame and ash.  A kind of burnt sin offering? Ash Wednesday an