 |
| Pope Francis at Turin ~ June 2015 |
The Shroud of Turin, many believe, is the figure-imprinted burial cloth of Jesus, the "icon of love," Pope Francis has called it.
After this Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus, but in secret, for fear of the Jews, asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him leave; so he came and took Jesus' body away; and with him was Nicodemus, the same who made his first visit to Jesus by night; he brought with him a mixture of myrrh and aloes, of about a hundred pounds' weight. They took Jesus' body, then, and wrapped it in winding-cloths with the spice; that is how the Jews prepare a body for burial. In the same quarter where he was crucified there was a garden, with a new tomb in it, one in which no man had ever yet been buried. Here, since the tomb was close at hand, they laid Jesus, because of the Jewish feast on the morrow. John 19:38-42
A lot of people spend a lot of time analyzing the shroud. They carbon-date its threads and analyze the DNA of its blood stains. They count the attached pollen grains and categorize its weave. Volumes upon volumes have been written, and endless hours of film documentary produced, for and against its being the genuine article - the real deal.
But for all of that busy-ness and expenditure, we are not helped to pray. Pope John XXIII said, "The Church is not a museum of antiques but a garden of life." Might we then allow the shroud in our meditation to be mystically alive: take it down from the wall, remove it from its frame and glass; free it to move around the world where, in love, it may enfold the rooms, scenes and minds of suffering and death. Let it wind its way towards the world's new Easter. "Come Holy Spirit...and you shall renew the face of the earth."
Such a prayer may not be sweet, and some may resent it for cutting too close to the bone of their ideological safe house. There were Gospel figures who wanted Jesus not only dead, but sealed away in his stone-cut tomb. But he broke out of that confinement that Sunday morning - stunningly. Can I allow the Risen Christ, who has left us his shroud, to break out again and even stun me?
Prayer Before Jesus' Shroud
Holy Shroud of Jesus' Burial,
wind around my country of
many mass shootings,
the classrooms,
campuses,
street corners and
stadiums,
theatres and
night clubs,
the venues where gun mayhem
halts life.
Winding Sheet of Jesus' Burial,
encircle the factories of death,
where the machines and
technologies of destruction
are imagined.
Encircle the world's
pentagons,
the oval offices,
the square offices,
the rectangular offices,
where presidents,
premiers,
prime ministers and
chancellors,
ponder,
discuss,
and rustle up death.
Grave Blanket of Jesus,
en-wreathe the silos,
hangers,
warehouses,
ports and bases,
where drones doze
at-the-ready,
the missiles, tanks,
the nuclear-tipped submarines
with divine nick-names,
the super sonic everything
likened to angels,
GPS systems
pin-pointing ivoried-elephants,
landing rockets
on the enemy.
Holy Blood-stained Shroud,
bandage up the yellow bus,
the play ground,
the market,
the hospital,
the school,
the synagogue,
the mosque,
the cathedral.
Grave Clothes of Jesus,
ring around the laboratories,
the research centers,
perfecting the lucrative tools of death,
the heat-sensitive systems,
containers for the secrets of
mass ruin and germ warfare.
Cloak of Jesus Entombed,
cover the other Abu Graibs,
the places where conscience has died
and savagery reigns.
Enveloping Cloak of Jesus-Buried,
pull all human hearts together,
and out of our sleep-walk,
our too-busy-to-know-better lives,
wearied by the scary news,
the blood-news,
the smoke and flame news,
the shocking news that
doesn't shock anymore -
give us Jesus-shaped minds.
Swaddle
the sex-trafficked,
the sex-abused,
the child laborers,
the kidnapped girls,
the boy-soldiers,
the pornographied,
the cut out,
flushed out,
the thrown-away.
Bundle up the children whose innocence
is deadened
by adults
addicted,
crazed,
impoverished,
hateful,
the movie producers,
the war game creators,
the profiteers of
entertainment-killing and
death.
Enfold us, Holy Shroud,
cocoon like,
waiting to awaken -
repented,
spun around,
re-birthed,
gladdened.
Father Stephen Morris
