Plum trees in our neighborhood in Berlin. (c) AF
Dear Pilgrim,
Walking the Berlin boulevard yesterday in front of our monastery, I looked down the street and saw bright green on some of the trees, obscuring the buildings behind them. Despite the cold winds coursing through the courtyard of the monastery and down the streets, slowly it becomes warmer. When I wake early in the morning now, I can see the beginnings of light in the windows. It seems Spring has arrived. And with it some vestiges of hope.
We even see it in the readings during prayer times. Even the psalms of lament have anchors of hope in them. Psalm 22, that Jesus quotes on the cross (why have you forsaken me), also has this: “He has not turned his face, but has listened to our cry.”
Balancing sorrow and hope
Today’s offering of Bach has also this balance of sorrow and hope. It walks with Peter through his courage, betrayal, and desolation at the cock crow. Have patience, please, as we make this journey today. The music is heavy and severe and the themes are difficult and challenging. But Bach has strategically placed soothing moments that show empathy for the sufferer and offer consolation. We will look together at both the difficulties and the consolations, and then suggest a process and practice to bind them together.
The piece to which we will listen today follows Jesus through the trial in front of the High Priest, his mocking and condemnation, and then tells the tale of Peter’s three fold betrayal (31-38c). It begins as we listen to Caiaphas interrogate Jesus and proclaim his guilt. The masculine rhythm, mood, and music make his power evident but also suggest that it is malign. And the chorus of the scribes and elders as they condemn and mock Jesus sounds more like a mob than a trial. Then the following narration and portrayal of Peter’s betrayal continues with frantic energy until the cock crows, then slows dramatically at Peter’s self-recognition and weeping. It is difficult listening, but compelling nonetheless.
And then, Peter’s betrayal
Betrayal is most easy to recognize in others, in part because we are caught up in our own purposes and reluctant to see the betrayal hidden in our good intentions. That we betray our own ideals, those we love, and our God, and ourselves, is the specter that walks with us all as a part of our shared humanity. It is difficult to look at, and we often do so only when compelled. But Bach compels us here, and with our eyes opened we see betrayal everywhere.
Betrayal by false witnesses, convinced of their own righteousness in condemning a troublemaker. Betrayal by the High Priest who thinks he is saving the nation and punishing a blasphemous revolutionary. The best that can be said is that he kills another prophet to the nation of Israel and thus betrays his own faith. Betrayal by the Scribes and Elders who are caught up in the orchestrated movement of righteous anger, like the mob who will later cry “crucify him!”
And then there are the bystanders and functionaries who help the whole process run. They are just doing their jobs, but sometimes, when the system betrays its own people, doing your job is itself betrayal. And Jesus’ jubilant followers all seem to have melted away. Jesus is left alone to face his unjust trial, condemnation, and death.
Except for Peter. Headstrong Peter who with reckless courage follows Jesus after his arrest and sneaks into the servants’ area to overhear the trial. But he then finds himself overmastered when the curious maid and other servants call him out as a follower of Jesus. “Your accent betrays you,” one says. Three times he says “I do not know him.” We do not know what leads him deny this, except perhaps the urgent desire to survive when his world has fallen apart. He now knows what happened to Jesus, and it seems his leader has been taken away to be killed. In this moment is there any cause left for which one would need courage?
Hiding from shame
Peter too is alone in shame and defeat. He of course has betrayed Jesus. But he has also betrayed himself and his own courage. The hardest betrayal to recognize and to bear is our own. It is why so often we dodge it. But sometimes it cannot be denied. The cock crows, the scales fall from our eyes, we are exposed by chance or circumstance, and we see our humiliation. We are not who we thought we are. This is a deep wound, piercing as deep as the foundations of our soul. It cuts us lose from our self-deception and pride. And we weep bitterly. The keening and rocking run of the notes at the last two words in our section, “weinete bitterlich,” (weeped bitterly) give us this feel of the desolation of self-betrayal. Peter is alone in shame and defeat.
And here lies danger. Shame, at least in western cultures, leads us to hide. We feel small, we withdraw, we do not seek out others. The wound of shame wants privacy, and fears exposure too much to seek comfort or counsel.
And so Peter has gone into hiding. There are many later scenes between this and the resurrection, but Peter is in none of them. There is at least one disciple at the cross (John) and possibly more, but Peter is not mentioned. He only reappears, after he hears of the resurrection, the first to run to the empty tomb, leaving his shame behind.
“If we can manage to hold our regrets gently in front of the God who loves us, we can receive consolation and healing.”
Listening Practice
Our selection today leaves Peter in his despair and weeping. But, as we read on Monday, Bach’s genius places the beautiful aria ‘Erbarme Dich” (Have Mercy) directly after this scene, and even repeats the phrase “Weep … bitterly” but this time with an important difference: the singer’s “eyes and heart weep before you bitterly.” Before you. Before God, not in hiding, is where we find mercy. If we can manage to hold our regrets gently in front of God, or to weep over them in front of the God who loves us, we can receive consolation and healing and the strength to continue.
But for today, listen to the driving energy and misguided use of power in Jesus’ trial, and to the despair of Peter, until he cries bitterly. It offers a container for our own shortcomings and failures:
Practicing imaginative prayer with Peter
A classic form of meditation on gospel stories comes from Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits. To practice imaginative prayer, you place yourself within a gospel story, imagining yourself as one of the characters. In this instance, after watching the entire selection, move the slider at the bottom to begin at the story of Peter again (the scene starts after the chorus at 1:21:45). Light a candle or arrange a small place for yourself. Breath quietly for a minute or two. Then watch and listen carefully to the story.
Now comes a time of creative imagination: project yourself into the story. You could be Peter, or the maid, or just a spectator hovering over the scene like a dreamer. But you must get close. Smell the smells, feel the dust in one's nostrils, see the ways the hands move and the eyes glance, ask a question of, or say something to, someone in the story. Imagine the words of one of the characters in your mouth. Perhaps that you say “I do not know him.” And when you are struck by something -- joyful, afraid, disgusted, sad -- then pause and come close to that thing to discover why. Hold it gently before the God who loves you. Finally, after this immersion in the story, sit resting with whatever insight it brought, and say a prayer of gratitude.
May you find God’s mercy there.
This post is the fourth of our Passion Week Consolations 2023. You can still subscribe here. To enter our virtual gathering space click here. To share your thoughts with us, write us here or comment below. To offer your gift, click here. If you are looking for personal consultation, visit our PathFinder.
Peace and Blessings, Almut & Chuck