5th Sunday of Lent | March 26, 2023
seeking: can these bones live?
Prelude: The Crucifix
Text Translation:
Come unto Him all ye who weep for He too weeps.
Come unto Him all ye in need, for He can heal.
Come to Him here all ye who fear.
Come where He waits to answer your appeal.
Come to the One who gave His life, He lives forever.
In life and death on Him rely, who lives forever.
Come unto Him all ye who weep for He too weeps.
Come unto Him all ye in need, for He can heal.
Come to Him here all ye who fear.
Come where He waits to answer your appeal.
Come to the One who gave His life, He lives forever.
In life and death on Him rely, who lives forever.
Choir Anthem: Pietá
Pietà
In the shadow of a manger,
by a candles dancing flame,
tender Mary holds her baby,
and she breathes His holy name.
Jesus rest your weary head,
close your weeping eyes.
As evening falls, she starts to sing a lullaby.
Lulay, lulay, peace be yours tonight.
In the shadow of the temple,
in a place so far from home,
Mary sees her child of wonder,
and she marvels how Hess grown.
Jesus rest your weary head,
and think on gentle things.
With loving arms she holds her Savior and she sings,
Lulay, lulay, peace be yours tonight.
In the shadow of Golgotha,
underneath a darkened sky,
Mary gently cradles Jesus.
Through her tears she says goodbye.
Jesus rest your weary head.
Your work on earth is done.
And as the darkness falls, she whispers to her son,
Lulay, lulay, peace be yours tonight.
By Joseph M. Martin © 2005 Malcolm Music / Shawnee Press (adm. by Smallstonemediasongs.com)
In the shadow of a manger,
by a candles dancing flame,
tender Mary holds her baby,
and she breathes His holy name.
Jesus rest your weary head,
close your weeping eyes.
As evening falls, she starts to sing a lullaby.
Lulay, lulay, peace be yours tonight.
In the shadow of the temple,
in a place so far from home,
Mary sees her child of wonder,
and she marvels how Hess grown.
Jesus rest your weary head,
and think on gentle things.
With loving arms she holds her Savior and she sings,
Lulay, lulay, peace be yours tonight.
In the shadow of Golgotha,
underneath a darkened sky,
Mary gently cradles Jesus.
Through her tears she says goodbye.
Jesus rest your weary head.
Your work on earth is done.
And as the darkness falls, she whispers to her son,
Lulay, lulay, peace be yours tonight.
By Joseph M. Martin © 2005 Malcolm Music / Shawnee Press (adm. by Smallstonemediasongs.com)
UNBIND HIM
by Hannah Garrity
Inspired by John 11:1-45
Paper lace over oil paint on linen
As I met with this text, I was drawn to Jesus’ call for Lazarus to be unbound. To represent the fabrics used in preparation for burial, I wrapped a canvas in linen. You’re not really supposed to do that. The canvas was already stretched and gessoed. It was ready to resist the oil paint medium I was applying. However, the texture of the binding cloth matters for this tactile text. I began to scrape the paint onto the woven strands. The linen fabric absorbed the paint as I scraped it on with a palette knife. In the final image, the linen shows through the paint and the paper lace design, representing the bindings.
Jesus’ call for unbinding also includes the community. The foreshortened hands of the community, tasked with unbinding his body, reach in toward Lazarus. They reach through the concentric binding lines so that he can go free. Can these bones live?
In the strength of community, they can. The community made up of Jews, Gentiles, Samaritans, and others all joined one another at the tomb to grieve for Lazarus that day. They came to support Mary and Martha. Jesus arrives as the community mourns together. Jesus cries in his grief. Their collective tears create the backdrop for this paper lace design. This diverse and neighborly community is who Jesus calls on to do the unbinding. Jesus makes sure that the community knows about this miracle so that they can share the news. Can these bones live? Lazarus lives, and Jesus’ miracle lives on in the telling.
—Hannah Garrity
by Hannah Garrity
Inspired by John 11:1-45
Paper lace over oil paint on linen
As I met with this text, I was drawn to Jesus’ call for Lazarus to be unbound. To represent the fabrics used in preparation for burial, I wrapped a canvas in linen. You’re not really supposed to do that. The canvas was already stretched and gessoed. It was ready to resist the oil paint medium I was applying. However, the texture of the binding cloth matters for this tactile text. I began to scrape the paint onto the woven strands. The linen fabric absorbed the paint as I scraped it on with a palette knife. In the final image, the linen shows through the paint and the paper lace design, representing the bindings.
Jesus’ call for unbinding also includes the community. The foreshortened hands of the community, tasked with unbinding his body, reach in toward Lazarus. They reach through the concentric binding lines so that he can go free. Can these bones live?
In the strength of community, they can. The community made up of Jews, Gentiles, Samaritans, and others all joined one another at the tomb to grieve for Lazarus that day. They came to support Mary and Martha. Jesus arrives as the community mourns together. Jesus cries in his grief. Their collective tears create the backdrop for this paper lace design. This diverse and neighborly community is who Jesus calls on to do the unbinding. Jesus makes sure that the community knows about this miracle so that they can share the news. Can these bones live? Lazarus lives, and Jesus’ miracle lives on in the telling.
—Hannah Garrity
RUBBLE
by Carmelle Beaugelin
Inspired by Ezekiel 37:1-14
Conté crayon, charcoal, acrylic, paprika paste, cinnamon
It has been over a decade since my family in Haiti experienced the most traumatic earthquake in the nation’s history. If you were to Google, “Haiti” and “earthquake,” images of collapsed concrete and rubble would emerge. The most disturbing images are those of survivors, covered in white and gray ash and rubble, reaching out for rescuers to salvage them from collapsed buildings. Endless images are found on the internet of arms stretched out, identity-less faces of horror covered in soot, and faces frozen into expressions of despair by the spectating photographer’s lens.
When I think of Ezekiel and the story of the dry bones, I think of those images. I’ve often heard sermons where pastors position God’s people as the prophet to call the world into life, but what about God’s people who are, as the bones, facing the despair of death? Their suffering is theologized away by those who consider themselves the righteous “Ezekiels” of the world, whose privilege weighs heavy on the bones of the suffering, like the concrete rubble in Haiti.
Rubble speaks to the realities of being made alive and yet not being allowed to live—a nameless multitude of God’s people resurrected yet still bearing the scent of burial spices on their bodies.
Who are we in this story? Are we the bones seeking life? Do we perceive ourselves as spectators of suffering? Or will we choose to be participants in healing as active agents of God’s resurrecting power out of the rubble?
—Carmelle Beaugelin
by Carmelle Beaugelin
Inspired by Ezekiel 37:1-14
Conté crayon, charcoal, acrylic, paprika paste, cinnamon
It has been over a decade since my family in Haiti experienced the most traumatic earthquake in the nation’s history. If you were to Google, “Haiti” and “earthquake,” images of collapsed concrete and rubble would emerge. The most disturbing images are those of survivors, covered in white and gray ash and rubble, reaching out for rescuers to salvage them from collapsed buildings. Endless images are found on the internet of arms stretched out, identity-less faces of horror covered in soot, and faces frozen into expressions of despair by the spectating photographer’s lens.
When I think of Ezekiel and the story of the dry bones, I think of those images. I’ve often heard sermons where pastors position God’s people as the prophet to call the world into life, but what about God’s people who are, as the bones, facing the despair of death? Their suffering is theologized away by those who consider themselves the righteous “Ezekiels” of the world, whose privilege weighs heavy on the bones of the suffering, like the concrete rubble in Haiti.
Rubble speaks to the realities of being made alive and yet not being allowed to live—a nameless multitude of God’s people resurrected yet still bearing the scent of burial spices on their bodies.
Who are we in this story? Are we the bones seeking life? Do we perceive ourselves as spectators of suffering? Or will we choose to be participants in healing as active agents of God’s resurrecting power out of the rubble?
—Carmelle Beaugelin