#frank wesley

[jus-morbo]

Forgiving Father - Frank Wesley

[jus-morbo]

The Woman at the Well - Frank Wesley

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ANOINTINGS IN BETHANY (John 12:1-8)

Solemnly, Mary entered the room, Holding high the alabaster jar. It gleamed in the lamplight as she circled the room, Incensing the disciples, blessing Martha’s banquet. “A splendid table!”  Mary called with her eyes as she whirled past her sister.

She came to a halt at last before Jesus, Bowed profoundly and knelt at his feet. Deftly, she filled her right hand with nard, Placed the jar on the floor, Took one foot in her hands And moved fragrant fingers across his instep.

Over and over she made the journey From heel to toes, thanking him For every step he had made On Judea’s stony hills, For every stop at their home, For bringing back Lazarus.

She poured out more nard Took his other foot in her hands And started again with strong, rhythmic strokes. She felt her hands’ heat draw out his tiredness, Take away the rebuffs he had known – The shut doors, the shut hearts.

Energy flowed like a river between them. His saturated skin gleamed with oil. She had no towel! In an instant she pulled off her veil, Pulled the pins from her hair Shook it out till it fell in cascades, And once more cradled each foot, Dried the ankles, the insteps, Drew the strands between his toes.

Without warning, Judas Iscariot Spat out his anger, the words hissing Like lightning above her unveiled head: “why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?”

“Leave her alone!” Jesus silenced the usurper. “She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.”

The words poured like oil, Anointing her from head to foot.

Irene Zimmerman, Women Un-Bent.  St Mary’s Press, 1999. Page 51-52 Painting | Magdelene Anointing Jesus’Feet by Frank Wesley

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FATHER OF THE YOUNGER SON

"While he was still far off his father saw him." | Luke 15:20

Even after I gave up keeping the tiger cub in his cage, I picked it up, forgetting snarls and claws, though I have bite marks, scratches to show love comes late, scarred to wisdom. Though you keep the cub from larger cats, beware! Young tigers have no shame.

The years I do not count passing the window in the front, searching the road for signs of that cat no leash could check, unmuzzled, free, and bleeding.

The helpless ache is ordinary, the Thursday tedious, as I give a passing glance through the window at the dot on the far horizon, walking as many have walked before.

But the way he swings his arms, turns his head, slightly pigeon-toed. I am out the door, down the stairs, down the road, running, arms outstretched.

My embrace, my tears, my laughter gather in all the years, my kiss stops rehearsed genealogies of sin, outlawing of self. Of course, you are my son.

Be quick, steward, clothe him like the son of an Eastern king, the best robe from my chest, wake the cook, load the table with meats and wines.

Call in friends and foes, blaze the night into day with torches, push the chairs  against the wall, pluck the harps, strike the largest timbrel.

When the dead come back you drink. When the lost are found you dance.

TAKING IT FURTHER

Still simmering in the scriptural verse from the Song of Songs posted in the previous post - I am my Beloved’s, and His desire is for me - read Killian McDonnell's  poem "Father of the Younger Son". Read it carefully and repeatedly.  Punctuate it with silence. Marinate in its flow. Engage your senses: what do you see ... what do you hear ... what do you taste ... what do you smell ... what do you feel? 

Poem | Father of the Younger Son by Killian McDonnell in  Swift, Lord, You Are Not, (St. John's University Press, 2003) pages 40-41

Painting | Forgiving Father by Frank Wesley

[connelly-confessions-blog]

Frank is so adorably hot