Brigid of Kildare- Saint and Ordained Woman Bishop
In iconography, a shepherd's staff or crozier is used to indicate the status of a bishop. As it stands in the Catholic church, the ordination is only given to men by men. However, St. Brigid has a contrary story. I couldn't explain it better than this article.
The house is quiet. They close the door, latch it, and sink down exhausted onto the stone bench. John rises once to make certain the latch is secure, and Mary another time to light the lamp. Outside, people pass in the street. The oil lamp flickers unsteadily. The evening rolls into the night.
His head droops against her shoulder. A bird is calling softly outside the window. “I don’t know what to do next, mother.”
One roughened hand rises to cup his cheek. With the other, she takes his fingers—bloody, like her own—and grips them tightly. “Leave that be tonight.”
“He can’t be gone.” John’s voice cracks, eyes welling, as he leans on her. “He can’t. He was supposed to be—We thought he would—”
“Leave that be,” Mary says again, quietly. Her eyes are fixed on the flame of the lamp. Whenever the breath of their words reaches it, the flame judders, as if threatening to go out. It moves when John speaks again.
“We should find the others. They won’t have heard.”
They will have heard. There is no one in this city now who has not heard. But even so, they will have to find the others. Peter. James, and Andrew. Mary from Magdala. The details will be shared, and the garden tomb visited. But not tonight, and not tomorrow. Sabbath will keep them quiet. Like holding a breath, and shuddering in silence until it is released, they will wait for the Lord to pass by again.
John’s eyes close, but hers remain fixed on the flame. If she closes her own eyes, she sees it all. She can hear it ringing. She sits in the dim light as each blow, every curled-lipped jeer, collects around her like a pack of dogs, circling her heart.
“He saved others. Why not himself?”
“Let him come down. Then we will believe him.”
“If you are the Messiah, save yourself, and us.”
Her hands shake. She lowers one from John’s cheek to grip the stained edge of her veil. It’s still damp. She can feel the cold blood against her arms.
“Woman, behold your son.”
John’s head is heavy on her shoulder. She shifts slowly and settles him in her lap, his temple on her right knee, pulling his outer robe over him like a blanket. He rests there like a small child. Her hand sits on his shoulder.
“Son, behold your mother.”
Mary can hear his quiet inhales, feels when he stirs to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, and knows he’s not asleep. She lets him cry unnoticed. In this moment, it’s easier for him. He needs her presence as much as she needs his. So she sits, tears silent down her cheeks, and watches the lamp burn.
What do we do next?
She lets out a shaky breath. She will wait. She has always waited. Nine months, and then thirty-three years. She can wait a few more days.
She has known, from the moment of His presentation in the temple when He’d first been lifted from her arms, that He was not hers to hold on to. He had been given to her, and she has given Him back. The crown of thorns, and the bent nails, she had left in the tomb with Him. She had nothing else to give. They’d wrapped Him in cloth from a stranger, laid Him in a stranger’s tomb, and she’d left Him with the thorns and nails laid by, like a crown and scepter ready for Him to wield, and a holy kiss on His brow. She can feel the dried blood on her lips still. Does it make them holier, she wonders, to be anointed so? Like Isaiah with the heavenly coal, are her lips more profoundly blessed, or her clothes become like sacred garments as they stiffen with His blood?
He had been pale, at the end, naked and hung shivering in the open. When He’d spoken his last few phrases, they had struggled to understand Him. His lips and tongue had swollen, and He’d barely been able to raise Himself enough to push out the words. Perhaps grace allowed them to hear.
“It is complete. Into your hands, Father, I commend my spirit.”
It takes her only a moment to whisper them, but each syllable had been dragged from Him at substantial cost. There is more to them than she understands. She tucks them away in her heart while the lamp flickers low. John’s breathing deepens. He’s asleep.
She will wait. She has always waited. After the angel, but before she’d felt the first kick, there had been nothing for her but faith. She has that now, still.
The lamp goes out. Smoke drifts up, curling like incense. Mary closes her eyes and exhales.
I am the handmaid of the Lord. Let it be done to me according to Your word.
#he did this on the 14th of august#he read the names of the 16 Israeli children who died during October 7#then the names of the 12211 Palestinian children who died during Israel's bombardment of Gaza up until July 25 2025
Statue of Saint Martha, National Shrine and Parish of Saint Anne in Hagonoy, Bulacan, Philippines.
Martha is not wrong to be annoyed that she has no help with her work – and that is work that’s never actually described in the Gospel, even though she is often depicted as cooking or preparing a meal – practicing the ministry of hospitality, the ministry of welcome. The NRSV translation that we use says that Martha is “distracted by her many tasks.” In the original Greek, Martha is distracted by diakonion – which is the origin of our word deacon – someone who works on behalf of those who suffer or are poor or ill. The work of the deacon is to take care of God’s people, to care for the world – diakonion means service or ministry. So Martha was complaining that Mary was praying and studying, but not putting in the work of the diaconate – and we don’t really ever know what work that is. And Jesus’ response is not to scold Martha – his response is compassionate. Martha, Martha, he says – not just once – you are worried by many things. Be at peace, he seems to be saying. You only need one thing, that which Mary has chosen – listening to the word of God – because everything else, including Martha’s work, comes from that.
Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett, reflecting on Luke 10:38-42.
God: I will keep you from shame. be not afraid of yourself, or filled with shame or mortification at yourself. I love you and will raise you out of your darkness. I lift the lowly. be not afraid of yourself, or wallow in shame and misery (isaiah 54, isaiah 61, Psalm 34, zephaniah 3, etc!!!!)
Christianity: so what i'm hearing is i should be deeply ashamed of my humanity, hate myself, mortify myself, and treat myself and my body like shit to the determinant of both my physical and mental health?
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