9

Stripped

FEBRUARY

“How about a field trip today?” Kit asked as they finished putting away the breakfast dishes.

Wren said, “I’ve got some cleaning to do, after the retreat and everything.”

“That can wait. No one will be there today, and I need an extra day off.” There would come a day, Kit thought, when she would need more than a bit of extra time to recover. And perhaps that day was coming sooner than she expected, much as she loved her work. She leaned back to stretch.

“What did you have in mind?” Wren asked.

“I thought we could go and do a prayer walk. My church has its own version of the stations of the cross in the sanctuary.”

Wren hesitated. “I’m not sure. I’m worried I might be intimidated by them, like they’ll be one more reminder of why I shouldn’t be trying to paint them myself.”

Kit had already thought of that. “They’re wood carvings, completely different than what you’re doing.”

Wren appeared to be mulling this over. “Okay,” she said after a while. “That might be okay.”

Before she could change her mind, Kit retrieved her bag and shepherded her out the door.

Kingsbury’s Church of the Redeemer, where she had worshiped ever since her divorce, incorporated eight Scripture texts, beginning not in the Garden of Gethsemane, but with Jesus before Pilate. After alerting the church administrator that they would be in the sanctuary, Kit joined Wren in front of that carving.

“It’s like you wrote in your letter,” Wren murmured, “about Jesus being in front of his accusers and not needing to defend himself. There’s such strength in him. Like Pilate is the one who can’t bear to make eye contact.”

Kit said, “I love that you see that. Strength is the perfect word.” She lightly touched Wren’s shoulder. “Take your time going through them. There’s one particular one I want to meditate on, so I’m going to start there.”

Leaving her to ponder and pray, Kit walked to the fifth prayer station at the front right corner of the sanctuary and sat down. Jesus Is Stripped of His Garments, read the sign on the wall. She let her gaze wander across the carving, noting the posture of the soldiers as they reached to grab what Jesus was already handing over without resistance: his outer garment. Soon he would be humiliated by having even his tunic stripped away. And while he hung on a cross, naked, the soldiers would cast lots for it, esteeming its value far more highly than they esteemed a man’s life.

The longer she studied the scene, the more her anger escalated, a pointed contrast to the peaceful determination on Jesus’ face. He was a marvel.

Stripped. Shamed. Mocked. Exposed. Humiliated. All of this he endured without once lashing out in anger or resentment.

How differently she had responded when she was stripped and exposed, publicly maligned not only by the one who had given her his vow of fidelity, but by the woman who had wrested from her the life she had known for more than twenty years as Robert’s wife.

Truly, Jesus was a marvel. The restraint of the Son of God as he submitted himself to the cross never ceased to astonish and humble her.

She glanced over her shoulder to mark Wren’s progress, only to find her kneeling in front of the carving of Jesus before Pilate, head in her hands.

“I kept thinking of what you wrote about the accuser,” Wren said as they drove home. “I’ve been wanting to write back to his mother, to explain myself and tell her why I wanted to honor Casey. He wasn’t only her son and Brooke’s husband and Estelle’s dad. He was my friend. And I’ll always love him.”

“Of course you will.”

Wren stared out the car window. “He was like a brother to me. I love my brother and sisters, but it’s not the same having siblings who are so much younger. They have each other. I had Casey.” Her voice broke. “She acts like there was something inappropriate between us. There never was. Ever. We never dated, never even wanted to. Brooke claims we were emotionally codependent, and I’ll give her that. I will. There was a lot that was unhealthy about the ways I tried to rescue him and how I relied on him for support. And I guess part of me wants to be able to say that to Brooke, to tell her I’m sorry for trying to lean on Casey, even after they got married. But how do I do that now? How do I try to ask for forgiveness when they want nothing to do with me?”

“Or when asking for it might not be safe or wise for you right now,” Kit said quietly.

Wren turned to look at her. “Right. I guess that’s right. But Jesus talked a lot about forgiveness and needing to move toward someone if they have something against you. And Brooke and his mom have lots against me, even if a lot of it isn’t true.” She sat back in her seat, hands clutched in her lap. “I feel like they’ve blocked me from doing what might help me move forward. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Eyes fixed on the road, Kit took a moment to decide how much input to offer. “I love your desire to ask for forgiveness and your willingness to own what you see as your responsibility, Wren. I’m sure Dawn and Hannah can give you wise and prayerful counsel about what’s best for you to do right now. But as far as someone having the power to keep you from moving forward in healing if you can’t move toward them in reconciliation, that’s not true. No one has the power to hold you hostage to guilt or shame or regret. We hold our own keys to that prison, and the cell door locks from the inside.” She glanced briefly toward Wren. “So, whatever process of forgiveness you need to work through, you can begin by having a conversation with God about receiving his forgiveness and forgiving yourself, even if the others never forgive you. And you can begin a process of forgiving them for the wounds they’ve inflicted on you.”

Wren sighed slowly. “I used to talk to the women at Bethel House about the difference between forgiveness, reconciliation, and trust. Guess I need to pay attention to my own words, don’t I?”

Kit smiled. “Don’t we all?”

FEBRUARY 28

My dear Wren,

I’ve been thinking this week about the word “stripped.” I’ve been pondering all that Jesus allowed others to strip away from him—not only his physical clothing, but also his reputation and dignity.

There was a time in my life when my dignity and reputation were stripped from me too. But oh, how I resisted that particular death. It was hard enough, being so utterly stripped of my emotional and mental strength that I needed to seek help at a psychiatric hospital. I remember crying when the staff confiscated from me my cross necklace and a silver bracelet my parents gave me on my sixteenth birthday. Though I received all my personal items back when I was discharged, there was something humiliating about being deemed such a danger to myself that I couldn’t be trusted to wear the jewelry that gave me courage and consolation. I was allowed to keep my wedding band, I remember. And that, in retrospect, was an irony.

It was while I was at the hospital that stories about my breakdown were whispered and shared under the guise of prayer requests: “Pray for Kit. Did you hear what happened???” Gossip, in any form, is violence. By the time I returned home, people had constructed their own narratives about responsibility and blame. This helped pave the way for Robert’s exit, which, by many, was viewed as understandable, given my “instability.”

For a long time I tried desperately to justify and defend myself, to restore my reputation by manipulating others’ opinions of me. It’s exhausting, futile work. St. Francis of Assisi wisely said that who we are before God is who we are. No more, no less. We are naked. Seen. Stripped. Exposed. Loved.

It’s a comfort to me that Jesus allowed himself to be stripped. And so he accompanies us in all of our undefended—and yes, terrifying—vulnerabilities and shameful exposures. He is our covering. And he is our defender.

I’ve never forgotten a dream I had during that season of my life. I dreamed that Robert and Carol and a group of others were throwing bricks at my head. I kept trying to duck and defend myself, but it was no use. Suddenly, Jesus stepped in front of me. He shielded me from them, taking the blows himself. Then he stooped and began picking up the bricks. I wasn’t sure at first what he was going to do with them. But as I watched, he laid them on the ground, making a path. Then he took my hand, and we walked together along that path, through the crowd.

As I prayed with the images from that dream, I saw with fresh eyes not only how Jesus accompanies us through such trials, but also how he paves for us the difficult path to healing and freedom when he prays, “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.” It’s hard enough to forgive others when they actually recognize and confess their sin and ask for forgiveness. But when they go blithely on their way, unaware of—or unconcerned about—the destruction they’ve caused? That’s another kind of stripping, the stripping away of my desire to make someone see the truth. And repent. In other words, it’s a stripping away of my desire for control. And that stripping, I know, is one my flesh will always resist. No matter how old I grow.

With you,

Kit