“Imagining the Gospel Scene” is a series from the Jesuit Media Lab. On occasional Sundays throughout this liturgical year, creators in the JML community will respond to the day’s Gospel passage through the practice of Ignatian contemplation, or what is sometimes called “imaginative prayer.”
In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius of Loyola invites participants to place ourselves in Gospel scenes using the imagination, relying on our senses to develop a distinctive, personal perspective on a given story — and thereby getting to know Christ better. After praying with the Gospel using their imaginations, our contributors will create a piece of art flowing from their experience — a painting, poem, short story, song, photograph or work in another medium.
In today’s installment, Allison Beyer reflects on Luke 6:27-38.
Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time: February 23, 2025
Luke 6:27-38
On a mountainside in the cool, hidden darkness, Jesus prays.
Nothing needs him. He can be in need, he can receive.
Jesus observes the natural world around him, breathing deeply, slowly.
The moss-covered stone of ages past, here, beneath his knees, now. His body dwarfed beneath dark pines whose roots have traveled decades deep into the earth, sucking up nutrients and water. Up, up into the boughs that now rise and fall like giant wings, rustling with the night wind, giving off the rich scent of green, of life.
Predators and prey, eyes aglow, move around him. Their tracks diverge around him like a river around a boulder. They need nothing from him.
The moon is high and the stars — many stars — unfold their constellations overhead. Jesus sees them all. Their ancient, humming songs bless his closed eyes, his open eyes. He sings back. He raises his empty hands, taking in this blessing of darkness, of light. The vastness. The wilderness that asks nothing of him.
Clouds move in, soft thunder, sprinkling before the steady, quiet song of rain. Jesus retreats into the cave, darker still. His heart is full. His mind, calm. His body relaxes against the hard, ancient ground, his lips mouth words of gratitude as sleep finds him easily, his body curled in the shape of a question mark, near the fire and his friends.
In the morning, the sun is up. They walk down the mountain to the level place. The hordes are there, waiting for them. The masses of suffering continue pouring in from all sides.
As they draw near, it is the stench that greets them first, then the sounds of suffering. Body odor, fresh blood, matted, caked and dried blood. Mud, puss, piss, excrement. Oozing, infected wounds. Open sores. Rattling coughs, crooked limbs. Cackling laughs and sporadic screeching. Low, guttural moaning. Wailing. Hissing, spitting, muttering. All moving inwards towards the center, towards him.
The disciples are with him, in a sense. Their faces are horrified, repulsed. One gagging, excuses himself. Hurriedly pushing his way through to the periphery of the crowd, he retches into a bush. Another disciple’s face hardens, and he fixes his gaze above the heads of those pressing in on them, silently reciting prayers he’s known since childhood. Another busies himself with a scroll, assessing the situation, taking notes, trying to deduce and enforce some kind of order.
The women are walking among the people, giving out water, wrapping wounds with bandages, greeting children, holding the babies.
The women have set up fire pits throughout the makeshift encampment. They have begun to cook. They are preparing bread, fish, grains, drink. They are singing while they cook. Members in the crowd sway along to the rise and fall of the music that praises the mercy of God as they await their turn with the Anointed One.
The women press the dough down with their thick palms, smacking the sticky balls firmly between their hands. Squeezing off good, hardy portions, throwing them into oil to fry, singing as the dough balls sizzle. Shaking salts and spices on top, tossing the loaves, piping hot and aromatic, onto outstretched blankets. Their voices lilting as they fill cups and canteens to the brim, dribbling down the sides, for all those who come to see and touch their teacher.
Jesus touches everyone, everyone. Everyone touches him. It is never-ending.
Vultures circle overhead. Roman soldiers begin to make their way through the crowd, here to investigate the spectacle.
The soldiers move through the throngs of God’s poor, prodding them with rods and the backs of their swords, confiscating food and drink and anything of slight value from the multitude. They admire shoes and cloaks, demand to try them on, tuck them into their sacks as payment for the sin of poverty and difference. The soldiers gather at one of the fire pits where the women are cooking.
The women dish up plates for the soldiers, fill their cups, give them seconds, thirds. The men slosh their cups together, laughing loudly, talking lewdly. Then, one of the soldiers goes still, horrified to recognize the woman before him. He had not known her immediately, surrounded by the filth and need, dirtied by her service. He bellows, raises his armored arm, strikes her, hard, with the back of his hand against the side of her face. She falls, crumpled into a huddle of her sisters. He roars.
How dare she shame him, their family, by leaving her home without an escort, by associating herself with these people. By touching them. Serving them! His outrage and disgust make him shake, spit on her. Her sisters try to hold her but the woman, steadying herself to her knees, propping her hands on their shoulders, stands up again. She looks the soldier straight in the eye so he can see her already swollen and bleeding face. She lifts her chin. Pours another full cup. Passes the cup to the leper at her side. She turns her face slowly, eyes blazing, daring him to strike her again, just as Jesus is upon them. His hand, quickly, gently, on the soldier’s shoulder.
The power of Jesus cuts through him like lightning splitting a dry tree. The soldier pushes Jesus’ hand off, shuddering. His pride turned to ash. His violence, smoldering seconds before, now flies out of him like a plume of smoke, like a spirit released from a corpse — straight up — and disappears into the open sky.
Stumbling backwards, the soldier catches his balance on the head of a small child, the hooded cloak of some wretched soul. He rights himself, looks around as though just waking, goes to fasten his cloak, but he realizes it has fallen to the ground and lies trampled in the grime. One of the women, eyes wet, jaw hard, unfastens hers — the finest embroidery, golden stitches on emerald velvet. Places this treasure in his bewildered hands.
The disciple taking notes on his scroll stands agape. Jesus calls to him; the disciple gives a subtle shake of the head. Jesus laughs and nods back. The disciple moves over to the soldier, places a small sack of coins in his hands. Catching Jesus’ gaze as he begins to note something on his scroll, he sighs and drops his head.
The disciples lead the soldier to the next fire pit over, where hot rolls have just been laid on a stiff grey blanket. Stunned, the soldier sits down among the needy. Bites into the steamy crust, the soft center. He closes his eyes. He is weeping, shaking. Again, the hand of power, resting gently on his shoulder. Again, the internal, moral combustion. The purifying surge of heat in his heart as it breaks open. He is not surprised to see it is Jesus who stands next to him when he opens his eyes.
He opens his mouth to speak, accustomed to talking his way out of humiliation and error, but Jesus stops him with a delicate squeeze on the shoulder. Raising the other hand, he looks out at the disciples and the crowd and begins:
“To you who hear I say,
love your enemies, do good to those who hate you”
A few women circle round their wounded sister, tend her fresh wounds, bring water to her cracked lips. The others continue cooking, lining the blankets with warm bread, filling cups with water, wine and sweet juices.
All of the women hum. Song birds flit in, settle in the nearby bushes. Their joint song is electric, buzzing beneath Jesus’ words. Jesus explains to the disciples how to love, how to give, how to forgive, how to measure, how to serve, how to lead.
The women hum as they scrape out their pots, filling the hungry with good things.
Top artwork: Christ Retreats to the Mountain at Night by James Tissot (public domain)