Wednesday, April 9
Compassion, William Bouguereau (1897) — Musée D’Orsay, Paris.
Recently, I wrote a poem based on a painting entitled “Compassion” by William Adolphe Bouguereau. In this painting, the crucified Christ, still on the Cross, is embraced by another man carrying a cross, ostensibly Simon of Cyrene, although he could really stand for any man (or woman). In my poem, I describe the person going skin to skin with Jesus, absorbing all of His love. The person becomes softer, more tender in Christ’s presence.
The Lenten sacrifices we might make enable us to draw closer to Jesus. Typically, I have given up chocolate for Lent, a definite benefit for my waistline, but I found that this particular sacrifice only left me with a hankering for more of the same. The chocolate bunnies and mini eggs would call my name from store shelves and my craving for them overrode my desire to be closer to Jesus.
This year, I have given up social media—the endless scrolling, the negativity, the constant comparison of myself to others, my wanting every sordid detail on the state of the world and shaking my head in indignation. Maybe God could hold these problems, these worries for a while. Maybe now, I could sit in silence—read poetry, breathe. Pray for His guidance for all the little dramas of life, listen to His voice in a mind less cluttered by the worries, real and imagined, of the outside world.
A quiet mind also gives way to reflection. I think about the word “compassion” from my poem which is from the Latin root “passio” which means “to suffer together.” Suffer together with our Lord, who from the Cross, could not deliver any pointed words to His critics. He simply hung. Left the worrying up to His Father. Jesus’s death on the cross teaches me that sometimes we must suffer in silence. Hope for comfort in unexpected ways. Surrender to the nakedness of who we are, know that God will use us as we are to offer comfort, hope, a way of being present in the world. Suffering may have to be good enough. Not every moment is a mountain moment, a transfiguration of glory. Sometimes, our tears, let down like the rain, serve a purpose too.
We do always know that Christ is with us. Passio—we suffer together.
A graduate of Queen’s University Artist In The Community Education Program, Rhonda Melanson has been published in several print and online magazines and is a recent recipient of the The Ted Plantos Memorial Award in Ontario, Canada. She is the author of two chapbooks: Gracenotes (Beret Days Press) and My Name is Mary (Alien Buddha Press). She also co-edits a literary blog, Uproar.
You can learn more about her here.