One year Marie gave up TV for Lent. If Jesus Christ could bear His cross, then kite on it three hours so we’d repent, sacrifice in return was merely right. I swore off sweets, only to break my fast with thieved chocolate, watching Lord of the Flies, a film exposing my black soul. Aghast, I rushed to my sister’s room for advice. She was asleep, my parents too. Spilling from the TV, English schoolboy savages marched the house, whetted for blood and killing. I screamed for Jesus. But His ravages snared Him, like a film, in cruel depiction— as if it were my own crucifixion.
When we think of the blood of Christ, we think of the unnumbered insults; the five wounds; the blood beading from the thorn incisors encircling his head
But what if, instead, we thought of the blue and red twining vessels of the umbilicus, what if we pictured the roseate and warm web of nutrients we call placenta?
Why not envision the body of Mary her autonomic brain as it was building, creating a network of feeding and growing: caring and corpuscle, healing and hemoglobin, making a mammal’s four-chambered heart, fed by the rich cake we call placenta, shaping salvation’s vascular system?
Christ’s heart took shape in Mary’s body. His blood first coursed her valves and veins. It was made with her womb’s weaving, overcast by heaven’s venture, manifest through serving love, cell by alizarin cell.
“For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.” When Paul appeals to the self-emptying nature of Christ as one of the central Christian impulses for generosity, he is ringing a familiar chord. Generosity for the Corinthians is grounded in self-emptying in much the same way that joy and worship are grounded in self-emptying for the Philippians.