Mtr Mary Trainor

“...and the last deception would be worse than the first.”

Dear friend,

Deception.

It’s a weighty word. It’s a charge that carries more baggage than simply labeling something as “untrue.”

It’s a fair guess, I think, to say none of us wants to be a victim of deception.

It’s not much of a stretch to surmise that the chief priests and Pharisees were counting on Pilate’s strong desire to not be played for a fool. After all, who wants both to lose and to have their nose rubbed in it.

So I imagine they had a little deception of their own in mind as they approached Pilate the day after Jesus died.

They were worried, they said, worried that allies of Jesus might steal the body—and claim that Jesus had risen from the grave, as promised.

Secure the tomb, they pleaded, or else be a victim of deception once more. And they added a line sure to terrify Pilate, a man very invested in looking good:

”...and the last deception would be worse than the first.”

Mary Lee was one of the first people I met in the Episcopal Church. She had twenty or more years on me. Well-regarded and universally loved, Mary Lee had no deception in her. Like the Lord she followed, she spoke the truth, loved without explanation, and saw hope in the world around her.

Sometimes well-meaning people thought she was helpless, easy prey, a victim of her own making, a target of deception.

But those people were wrong. At times, I was one of them. I recall the moment when I recognized that Mary Lee, for all her simplicity, was the wisest person in my sphere.

I was invited to a cookout in honor of an out-of-town priest. I did not know him. In fact, I knew virtually no one except the hosts. And, of course, Mary Lee.

Standing apart from the group, listening to the good-natured hum of conversation, I realized what a rich history was shared by those gathered, a history of which I had no part. A ripple of longing and regret swept through me.

It wasn’t until she spoke that I realized Mary Lee was standing next to me.

“A penny for your thoughts “ she said. I shared what was on my mind, feeling such affection for the group, and yet feeling I played no part in the stories they shared. There were pieces of their history that would never be mine.

She listened intently. She was in no hurry, content with silence and space.

When she spoke, it was soft and gentle: “But, Mary, I wonder if that’s really true. You have entered our history, our present, our future. It’s all yours.” And then the clincher: “It’s just like the workers in the field that Jesus spoke about. The first one and the last one were rewarded the same.”

Most of the world expects deception, working hard to avoid being caught in its snare.

Once in awhile, though, we meet someone without deception, without guile. And in such a moment, we catch a glimpse of the holy, a brief hint of the heavenly plane.

Mtr. Mary