I end up hearing a lot of things via Facebook that I would never otherwise know. Maybe some that, all things being equal, I'd be better off not knowing. I'm sure it's the same for you, if you have a Facebook account.
What I know right now is that there is a woman somewhere who is known by someone I know only slightly, and who is pregnant with a baby with a serious medical problem. The woman is planning to abort the baby, and my Facebook friend is asking us all to pray, which I have.
Abortion is so hard for me to talk about, but it's there, and it's real, and my kids ask me about it, so I have to figure out what to say. It's hard because I used to think it was a bad-but-okay thing and better to be legal, and because people I love very much still feel that way, and I don't want them to feel like I'm judging them -- because I don't feel that way anymore.
I just found out about and joined an organization called Feminists for Life. I like their approach -- "Women Deserve Better." They advocate for supporting women (and children and men) in ways that address the unmet needs that may lead a woman to feel that abortion is her only choice. Why, they ask and I ask, should a woman have to choose between work or school and carrying a pregnancy to term? They talk about access to health care and adoption resources. I put a Feminists for Life bumper sticker on my car, but I hesitate to put anything on my Facebook.
To say anything about being against abortion, I fear, will lead to my being lumped in with the picketers with their bloody signs and the man who stands up in my church every year inviting us to "adopt" and pray for an unborn baby, even encouraging us to give "our baby" a name. Those approaches disgust me. They do nothing for women who seek abortion but shame or ignore or devalue them, and I want nothing to do with any of it.
So I remain silent.
I know women who have had abortions. Maybe there are women out there for whom abortion was a neutral, if not good, experience. I haven't met any of them. I have met any number of women whose abortions have left them deeply damaged. They are guilty and grieving and confused and ashamed even many years later. It has tainted their relationships with men and with their other children. I imagine that our public discourse about abortion continues to wound them.
When I sit in church and hear the rhetoric on "Respect Life Sunday," and many other Sundays as well, I think of the women sitting there who have had abortions. I know they are there, but there is nothing I have ever heard from the pulpit to indicate that anyone else knows. And I grieve for them, for the additional hurt or shame that they experience in the place where they should instead receive welcome and healing.
I know healing is possible, because I have seen it. I have seen it when women have first felt safe enough to claim their truth -- that they have had one, or sometimes more, abortions. I have seen healing when, then, a woman has been allowed to grieve. Sometimes it is grief for the baby, who she still remembers. Often it's grief for the woman she was, who was hurt or lied to or just alone and did the very best she could or thought she could. Finally, I have seen healing when that woman is accepted without judgment and without conditions.
I don't know what is going to happen with the pregnancy of the anonymous Facebook woman. I imagine that she feels an enormous amount of pressure and doesn't know for sure what the right thing is to do. I imagine that she might be very afraid to carry this baby to term and love it and then have to watch it die. Who wouldn't be afraid?
I'll be honest -- I hope she finds the support and the strength to continue her pregnancy. But if she doesn't, I pray that she receives love enough love to heal the hurt, to grieve the loss. I pray that she is welcomed back and not ostracized, that she is offered love and not rejection.
April 11, 2012
April 10, 2012
If you are new or visiting, please raise your hand
Only three hands went up. The church was packed. There were chairs in the aisles and in the vestibule. But only three people copped to being visitors. I suppressed a giggle and a scoff as I looked around. Really? None of you other people is new or visiting?
Obviously, all of those people aren't at church on an ordinary Sunday (unless they are the ones who show up the weeks I stay home; maybe whenever I miss, they bring in all those extra chairs). So I figure one of a couple of things is going on when they decide not to raise their hands. Maybe they feel embarrassed. Maybe they don't want to be outed as the Easter-Christmas-crowd. Okay, I'd rather people not volunteer to feel shamed. Maybe they're afraid they're going to be asked to do something or say something. Maybe they're afraid they're going to be given something they don't want. Fair enough.
But maybe it's something else, something sweeter. Maybe they still feel like this is their home. Maybe they don't feel new or like they are visiting, because they feel like they belong here, even if they haven't been since Christmas or last Easter or Grandma's funeral or their own wedding.
Isn't that who we want to be, as Church? A community that welcomes back the wayward son?
I've been thinking a fair amount lately about that parable, the one we call The Parable of the Prodigal Son. I read Tim Keller's book, The Prodigal God, which I can recommend, and I've discussed some of its points with a couple of friends.
I picked up the book because another friend thought I'd like it. As I began to read, part of me thought, "Yeah, yeah, I know all this." But I didn't. For instance, I'd never thought about the fact that, when the father divides the inheritance, the elder brother gets his, larger, portion too, so when the father says to him, "Everything I have is yours," that is literally true. When the father takes the ring and the robe and the fatted calf and all the other trimmings for the feast, he is taking from the elder brother to give to the wayward younger son.
Here was the other thing that I had never, ever considered: According to Keller, when the younger brother took off and never came back, somebody should have gone out looking for him. Look at the context of this parable. It follows immediately after The Parable of the Lost Sheep and The Parable of the Lost Coin. What happens in those stories? Something is lost, and someone -- the shepherd, the woman -- searches high and low until they are found. Not so the lost son/brother. And Keller says that the one who should have gone looking, according to the culture, was the older brother. But he doesn't. And when the younger brother comes back, the older brother is not rejoicing. He's angry, hurt, and disgusted.
It's tempting. I'm here in church week after week... They only bother to show up at Easter, and now I can't have my regular parking space or my pew. I sniff. I huff. I sigh.
"Everything I have is yours." That means, if my wayward brother, sister, is going to have any -- because she's spent hers -- it has to come out of mine. My inheritance, my parking space. Am I willing to share?
The older brother in the story is not willing to enter into the feast. We don't get to know if he ever joins in. Somehow, he feels like there is not enough for him if his wayward brother gets any.
I found a place to park and a place to sit, even though we got there later than we'd planned.
Why do I feel like there's not going to be enough for me?
Obviously, all of those people aren't at church on an ordinary Sunday (unless they are the ones who show up the weeks I stay home; maybe whenever I miss, they bring in all those extra chairs). So I figure one of a couple of things is going on when they decide not to raise their hands. Maybe they feel embarrassed. Maybe they don't want to be outed as the Easter-Christmas-crowd. Okay, I'd rather people not volunteer to feel shamed. Maybe they're afraid they're going to be asked to do something or say something. Maybe they're afraid they're going to be given something they don't want. Fair enough.
But maybe it's something else, something sweeter. Maybe they still feel like this is their home. Maybe they don't feel new or like they are visiting, because they feel like they belong here, even if they haven't been since Christmas or last Easter or Grandma's funeral or their own wedding.
Isn't that who we want to be, as Church? A community that welcomes back the wayward son?
I've been thinking a fair amount lately about that parable, the one we call The Parable of the Prodigal Son. I read Tim Keller's book, The Prodigal God, which I can recommend, and I've discussed some of its points with a couple of friends.
I picked up the book because another friend thought I'd like it. As I began to read, part of me thought, "Yeah, yeah, I know all this." But I didn't. For instance, I'd never thought about the fact that, when the father divides the inheritance, the elder brother gets his, larger, portion too, so when the father says to him, "Everything I have is yours," that is literally true. When the father takes the ring and the robe and the fatted calf and all the other trimmings for the feast, he is taking from the elder brother to give to the wayward younger son.
Here was the other thing that I had never, ever considered: According to Keller, when the younger brother took off and never came back, somebody should have gone out looking for him. Look at the context of this parable. It follows immediately after The Parable of the Lost Sheep and The Parable of the Lost Coin. What happens in those stories? Something is lost, and someone -- the shepherd, the woman -- searches high and low until they are found. Not so the lost son/brother. And Keller says that the one who should have gone looking, according to the culture, was the older brother. But he doesn't. And when the younger brother comes back, the older brother is not rejoicing. He's angry, hurt, and disgusted.
It's tempting. I'm here in church week after week... They only bother to show up at Easter, and now I can't have my regular parking space or my pew. I sniff. I huff. I sigh.
"Everything I have is yours." That means, if my wayward brother, sister, is going to have any -- because she's spent hers -- it has to come out of mine. My inheritance, my parking space. Am I willing to share?
The older brother in the story is not willing to enter into the feast. We don't get to know if he ever joins in. Somehow, he feels like there is not enough for him if his wayward brother gets any.
I found a place to park and a place to sit, even though we got there later than we'd planned.
Why do I feel like there's not going to be enough for me?
When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick.15When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.”16Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.”17They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.”18And he said, “Bring them here to me.”19Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds.20And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full.21And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children. (Matthew 14:14-21)
April 9, 2012
On a lighter note
I can make my life so ponderous. Sometimes I behave as if, for something to be worthwhile, it has to weigh two emotional tons. I am drawn to the extremes of life. I like strong tasting food -- black coffee, red wine, dark chocolate, and broccoli. When I cry, I sob. My husband says my sneezes shake the walls. When I laugh, tears stream down my face.
But I don't laugh too often. And why not?
I'm a textbook oldest child, overly responsible, serious, hard-working -- except when I am evading responsibility, looking for gossip on the internet, and finding excuses not to wash my floors. It's all the same pattern, two sides of a coin. I want to look serious all the time, so instead of playing for real, in healthy ways, I cheat. I don't want you to know I eat cake and drink Diet Coke. I don't want you to know how addicting I find political blogs or that I know everything there is to know about Mad Men.
I have trouble having fun.
I want to do better.
Here's the thing: I've been feeling a lot lately that life is short. Maybe it's that I'm on the verge of 45. The impending menopause? The grey hair? My oldest turning 16? My parents and parents-in-law edging into their 70s? (Feel free to stop me any time...)
I'm also tired of the clandestine "fun," which, truth be told, often isn't that much fun. I'm sort of over cake, believe it or not. Politics gets old. And I don't have cable, so I can't watch the new season of Mad Men until it gets to Netflix. But I digress.
I'd like your help. I'm going to start a list of things to do for fun, and I want you to join in. What, pray tell, is fun for you? What makes you smile or laugh out loud? NOT, please, what you think you ought to find fun (for example, playing Candy Land with your darling children; that may be noble, but it is NOT fun). Post what you really enjoy, maybe, if you're like me, in spite of yourself.
Post your answers in the comments here or on Facebook. Here are a few of mine:
roller skating
watching The Daily Show with my husband and the Muppets with husband and kids
hiking where there are lots of trees
dancing to 80's music
playing in the pool
listening to my kids tell jokes or play the piano
visiting with my sisters, in person, because they make me laugh so hard
folk music and show tunes
I'll add more. You do too.
But I don't laugh too often. And why not?
I'm a textbook oldest child, overly responsible, serious, hard-working -- except when I am evading responsibility, looking for gossip on the internet, and finding excuses not to wash my floors. It's all the same pattern, two sides of a coin. I want to look serious all the time, so instead of playing for real, in healthy ways, I cheat. I don't want you to know I eat cake and drink Diet Coke. I don't want you to know how addicting I find political blogs or that I know everything there is to know about Mad Men.
I have trouble having fun.
I want to do better.
Here's the thing: I've been feeling a lot lately that life is short. Maybe it's that I'm on the verge of 45. The impending menopause? The grey hair? My oldest turning 16? My parents and parents-in-law edging into their 70s? (Feel free to stop me any time...)
I'm also tired of the clandestine "fun," which, truth be told, often isn't that much fun. I'm sort of over cake, believe it or not. Politics gets old. And I don't have cable, so I can't watch the new season of Mad Men until it gets to Netflix. But I digress.
I'd like your help. I'm going to start a list of things to do for fun, and I want you to join in. What, pray tell, is fun for you? What makes you smile or laugh out loud? NOT, please, what you think you ought to find fun (for example, playing Candy Land with your darling children; that may be noble, but it is NOT fun). Post what you really enjoy, maybe, if you're like me, in spite of yourself.
Post your answers in the comments here or on Facebook. Here are a few of mine:
roller skating
watching The Daily Show with my husband and the Muppets with husband and kids
hiking where there are lots of trees
dancing to 80's music
playing in the pool
listening to my kids tell jokes or play the piano
visiting with my sisters, in person, because they make me laugh so hard
folk music and show tunes
I'll add more. You do too.
Dying for Love
Have you read "I'm Christian unless you're gay"? If not, you can start with this.
Dan Pearce published this in November at his blog "single dad laughing." I just read it today. There are a couple of outtakes that I want to highlight. First this:
Why is it that so many incredible people who have certain struggles, problems, or their own beliefs of what is right and wrong feel so hated? Why do they feel so judged? Why do they feel so… loathed? What undeniable truth must we all eventually admit to ourselves when such is the case?
Now, I’m not religious. I’m also not gay. But I’ll tell you right now that I’ve sought out religion. I’ve looked for what I believe truth to be. For years I studied, trying to find “it”...
Sisters and brothers in Christ, this man, Mr. Pearce, is not a Christian, but "for years" he has been looking for the truth. Do you know what he sees when he looks into our churches and our lives? Hate. He talks about Jesus having taught us to love, and he then goes on to draw equivalence between Jesus' teaching and that of the Buddha, Muhammad, Krishna, Rama, and traditional Judaism. I solemnly believe that the Truth is the Truth, and I feel nothing but gratitude that the reality of God's love has been experienced and taught by all the world's major religious traditions. But, Christians, we're supposed to do more, be more, than pointers to some old written teaching.
We are not supposed to be practicing religion. Christianity is not some set of rituals meant to appease an angry God. It is what is true about the world. Isn't that what we say when we "proclaim the Gospel"? In the ancient world, where those words come from, the "gospel" was about the king. "Caesar is king!" That was the Roman gospel. It was not something to believe or not believe. It was a fact, the fact, of life. We Christians say, despite all appearances to the contrary, "God is reigning as king through his Christ, Jesus." Then, in theory, we live as if that were true.
And that's not all.
When I say, "I am a Christian. I have been baptized into Christ. I am dead to sin (that is, my old self) and alive in Christ" (Galatians 3:27, Romans 6:3-4, 11, among others) what does that mean? What does it mean that I am "filled with the Holy Spirit" (Matthew 3:11, Mark 1:8, John 14:17, and others, but especially 1 Corinthians 3:16 and 6:19).
What -- God help us -- does it mean when those of us who claim, by our baptism or membership in a church, to be incarnating the Spirit of Christ today, have only hatred and judgment to offer?
We say we stand over and against "the world," with Christ, who came not to condemn but to save (John 3:17). What would that look like if it were true?
What would it look like if we Christians lived as if Christ were the King of creation and as if we were nothing but vehicles for His Spirit to do our living (2 Corinthians 4:7)?
I know, I know, there are a lot of people out there who want to say, "But this [behavior, belief, action, teaching] is wrong and God tells us what's right in His Word/Church." I want to say that too. Too often. Here's what I know:
Getting back for a moment to Mr. Pearce, he says:
I wish we didn’t all have to find ways that we’re better than others or more holy and saintly than others in order to feel better about our own messy selves. I wish people wouldn’t cluster entire groups of people together and declare the whole lot unworthy of any love and respect.
But that is the point of such thinking and action, isn’t it? I mean, it’s simpler that way. It makes it easier for us to justify our thoughts, words, and prejudices that way.
All these people become clumped together. And in the process, they all somehow become less than human.
They become unworthy of our love.
That final sentence, "They become unworthy of our love," makes me feel sick, because I know that that's the message that people hear from us so-called Christians. They hear it on picket-lines. They hear it on T.V. They hear it from the pulpit. They hear it over coffee. Them and us. It's still a big worthiness contest, and everybody loses.
And, incidentally, none of this has a single thing to do with what it looks like for Jesus to be King. His Kingdom, which we fervently pray to come so that God's will might be done, is a big ol' feast for sinners, wayward sons, prostitutes, and tax collectors. No bouncer at the door checking my worthiness card. And it's a good thing for me.
I am not worthy. I am blessed and gifted and, at the same time, a ruin of pride and laziness and judgment and self-pity and blame and selfishness. So are you.
I am not worthy of the love of God in Christ, "But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us" (Romans 5:8).
So, at long last, I lay down for us a challenge. Mr. Pearce says this:
Find somebody, anybody, that’s different than you. Somebody that has made you feel ill-will or even [gulp...] hateful. Somebody whose life decisions have made you uncomfortable. Somebody who practices a different religion than you do. Somebody who has been lost to addiction. Somebody with a criminal past. Somebody who dresses “below” you. Somebody with disabilities. Somebody who lives an alternative lifestyle. Somebody without a home.
Somebody that you, until now, would always avoid, always look down on, and always be disgusted by.
Reach your arm out and put it around them.
And then, tell them they’re all right. Tell them they have a friend. Tell them you love them.
Amen, I say.
And, Christians, we know something more. In order to love with the love of Christ, something has to die. What is it in me that needs to die today so that my brother, my sister, might live? What judgment, fear, resentment, self-righteousness has to go? What will it cost me to offer love, life, to a woman or man of whom the world says, "You are unworthy"? Christian love costs. And I believe that only, only when I am willing to pay -- with my own pride, dignity, need to be right, to be clean, to be safe -- only then am I loving with the love that is in Christ.
Dan Pearce published this in November at his blog "single dad laughing." I just read it today. There are a couple of outtakes that I want to highlight. First this:
Why is it that so many incredible people who have certain struggles, problems, or their own beliefs of what is right and wrong feel so hated? Why do they feel so judged? Why do they feel so… loathed? What undeniable truth must we all eventually admit to ourselves when such is the case?
Now, I’m not religious. I’m also not gay. But I’ll tell you right now that I’ve sought out religion. I’ve looked for what I believe truth to be. For years I studied, trying to find “it”...
Sisters and brothers in Christ, this man, Mr. Pearce, is not a Christian, but "for years" he has been looking for the truth. Do you know what he sees when he looks into our churches and our lives? Hate. He talks about Jesus having taught us to love, and he then goes on to draw equivalence between Jesus' teaching and that of the Buddha, Muhammad, Krishna, Rama, and traditional Judaism. I solemnly believe that the Truth is the Truth, and I feel nothing but gratitude that the reality of God's love has been experienced and taught by all the world's major religious traditions. But, Christians, we're supposed to do more, be more, than pointers to some old written teaching.
We are not supposed to be practicing religion. Christianity is not some set of rituals meant to appease an angry God. It is what is true about the world. Isn't that what we say when we "proclaim the Gospel"? In the ancient world, where those words come from, the "gospel" was about the king. "Caesar is king!" That was the Roman gospel. It was not something to believe or not believe. It was a fact, the fact, of life. We Christians say, despite all appearances to the contrary, "God is reigning as king through his Christ, Jesus." Then, in theory, we live as if that were true.
And that's not all.
When I say, "I am a Christian. I have been baptized into Christ. I am dead to sin (that is, my old self) and alive in Christ" (Galatians 3:27, Romans 6:3-4, 11, among others) what does that mean? What does it mean that I am "filled with the Holy Spirit" (Matthew 3:11, Mark 1:8, John 14:17, and others, but especially 1 Corinthians 3:16 and 6:19).
What -- God help us -- does it mean when those of us who claim, by our baptism or membership in a church, to be incarnating the Spirit of Christ today, have only hatred and judgment to offer?
We say we stand over and against "the world," with Christ, who came not to condemn but to save (John 3:17). What would that look like if it were true?
What would it look like if we Christians lived as if Christ were the King of creation and as if we were nothing but vehicles for His Spirit to do our living (2 Corinthians 4:7)?
I know, I know, there are a lot of people out there who want to say, "But this [behavior, belief, action, teaching] is wrong and God tells us what's right in His Word/Church." I want to say that too. Too often. Here's what I know:
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.2And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.3If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. (1 Corinthians 13:1-3)It does not matter if I'm right or you're right or what God's Word or Law or Church say if we do not have love. It doesn't make any difference. It does not allow the proclamation of the Gospel or the incarnation of Christ through His church. It only perpetuates the sin of the world, the same sin that sent Jesus to the cross.
Getting back for a moment to Mr. Pearce, he says:
I wish we didn’t all have to find ways that we’re better than others or more holy and saintly than others in order to feel better about our own messy selves. I wish people wouldn’t cluster entire groups of people together and declare the whole lot unworthy of any love and respect.
But that is the point of such thinking and action, isn’t it? I mean, it’s simpler that way. It makes it easier for us to justify our thoughts, words, and prejudices that way.
All these people become clumped together. And in the process, they all somehow become less than human.
They become unworthy of our love.
That final sentence, "They become unworthy of our love," makes me feel sick, because I know that that's the message that people hear from us so-called Christians. They hear it on picket-lines. They hear it on T.V. They hear it from the pulpit. They hear it over coffee. Them and us. It's still a big worthiness contest, and everybody loses.
And, incidentally, none of this has a single thing to do with what it looks like for Jesus to be King. His Kingdom, which we fervently pray to come so that God's will might be done, is a big ol' feast for sinners, wayward sons, prostitutes, and tax collectors. No bouncer at the door checking my worthiness card. And it's a good thing for me.
I am not worthy. I am blessed and gifted and, at the same time, a ruin of pride and laziness and judgment and self-pity and blame and selfishness. So are you.
I am not worthy of the love of God in Christ, "But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us" (Romans 5:8).
So, at long last, I lay down for us a challenge. Mr. Pearce says this:
Find somebody, anybody, that’s different than you. Somebody that has made you feel ill-will or even [gulp...] hateful. Somebody whose life decisions have made you uncomfortable. Somebody who practices a different religion than you do. Somebody who has been lost to addiction. Somebody with a criminal past. Somebody who dresses “below” you. Somebody with disabilities. Somebody who lives an alternative lifestyle. Somebody without a home.
Somebody that you, until now, would always avoid, always look down on, and always be disgusted by.
Reach your arm out and put it around them.
And then, tell them they’re all right. Tell them they have a friend. Tell them you love them.
Amen, I say.
And, Christians, we know something more. In order to love with the love of Christ, something has to die. What is it in me that needs to die today so that my brother, my sister, might live? What judgment, fear, resentment, self-righteousness has to go? What will it cost me to offer love, life, to a woman or man of whom the world says, "You are unworthy"? Christian love costs. And I believe that only, only when I am willing to pay -- with my own pride, dignity, need to be right, to be clean, to be safe -- only then am I loving with the love that is in Christ.
April 8, 2012
The darkness did not overcome it
I don't know if it's against the rules to critique a homily -- an Easter homily no less -- by the Pope. It feels like it ought to be verboten, even if, by some strange oversight, it's not. Nevertheless, here I go.
At the Easter Vigil at the Vatican, the highest of high holy liturgies for Catholic Christians, the Pope delivered what is, in my view, a beautiful teaching. Except for this passage:
The Pope's sermon, the passage quoted above in particular, was brought to my attention because it was reprinted in a newsfeed. I read the whole thing (you can too, here).
There was a time in my own faith walk when I was convinced that we had to do something, or else! I think now that this is a deeply unChristian way of approaching the darkness in the world. I was coming from the left. I thought that more social programs, more money, more people who thought like I did could solve all the problems of poverty and injustice. The current conversation, while from the right, says the same kind of thing from the other end: Less sex, less license, less freedom. But aren't we saying the same thing? We have to do something, or else!
It is right to recognize the ways in which the world still seems to tend in the direction of hell-in-a-hand-basket. To deny that this is true is just whistling in the dark (as I said here ). What I think the Pope fails to make clear (though I feel quite sure he'd agree with me here) is that we know beyond any shadow of doubt, that no matter how dark things may still seem, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it" (John 1:5).
The darkness cannot, will not, overcome the light. Now, none of that is to say that there isn't work for the Body of Christ. We are called to shine the light in the dark places. By the Spirit, we must illumine the places of injustice and the places of moral failure. What's more, we've got to start in our own backyards (cf. Matthew 7:3-5).
But let's not forget that we know the ultimate outcome. That is what Easter is all about. Death and all of its minions -- hatred, malice, envy, greed, covetousness, and all the rest -- have been defeated once for all (cf., for example, Hebrews 10:12-14).
With all due respect to Pope Benedict, I contend that there is no longer any "real threat to our existence and to the world in general." All we have to do is say, Yes, and join in the feast of the Lamb.
He is risen!
At the Easter Vigil at the Vatican, the highest of high holy liturgies for Catholic Christians, the Pope delivered what is, in my view, a beautiful teaching. Except for this passage:
The darkness that poses a real threat to mankind, after all, is the fact that he can see and investigate tangible material things, but cannot see where the world is going or whence it comes, where our own life is going, what is good and what is evil. The darkness enshrouding God and obscuring values is the real threat to our existence and to the world in general.My soul cries, "No!" The whole point of the resurrection and the realization of the kingship of Jesus is that darkness can no longer pose any real threat to mankind! Look at Saint Paul in Romans 8:
There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus… For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death. If God is for us, who is against us? He who did not withhold his own Son, but gave him up for all of us, will he not with him also give us everything else? Who will bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? …No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (vv 1, 31b-35, 37-39)Understand, I don't mean to say that I know more than the Pope. That would just be ignorant, not to mention arrogant. And yet, and yet... The church has been overtaken recently, both traditionalist Catholics and Evangelical Protestants, by a cacophony of hand-wringing about moral decay. Maybe it's not recent. Maybe it's always, and it's just seemed extra loud of late with all the press about the health care law and contraception. Is that really what we were baptized into Christ to talk about?
The Pope's sermon, the passage quoted above in particular, was brought to my attention because it was reprinted in a newsfeed. I read the whole thing (you can too, here).
There was a time in my own faith walk when I was convinced that we had to do something, or else! I think now that this is a deeply unChristian way of approaching the darkness in the world. I was coming from the left. I thought that more social programs, more money, more people who thought like I did could solve all the problems of poverty and injustice. The current conversation, while from the right, says the same kind of thing from the other end: Less sex, less license, less freedom. But aren't we saying the same thing? We have to do something, or else!
It is right to recognize the ways in which the world still seems to tend in the direction of hell-in-a-hand-basket. To deny that this is true is just whistling in the dark (as I said here ). What I think the Pope fails to make clear (though I feel quite sure he'd agree with me here) is that we know beyond any shadow of doubt, that no matter how dark things may still seem, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it" (John 1:5).
The darkness cannot, will not, overcome the light. Now, none of that is to say that there isn't work for the Body of Christ. We are called to shine the light in the dark places. By the Spirit, we must illumine the places of injustice and the places of moral failure. What's more, we've got to start in our own backyards (cf. Matthew 7:3-5).
But let's not forget that we know the ultimate outcome. That is what Easter is all about. Death and all of its minions -- hatred, malice, envy, greed, covetousness, and all the rest -- have been defeated once for all (cf., for example, Hebrews 10:12-14).
With all due respect to Pope Benedict, I contend that there is no longer any "real threat to our existence and to the world in general." All we have to do is say, Yes, and join in the feast of the Lamb.
He is risen!
April 7, 2012
Salvation
Tonight in the solemn Easter Vigil the church universal will recall the whole of salvation history from creation through the great flood, from the call of Abraham to the crossing of the sea, from the mighty prophets to the empty tomb.
Wiser souls than I have sought to understand and explain how the cross and the resurrection change everything. Who am I to add my voice? Who am I to remain silent?
The great procession of stories from Genesis forward is a reflection of the truth of humanity as a people of story. We live not in ideas, philosophy, not ultimately. We see our lives as stories, unfolding. "Once upon a time" to "The End." God's revelation is the story which is the foundation of all our stories.
Once upon a time, when the Spirit, the mighty wind, swept over the waters, all that was brought into being was good. It is good. Humankind was created the best of all, in the image and likeness of God, who one day would reveal the original from which the image is cast in the person of Jesus of Nazareth.
Humanity's election from among all God's creatures was for the revelation of God's perfect image to God's creation. We were to be the good shepherds. In order that we might perfectly reflect the Creator, we had to be made free like God. We are free to worship God. Which means we are free not to worship God. And so it went. And so it goes.
Once upon a time, God elected a remnant of humanity to fulfill the call of God-image-bearer for all of humanity. The family of Abraham were to be the light of God-image to all the nations. But in order that they might perfectly reflect the image of God, they had to be free. They were free to live for the world or live for their own tribe. They were free to worship their Creator or the local counterfeit. And so it went. And so it goes.
Once upon a time, God elected a remnant of the Jewish people to fulfill the call of God-image-bearer for all of creation. As the prophets foretold, a King, anointed to rule, would stand at the head of the nation who stood at the head of humanity, who stand at the head of created things. Messiah, Christ, Anointed. Jesus of Nazareth, begotten of God, incarnate by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin in the fullness of time, the Man in whose image Adam (Hebrew for man) was made.
In the fullness of time Jesus the King entered into his eternal destiny by exercising his freedom, our freedom, in a perfect Yes to God the Father. In the fullness of love, which is to will the good of Another, Jesus allowed that all of humanity's Noes to God be gathered unto Him: No to God's sovereignty. No to peace. No to the call to stewardship of the earth. No to gentleness and kindness and faithfulness. No to life. All the Noes and the destruction they wreak, Jesus carries in his flesh to the cross. Human suffering is united with the eternal, perfect love of God the Father to redeem all that is broken in creation and to inaugurate creation’s renewal. Death, the final NO is confronted with the perfect YES. And death cannot endure.
"The End," to our great and joyous surprise, is a new beginning.
Wiser souls than I have sought to understand and explain how the cross and the resurrection change everything. Who am I to add my voice? Who am I to remain silent?
The great procession of stories from Genesis forward is a reflection of the truth of humanity as a people of story. We live not in ideas, philosophy, not ultimately. We see our lives as stories, unfolding. "Once upon a time" to "The End." God's revelation is the story which is the foundation of all our stories.
Once upon a time, when the Spirit, the mighty wind, swept over the waters, all that was brought into being was good. It is good. Humankind was created the best of all, in the image and likeness of God, who one day would reveal the original from which the image is cast in the person of Jesus of Nazareth.
Humanity's election from among all God's creatures was for the revelation of God's perfect image to God's creation. We were to be the good shepherds. In order that we might perfectly reflect the Creator, we had to be made free like God. We are free to worship God. Which means we are free not to worship God. And so it went. And so it goes.
Once upon a time, God elected a remnant of humanity to fulfill the call of God-image-bearer for all of humanity. The family of Abraham were to be the light of God-image to all the nations. But in order that they might perfectly reflect the image of God, they had to be free. They were free to live for the world or live for their own tribe. They were free to worship their Creator or the local counterfeit. And so it went. And so it goes.
Once upon a time, God elected a remnant of the Jewish people to fulfill the call of God-image-bearer for all of creation. As the prophets foretold, a King, anointed to rule, would stand at the head of the nation who stood at the head of humanity, who stand at the head of created things. Messiah, Christ, Anointed. Jesus of Nazareth, begotten of God, incarnate by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin in the fullness of time, the Man in whose image Adam (Hebrew for man) was made.
In the fullness of time Jesus the King entered into his eternal destiny by exercising his freedom, our freedom, in a perfect Yes to God the Father. In the fullness of love, which is to will the good of Another, Jesus allowed that all of humanity's Noes to God be gathered unto Him: No to God's sovereignty. No to peace. No to the call to stewardship of the earth. No to gentleness and kindness and faithfulness. No to life. All the Noes and the destruction they wreak, Jesus carries in his flesh to the cross. Human suffering is united with the eternal, perfect love of God the Father to redeem all that is broken in creation and to inaugurate creation’s renewal. Death, the final NO is confronted with the perfect YES. And death cannot endure.
"The End," to our great and joyous surprise, is a new beginning.
Exultet!
"Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing choirs of
angels!Exult, all creation around God's throne!
Jesus Christ, our King is risen!
Sound the trumpet of salvation!
"Rejoice, O earth, in shining splendor,
radiant in the brightness of your King!
Christ has conquered! Glory fills you!
Darkness vanishes for ever!
"Rejoice, O Mother Church! Exult in glory!
The risen Savior shines upon you!
Let this place resound with joy,
echoing the mighty song of all God's people!
"My dearest friends,
standing with me in this holy light,
join me in asking God for mercy,
that he may give his unworthy minister
grace to sing his Easter praises.
- "The Lord be with you.
- And also with you.
- Lift up your hearts.
- We lift them up to the Lord.
- Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.
- It is right to give him thanks and praise.
we should praise the unseen God, the all-powerful Father,
and his only Son, our Lord Jesus Christ.
"For Christ has ransomed us with his blood,
and paid for us the price of Adam's sin to our eternal Father!
"This is our passover feast,
When Christ, the true Lamb, is slain,
whose blood consecrates the homes of all believers.
"This is the night,
when first you saved our fathers:
you freed the people of Israel from their slav'ry,
and led them dry-shod through the sea.
"This is the night,
when the pillar of fire destroyed the darkness of sin.
"This is night,
when Christians ev'rywhere,
washed clean of sin and freed from all defilement,
are restored to grace and grow together in holiness.
"This is the night,
when Jesus broke the chains of death
and rose triumphant from the grave.
"What good would life have been to us,
had Christ not come as our Redeemer?
"Father, how wonderful your care for us!
How boundless your merciful love!
To ransom a slave you gave away your Son.
"O happy fault, O necessary sin of Adam,
which gained for us so great a Redeemer!
"Most blessed of all nights,
chosen by God to see Christ rising from the dead!
"Of this night scripture says:
'The night will be as clear as day:
it will become my light, my joy.'
"The power of this holy night dispels all evil,
washes guilt away, restores lost innocence,
brings mourners joy;
it casts out hatred, brings us peace,
and humbles earthly pride.
"Night truly blessed,
when heaven is wedded to earth
and we are reconciled to God!
"Therefore, heavenly Father, in the joy of this night,
receive our evening sacrifice of praise,
your Church's solemn offering.
"Accept this Easter candle,
a flame divided but undimmed,
a pillar of fire that glows to the honor of God.
"Let it mingle with the lights of heaven
and continue bravely burning
to dispel the darkness of this night!
"May the Morning Star which never sets
find this flame still burning:
Christ, that Morning Star,
who came back from the dead,
and shed his peaceful light on all mankind,
your Son, who lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen."
[For more information about the Exultet in the Easter liturgy, click here.]
The Day After
For us, it's The Day Before. We'll spend the day on an Easter egg hunt at church, dyeing eggs at home, pulling out pastel-colored clothes and baskets, awaiting spiral hams and chocolate bunnies. For them, it was the day after.
When the disciples ran, where did they go? As I imagine it, they all, men and women, eventually made it back to the upper room. It was a kind of safehouse to begin with, thus the sign of the tethered donkey. Now it was not Jesus who was on the run, but his followers. Jesus was dead.
As far as anyone knew -- despite what they had been told they might expect on the third day -- this was their new reality. Jesus, their friend and leader, was dead. They were all in grief. The men were probably wanted as co-conspiritors. And it was the sabbath. They were not going to travel. What did they do?
My mother died in the middle of the night. We were at the hospital. Afterward, we gathered at my tiny, rented house, where my grandmother, husband, and small children were sleeping. In a stupor of disbelief and helplessness, we spent hours sitting on the floor. We cried and were numb. We talked and didn't talk. I don't remember what we said, but I remember very well sitting on the floor until the sun came up, not having a clue as to what else to do that night or any day or night that was to come. I image that the disciples felt something like that.
I imagine them sitting on the floor, crying and numb, talking and silent. I imagine the stupor of disbelief and helplessness. I imagine the fear that there would be a knock at the door and some soldier would want to take them away and crucify them too. I imagine Mary the mother of Jesus praying. I imagine some other Mary offering food which nobody wanted to eat.
And where was Peter?
I imagine Peter, in his shame, somewhere else, God knows where. The others would be worried that he had been arrested too. Finally he would come back, knock at the door, frighten everyone half-to-death, but then, by his presence, fill them with relief for a moment before the dark truth of their reality seeped back in.
Some of the women would do what women do and get busy with the business of living and dying, in this instance, with planning for the proper burial that was to come. They would find a way to gather the spices. They would make it a king's burial, as Jesus deserved. Such preparations would give them a sense of purpose. They would be ready to rise before dawn to be at the tomb as early as they could.
Eventually, although it was day, we all went to bed and slept a little. Then the children, not-yet-three and not-yet-one woke, hungry. Life moves on regardless of our grief. The day dawns, the children need feeding, arrangements have to be made. It seems as though no tomorrow worth living is going to come around again.
When the disciples ran, where did they go? As I imagine it, they all, men and women, eventually made it back to the upper room. It was a kind of safehouse to begin with, thus the sign of the tethered donkey. Now it was not Jesus who was on the run, but his followers. Jesus was dead.
As far as anyone knew -- despite what they had been told they might expect on the third day -- this was their new reality. Jesus, their friend and leader, was dead. They were all in grief. The men were probably wanted as co-conspiritors. And it was the sabbath. They were not going to travel. What did they do?
My mother died in the middle of the night. We were at the hospital. Afterward, we gathered at my tiny, rented house, where my grandmother, husband, and small children were sleeping. In a stupor of disbelief and helplessness, we spent hours sitting on the floor. We cried and were numb. We talked and didn't talk. I don't remember what we said, but I remember very well sitting on the floor until the sun came up, not having a clue as to what else to do that night or any day or night that was to come. I image that the disciples felt something like that.
I imagine them sitting on the floor, crying and numb, talking and silent. I imagine the stupor of disbelief and helplessness. I imagine the fear that there would be a knock at the door and some soldier would want to take them away and crucify them too. I imagine Mary the mother of Jesus praying. I imagine some other Mary offering food which nobody wanted to eat.
And where was Peter?
I imagine Peter, in his shame, somewhere else, God knows where. The others would be worried that he had been arrested too. Finally he would come back, knock at the door, frighten everyone half-to-death, but then, by his presence, fill them with relief for a moment before the dark truth of their reality seeped back in.
Some of the women would do what women do and get busy with the business of living and dying, in this instance, with planning for the proper burial that was to come. They would find a way to gather the spices. They would make it a king's burial, as Jesus deserved. Such preparations would give them a sense of purpose. They would be ready to rise before dawn to be at the tomb as early as they could.
Eventually, although it was day, we all went to bed and slept a little. Then the children, not-yet-three and not-yet-one woke, hungry. Life moves on regardless of our grief. The day dawns, the children need feeding, arrangements have to be made. It seems as though no tomorrow worth living is going to come around again.
April 6, 2012
At the foot of the cross
We have been there. We know what is dumped and piled there, at the foot of the cross, seemingly foresaken. We've heard about it, seen it, lived it.
There is the ruin of our lives. Every abused child and loveless marriage. Angry words. Gnawing fear. There are the broken promises and the faded dreams. Lonely, sleepless nights. Disappointment and disease. Famine and poverty and war. Greed and corruption. School shootings and execution chambers. Drug overdoses and abortions. Hopelessness, helplessness, and despair. Nameless, senseless death.
There are all the places where our live cease to make any sense. Where meaning is gone and all that remains is emptiness. There is nowhere to go from the cross but into the heart of the tomb, cold, sealed with a stone.
I know we know the ending, but there is an ending before the true ending, which is itself a new beginning.
Gather courage and enter with me into the tomb. Put off the glad rags and the sugar-coating. See your sister and know that she carries within her a burden of pain. Look upon your brother and acknowledge his wounds. Look in the mirror. See the truth of the hurts you have suffered and the hurts you have inflicted. In all this, gaze on the cross.
I have had enough of tired religion that wants to skirt this truest truth. The cross is a scandal and an abomination -- and nothing else would do. God entered into the darkest darkness of our lives. The cross is not an afterthought. Jesus was never "plan B." This was always the way, from all eternity.
I am finished with religion that wants to encourage me without first encountering my pain. I have had it with spirituality that does not recognize the truth of a world wracked by sin. The solution makes absolutely no sense apart from the problem.
I am naked, broken, bleeding, dying and so are you. We and our world are in desperate need of a savior.
There is the ruin of our lives. Every abused child and loveless marriage. Angry words. Gnawing fear. There are the broken promises and the faded dreams. Lonely, sleepless nights. Disappointment and disease. Famine and poverty and war. Greed and corruption. School shootings and execution chambers. Drug overdoses and abortions. Hopelessness, helplessness, and despair. Nameless, senseless death.
There are all the places where our live cease to make any sense. Where meaning is gone and all that remains is emptiness. There is nowhere to go from the cross but into the heart of the tomb, cold, sealed with a stone.
I know we know the ending, but there is an ending before the true ending, which is itself a new beginning.
Gather courage and enter with me into the tomb. Put off the glad rags and the sugar-coating. See your sister and know that she carries within her a burden of pain. Look upon your brother and acknowledge his wounds. Look in the mirror. See the truth of the hurts you have suffered and the hurts you have inflicted. In all this, gaze on the cross.
I have had enough of tired religion that wants to skirt this truest truth. The cross is a scandal and an abomination -- and nothing else would do. God entered into the darkest darkness of our lives. The cross is not an afterthought. Jesus was never "plan B." This was always the way, from all eternity.
I am finished with religion that wants to encourage me without first encountering my pain. I have had it with spirituality that does not recognize the truth of a world wracked by sin. The solution makes absolutely no sense apart from the problem.
I am naked, broken, bleeding, dying and so are you. We and our world are in desperate need of a savior.
April 5, 2012
Gethsemane
Of all the events of the passion of Jesus, I think of the agony in the garden as being the most difficult. Of course there is the physical agony of the scourging, the humiliation of the crown of thorns, the near impossibility of dragging the cross beam through the streets of Jerusalem, and, of course, the horror of the crucifixion.
But what's different to me about Gethsemane is that Jesus still has a choice. I remember the first time a wiser soul prompted me to think about it -- that Jesus didn't have to remain in the garden waiting for the soldiers and then submit to his arrest. He could have run, lived to fight another day. He could have stood in opposition, his disciples an army with swords at the ready. He had choices.
That's what I think makes Gethsemane so difficult. I think that is why Jesus sweat blood. He had to stand in the conviction of his own will, believing that he knew and could assent to the will of the Father in this final hour.
After Jesus' prayer in the garden, once the soldiers arrive with their clubs and swords, the choice becomes irrevocable. Yes, Jesus could "summon twelve legions of angels" (Matthew 26:53), but we know that he's made his choice, and it is to submit "like a lamb led to the slaughter" (Isaiah 53:7). He is now at the mercy of the powers of this world, the High Priests and the Pilates and the Herods, because of his Yes in the garden.
What does it take for Jesus to say that final, Yes, to the cup that he is called to drink? It is night. He is alone, with not one friend who can watch and pray for even an hour, even this hour.
What does it take for me to say, Yes, to the cup that I am called to drink? For you to say, Yes, to the cup that you are called to drink, the crosses that we must carry? We face the night too, on our knees, in desperation, sweating blood.
But we are not alone. There is One who watches and prays with us in our hour. He suffers with us, bleeds with us, carries the cross with us, dies with us. With me.
But what's different to me about Gethsemane is that Jesus still has a choice. I remember the first time a wiser soul prompted me to think about it -- that Jesus didn't have to remain in the garden waiting for the soldiers and then submit to his arrest. He could have run, lived to fight another day. He could have stood in opposition, his disciples an army with swords at the ready. He had choices.
That's what I think makes Gethsemane so difficult. I think that is why Jesus sweat blood. He had to stand in the conviction of his own will, believing that he knew and could assent to the will of the Father in this final hour.
After Jesus' prayer in the garden, once the soldiers arrive with their clubs and swords, the choice becomes irrevocable. Yes, Jesus could "summon twelve legions of angels" (Matthew 26:53), but we know that he's made his choice, and it is to submit "like a lamb led to the slaughter" (Isaiah 53:7). He is now at the mercy of the powers of this world, the High Priests and the Pilates and the Herods, because of his Yes in the garden.
What does it take for Jesus to say that final, Yes, to the cup that he is called to drink? It is night. He is alone, with not one friend who can watch and pray for even an hour, even this hour.
What does it take for me to say, Yes, to the cup that I am called to drink? For you to say, Yes, to the cup that you are called to drink, the crosses that we must carry? We face the night too, on our knees, in desperation, sweating blood.
But we are not alone. There is One who watches and prays with us in our hour. He suffers with us, bleeds with us, carries the cross with us, dies with us. With me.
Holiness, Addendum CORRECTED
My husband was horrified that I did not include this link in yesterday's post, so, in the interest of maintaining marital bliss, and because it is a good and fitting song, here it is:
Peter Mayer's Holy Now
(That should be better. Good grief!)
Peter Mayer's Holy Now
(That should be better. Good grief!)
April 4, 2012
Crux
crux, from the Latin, cross
A wise friend who is dear to my heart asked me to clarify something critical: Do you really see the cross of Jesus' crucifixion as a failure?
I actually think it is difficult from here, 2,000 years of Christian history later, to remember that in Roman Palestine, the cross was an ignominy, a sign of cursedness. Now it's art, jewelry. I remember being an adult, maybe even in my early 30's, when I first became aware of how many people were crucified by the Romans. I had never given it a thought. There were just those three in my mind, Jesus and the nameless men on his left and his right. In reality, there were thousands.
If you don't already know -- as I didn't -- crucifixion was a punishment for rebels and slaves. The convicted carried only the horizontal cross-beam; the upright would have been stationary. He was stripped naked, denied the modest loin-cloth that depictions of Jesus crucified allow. The crucified died of asphyxiation. It took me a while to understand how that could happen, but it has to do with the weight of the body and the need to support that weight in order to allow the lungs to fill with air. You can find a much more detailed -- and gruesome -- description somewhere on the internet, I'm sure. It's a horrifying form of torture. What's more, it's public and humiliating and it's meant to be a lesson to everyone about the power of the powerful. I have heard that there is no depiction of crucifixion in art until after every generation of first-hand witnesses had died. No one who had seen a crucifixion could imagine rendering it as an image for reflection or worship. Crucifixion may be the cruelest means of execution ever to spring from the imagination of fallen Man.
I said in the earlier post about failure that a crucified messiah was necessarily a failed messiah. The whole point of messiahship was about defeating Israel's enemies. The proximate enemy was Rome, but in the context of Jewish history you could as easily substitute Babylon or Assyria or -- and especially -- Egypt, and tell the same story of oppression and injustice, the powers of the world in conflict with God's chosen people. The best of the good-ol'-days was the time, a thousand years before Jesus, when King David ruled and defeated all of Israel's enemies and established the center of his kingdom -- God's kingdom! -- on Mount Zion, Jerusalem. The expectation of messiah ("anointed"; Greek - christos) was for a re-establishment, finally, of that sort of kingdom, where all the world would know that God was king, ruling through His chosen, Israel and Israel's anointed king. Crucifixion meant exactly that that was not going to happen. Rome wins. Israel loses. The real messiah could not end up on a Roman cross and be messiah. But Jesus did.
A lot of people think that, for Jesus of Nazareth, that was the end of the story. People thought it 2,000 years ago. Some people think it now. In this post-Enlightenment world we have adopted this quaint notion that, somehow, ancient people didn't understand how death works. In fact, even two thousand years ago, people knew that dead meant dead. And they knew better than we that crucified meant Dead.
So, Jesus of Nazareth, would-be messiah, crucified on a Roman cross, was a failure if that is the end of the story.
There's so much temptation to talk about Easter, empty tombs and the sunrise of new creation. But let's not yet. Let's wait. Let's spend the next three days with those women at the foot of that Roman cross. Let's spend a moment of awareness of the abject failure that it all appeared to be.
| Noun: |
|
A wise friend who is dear to my heart asked me to clarify something critical: Do you really see the cross of Jesus' crucifixion as a failure?
I actually think it is difficult from here, 2,000 years of Christian history later, to remember that in Roman Palestine, the cross was an ignominy, a sign of cursedness. Now it's art, jewelry. I remember being an adult, maybe even in my early 30's, when I first became aware of how many people were crucified by the Romans. I had never given it a thought. There were just those three in my mind, Jesus and the nameless men on his left and his right. In reality, there were thousands.
If you don't already know -- as I didn't -- crucifixion was a punishment for rebels and slaves. The convicted carried only the horizontal cross-beam; the upright would have been stationary. He was stripped naked, denied the modest loin-cloth that depictions of Jesus crucified allow. The crucified died of asphyxiation. It took me a while to understand how that could happen, but it has to do with the weight of the body and the need to support that weight in order to allow the lungs to fill with air. You can find a much more detailed -- and gruesome -- description somewhere on the internet, I'm sure. It's a horrifying form of torture. What's more, it's public and humiliating and it's meant to be a lesson to everyone about the power of the powerful. I have heard that there is no depiction of crucifixion in art until after every generation of first-hand witnesses had died. No one who had seen a crucifixion could imagine rendering it as an image for reflection or worship. Crucifixion may be the cruelest means of execution ever to spring from the imagination of fallen Man.
I said in the earlier post about failure that a crucified messiah was necessarily a failed messiah. The whole point of messiahship was about defeating Israel's enemies. The proximate enemy was Rome, but in the context of Jewish history you could as easily substitute Babylon or Assyria or -- and especially -- Egypt, and tell the same story of oppression and injustice, the powers of the world in conflict with God's chosen people. The best of the good-ol'-days was the time, a thousand years before Jesus, when King David ruled and defeated all of Israel's enemies and established the center of his kingdom -- God's kingdom! -- on Mount Zion, Jerusalem. The expectation of messiah ("anointed"; Greek - christos) was for a re-establishment, finally, of that sort of kingdom, where all the world would know that God was king, ruling through His chosen, Israel and Israel's anointed king. Crucifixion meant exactly that that was not going to happen. Rome wins. Israel loses. The real messiah could not end up on a Roman cross and be messiah. But Jesus did.
A lot of people think that, for Jesus of Nazareth, that was the end of the story. People thought it 2,000 years ago. Some people think it now. In this post-Enlightenment world we have adopted this quaint notion that, somehow, ancient people didn't understand how death works. In fact, even two thousand years ago, people knew that dead meant dead. And they knew better than we that crucified meant Dead.
So, Jesus of Nazareth, would-be messiah, crucified on a Roman cross, was a failure if that is the end of the story.
There's so much temptation to talk about Easter, empty tombs and the sunrise of new creation. But let's not yet. Let's wait. Let's spend the next three days with those women at the foot of that Roman cross. Let's spend a moment of awareness of the abject failure that it all appeared to be.
"Holy Week"
On Sunday, Palm/Passion Sunday, the priest talked, predictably, innocuously, about Holy Week as (duh) the "holiest" week of the year. It steamed me.
A few years ago, in a cliched attempt to read the whole Bible in a year, from the beginning, I valiantly persevered all the way through the book of Deuteronomy. That meant that I read all the Law in the course of about twelve weeks. If you've never done it, let me warn you -- it's a bloody business. There is all sorts of detail about how to make a proper sacrifice. When my 20th/21st century mind hears "sacrifice," I imagine it as a painful, if intangible, letting go. Not so in the ancient world.
Every ancient culture participated in some sort of animal -- or human -- sacrifice as a way of communing with their gods. "Religion" and sacrifice were more or less synonymous. And was it ever bloody. In the Hebrew scriptures, it is not just the fact that animals were killed. Their blood was gathered in bowls and splashed around. So much for the privilege of the priestly class. Their lot was to do the gathering and the splashing and, one presumes, the getting splashed on. Think of the smell.
The other thing I noticed in reading the first five books all in a row was what it meant for something to be "holy." There is, to be sure, plenty said about the sacrificial animal's being unblemished or the first-born. But, at least to my understanding, the thing that made it holy, the crucial thing, was that it was set apart for God. By being so designated, as belonging not to me, but to God, it became holy.
Now, that makes sense to me when I think about "Holy Week," I guess. We can look at this week as the most set apart for God. We can. There are a lot of extra church services, particularly if you are a Catholic. Time set apart for God. Holy.
But here's what nags me, to the bone: What about next week? Or last week? Do they somehow belong less to God? Are they less holy?
It's the same thing that irks me with all the things we label "holy" -- church buildings, clergy, saints, icons, certain songs, crosses. Holy, holy, holy.
Gerard Manly Hopkis, Jesuit and poet, said, "The world is filled with the grandeur of God." Amen. You know what I think is holy? What I think is reflective of the greatness of God and deserves to be set apart? Let's start with chocolate ice cream. And babies. How about that wilted dafodil in my front yard that the snow is just melting off of. Beethoven's 9th. My husband's warm legs against my icy feet in bed (yes, he is a saint). My son's toothless grin. Clean towels. The moment when tomorrow's school lunches are made. Holy, holy, holy.
I will go into the church building this week and listen to the clergy and recall the saints and gaze on the icons and sing the songs and venerate the cross. But things are every bit as holy in the home I leave and come back to.
A few years ago, in a cliched attempt to read the whole Bible in a year, from the beginning, I valiantly persevered all the way through the book of Deuteronomy. That meant that I read all the Law in the course of about twelve weeks. If you've never done it, let me warn you -- it's a bloody business. There is all sorts of detail about how to make a proper sacrifice. When my 20th/21st century mind hears "sacrifice," I imagine it as a painful, if intangible, letting go. Not so in the ancient world.
Every ancient culture participated in some sort of animal -- or human -- sacrifice as a way of communing with their gods. "Religion" and sacrifice were more or less synonymous. And was it ever bloody. In the Hebrew scriptures, it is not just the fact that animals were killed. Their blood was gathered in bowls and splashed around. So much for the privilege of the priestly class. Their lot was to do the gathering and the splashing and, one presumes, the getting splashed on. Think of the smell.
The other thing I noticed in reading the first five books all in a row was what it meant for something to be "holy." There is, to be sure, plenty said about the sacrificial animal's being unblemished or the first-born. But, at least to my understanding, the thing that made it holy, the crucial thing, was that it was set apart for God. By being so designated, as belonging not to me, but to God, it became holy.
Now, that makes sense to me when I think about "Holy Week," I guess. We can look at this week as the most set apart for God. We can. There are a lot of extra church services, particularly if you are a Catholic. Time set apart for God. Holy.
But here's what nags me, to the bone: What about next week? Or last week? Do they somehow belong less to God? Are they less holy?
It's the same thing that irks me with all the things we label "holy" -- church buildings, clergy, saints, icons, certain songs, crosses. Holy, holy, holy.
Gerard Manly Hopkis, Jesuit and poet, said, "The world is filled with the grandeur of God." Amen. You know what I think is holy? What I think is reflective of the greatness of God and deserves to be set apart? Let's start with chocolate ice cream. And babies. How about that wilted dafodil in my front yard that the snow is just melting off of. Beethoven's 9th. My husband's warm legs against my icy feet in bed (yes, he is a saint). My son's toothless grin. Clean towels. The moment when tomorrow's school lunches are made. Holy, holy, holy.
I will go into the church building this week and listen to the clergy and recall the saints and gaze on the icons and sing the songs and venerate the cross. But things are every bit as holy in the home I leave and come back to.
I am surrounded by my failures
It is very quiet here today. I am home alone, which never used to happen and now happens all the time. I find ways to fill the emptiness of the time and the space -- housework, errands, the internet, meals, phone calls, e-mail. Yet sometimes, like today, all of those are dry like dust. I cannot do it. I cannot do anything, it seems.
So I sat outside in the sunshine, feeling the feelings that emerge out of the quiet: loneliness, fear, ennui. I looked around the yard, and I wanted to see the spring and the melting snow and feel happy. And I did. But I also saw the weeds. The broken toys. The houseplant, a gift, that I let die. I thought of wasted days and years and opportunities. I thought, "I am surrounded by my failures." And it's true enough.
What I want is to escape, to run away from the brokenness and the waste and the failure. I want to sleep or eat or cover it up. I want to deny it. I want to erase it. And I can't. I will wake up. I will be hungry again. The wind or the dog or the kids will throw back the cover. No denial, no eraser, no distance or wish will change the past. What I have done and what I have failed to do...
It's sad. There's nothing else to it. What might have been isn't, and what is is. And I'm sorry.
So I sat and thought about failure. And about Jesus. And about Holy Week. And about the cross. When Jesus was arrested and condemned to crucifixion, it was the very public pronouncement of a colossal failure. A messiah on a Roman cross was the very definition of world-class failure. Epic. Unredeemable. The game was over. The jig was up. A real messiah would win, and crucifixion was loss, full bore.
I thought about the women who watched and sat at the foot of the cross, in the shadow of failure. What did they think about? Did they blame Jesus or just pity him? Did they think about their own failure? This was the messiah they followed. They had other choices. This one ended up on a cross, bleeding, naked, dying. They must have wanted to run away. But there was nowhere to go, no sleeping or denying or hiding this failure away. It was on display on a hilltop in view of everyone.
That's a little, tiny bit of how it's going to feel when I click "publish." Like I have put my bleeding, naked, failure on display. You don't know all the details. No one can know every time I've let my kids down, yelled at them, chosen some selfish pursuit instead of loving them. Instead of loving my husband. Instead of taking care of my house. Instead of pulling those weeds. But I feel like you know. Today, I feel like you might as well know. I am a person of sorrows, acquainted with grief.
You are too, of course. No matter the face you put on. No matter how well-weeded your yard and well-tended your kids or your job. You live in the shadow of the cross too.
That's why I will post this. It's why I will drag myself to the foot of the cross and look at the bleeding, naked, dying messiah. I'm up there and you're up there too. Which is why he's up there.
Wait with me. Watch and pray.
So I sat outside in the sunshine, feeling the feelings that emerge out of the quiet: loneliness, fear, ennui. I looked around the yard, and I wanted to see the spring and the melting snow and feel happy. And I did. But I also saw the weeds. The broken toys. The houseplant, a gift, that I let die. I thought of wasted days and years and opportunities. I thought, "I am surrounded by my failures." And it's true enough.
What I want is to escape, to run away from the brokenness and the waste and the failure. I want to sleep or eat or cover it up. I want to deny it. I want to erase it. And I can't. I will wake up. I will be hungry again. The wind or the dog or the kids will throw back the cover. No denial, no eraser, no distance or wish will change the past. What I have done and what I have failed to do...
It's sad. There's nothing else to it. What might have been isn't, and what is is. And I'm sorry.
So I sat and thought about failure. And about Jesus. And about Holy Week. And about the cross. When Jesus was arrested and condemned to crucifixion, it was the very public pronouncement of a colossal failure. A messiah on a Roman cross was the very definition of world-class failure. Epic. Unredeemable. The game was over. The jig was up. A real messiah would win, and crucifixion was loss, full bore.
I thought about the women who watched and sat at the foot of the cross, in the shadow of failure. What did they think about? Did they blame Jesus or just pity him? Did they think about their own failure? This was the messiah they followed. They had other choices. This one ended up on a cross, bleeding, naked, dying. They must have wanted to run away. But there was nowhere to go, no sleeping or denying or hiding this failure away. It was on display on a hilltop in view of everyone.
That's a little, tiny bit of how it's going to feel when I click "publish." Like I have put my bleeding, naked, failure on display. You don't know all the details. No one can know every time I've let my kids down, yelled at them, chosen some selfish pursuit instead of loving them. Instead of loving my husband. Instead of taking care of my house. Instead of pulling those weeds. But I feel like you know. Today, I feel like you might as well know. I am a person of sorrows, acquainted with grief.
You are too, of course. No matter the face you put on. No matter how well-weeded your yard and well-tended your kids or your job. You live in the shadow of the cross too.
That's why I will post this. It's why I will drag myself to the foot of the cross and look at the bleeding, naked, dying messiah. I'm up there and you're up there too. Which is why he's up there.
Wait with me. Watch and pray.
January 20, 2012
The Best Laid Plans
- Anonymous Wisdom-at-Large
I had a new plan. Naturally, I implemented it on January 1. I am not above the cliche. Among other things, I was going to write, on this blog, every day of 2012.
Life has a tendency to interfere with my well-laid plans. The phone rings. A child asks for help with homework. A husband wants to talk. Someone wants a meal. Or clean clothes. And those are the predictable interruptions.
What is being interrupted? My plans. My plans.
"For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope." - Jeremiah 29:11
My plans are not always the plans that the Lord has for me. I think my plans are for my welfare. I don't think they will bring harm to me or to others. Most of the time. I want a future and hope. But I don't really know how to plan for the future with hope.
Problem is, I like to think I know. Don't I know by now?
I all too often plan for a future not with hope but with fear. I prepare because I'm afraid. My plans are made to avoid what I'm afraid of: Risks. New things. Unpredictable things. Things I can't control.
Problem is, what I can control is very, very small. Maybe so very small that it doesn't even exist.
So when I plan, I'm forced to make my world smaller and smaller, hoping that I can find that tiny piece (Can you see it?) that I can manage by my own power, by the force of my will.
Problem is, I start thinking that maybe, if I can control that tiny piece, I can learn to control more. And more.
And then I can play god.
It never takes God long to scuttle my plans. He reminds me, interruption by interruption, who's who, God and me.
January 15, 2012
Civil Discourse
But then there are the demands of truth. Love cannot be lived apart from the lens of truth.
That is what the other guy says too.
Just the day before yesterday my intention was to come down firmly on the side of the Jesus whose outstretched arms on the cross embrace all of creation in loving mercy.
Today, the first thing I saw as I entered the vestibule of the church was a sign inviting me to "protect tradional marriage" by voting "no on civil unions." Pre-printed for me was a dual copy notice on which I could fill in the blanks with my name and address. We'll fill in the names of your state senator and representative for you. Here's a pen.
No thank you.
To be honest, this gets my hackles up in so many ways. But it is not about my hackles. Not one single hackle.
It's about Jesus. It always has to be about Jesus. That's what it means that he is Lord. He's the boss.
Here's what he says:
"And Jesus came and said to them, 'All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.19Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,20and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you.'" - Matthew 28:18-20a
And what does he command?
“'This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.13 No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.'" - John 15:12-13
How shall I love? As I have loved you. Broken. Humbled. Poured out. Dying.
I am a member of the body of Christ. As he is, so must I be.
Here's what I need to ask myself: What does it look like for me to be broken for the sake of the broken world? Humbled for the sake of the humiliated? To be poured out on behalf of the wounded? To die so that my friend might live?
What I know is that, when I saw that sign, those postcards, I had to ask myself who it was who was broken, humiliated, wounded, dying. How do I stand with him, with her?
I cannot, will not, must not sign your postcard.
January 13, 2012
Tim Tebow OR Whose God?
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| AP Photo/Julie Jacobson |
"I solemnly urge you:2proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience in teaching." - 2 Timothy 2:1c-2
And...
"And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others." - Matthew 6:5
Questions, both sincere and cynical, abound:
"If the Broncos win, does that mean God is on Tim Tebow's side?"
"If the Broncos lose, is God testing or punishing Tim Tebow?"
Et cetera.
Need it be said that this has nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Tebow? With whether he falls on his knees on the field. With whether he gives to charity. With whether his team loses or wins.
It is cliche to suggest that Americans' primary religion is professional sports, football being the most successful denomination of late. I have nothing to say about whether people are in church or tailgating on Sunday morning.
Likewise, I have nothing to say about whether an NFL quarterback prays before, during, or after the game to his god or gods. Or God.
It's all missing the point.
Here's the truth: God loves Tim Tebow. Not because he falls on his knees in worship. Not because he made some confession of faith. Not because he's baptized. Not because he wins football games.
Since we're talking football, allow me to put it this way: God loves Jerry Sandusky. Remember him? He's the Penn State football coach who allegedly committed endless, heinous sexual crimes against children.
There are Christians who love Tim Tebow's God, because they love Tim Tebow. Not that they shouldn't.
So how do we feel about the God who loves Jerry Sandusky?
Sometimes we're not so sure about Him. We want Him to love who we love. But we'd also prefer that He hate who we hate. Child molesters. Middle Eastern dictators. Reality show stars. Homosexuals. Rush Limbaugh. Or Michael Moore. Muslims. Or Jews. The opposing team.
Whoever that god is, He is not the Father of Jesus. In speaking for his God (John 5:30), Jesus says:
"But I say to you, 'Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,45 so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.'" - Matthew 5:44-45
He makes the sun to rise and sends the rain on the Broncos and the Patriots. On Tim Tebow and Jerry Sandusky. On Rush Limbaugh and Michael Moore. On the Palestinians and the Israelis. On you. On me. On our enemies.
What are we to make of that? It's easier to pick a team. Makes for better football watching.
But Jesus on the cross touches heaven and earth, reaches out his arms to embrace east and west. He doesn't take sides.
January 12, 2012
Good Fences
"He only says, 'Good
fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.'" - Robert Frost's "The Mending Wall"
I find boundaries difficult. Here there are no cows. What am I walling in or walling out?
I want to be close to people. I long to connect. I used to think that the only way to do that was not to build a wall.
Maybe you wanted a wall between us, cows or no. I could not imagine what your reason could possibly be.
As far as I was concerned, there was no good reason. So I was like to give offence. I'd get too close. In your space.
If you had a wall, I'd try to tear it down, stone by stone, board by board, so I could get in. Even if you didn't want me in. Something there is that doesn't love a wall,/That wants it down. I wanted it down, no matter the cost.
And cost it did. Never mind your feelings. Never mind mine. What's the difference?
Isaiah chapter five begins:
"Let me sing for my beloved my love-song concerning his vineyard: My beloved had a vineyard on a very fertile hill.2He dug it and cleared it of stones, and planted it with choice vines; he built a watchtower in the midst of it, and hewed out a wine vat in it; he expected it to yield grapes, but it yielded wild grapes.3And now, inhabitants of Jerusalem and people of Judah, judge between me and my vineyard.4What more was there to do for my vineyard that I have not done in it? When I expected it to yield grapes, why did it yield wild grapes?5And now I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard. I will remove its hedge, and it shall be devoured; I will break down its wall, and it shall be trampled down. 6I will make it a waste..." (vv 1-6a)
"I will break down its wall, and it shall be trampled down." The Lord surrounded his beloved vineyard with a wall. To protect it. Without the wall, the vineyard was defenseless. It became a waste.
That's what happens to me -- and to you -- when we don't have walls. One of us gets trampled. My feelings or yours. Your needs or mine. My body or yours.
January 10, 2012
Lost and Found
A friend told me a story yesterday about a bracelet she'd lost. Its value was sentimental, it's loss heartbreaking. She looked everywhere and even prayed, as we do in a pinch. When all else fails, maybe St. Anthony will come to the rescue. All to no avail.
Then she lost an earring. Nothing special, but another disappointment all the same. Disappointment on top of disappointment. She carefully searched, but in vain. Then she took the remaining earring and placed it in a zippered pouch that she had at hand. What else could she do?
Later that night, she came upon the lost earring in an unexpected place, and went immediately to reunite it with its mate. She reached into the zippered pouch to retrieve it.
I don't have to tell you the end of the story. You already know how it ends. You know that when she reached in she found not just the earring, but the treasured bracelet.
She had to lose the earring to find the bracelet. So simple, so obvious, once it's found.
But not when it's lost.
Jesus talks about lost things: Sheep. Coins. Sons. We expect them to get found by the end of the story. But first they had to get lost. No fatted calf without scraping the bottom of the pig trough.
Why is that? I don't want to be lost. But that's my flesh talking. The upside-down Kindgdom of God is where things have to be lost in order to be found. Forty years of aimless desert wandering is the path to the promised land.
Loss of heaven. Rejection. Betrayal. Denial. Abasement. Condemnation. Crucifixion. Death.
Zipped into the tomb.
And when the hand of God reaches into the sealed tomb, he raises up not just the dry bones of the one man, but the lost treasure of eternal life.
I don't have to tell you the end of the story. You already know how it ends.
January 8, 2012
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas
Invariably my children, at a certain age, have asked, "Why do we give presents for Christmas?" One answer is this text, which enshrines the gifts given by the "magi" to the baby Jesus.
One of our favorite Christmas traditions is the annual reading of Barbara Robinson's The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. In the story, the juvenille deliquent Herdman siblings who have taken over the church Christmas play (just read it -- trust me), decide that their charity Christmas ham makes a better gift than the traditional bottles of bath salts.
My daughter -- 15 years old and no slouch when it comes to understanding Biblical theology -- said she'd have made the baby Jesus a blanket.
We could talk about the deep symbolism of gold for kings, frankincense for priests, and myrrh for burying the dead, but that's not really what my kids -- or the Herdmans -- care about. They know there is a baby and a mommy.
We follow the star to the stable (if you want to get technical, in Matthew, where the magi turn up, there is no stable), and we expect to see a newborn baby and a young mother, and our hearts fill, and we want to give them something. Not something symbolic. Something that feels real. Practical.
Maybe it's the world in which I mostly live, the world of women and children, that inspires canned hams and crocheted throws. But that is the world of Mary and the infant Jesus, isn't it? Whatever we might believe to be historically true of the birth of this child, he once was a baby just like the babies we know. He needed a blanket. His mother needed a warm meal.
Isn't the point of the infancy narratives in part that the birth of a seemingly ordinary baby is the kick-off of God's decisive move to reconcile creation? Think of the babies you have known -- tiny, squalling, sleeping, nursing, wetting, pooping, helpless little creatures. Lovable, but also trying, needy, oh-so needy. Nothing much kingly or priestly. Hold the gold and the frankincense.
But every last one is born to die. It's a terrible thought. We have to protect that baby. Wrap him! Cradle him! His mother too! Bring blankets. And hams.
I don't want myrrh. Not for my children or your children.
God doesn't want it either. Not for my children or your children. Not for you or for me.
God the Son eats the bread of suffering, so we can eat the bread of life. He hangs naked, exposed on the cross, so we can be wrapped in the white robes of salvation.
He receives the gold and frankincense and myrrh, even when he might prefer a cozy blanket and a ham.
January 7, 2012
Sleep
I'm sick and that is all I want to do. So, enjoy this:
The Virtual Choir singing Eric Whitacre's Sleep
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WhWDCw3Mng
The Virtual Choir singing Eric Whitacre's Sleep
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WhWDCw3Mng
January 6, 2012
Flying Lessons
I heard someone teach on this text once in a way that surprised me. I had heard the three metaphors as the same. Flying, running, walking, the Lord' sustains me.
But they're different. If I'm running, I'm not flying. If I'm walking, I'm not even running.
I often believe that I've got to fly. If I could fly, I'd really be doing something. I'd accomplish things. I'd be somebody.
If only I knew how to get off the ground.
Maybe I can at least run. Keep up. Seems like everyone else is at least running. I really ought to run.
Exhausting.
I can walk. Anybody can walk, right? One foot in front of the other. At least I'd get somewhere.
But I tend to get lost.
"...but those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength..."
I want to be strong. I am strong. It's my gift, part of my mission. I'm strong. When I wait on the Lord.
Waiting is not my strongest suit. I'm a product of my culture and time and, let's be honest, my impatient ego. Instead of waiting on the Lord, can't the Lord step it up? Send a note. Better yet, an e-mail. Better still, a text. Now.
My impatience to know saps my strength. Leaves me on the ground, exhaused, lost.
I'm learning to walk. Someday I will run. And fly.
January 5, 2012
Nostalgia
I was with a friend today, and I got to see the house where she grew up. Not just the house where she grew up, but the house more or less as she had grown up in it. Almost nothing was changed -- furniture, appliances, paint on the walls, toys in the basement. It was like stepping back in time.I've wondered what that would be like, to be able to step back to a place where I was as a girl. What if I could have recreated for me the exact geography of my memories? The place. The things. The people.
My friend's parents were there. People can't be re-upholstered like furniture. They can't be preserved like photos or antiques. They age. My friends parents are aged.
Even if my place and things could be regathered, my grandparents, my mother, would still be dead. My father has grown older. So have I. The little girl I was is gone.
My memories are flawed.
The way I remember -- the way I want it to have been -- is not the way that it was. I want to look back on the past through my child eyes, like looking through a magic mirror.
In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul says,
"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.12 For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known." (chapter 13, verses 11 and 12)
The price of living with what I want to have been rather than what was and is is that I cannot know fully.
I avert my eyes, because I am afraid I won't like what I will see: My failures. My weakness. The ways I hurt the people I love. The ways the people I have loved hurt me.
But when I see face to face, my eyes looking into His, I can know fully. As I have been fully known, then and now.
January 4, 2012
Loneliness, Part II
He didn't ask today. He knows he won't be lonely! There'll be 20 other kids in his class, all 8 year olds like him. There'll be a teacher too, and who-knows-how-many other little bodies in the lunchroom, on the playground.
It's not for me to ask. I'm the mommy. My job is to do what I can, when I can, to give him the world he needs to grow into the fullness of the self he is and is becoming. And today that means school.
But I very much want to ask it of someone: "What if I'm lonely?"
It's progress, actually. Asking, that is. There was a time when I would not ask. Under any circumstances. Because I didn't want to hear the answer.
"What if I'm lonely?" I'm not a five year old whose mommy can fill the emptiness. I'm not an eight year old who can move along to the next kid on the playground.
If I'm lonely, it's going to hurt. My heart just might feel like it's going to break.
Sure, I could call a friend. Watch T.V. Go for a drive. But I'm not going to.
If I'm lonely, I'm going to feel the hurt.
Honestly, I don't want another answer right now. I want the world to say, Hurt if you hurt.
To God, the psalmist says:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." -Psalm 23:4 (KJV)
I no longer believe that I can avoid the valley of the shadow of death. It's a little death, seeing my youngest child in school, sitting in this empty house. There will be other little deaths. And bigger deaths. And I am ready to walk through the valley of their shadow.
January 3, 2012
Timing Is Everything
I'll be honest -- I hate it when people say things to me about being in the moment. I know they're right, of course. Life can only be lived where I am -- or you are -- right now. Which only means that when they say it and it makes me mad, I have an inkling that there are too many moments I would prefer to avoid.
Maybe the moment is one in which it is time to laugh, but I'd rather cry. Maybe it's time to throw stones away, and I'd rather gather them. Tear when it's time to sew. Hate when it's time to love.
I am in the moment, because, where else can I be? But I'm out of sync. I'm like a time traveller, or one of those science fiction heros stuck in another dimension. The world seems to be moving too fast. Or maybe I'm too slow. Anyway, there's a mismatch. And I would prefer that the world would accommodate me. In an either/or world, the world serves me up either, and I find myself preferring or.
Then this brings me up short:
"But do not ignore this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day." - 2 Peter 3:8
A lot can happen in a thousand years: Planting and harvesting. Breaking down and building up. Mourning and dancing.
It can happen in one day.
Maybe it can happen in one moment. Maybe in this moment.
Can the time to be born hold within it it too the time to die? Does the time for killing encompass the time for healing?
Within the silence, is there someone speaking?
January 2, 2012
Resolution
When something is resolved, it's finished, done. Happy new year or no, I'm far from resolved.
No, I mean this kind:
"[T]he process or capability of making distinguishable the individual parts of an object, closely adjacent optical images, or sources of light." (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/resolution)
Like your camera or your computer screen when the picture is clear. I want a clearer image. Less blurred. Better resolution.
I have trouble with boundaries. Somewhere along the way I failed to learn how to distinguish individual, closely adjacent sources of light. Too much overlap. You or me? I'm not altogether sure.
Even on the inside the closely adjacent sources of light get muddled. You or me? Wisdom or ego? Spirit or flesh?
Back to Romans 8:
"To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace." (verse 6)
So it matters. Death isn't life and peace. If I can't distinguish, maybe my mind is set on the wrong thing -- "wrong" because it's killing me and keeping me from life and peace, which are my inheritance. And yours too. That's the picture I want to be able to see.
Sometimes my life goes by in a blur of activity, people, things. I'm upgrading to a higher resolution. I want to see more clearly. I want to be more clearly seen.
January 1, 2012
Big Bang
"When God began to create heaven and earth, and the earth then was welter and waste and darkness over the deep and God's breath hovering over the waters, God said, 'Let there be light.' And there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good, and God divided the light from the darkness." - Genesis 1:1-3 (Robert Alter, trans.)Science tells us that once upon a time the entire universe was one. Then something happened, a massive explosion of the one, which then became the many. My small mind cannot begin to conceive of the vastness of the many. Planets, stars, dark matter, oak trees, earthworms, mushrooms, and me -- all that is, once, says the science, was one.
Unremarkable, then, that the first creation story in Genesis, the very first story in the the whole of the Hebrew and Christian scriptures describes the same phenomenon.
In the beginning (as we're more accustomed to hearing), there was nothing but, in Robert Alter's expression "welter and waste." He says in his note that the Hebrew for the first word tohu "by itself means 'emptiness' or 'futility.'" The second word in the Hebrew (wabohu, if you're interested), appears to have been "coined to rhyme with the first and to reinforce it." Emptiness and futility: Nothing, and, anyway, what's the point? From this pointless nothingness comes everything.
God's breath (in Hebrew, ruah, also wind or spirit -- or Spirit) breathes upon nothing and makes it something -- first light, then a "vault in the midst of the waters" to "divide water from water," then dry land, grass, seed-bearing plants, sun, moon, stars, fish, birds, beasts, humans. In the story, God divides and divides and divides -- light from darkness; sky from seas; day from night; trees from grass; fish from birds; beasts from humans.
That is the story of creation, from science and scripture both, the story of division, separation. What was one, now is many. And God called it good.
In his message for New Year's Day for 2012, Fr. Richard Rohr (if you don't know who he is, make sure to find out; check out the link in the sidebar) says, "Differentiation seems to precede union and communion, for some strange reason." Indeed, the "emptiness and futility" with which we started puts me immediately in mind of this bit of Romans 8:
"...for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God." - Romans 8:20-21 (NRSV)
Although God calls the big bang of creation, all that division, "good," it does not bring an end to the futility. God delivers us from the futility of that original nothingness to the futility of a subjected creation. What's the difference?
Before there was separation, division, creation, there was no "us," only God.
Romans 8 ends with these words (vv 38-39):
"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."
No thing can perpetuate the separation of us, me, from the love of God in Christ. All this dividing has had, as its ultimate object, the union of creation in all its uniqueness and diversity, with the love of God, revealed and brought to fruition in Christ.
To new beginnings -- welcome, 2012.
January 7, 2010
The Cost of Lonliness
"The internet postings begin in 2005, and they're clearly written by a lonely young man. One post in 2005 read: I'm in a situation where I do not have a friend. I have no one to speak to. I don't know what to do. Abdulmutallab was young, didn't speak Arabic very well and was looking for religious guidance on the internet." - From a 12/30/09 story on NPR about Christmas Day bombing suspect Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, "In Bomb Plot Probe, Spotlight Falls on Yemeni Cleric"
There has been much ink and bandwith spent in the past three weeks on evalutating the causes of the near-tragedy in the skies over Detroit on the evening of Christmas Day. In my mind, this nugget of information should be front and center. It's not about full body scanners in airports. It's not about "connecting the dots," within the lines of communication in the intelligence community. It's about a lonely young man. A young man with a baby face in a strange place without a friend.
Instead of wondering whether better intelligence would have prevented this man from taking fire and a bomb onto an airplane, I have a better question: What if Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab had had a friend? I don't mean a co-conspirator. I mean someone who had cared about him, been ready to sit with him and laugh with him and to listen to his deep pain and questions and share his joy.
Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. He is a person with a name and a father who cared enough about his son to tell someone that something was very wrong with the young man. He was once an innocent baby. On some day or night, before he went on the internet and discovered a nefarious distorter of Islam who taught him to be a terrorist, he was a lonely, confused kid.
Where were we?
It's become a joke when someone commits a heinous crime that his neighbors invariably say, "He was quiet, kept to himself." Who is this "he"? Who is the lonely boy or man (or girl or woman, though far less often)? Is it my neighbor?
"Who is my neighbor?" asked the legal scholar of Jesus. Jesus replies with the story of the Good Samaritan. The Samaritans were hated by the Jews, because they were a half-Jewish people who had intermarried with Gentiles and had different ideas about the Law. It was shocking to think of a Samaritan coming to the aid of a Jew.
But what if one of us, if I, had reached out my Samaritan hand in an offer of friendship to my neighbor, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab? I cannot even pronounce his name. His skin is dark and mine is light. He is a young Nigerian man and I am a middle-aged American woman. Who is the Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab in my neighborhood? In yours?
There has been much ink and bandwith spent in the past three weeks on evalutating the causes of the near-tragedy in the skies over Detroit on the evening of Christmas Day. In my mind, this nugget of information should be front and center. It's not about full body scanners in airports. It's not about "connecting the dots," within the lines of communication in the intelligence community. It's about a lonely young man. A young man with a baby face in a strange place without a friend.
Instead of wondering whether better intelligence would have prevented this man from taking fire and a bomb onto an airplane, I have a better question: What if Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab had had a friend? I don't mean a co-conspirator. I mean someone who had cared about him, been ready to sit with him and laugh with him and to listen to his deep pain and questions and share his joy.
Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. He is a person with a name and a father who cared enough about his son to tell someone that something was very wrong with the young man. He was once an innocent baby. On some day or night, before he went on the internet and discovered a nefarious distorter of Islam who taught him to be a terrorist, he was a lonely, confused kid.
Where were we?
It's become a joke when someone commits a heinous crime that his neighbors invariably say, "He was quiet, kept to himself." Who is this "he"? Who is the lonely boy or man (or girl or woman, though far less often)? Is it my neighbor?
"Who is my neighbor?" asked the legal scholar of Jesus. Jesus replies with the story of the Good Samaritan. The Samaritans were hated by the Jews, because they were a half-Jewish people who had intermarried with Gentiles and had different ideas about the Law. It was shocking to think of a Samaritan coming to the aid of a Jew.
But what if one of us, if I, had reached out my Samaritan hand in an offer of friendship to my neighbor, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab? I cannot even pronounce his name. His skin is dark and mine is light. He is a young Nigerian man and I am a middle-aged American woman. Who is the Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab in my neighborhood? In yours?
October 28, 2009
Weather
"We are calling with an important message..." That was the computer voice on the other end of my phone at 5:30 this morning. Bleary-eyed, I grabbed the phone, thankfully sensing, even before I answered, that it wasn't going to be one of those night-time phone calls, the kind we dread. No. It was the public school district kindly informing us -- although we do not avail ourselves of their services -- that schools are closed today.
Several phone calls, e-mails, and inches of snow later, all our typical Wednesday activities were cancelled. Wednesday is a busy day, typically. Today, all activity has ground to a halt.
Snow days are different when you home school. The show, so to speak, can go on. And yet, even for us, today feels different.
After serveral days of this, I guess we all start to feel cooped up, but for one day, it is a strange and special sort of freedom. Suddenly the world bends. It bows low to the force of nature, of God. All of our busyness and the important appointments and meetings and all of the things that we cannot possibly miss, just stop. No one argues. No one worries too much. Because we're all in it together.
The snow, suddenly, is a great equalizer. We heave a collective sigh, inwardly smile as we slip into our slippers, heat some milk and mix in the cocoa.
As I lay in my warm bed, only half-cursing the automated-phone-call voice, I thought about the milk truck driver, the newspaper delivery man, the mail carrier, the garbage collector, and, of course, the snow plow drivers, all of those dedicated public servants who will persevere through the storm. But for most of us, we get to pause and admire the handiwork of God, who, sometimes, forces us to stop.
Several phone calls, e-mails, and inches of snow later, all our typical Wednesday activities were cancelled. Wednesday is a busy day, typically. Today, all activity has ground to a halt.
Snow days are different when you home school. The show, so to speak, can go on. And yet, even for us, today feels different.
After serveral days of this, I guess we all start to feel cooped up, but for one day, it is a strange and special sort of freedom. Suddenly the world bends. It bows low to the force of nature, of God. All of our busyness and the important appointments and meetings and all of the things that we cannot possibly miss, just stop. No one argues. No one worries too much. Because we're all in it together.
The snow, suddenly, is a great equalizer. We heave a collective sigh, inwardly smile as we slip into our slippers, heat some milk and mix in the cocoa.
As I lay in my warm bed, only half-cursing the automated-phone-call voice, I thought about the milk truck driver, the newspaper delivery man, the mail carrier, the garbage collector, and, of course, the snow plow drivers, all of those dedicated public servants who will persevere through the storm. But for most of us, we get to pause and admire the handiwork of God, who, sometimes, forces us to stop.
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