I'm currently reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. Today I realized I had the bare minimum to become a writer: I'm not normal in any sense of the word. Moreover, I'm emotionally and mentally unstable, which is good news for someone who wants to be an author. Of course, authors recognize "normality" doesn't exist. It is a farce, a tool of the bourgeois, which is why literature is a method many use to stick it to the man.
After I got done with my cardio, I put the book down and went over to the weight machines to work my muscles. As long as I work my muscles, I don't have to worry about my weight. Since muscle weighs more than fat, I can constantly tell myself any increase in numbers comes from gaining muscle, not fat.
Bird by Bird is about writing. Anne Lamott has taught some writing classes in the past and has put a lot of her advice into a book that carries her wit, humor, and personal life with it. Even in didactic prose, she manages to speak with a beautiful and laid-back voice and tone many people miss in their day-to-day life.
After reading about fiction-writing for 35 minutes, I sat down at a machine I use to work my chest. At this particular gym, the chest machine sits you opposite a large mirror, almost forcing you to watch yourself workout. I don't like to watch myself to much of anything, let alone struggle to push a few bars connected to weights.
Still in a fiction-author mindset, I started to describe what I saw in the mirror, imagining myself not as myself, but as a fictional character in a book. Since I'm not always terribly creative, I imagined the fictional me as a person who just read 35 minutes of Anne Lamott in the gym, a person who then sat down to use a machine that works his chest muscles, a person who then saw himself in the mirror and started to describe himself as a fictional character in a book.
As I am writing right now, I realize I didn't do what Anne Lamott suggested. She described imagining and describing the whole picture in a very imaginative way. Had I listened to her, I would have mentioned the girl behind me using one of those "ab balls." She was doing some sort of sit-up with the ball between her ankles. When I was distracted from my description I looked at her image in the mirror and thought about how I don't know how to do those exercises, but want to. And then I remembered reading some article on-line that gave me different ab exercises to do. I do the bicycle exercise, because that particular website said it was the best exercise for your abs.
Instead of looking at her or anything else in the mirror, I looked at my t-shirt. For some reason, I am interested in looking at the sweat patterns on my t-shirt. I'm positive my sweat doesn't randomly soak different parts of my shirt, but it often looks pretty random. Sometimes it reminds me of those Rorshcach things. You know, the inkblots psychiatrists show crazy people, asking, "Hmm, tell me what you see here." I thought about how I am crazy enough that a doctor should probably have a wealth of information if they showed me such inkblots.
Of course, I promptly began to see something in the sweat on my shirt. I didn't do very well. Then again, I don't know psychology (or is it psychiatry? I don't know either), so I don't know if I did a good job or not.
I thought maybe I could make out the fat legs of a kid, swinging his or her legs over the side of a wharf. The legs were mostly extended and I was looking from beneath the wharf, at an angle. Then I noticed the kid must have a few oddly placed claws on his feet. I figured the child must be a chubby little monster, like the kind you find in hiding under a bed. But, the monster image couldn't take into account the little blob of sweat where my belly protrudes.
So, maybe I saw a close up of someone's dreadlocks, hanging over a table where the person with the dreadlocks was lying. The little blob would be part of one of the dreadlocks falling to the ground after being cut.
I wanted to see a butterfly or a dog, like in Alan Moore's The Watchmen. I didn't.
I never thought about what meaning I could attach to what I saw. I knew I could think of something, though. In the narrative in my head, I skipped the doctor's interpretation of what I saw in my Rorshach sweat. I just assumed it happened and started to think about how much nonsense my analysis was. I don't know psychiatry (or is it psychology?). Instead of analyzing anything intentionally, I was making things up. Sometimes I wonder if analysis and interpretation are anything more than making things up, anyways.
And then I remembered I'm not a novelist, a poet, or a short-storyist (is there a word for a person who writes short stories?). But, that fact doesn't mean I'm not an author. I still author--I create. I just happen to create through reading and interpreting what other people "write." And in my interpretation, I take what they say and do and use it to mean something else. Some people might argue I make it mean whatever I want, but, like a fictional character in a fictional story, what I interpret has a mind of its own. I don't make it mean whatever I want, it means and as I try to mold it to what I want, it becomes something else. I create, but creation has never really been about ex nihilo. Creation is about taking what is and working with it--cooperation--to make it something new. Creation is communal and cooperative--isn't that part of the mystery of the trinity?
Then, as I was walking home from the gym, I started to think about how some people want to write to be understood. I share this desire, but it isn't why I write or my main goal in writing. I want to write something so beautiful that people need to talk about in order to appreciate it and understand it. In their conversation, they end up finding two different meanings from what I said, which are two different meanings from what I meant. And even if they never discover what I meant, then I will have achieved what I wanted: beauty, which is truth.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Sacred Rain
I grabbed my cup of coffee and my bag with paperwork, a book, and my laptop. I left my apartment only to find it raining hard outside. I didn't have far to walk, just to my car. It wasn't the thought of getting cold and wet that made me pause. I can't exactly say what made me hesitate leaving. I am tempted to say it was the beauty of the moment or the joy that surprised me in a way only C. S. Lewis can describe--both instances of the Spirit, very apropos as we approach Pentecost. Truth is, I don't know what caught me up in that moment, but I know I found a change of plans when I saw the rain, and it was welcome.
I sat my coffee cup down on the cement porch and leaned my bag against the wooden rocking chair as I pulled it closer to the building and further from the awning's edge. I sat in the chair and was only splattered with cold rain water every now and then.
I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to one of my staff members. My ears filled with a glorious harmony as the sound of my text messaging countered the melodious pattering of the rain in the trees, the metal awning, the sidewalk, and puddles. Every now and then cars driving by would provide harmony as they splashed water from one place on the road to another. It was a wonderful blend of human and nonhuman noises.
I looked up from my phone and my eyes were caught by light dancing on a pool of water across the street, jiggling with the falling of more rain drops. By now the rain had eased some. When I first saw it, it fell with force, as if for a purpose. Now it had changed to the sort of rain that feels nice on your face--small drops falling so lightly. The two different experiences of rain were so different I wonder if is even right to call them both rain.
My eyes turned to the trees once frosted in blooms of pink and white. Today they are fully clothed in a green that hides the bare brownness of their branches and the barren black of the power lines that invade their space. Or is it the trees that invade the power lines' space? The trees are young, perhaps the power lines were there before the landscaper planted the dogwoods.
Was I invading the trees' space? I sat across the street from them, gazing at their maturing beauty--sat on the porch of Royster Hall, once Royster Memorial Hospital. I wonder what was there before? Sisters of the trees across the street, perhaps? Were they gazing back at me in bitter remembrance of the day their sisters fell, the day humans came and changed the natural look of nature?
And what exactly is nature or natural? Beavers build dams, birds build nests, mice dig holes. If all these are natural, why do we so often consider streets, buildings, power lines, cities, cell phones, and computers--technology in general--as unnatural? Nonhuman nature certainly has a beauty that human-influenced nature does not have. And vice versa.
Yet, I still lamented some of the more human parts of nature while I sat, rocking, enjoying the rain and the shelter from the rain. I lamented my desire to describe what I was experiencing. I didn't want to search for words to fit the moment, I wanted to soak in the moment. And even if I found the words, where would I write them? I couldn't possibly remember them long enough to write them all down. I couldn't get out my computer, because the battery was dead. I could have gone inside to plug in the computer, but I decided it was worth losing the expression of the moment in order to spend more time in it--more time to lose, since that one event, I assumed, would eventually seep out of my memory, would no longer be special, would cease to exist.
The moment entered me and welled inside. I was so taken by it that my eyes almost joined the skies.
Eventually I could stand it no longer. I pulled out my pen and a paper to take notes, notes that eventually prompted this piece.
I sat my coffee cup down on the cement porch and leaned my bag against the wooden rocking chair as I pulled it closer to the building and further from the awning's edge. I sat in the chair and was only splattered with cold rain water every now and then.
I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to one of my staff members. My ears filled with a glorious harmony as the sound of my text messaging countered the melodious pattering of the rain in the trees, the metal awning, the sidewalk, and puddles. Every now and then cars driving by would provide harmony as they splashed water from one place on the road to another. It was a wonderful blend of human and nonhuman noises.
I looked up from my phone and my eyes were caught by light dancing on a pool of water across the street, jiggling with the falling of more rain drops. By now the rain had eased some. When I first saw it, it fell with force, as if for a purpose. Now it had changed to the sort of rain that feels nice on your face--small drops falling so lightly. The two different experiences of rain were so different I wonder if is even right to call them both rain.
My eyes turned to the trees once frosted in blooms of pink and white. Today they are fully clothed in a green that hides the bare brownness of their branches and the barren black of the power lines that invade their space. Or is it the trees that invade the power lines' space? The trees are young, perhaps the power lines were there before the landscaper planted the dogwoods.
Was I invading the trees' space? I sat across the street from them, gazing at their maturing beauty--sat on the porch of Royster Hall, once Royster Memorial Hospital. I wonder what was there before? Sisters of the trees across the street, perhaps? Were they gazing back at me in bitter remembrance of the day their sisters fell, the day humans came and changed the natural look of nature?
And what exactly is nature or natural? Beavers build dams, birds build nests, mice dig holes. If all these are natural, why do we so often consider streets, buildings, power lines, cities, cell phones, and computers--technology in general--as unnatural? Nonhuman nature certainly has a beauty that human-influenced nature does not have. And vice versa.
Yet, I still lamented some of the more human parts of nature while I sat, rocking, enjoying the rain and the shelter from the rain. I lamented my desire to describe what I was experiencing. I didn't want to search for words to fit the moment, I wanted to soak in the moment. And even if I found the words, where would I write them? I couldn't possibly remember them long enough to write them all down. I couldn't get out my computer, because the battery was dead. I could have gone inside to plug in the computer, but I decided it was worth losing the expression of the moment in order to spend more time in it--more time to lose, since that one event, I assumed, would eventually seep out of my memory, would no longer be special, would cease to exist.
The moment entered me and welled inside. I was so taken by it that my eyes almost joined the skies.
Eventually I could stand it no longer. I pulled out my pen and a paper to take notes, notes that eventually prompted this piece.
Monday, May 4, 2009
"Christian" Education: Jerusalm v. Athens
Education is a murky subject when the word “Christian” precedes it as an adjective. I’m not a big fan of separating Jerusalem and Athens. I understand the two are different, but when we compare and contrast them, we find they are extremely similar. In fact, I think they are not two things we should seek to join. Rather, they are two examples of the same thing: institutions or movements of faith and reason. How unfortunate, then, when I replace Jerusalem and Athens with Tertullian’s next infamous binary: the Church and the Academy. Those institutions are very different today than when Tertullian referenced them, for the Church birthed its own academy (perhaps from relations with the academy of which Tertullian spoke) that grew up and separated from it, as children are wont to do. With the Church and its separate academy in place, division emerges amidst the people involved in one, the other, and both.
Introduce any “Christian education” into this divisive mix and you have at least three groups seeking some sort of education based on their idea of Christian. Those three groups are those who attend the local church; those who attend the local church and have or are going to an academy, “Christian” or otherwise, and want to blend or merge the church and academy; and those who associate with and promote the academy over against the local church.
After some reading for class, I realized I mistrust the church's role in education. But I shouldn't have to. People don't go to the church for education. We go for community, for programs, for a positive environment for our kids (lol), and sometimes we even go for worship. We hardly even go for education when we attend Sunday school.
Education implies involvement and dedication. You surely can learn a lot at church and in Sunday school when everyone brings their experiences and thoughts to the table. But, sometimes we need to go outside ourselves and study. If people are dedicated to studying, then we can really engage each other in Sunday school. Sunday school could be a place for education and free thought, not indoctrination (concerning indoctrination, be on the lookout for a forthcoming blog: Inevitable Indoctrination).
Sure, Sunday school and church allow for some free thought. But in my reading, a group of writers determined missions education was only successful when a certain response was elicited from the education. I don't think education should have a predetermined response. In the text I read, "true missions education is a continuous action culminating in a missions lifestyle" (Terry). I think true missions education would lead in the students making their own decisions about missions, as with any type of education.
I mistrust the local church as much as I mistrust the academy. However unfortunate, the academy generally has the upper hand regarding education and theory, whereas the church generally has the upper hand in praxis. This unbalance leads to an ivory tower for the academy, and a local church that indoctrinates (and, hence, promotes) instead of educates. This unbalance creates an imbalance within the church itself, which is why I am hesitant with the church. The church’s internal imbalance is of power, a power where the church interprets itself as a leader, not a servant.
For example, Bosch says the church idealy “engages and challenges the world” (385). What about love? I am not against being involved in “God’s mission” per se (whatever that means), but when that involvement becomes leadership instead of service, then I question the conception of “God’s mission,” at the very least. Call it “God’s mission” or just call it the “Christian life” or “Christian journey” (cf. Bosch 472), I think we—the church, the academy, followers of Christ—should love and serve God, humanity, and all creation. And as far as I can tell, Jesus served people in this life before he tried to influence someone’s eternity, if he tried to influence their eternity (cf. Snyder qtd. in Bosch 378).
Introduce any “Christian education” into this divisive mix and you have at least three groups seeking some sort of education based on their idea of Christian. Those three groups are those who attend the local church; those who attend the local church and have or are going to an academy, “Christian” or otherwise, and want to blend or merge the church and academy; and those who associate with and promote the academy over against the local church.
After some reading for class, I realized I mistrust the church's role in education. But I shouldn't have to. People don't go to the church for education. We go for community, for programs, for a positive environment for our kids (lol), and sometimes we even go for worship. We hardly even go for education when we attend Sunday school.
Education implies involvement and dedication. You surely can learn a lot at church and in Sunday school when everyone brings their experiences and thoughts to the table. But, sometimes we need to go outside ourselves and study. If people are dedicated to studying, then we can really engage each other in Sunday school. Sunday school could be a place for education and free thought, not indoctrination (concerning indoctrination, be on the lookout for a forthcoming blog: Inevitable Indoctrination).
Sure, Sunday school and church allow for some free thought. But in my reading, a group of writers determined missions education was only successful when a certain response was elicited from the education. I don't think education should have a predetermined response. In the text I read, "true missions education is a continuous action culminating in a missions lifestyle" (Terry). I think true missions education would lead in the students making their own decisions about missions, as with any type of education.
I mistrust the local church as much as I mistrust the academy. However unfortunate, the academy generally has the upper hand regarding education and theory, whereas the church generally has the upper hand in praxis. This unbalance leads to an ivory tower for the academy, and a local church that indoctrinates (and, hence, promotes) instead of educates. This unbalance creates an imbalance within the church itself, which is why I am hesitant with the church. The church’s internal imbalance is of power, a power where the church interprets itself as a leader, not a servant.
For example, Bosch says the church idealy “engages and challenges the world” (385). What about love? I am not against being involved in “God’s mission” per se (whatever that means), but when that involvement becomes leadership instead of service, then I question the conception of “God’s mission,” at the very least. Call it “God’s mission” or just call it the “Christian life” or “Christian journey” (cf. Bosch 472), I think we—the church, the academy, followers of Christ—should love and serve God, humanity, and all creation. And as far as I can tell, Jesus served people in this life before he tried to influence someone’s eternity, if he tried to influence their eternity (cf. Snyder qtd. in Bosch 378).
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
A Blessing
The Spirit blessed me with wisdom tonight. But more than wisdom ... the Spirit blessed me with freedom. A wise freedom. A freedom to pray for people with a motivation of love, not worry.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
God Sent Me an E-mail
Last night I had a dream.
I dreamt I woke up, got out of bed, and checked my e-mail. In my dream, I was upset. My dream self felt some hurt, uncertain, and longing feelings concerning words exchanged on the internet. I opened my e-mail looking for a response to those exchanged words.
A response was in my inbox. The response was one sentence. I don't recall what the e-mail said exactly, but it was to this effect:
But was it still true? I couldn't wrap my head around why I would dream that dream. And so my day continued with occasional flashes to that dream, to that e-mail, to those feelings from that dream.
A few minutes ago, I understood that dream. For a few weeks now, I have lamented my ability to listen. Oh sure, I hear a lot of what people say, but I always chime in with words upon words. I've had this problem in a few situations with at least three different people in the past month or so.
The dream wasn't reality, but it was so true.
So, I guess God sent me an e-mail in a dream I had last night. It isn't all about me. If I start listening to people, I won't have time to make everything about me.
Thank God, family, and friends for forgiveness.
Amen.
I dreamt I woke up, got out of bed, and checked my e-mail. In my dream, I was upset. My dream self felt some hurt, uncertain, and longing feelings concerning words exchanged on the internet. I opened my e-mail looking for a response to those exchanged words.
A response was in my inbox. The response was one sentence. I don't recall what the e-mail said exactly, but it was to this effect:
"Why did you have to make this about you?"I awoke from this dream upset. In my dream, I hadn't intended to make things all about me, I was simply hurt. It took a few minutes before I even realized I had been dreaming. The e-mail wasn't real.
But was it still true? I couldn't wrap my head around why I would dream that dream. And so my day continued with occasional flashes to that dream, to that e-mail, to those feelings from that dream.
A few minutes ago, I understood that dream. For a few weeks now, I have lamented my ability to listen. Oh sure, I hear a lot of what people say, but I always chime in with words upon words. I've had this problem in a few situations with at least three different people in the past month or so.
The dream wasn't reality, but it was so true.
So, I guess God sent me an e-mail in a dream I had last night. It isn't all about me. If I start listening to people, I won't have time to make everything about me.
Thank God, family, and friends for forgiveness.
Amen.
Monday, April 13, 2009
So This is Easter
I'm so tired of thinking about death. Geez Louise! At church I'm expected to drink the blood and eat the body of Christ, not to mention this whole season of Lent where we focus on waiting and preparation--on the death and cross of Jesus. It has been a long Lent, friends.
In my thesis research, I read about the death of God.
My grandmother died late December and Dr. Goodman early January. I think of them almost constantly.
I went to a wedding in Maine, but couldn't stop thinking about my next trip to Maine, when we will celebrate my grandmother's life. I could barely talk about her when I was in Maine. I don't even know if she had been buried yet (the ground is often frozen and covered in snow during a Maine winter, so bodies are kept in mausoleums until the weather warms up). I hope that service will give some sort of closure to my mourning process.
I keep having dreams of people dying. I've had at least two since my nana and Goodman, perhaps three. If not three since then, I know I had another one in the past year. One is too many.
I have an amazing picture of my nana on my desk ... it has some scratches on it. Those scratches really disturb me. I truly must purchase a frame.Geez Louise! I'm tired of thinking about death.
In The Secret, Petrarch thinks we should think about death frequently, because it gives a good sense of humility and reality. I don't think Petrarch had in mind what I've had in my mind.
If my mother is reading this piece, I bet she's almost in tears. For me and for her loss, too.
I don't know if I'll ever see them again. I really don't. I don't know what God's kingdom will be like after the parousia. I expect to see a lot of Christians, a lot of Jews, and a lot of people I don't expect. Can you expect something you don't expect? I think you can, in the abstract at least. Still, I can hope to see Goodman and my nana again.
I was brought up believing in an intermediary state between death and resurrection, but I would love to see Nana and Goodman and hear, "I prayed for you sometimes, Trevár. I was pleased when I saw how pleased God was with you. Glad to see you, but I really must be going. So busy! Do give me a call some time and we'll grab some drinks, my brother." Then I imagine we'll hug and go our separate ways. And I honestly don't care what anyone thinks about that image, because I like it. To me, it is beautiful, regardless of the theology.
Whether they are in heaven, in the grave, with what remains of their body, in some spiritual realm, in Purgatory, in the kingdom--wherever those who have died are, I anticipate their resurrection.
Petrarch wanted us to think of death, but I highly recommend thinking about some resurrection, too. If you can. Sometimes I don't think resurrection is going to do anything but distract you from your loss. Thinking about good things doesn't make the bad feelings go away. And I hear holidays and birthdays are the worst when you've lost someone. If you've lost someone, by death or otherwise, I hope there will come a time, however long or brief--perhaps an Easter--when you can be taken away with your hope at the expense of your loss.
I pray we all can be taken away with our hope at the expense of our loss.
I'm glad Lent doesn't come again for a long time.......
In my thesis research, I read about the death of God.
My grandmother died late December and Dr. Goodman early January. I think of them almost constantly.
I went to a wedding in Maine, but couldn't stop thinking about my next trip to Maine, when we will celebrate my grandmother's life. I could barely talk about her when I was in Maine. I don't even know if she had been buried yet (the ground is often frozen and covered in snow during a Maine winter, so bodies are kept in mausoleums until the weather warms up). I hope that service will give some sort of closure to my mourning process.
I keep having dreams of people dying. I've had at least two since my nana and Goodman, perhaps three. If not three since then, I know I had another one in the past year. One is too many.
I have an amazing picture of my nana on my desk ... it has some scratches on it. Those scratches really disturb me. I truly must purchase a frame.Geez Louise! I'm tired of thinking about death.
In The Secret, Petrarch thinks we should think about death frequently, because it gives a good sense of humility and reality. I don't think Petrarch had in mind what I've had in my mind.
If my mother is reading this piece, I bet she's almost in tears. For me and for her loss, too.
But it is Easter, my friends.It is because he lives that I can face tomorrow. Paul tells us Jesus was the first fruits of resurrection. "First" implies more will follow. That's you and me. That's Goodman and my Shirley Mae Grant. I mourn, but I don't mourn like those with no hope of resurrection.
He is risen.
He is risen, indeed.
Indeed, he is risen!
Exclamation point!
Hallelujah, hallelujah, amen!
I don't know if I'll ever see them again. I really don't. I don't know what God's kingdom will be like after the parousia. I expect to see a lot of Christians, a lot of Jews, and a lot of people I don't expect. Can you expect something you don't expect? I think you can, in the abstract at least. Still, I can hope to see Goodman and my nana again.
I was brought up believing in an intermediary state between death and resurrection, but I would love to see Nana and Goodman and hear, "I prayed for you sometimes, Trevár. I was pleased when I saw how pleased God was with you. Glad to see you, but I really must be going. So busy! Do give me a call some time and we'll grab some drinks, my brother." Then I imagine we'll hug and go our separate ways. And I honestly don't care what anyone thinks about that image, because I like it. To me, it is beautiful, regardless of the theology.
Whether they are in heaven, in the grave, with what remains of their body, in some spiritual realm, in Purgatory, in the kingdom--wherever those who have died are, I anticipate their resurrection.
Petrarch wanted us to think of death, but I highly recommend thinking about some resurrection, too. If you can. Sometimes I don't think resurrection is going to do anything but distract you from your loss. Thinking about good things doesn't make the bad feelings go away. And I hear holidays and birthdays are the worst when you've lost someone. If you've lost someone, by death or otherwise, I hope there will come a time, however long or brief--perhaps an Easter--when you can be taken away with your hope at the expense of your loss.
I pray we all can be taken away with our hope at the expense of our loss.
I'm glad Lent doesn't come again for a long time.......
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Meditations on Tenebrae, Lent, and Holy Week
This year, I was really struck by Maundy Thursday. Perhaps it was less Maundy Thursday and more a service of Tenebrae, a latin word for "darkness," and a liturgical time of extinguishing candles (sometimes extended over the last three days of Holy Week, which is the three days before Easter ... Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday).
At Shelby Presbyterian, our Tenebrae began with a prelude by Bach, "O Man, Bewail Thy Grievous Sin." Because Bach and Mozart are both classical artists, I was reminded (in later reflection, more than during the service) of the postlude for our Stations of the Cross service the previous night, a piece from Mozart's famous Requiem Mass, the Lacrimosa.
Liturgically, a Requiem Mass is a service for the dead and composers set the service to music. The Lacrimosa can be translated as follows (according to wikipedia), I'll include the Latin to the right:
Following the prelude, there was a prayer and a song of praise, "All Glory, Laud, and Honor" and a responsive reading of praise from scripture (Mark 11:1, 4, 7-10).
Then, the darkness began. The rest of the service was broken into stages of darkness, metaphorically and literally. The first was the darkness of misunderstanding and expressed through a responsive reading of pieces of John and Mark. After the reading, a candle was extinguished and the lights dimmed. The darkness of misunderstanding gave way to the darkness of betrayal in Matthew 26:20-28, a betrayal that may not have been seen as betrayal until it was too late. Not just the betrayal of Judas, though, but also the betrayals we daily enact to God, each other, and creation. Another candle extinguished, the lights dimmed again.
And amidst the darkness of betrayal, but after the dimming, we continued with the reading from Matthew that led us to communion, singing "Let us break bread together on our knees."
We moved into the darkness of temptation, but not the temptation where Satan takes Jesus into the wilderness. This temptation was the temptation of freedom, of peace, and of comfort. It was the temptation where Jesus prays for God to save him from crucifixion and where Jesus' disciples sleep instead of pray. We read Matthew 26:30-31, 36-46. We, too, are tempted to lounge instead of pray and to escape any sort of persecution, any sort of death to sin and self, any sort of cross, running instead to freedom, peace, and comfort. Another candle extinguished, the lights further dimmed.
Jesus resisted this temptation, which means we can, too. And when he did and when we do, we move into the darkness of injustice at Jesus' trials of condemnation by humanity, by us. Another candle. Less light. "Go to Dark Gethsemane": learn from Jesus Christ to die.
If we make it as far as the darkness of injustice individually or corporately, we will face another temptation, one to which Peter succumbed in the courtyard of Mark 14:66-72: the darkness of denial. Although this darkness was a hard one to experience, a hard candle to extinguish, it was the next that made my voice quiver.
We read the following, a selection from Luke 23:13-24. The parts in bold were read by the congregation:
After reading from some words on the cross, the Christ candle, too, was extinguished, alluding to Jesus' death. As we sat in silence, darkness, thought, and emotion, one of the pastors took a match and in expectation of Easter, re-lit the Christ candle during the Benediction. We mourn, but not like the rest of the world, because we expect that resurrection.
We exited in meditative silence, by the dull, natural light of a cloudy evening and the light of Christ. In my meditation, I decided to add a line to a poem I wrote, a poem that has frequented my blogs, and one I would like to further explain in the near future.
Tenebrae.
Lacrimosa.
Maranatha.
Requiem.
Lacrimosa.
Marantaha.
Amen.
At Shelby Presbyterian, our Tenebrae began with a prelude by Bach, "O Man, Bewail Thy Grievous Sin." Because Bach and Mozart are both classical artists, I was reminded (in later reflection, more than during the service) of the postlude for our Stations of the Cross service the previous night, a piece from Mozart's famous Requiem Mass, the Lacrimosa.
Liturgically, a Requiem Mass is a service for the dead and composers set the service to music. The Lacrimosa can be translated as follows (according to wikipedia), I'll include the Latin to the right:
Tearful that day, Lacrimosa dies illaFor me, our service began as confession, as humbling. I recognized and mourn(ed) my sins and the sins of those present and not present. It is, after all, Lent.
on which will rise from ashes qua resurget ex favilla
guilty man for judgment. judicandus homo reus.
So have mercy, O Lord, on this man. Huic ergo parce, Deus
Compassionate Lord Jesus, Pie Jesu Domine,
grant them rest. Amen. Dona eis requiem. Amen.
Following the prelude, there was a prayer and a song of praise, "All Glory, Laud, and Honor" and a responsive reading of praise from scripture (Mark 11:1, 4, 7-10).
Then, the darkness began. The rest of the service was broken into stages of darkness, metaphorically and literally. The first was the darkness of misunderstanding and expressed through a responsive reading of pieces of John and Mark. After the reading, a candle was extinguished and the lights dimmed. The darkness of misunderstanding gave way to the darkness of betrayal in Matthew 26:20-28, a betrayal that may not have been seen as betrayal until it was too late. Not just the betrayal of Judas, though, but also the betrayals we daily enact to God, each other, and creation. Another candle extinguished, the lights dimmed again.
And amidst the darkness of betrayal, but after the dimming, we continued with the reading from Matthew that led us to communion, singing "Let us break bread together on our knees."
We moved into the darkness of temptation, but not the temptation where Satan takes Jesus into the wilderness. This temptation was the temptation of freedom, of peace, and of comfort. It was the temptation where Jesus prays for God to save him from crucifixion and where Jesus' disciples sleep instead of pray. We read Matthew 26:30-31, 36-46. We, too, are tempted to lounge instead of pray and to escape any sort of persecution, any sort of death to sin and self, any sort of cross, running instead to freedom, peace, and comfort. Another candle extinguished, the lights further dimmed.
Jesus resisted this temptation, which means we can, too. And when he did and when we do, we move into the darkness of injustice at Jesus' trials of condemnation by humanity, by us. Another candle. Less light. "Go to Dark Gethsemane": learn from Jesus Christ to die.
If we make it as far as the darkness of injustice individually or corporately, we will face another temptation, one to which Peter succumbed in the courtyard of Mark 14:66-72: the darkness of denial. Although this darkness was a hard one to experience, a hard candle to extinguish, it was the next that made my voice quiver.
We read the following, a selection from Luke 23:13-24. The parts in bold were read by the congregation:
Pilate then called together the chief priests, the leaders and the people, and said to them,The sixth candle was extinguished. The lights were completely off. The only light remaining was the dull, natural light from the cloudy evening and the light from the Christ candle. We sang, "Were You There?" and the sanctuary was stripped of all decorations. The purple lenten cloths were removed. The candles were removed. The Bible was removed. We even removed the table cloth where the sacraments sat. I have been at some churches that not only strip the church, but also cover it in black. The church entered a time of mourning as we entered the last darkness, the darkness of crucifixion, a darkness and a mourning that will last until that great morning.
"You brought me this man as one who was perverting the people; and here I have examined him in your presence and have not found this man guilty of any of your charges against him. Neither has Herod, for he sent him back to us. Indeed, he has done nothing to deserve death. I will, therefore, have him flogged and release him."
Then they all shouted together, "Away with this fellow!"
"Release Barabbas for us!"
"Crucify him!"
"Crucify him!"
And their voices prevailed. So Pilate gave his verdict that their demand should be granted.
After reading from some words on the cross, the Christ candle, too, was extinguished, alluding to Jesus' death. As we sat in silence, darkness, thought, and emotion, one of the pastors took a match and in expectation of Easter, re-lit the Christ candle during the Benediction. We mourn, but not like the rest of the world, because we expect that resurrection.
We exited in meditative silence, by the dull, natural light of a cloudy evening and the light of Christ. In my meditation, I decided to add a line to a poem I wrote, a poem that has frequented my blogs, and one I would like to further explain in the near future.
Tenebrae.
Lacrimosa.
Maranatha.
Requiem.
Lacrimosa.
Marantaha.
Amen.
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