An EfM classmate of mine commented that when her new priest arrived, she, the classmate, would be the tallest one at the altar on the Sundays when she was an acolyte. Jokingly I replied that she could think of herself as another Eucharistic candle. Her response was that she thought of herself more as a Roman candle. It was a fun exchange but one that got me thinking about where I stood on the candle scale.
I never had much experience with fireworks. As a child I was limited to sparklers and the occasional foray with the neighbor's bottle rockets, nothing bigger. I liked fireworks for the color but the bang was intimidating. See myself as some kind of firework? That would be a fizzler --- there's a disconnect between the lit fuse and the expected bang and flash.
I love candles. I used to enjoy making them - pouring the hot wax into the prepared mold and waiting more or less patiently to see what came out after it cooled. One year I made four fairly large pillars in purple and pink for the church advent wreath. I even scented them very lightly with a frankincense oil so they would not just look pretty but leave a very faint fragrance behind them. They were candles I made but they weren't me.
I liked making ice candles --- pillars put inside milk cartons, then filling the carton with ice before pouring in hot wax. The ice melted but not before cooling the wax into fantastic bubbles and holes that let the candle show through. The contrast of heat and ice was more like me but it still wasn't me.
I had a beautiful round candle holder made of bits of brightly-colored glass with leading between the pieces. Inside the holder I would place a votive candle and the light shining through the glass was like having my own private cathedral window. I loved it. It was beautiful as it was but only came alive when the candle was lit to let its real colors shine forth. I loved the candle too, but it wasn't me.
I have a crystal candle holder, only big enough for a tea light, that has something of the same feel as the colored glass one. The candle holder is beautiful, even sitting on a bookshelf or window sill where the light can strike it. It becomes even more beautiful whee the tea light is lit, the flame dancing inside and the light flickering through the pattern of the glass. I love it, but it isn't me.
A birthday candle is a tiny thing. It is often brightly colored but once lit only lasts a minute or two before being consumed by the flame. In itself it briefly shares the spotlight with its fellow candles until being either burned out or blown out by an excited child or even a game elder. It brings a moment of joy despite its short life.
I can't think that I bring joy, no matter how briefly. Maybe I can bring a little comfort, a little light, a little warmth before flickering out or being put away for another time. Still, if I had to describe myself as a candle, I'd probably see myself as one of this size and use more than any other.
If I could choose my life as a candle, one I would dearly love to be is a Eucharistic one -- a tall pristine pillar, standing in a polished brass holder, representing one of the two parts of Holy Writ and shedding light on the sacred mystery taking place just next to me. I would shed light but not be part of the mystery. I would be part of the celebration but not the celebrant or the celebrated. Still, it would be enough.
I hear the old song running through my head, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..." Eucharistic candle, advent candle, ice candle, votive, tea light or birthday candle, my job isn't to draw attention to me but to shed light and warmth on what is around me. That's how I see my life as a candle.
I give thanks for Roman candles (even Episcopalian ones!) which bring brightness and joy. I celebrate their gift to the world and rejoice in their colors and patterns. I'm glad there's room in the spectrum for both the Roman candle and the birthday one. God loves us all for what we are, not what we should be (or want to be.)
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Meaning of the Crucifixion
Episcopal Café has a post that contain ns the question "What does the Crucifixion mean, anyway?" Ann Fontaine challenged a member of our class to come up with her own answer. I decided it was time to look at my own ideas in a way other than just turning it over in my mind and then forgetting about it.
Crucifixion was an ancient form of capital punishment; you were hung up with ropes or nails until you died and if you didn't die in a reasonable amount of time (but not too quickly), they broke your legs to help you along. It was not hidden away behind penitentiary walls with only invited guests to view the event as it is today; it was set right out in front of God and everybody as a form of warning about what happened to those convicted criminals who committed certain crimes and to serve as a form of humiliation for both criminal and family, a very bad thing in those days. It was slow, painful, public and very ugly.
I've been to some churches where the crucifixion of Jesus is the primary event, symbolized by not just a cross but the suffering, dying or dead Christ still hanging there. This represents their view of salvation, the blood sacrifice demanded by God for the redemption of the world. It represented the lamb sacrificed in the temple for the cleansing of the people, an innocent victim made to pay the ultimate price for the sins of all. They celebrate Easter is a festival of resurrection, but the emphasis is on the crucifixion, the death.
I've also been to other churches who see the crucifixion as an event for sorrow and mourning, but they look beyond Good Friday to the glory of Easter. The crucifixion was not the end of the story, just the completion of one chapter and the beginning of another.
I tend to be one of the resurrectionists. Without the crucifixion, whether it was for political reasons, substitutionary atonement required by God or both, there would have been no opportunity for a resurrection, no need for one. I mourn on Good Friday, mourn the humiliating and painful death of the man Jesus who taught love, who healed the outcasts, who exemplified what a life devoted to God and God's service looked like. Yet unlike his mother and the women at the bottom of the cross and the apostles cowering in fear and huddled in a hidden place, I know that Jesus' death was not the end. It was one subway stop short of a full run, one act short of a full play, and one period short of a full paragraph. There was more beyond what they could see and know, thanks be to God.
I look at the cross and see more than a piece of jewelry to be worn around the neck or hanging from the rear-view mirror of the car. The cross represents my belief that salvation is fully realized – salvation from sin as typified by a symbol, the cross, and salvation from death by its emptiness. I see hope, the hope that the Gospel promises for my redemption from sin and my own rising again in glory. I see the hope that Jesus' teachings will be our guides for creating not just a promise of heaven after death but of making a new heaven here and now.
What does the crucifixion mean, really? It means hope, and in this day and age, hope means the world – really.
Crucifixion was an ancient form of capital punishment; you were hung up with ropes or nails until you died and if you didn't die in a reasonable amount of time (but not too quickly), they broke your legs to help you along. It was not hidden away behind penitentiary walls with only invited guests to view the event as it is today; it was set right out in front of God and everybody as a form of warning about what happened to those convicted criminals who committed certain crimes and to serve as a form of humiliation for both criminal and family, a very bad thing in those days. It was slow, painful, public and very ugly.
I've been to some churches where the crucifixion of Jesus is the primary event, symbolized by not just a cross but the suffering, dying or dead Christ still hanging there. This represents their view of salvation, the blood sacrifice demanded by God for the redemption of the world. It represented the lamb sacrificed in the temple for the cleansing of the people, an innocent victim made to pay the ultimate price for the sins of all. They celebrate Easter is a festival of resurrection, but the emphasis is on the crucifixion, the death.
I've also been to other churches who see the crucifixion as an event for sorrow and mourning, but they look beyond Good Friday to the glory of Easter. The crucifixion was not the end of the story, just the completion of one chapter and the beginning of another.
I tend to be one of the resurrectionists. Without the crucifixion, whether it was for political reasons, substitutionary atonement required by God or both, there would have been no opportunity for a resurrection, no need for one. I mourn on Good Friday, mourn the humiliating and painful death of the man Jesus who taught love, who healed the outcasts, who exemplified what a life devoted to God and God's service looked like. Yet unlike his mother and the women at the bottom of the cross and the apostles cowering in fear and huddled in a hidden place, I know that Jesus' death was not the end. It was one subway stop short of a full run, one act short of a full play, and one period short of a full paragraph. There was more beyond what they could see and know, thanks be to God.
I look at the cross and see more than a piece of jewelry to be worn around the neck or hanging from the rear-view mirror of the car. The cross represents my belief that salvation is fully realized – salvation from sin as typified by a symbol, the cross, and salvation from death by its emptiness. I see hope, the hope that the Gospel promises for my redemption from sin and my own rising again in glory. I see the hope that Jesus' teachings will be our guides for creating not just a promise of heaven after death but of making a new heaven here and now.
What does the crucifixion mean, really? It means hope, and in this day and age, hope means the world – really.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
On Doing and Be-ing
One good thing about living alone (well, almost alone, counting my four housemates) is that if I really want to take a day off and do nothing, I can do it without anybody bugging me about it (except for the sacred hour of cat-feeding twice a day). I can have breakfast at 6am or not until noon, dinner at 1pm or not until 6. I can skip a meal or cook up something particularly luscious, I can mow the floors today or let it wait until tomorrow, unless the dust kittens are too obvious in their plumping themselves in the middle of the floor as if to say "Neener neener neener, come and get me!"
I love my little refuge. Other than bills that demand my attention periodically and the fur-kids who likewise demand my attention periodically (and usually a lot more often), when and how I respond to the things needing to be done are up to me. After working during the week, which usually includes having lots of people tell me what to do, when to do it, and how to do it, it's lovely to come home, shut the door and allow myself to be rather than to do.
Jesus took time to just be rather than do. After his baptism he went into the desert for a retreat. Yes, he had to face the temptations that can arise for any of us on similar retreat (only we won't be asked usually to do things as tough as the ones he was presented with), but I am sure that much of his time and attention was focused on being -- being away from pressure to do this or that, away to get the batteries recharged, away to be with God. Periodically he would withdraw from the crowds to get that recharge, to be rather than to do the things a public ministry like his required:away from making decisions as to where to go, who to heal or see or talk with, how to appeal to those he wanted to reach. In order to truly know himself and his ministry, he had to know himself and the way to do that was to take time to be rather than to always be doing.
I've been reading a book on ministry and the laity. It's an anthology collected and added to by Verna Dozier, whom I admire greatly. Reading the essays, articles and interviews in the book, a comment by William Diehl jumped out at me: "To suggest that one's occupation validates or denies one's Christian status is to define Christianity on the basis of what we do rather than who we are."*
"...[D]efine Christianity on the basis of what we do rather than who we are." Now there's something to consider.
Is the job I do a defining characteristic that makes me Christian or not, or is it how I do that job? Are the beliefs I profess the things that make me Christian or is it how I live out those beliefs? Is how I worship a definer or is it that I involve my whole self in whatever worshipful activity that connects me to God in the closest, most intimate way?
What does my life and how I live it demonstrate my be-ing and not just my do-ing? Have I taken the time to really find out for myself what that be-ing really means? Have I used my time in my hermitage to do what I fancy or to get in touch with what is inside me? Do I just sit and wait for God or do I have to be actively thinking or enunciating words to fill the void? Can I just sit and be without doing something?
Can I be considered a Christian if I just do? God made me a being --- and it's up to me to cultivate that be-ing.
* Dozier, Verna, The Calling of the Laity: Verna Dozier's Anthology. (1988) New York: The Alban Institute, Inc. (68).
I love my little refuge. Other than bills that demand my attention periodically and the fur-kids who likewise demand my attention periodically (and usually a lot more often), when and how I respond to the things needing to be done are up to me. After working during the week, which usually includes having lots of people tell me what to do, when to do it, and how to do it, it's lovely to come home, shut the door and allow myself to be rather than to do.
Jesus took time to just be rather than do. After his baptism he went into the desert for a retreat. Yes, he had to face the temptations that can arise for any of us on similar retreat (only we won't be asked usually to do things as tough as the ones he was presented with), but I am sure that much of his time and attention was focused on being -- being away from pressure to do this or that, away to get the batteries recharged, away to be with God. Periodically he would withdraw from the crowds to get that recharge, to be rather than to do the things a public ministry like his required:away from making decisions as to where to go, who to heal or see or talk with, how to appeal to those he wanted to reach. In order to truly know himself and his ministry, he had to know himself and the way to do that was to take time to be rather than to always be doing.
I've been reading a book on ministry and the laity. It's an anthology collected and added to by Verna Dozier, whom I admire greatly. Reading the essays, articles and interviews in the book, a comment by William Diehl jumped out at me: "To suggest that one's occupation validates or denies one's Christian status is to define Christianity on the basis of what we do rather than who we are."*
"...[D]efine Christianity on the basis of what we do rather than who we are." Now there's something to consider.
Is the job I do a defining characteristic that makes me Christian or not, or is it how I do that job? Are the beliefs I profess the things that make me Christian or is it how I live out those beliefs? Is how I worship a definer or is it that I involve my whole self in whatever worshipful activity that connects me to God in the closest, most intimate way?
What does my life and how I live it demonstrate my be-ing and not just my do-ing? Have I taken the time to really find out for myself what that be-ing really means? Have I used my time in my hermitage to do what I fancy or to get in touch with what is inside me? Do I just sit and wait for God or do I have to be actively thinking or enunciating words to fill the void? Can I just sit and be without doing something?
Can I be considered a Christian if I just do? God made me a being --- and it's up to me to cultivate that be-ing.
* Dozier, Verna, The Calling of the Laity: Verna Dozier's Anthology. (1988) New York: The Alban Institute, Inc. (68).
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Truth
TRUTH: the quality or state of being true; that which is true or in accordance with fact or reality; a fact or belief that is accepted as true (Oxford Dictionary Online)
To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about this topic in correlation with our EfM lessons about the world of the ancient peoples of the Bible and even further back to the origin of the world itself. It's probably one of the most divisive stories in Bible history, when it comes to faith, belief and the perception of truth. Funny thing, to be so divisive when it comes to a story that is traditional and common to all sides.
The basic facts of the Genesis stories of creation are the same -- God created the world and everything in it, including human beings. The stories differ in the order of creation, the method and that's about it. I think that's probably agreed-upon by people of the Judeo-Christian faith. Most of the time the stories are somewhat conflated so that parts of the two are told as if they were all one story. It's not an uncommon Biblical thing; Noah's ark, even the birth of Jesus have two tellings that have the same basic facts but are somewhat different.
Truth is about fact and reality. The sun shining is a fact; it's observable. We even believe that the sun will come up tomorrow (sounds like a Broadway show tune, doesn't it?) even though we don't have definite proof that it will. It always has so we assume it always will, prophets and doomsayers to the contrary, but who believes prophets these days? Science tells us that one day it won't happen, but that's at some remote point in time and so we can cheerfully ignore it for the present. Doesn't make it less true, just less applicable to our everyday life. And it keeps the doomsayers in business.
Truth is also about belief. I believe God exists, even though I can't empirically prove it. I keep reading the weather forecasts and planning activities around them even though I understand the potential for their being wrong a good part of the time (as in prognosticating the possibility and percentage of chance of rain in my specific area of Arizona in on Tuesday, September 21st, in the evening -- 70% predicted, amount actually hitting the ground as rain, 0).
When it comes to the stories of creation, I believe the stories are true but I don't necessarily believe they are factual. That puts me at odds with a lot of people, my own relatives included. The stories are, for me, inexplicably true despite their apparent lack of provable fact. I can't explain how the creation was accomplished or by what means. I can't accept a six-day creation as described in the Bible or in any other stories of creation other cultures and religions have as their tradition. I can accept as true that the creation happened; I can see the world around me and know that a some point in time it had to begin somehow, somewhere, somewhen. I can listen to the science that puts the age of the universe in billions and billions of years and I can hear the Bible's six-day creation. I find truth in each of them - truth in what science tells me, the fossil record, the evolution of writing and art and even science itself, and in what the Bible describes as a progression of events culminating in a populated world that functions by natural laws and sometimes inexplicable events. I hold the two beliefs in tension because of their truth.
Truth is about more than just demonstrable facts or what people accept as facts regardless of whether or not they are literally true. Yeats said, "'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Beauty is subjective -- everybody has an idea of what's beautiful and what isn't and people don't always agree on what is or isn't beautiful. Same with truth; my truth isn't necessarily yours. In a way it's a kind of diversity. I accept that your truth is true for you and I would hope you would accept that mine is for me. Oh, we might talk about it, discuss it, even heatedly, and perhaps one or both of us will try to convince the other that we are, in fact, right and you are, in fact, wrong. It would be lovely if we could stand up, shake hands, and leave the table as friends who can't agree on something but respecting the truth the other so firmly believes in.
For me, ambiguity is truth because it gives me the opportunity to hold two divergent beliefs in tension and not pin all my hopes -- and faith-- on either one. Did creation happen in a week or billions of years? Did Noah actually save his family and some animals in a universal flood? were there two of each or two of some and seven pairs of another? Did shepherds and wise men show up in a stable in Bethlehem, or did one group come at one time and in one place while the other group come at a different time and place? Did the resurrection entail a spiritual reawakening or a physical reanimation --- or both? those are all questions I don't have factual answers for. All I have is belief that regardless of the facts, the truth lies deeper down and is much more precious than just facts.
The truth that lies beneath it is the truth on which my faith is based. Something happened, I don't know how, when, where or by what agency, but I know something happened. That something is the experience that draws me in, encloses me and tells me that I don't need to try to understand the paradoxes. Something happened, I experience something that informs and encourages my faith because of it and that's enough.
And that's the truth.
To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about this topic in correlation with our EfM lessons about the world of the ancient peoples of the Bible and even further back to the origin of the world itself. It's probably one of the most divisive stories in Bible history, when it comes to faith, belief and the perception of truth. Funny thing, to be so divisive when it comes to a story that is traditional and common to all sides.
The basic facts of the Genesis stories of creation are the same -- God created the world and everything in it, including human beings. The stories differ in the order of creation, the method and that's about it. I think that's probably agreed-upon by people of the Judeo-Christian faith. Most of the time the stories are somewhat conflated so that parts of the two are told as if they were all one story. It's not an uncommon Biblical thing; Noah's ark, even the birth of Jesus have two tellings that have the same basic facts but are somewhat different.
Truth is about fact and reality. The sun shining is a fact; it's observable. We even believe that the sun will come up tomorrow (sounds like a Broadway show tune, doesn't it?) even though we don't have definite proof that it will. It always has so we assume it always will, prophets and doomsayers to the contrary, but who believes prophets these days? Science tells us that one day it won't happen, but that's at some remote point in time and so we can cheerfully ignore it for the present. Doesn't make it less true, just less applicable to our everyday life. And it keeps the doomsayers in business.
Truth is also about belief. I believe God exists, even though I can't empirically prove it. I keep reading the weather forecasts and planning activities around them even though I understand the potential for their being wrong a good part of the time (as in prognosticating the possibility and percentage of chance of rain in my specific area of Arizona in on Tuesday, September 21st, in the evening -- 70% predicted, amount actually hitting the ground as rain, 0).
When it comes to the stories of creation, I believe the stories are true but I don't necessarily believe they are factual. That puts me at odds with a lot of people, my own relatives included. The stories are, for me, inexplicably true despite their apparent lack of provable fact. I can't explain how the creation was accomplished or by what means. I can't accept a six-day creation as described in the Bible or in any other stories of creation other cultures and religions have as their tradition. I can accept as true that the creation happened; I can see the world around me and know that a some point in time it had to begin somehow, somewhere, somewhen. I can listen to the science that puts the age of the universe in billions and billions of years and I can hear the Bible's six-day creation. I find truth in each of them - truth in what science tells me, the fossil record, the evolution of writing and art and even science itself, and in what the Bible describes as a progression of events culminating in a populated world that functions by natural laws and sometimes inexplicable events. I hold the two beliefs in tension because of their truth.
Truth is about more than just demonstrable facts or what people accept as facts regardless of whether or not they are literally true. Yeats said, "'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Beauty is subjective -- everybody has an idea of what's beautiful and what isn't and people don't always agree on what is or isn't beautiful. Same with truth; my truth isn't necessarily yours. In a way it's a kind of diversity. I accept that your truth is true for you and I would hope you would accept that mine is for me. Oh, we might talk about it, discuss it, even heatedly, and perhaps one or both of us will try to convince the other that we are, in fact, right and you are, in fact, wrong. It would be lovely if we could stand up, shake hands, and leave the table as friends who can't agree on something but respecting the truth the other so firmly believes in.
For me, ambiguity is truth because it gives me the opportunity to hold two divergent beliefs in tension and not pin all my hopes -- and faith-- on either one. Did creation happen in a week or billions of years? Did Noah actually save his family and some animals in a universal flood? were there two of each or two of some and seven pairs of another? Did shepherds and wise men show up in a stable in Bethlehem, or did one group come at one time and in one place while the other group come at a different time and place? Did the resurrection entail a spiritual reawakening or a physical reanimation --- or both? those are all questions I don't have factual answers for. All I have is belief that regardless of the facts, the truth lies deeper down and is much more precious than just facts.
The truth that lies beneath it is the truth on which my faith is based. Something happened, I don't know how, when, where or by what agency, but I know something happened. That something is the experience that draws me in, encloses me and tells me that I don't need to try to understand the paradoxes. Something happened, I experience something that informs and encourages my faith because of it and that's enough.
And that's the truth.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Spiritual Autobiography Using Items
One of the possible presentations for our spiritual autobiography is to pick two items , one of which represents what brings me closer to God and the other that which separates me from God. It's probably one of the more painless ways of doing a short SA but one that requires just as much thought as a stepping stone, a time line or any other form, at least, in my very humble opinion.
I chose my iPod as an item that brings me closer to God. I have a pretty sizeable collection of music on it. I generally listen to it at work (hence the earphones) to help me block out noise like the press boys' loud radio next door, but a lot of times I listen to it just because it helps calm me when things get frantic and I feel like I'm drowning. While there is orchestral music on it ("Lark Ascending" and "Terpsichorean Dances" are favorites), most of it is religious music of some kind: hymns, chants, Taizé and oratorio but my favorites are generally masses and liturgical music by Palestrina, Gabrielli, Byrd, Tallis, Bach – and Rutter.
There's a Tibetan Buddhist tradition of having prayer wheels that are kept turning, whether small hand-held ones that are kept in motion by flicks of the wrist or gigantic ones that are kept in motion by passers-by pushing on a rod, or sometimes a having a water wheel to keep the wheel in motion. The prayer is written on the outside of the wheel and also the inside and is a traditional Buddhist mantra, "Om mani padme hom." Buddhists believe that turning the prayer wheels are as effective as physically reciting the mantra again and again, a practice similar to our use of repeated prayers such as the Jesus Prayer or the Hail, Mary.
My iPod and the music it contains is, in a sense, my prayer wheel. It keeps my soul in touch with God through the offered music and prayer even as I am busy working at the computer, sorting things or even sometimes unloading a truck with a forklift. It keeps my connection open. At times my soul sings along with the music, much of which is familiar now through frequent playing or even from memory of use in many church services while at other times I am quiet as the prayer/song/aria/mass goes on around me. Whether I am actively singing or passively hearing, the prayer goes on around me and keeping me calm, focused and open..
On the negative side, several things separate me from God.
The computer is both a distraction and a blessing. It is a blessing in that it is how I connect to EfM, friends and blogsites that encourage my fascination with and search for knowledge and connection with those who have similar interests and who often give me great insights and trails to follow productively. On the other hand, the computer is a distraction in that it is very easy to spend hours playing games or shopping for things which I sometimes can't afford. I also get news through the computer and many times I have had to stop reading blogs and comments because of how they made me feel --- anxious, angry, disgusted, sick and disheartened. It is very easy to forget God in the wonder of how people can be so cruel and so negative, even when it comes to religion. I try to avoid that kind of thing, but like the wreck on the freeway, I keep looking, hoping perhaps to see something different.
The cat (Sama) is a distraction but is also something God gave me, knowing how much I would need him, his brothers and his cousin eventually. They look to me for food, companionship and a clean litterbox and I look to them as companions, reasons to get out of bed in the morning and also to keep working so that I can keep them in their necessities of life.
Clutter around my desk is also a separation. I try to keep it tidy but it always seems to get ahead of me, one piece of paper, one book at a time. It represents my life as I live it, never quite measuring up to what I want to be or do, holding on to things because those things make me feel alive and connected.
So there is my spiritual autobiography in short, using things that separate me from and connect me to God.
There's a Tibetan Buddhist tradition of having prayer wheels that are kept turning, whether small hand-held ones that are kept in motion by flicks of the wrist or gigantic ones that are kept in motion by passers-by pushing on a rod, or sometimes a having a water wheel to keep the wheel in motion. The prayer is written on the outside of the wheel and also the inside and is a traditional Buddhist mantra, "Om mani padme hom." Buddhists believe that turning the prayer wheels are as effective as physically reciting the mantra again and again, a practice similar to our use of repeated prayers such as the Jesus Prayer or the Hail, Mary.
My iPod and the music it contains is, in a sense, my prayer wheel. It keeps my soul in touch with God through the offered music and prayer even as I am busy working at the computer, sorting things or even sometimes unloading a truck with a forklift. It keeps my connection open. At times my soul sings along with the music, much of which is familiar now through frequent playing or even from memory of use in many church services while at other times I am quiet as the prayer/song/aria/mass goes on around me. Whether I am actively singing or passively hearing, the prayer goes on around me and keeping me calm, focused and open..
On the negative side, several things separate me from God.
The television is a major distraction, often catching my attention on a program or snippet that can educate me (which is a good thing) but which often, as in the picture, either just entertainment or, quite often, just noise. So much I see on TV now is recitations of disasters, historical and anticipated, that fill me with discomfort and anxiety. I have had to stop watching many things like news programs because they too fill me with anxiety and fear for what is happening around me. I figure I have enough anxiety just dealing with daily life but the television is like an auto accident on the freeway: everybody has to slow down as they drive past to see what damage has been done.
The computer is both a distraction and a blessing. It is a blessing in that it is how I connect to EfM, friends and blogsites that encourage my fascination with and search for knowledge and connection with those who have similar interests and who often give me great insights and trails to follow productively. On the other hand, the computer is a distraction in that it is very easy to spend hours playing games or shopping for things which I sometimes can't afford. I also get news through the computer and many times I have had to stop reading blogs and comments because of how they made me feel --- anxious, angry, disgusted, sick and disheartened. It is very easy to forget God in the wonder of how people can be so cruel and so negative, even when it comes to religion. I try to avoid that kind of thing, but like the wreck on the freeway, I keep looking, hoping perhaps to see something different.
The cat (Sama) is a distraction but is also something God gave me, knowing how much I would need him, his brothers and his cousin eventually. They look to me for food, companionship and a clean litterbox and I look to them as companions, reasons to get out of bed in the morning and also to keep working so that I can keep them in their necessities of life.
Clutter around my desk is also a separation. I try to keep it tidy but it always seems to get ahead of me, one piece of paper, one book at a time. It represents my life as I live it, never quite measuring up to what I want to be or do, holding on to things because those things make me feel alive and connected.
So there is my spiritual autobiography in short, using things that separate me from and connect me to God.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A Climate of... , A Hope for...
Comparing notes with a friend and co-worker some time ago and found that both of us are plagued by uncertainty, insecurity, frustration and feeling things are out of control and neither of us is really sure what to do to change it, if indeed change is possible.
Reading or listening to newscasts is depressing. Stories on the blogs or websites may offer a bit of brightness but then reading the comments that people offer often destroys any slight feeling of budding optimism or even comfort. People who are just names or nicknames offer comments on not only the story or idea being presented but on the comments of others, often with a viciousness that borders on mental violence. They don't know the one they are slashing and stabbing, they often don't even read the story (or so it seems) but rather use a sound-byte or title to fuel a frenzy of expletives, name-calling and challenges as to the intelligence, national loyalty and even religious practice of the other. It's as if the anonymity of the medium encourages the baser side to emerge unchecked. Even in the little local rag the letters to the editor can be vicious even though each letter must be signed with a person's actual name, no anonymity allowed. What is WRONG with this picture?
What strikes me as ironic is that many who stab and slash the hardest are the ones proudly claiming to be Christian while casting doubts and aspersions on the religious beliefs of others whose words and letters they criticize so vocally.
Churches themselves are not guiltless. Sure, there are churches and congregations that try to focus on the message of Christ but what those messages are are quite often perceived in very different ways, as different as the Hebrew view of the cosmos vs. the views we have from Hubbel telescope and Voyager. The congregations sing of "... in the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore," but the focus is on a heavenly shore not the shore of the Gulf of Mexico, Bering Sea, or any of the oceans. All will be sweetness, light and glory but in keeping the eyes on heaven one can very easily lose sight of things on this earth that could stand some attention --- like hope, comfort, help, compassion, civility and concern for the earth and its peoples here and now. No, folks would rather throw verbal bombs and slashes denigrating the personhood, character and faith of someone with whom they disagree on some level. As long as they have what they feel they deserve, "given by God" like some Cracker-Jack prize deserved because they bought the box, that's God's will. If someone else doesn't, then it must be God's will and their own fault.
I wonder what Jesus thinks about all this. When he said "The kingdom of heaven is near (or within) you" did he mean if one expires after having said a certain phrase one could expect immediate and joyous entry into a heavenly paradise where all was joy, light and glory or did he mean we should look around to find the paradise available in the here-and-now if we were willing to look for and work for it? I wonder what God thinks of the billions of tons of waste in landfills that render the land around them unsuitable for use as fields, homes or businesses? I wonder what the Spirit thinks of the petty meannesses we perpetrate against our fellow human beings (and the rest of creation) with our careless words and wasteful habits?
WWJD? I think he's already told us. Are we listening? What difference are we making if we are? If we aren't, why aren't we?
Time to do some serious consideration --- and maybe change of direction.
Reading or listening to newscasts is depressing. Stories on the blogs or websites may offer a bit of brightness but then reading the comments that people offer often destroys any slight feeling of budding optimism or even comfort. People who are just names or nicknames offer comments on not only the story or idea being presented but on the comments of others, often with a viciousness that borders on mental violence. They don't know the one they are slashing and stabbing, they often don't even read the story (or so it seems) but rather use a sound-byte or title to fuel a frenzy of expletives, name-calling and challenges as to the intelligence, national loyalty and even religious practice of the other. It's as if the anonymity of the medium encourages the baser side to emerge unchecked. Even in the little local rag the letters to the editor can be vicious even though each letter must be signed with a person's actual name, no anonymity allowed. What is WRONG with this picture?
What strikes me as ironic is that many who stab and slash the hardest are the ones proudly claiming to be Christian while casting doubts and aspersions on the religious beliefs of others whose words and letters they criticize so vocally.
Churches themselves are not guiltless. Sure, there are churches and congregations that try to focus on the message of Christ but what those messages are are quite often perceived in very different ways, as different as the Hebrew view of the cosmos vs. the views we have from Hubbel telescope and Voyager. The congregations sing of "... in the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore," but the focus is on a heavenly shore not the shore of the Gulf of Mexico, Bering Sea, or any of the oceans. All will be sweetness, light and glory but in keeping the eyes on heaven one can very easily lose sight of things on this earth that could stand some attention --- like hope, comfort, help, compassion, civility and concern for the earth and its peoples here and now. No, folks would rather throw verbal bombs and slashes denigrating the personhood, character and faith of someone with whom they disagree on some level. As long as they have what they feel they deserve, "given by God" like some Cracker-Jack prize deserved because they bought the box, that's God's will. If someone else doesn't, then it must be God's will and their own fault.
I wonder what Jesus thinks about all this. When he said "The kingdom of heaven is near (or within) you" did he mean if one expires after having said a certain phrase one could expect immediate and joyous entry into a heavenly paradise where all was joy, light and glory or did he mean we should look around to find the paradise available in the here-and-now if we were willing to look for and work for it? I wonder what God thinks of the billions of tons of waste in landfills that render the land around them unsuitable for use as fields, homes or businesses? I wonder what the Spirit thinks of the petty meannesses we perpetrate against our fellow human beings (and the rest of creation) with our careless words and wasteful habits?
WWJD? I think he's already told us. Are we listening? What difference are we making if we are? If we aren't, why aren't we?
Time to do some serious consideration --- and maybe change of direction.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Death and Pedestals
There's an old saying about "nothin's sure but death and taxes" and the older I get the more I recognize the truth in that short sentiment. About the only thing not taxed these days is breathing and I'm sure as soon as the government can figure out a way to collect a tax on that it'll be added to the list of taxable items. It's discouraging.
And then there's death. Another old saying that notes the transience of life is that "nobody gets out of this life alive." Well, so far as I know, that's the absolute truth. Everybody dies and only a couple of people have managed to leave this planet by translation rather than internment and resurrection (although one of them did get resurrected).
I can't count the number of funerals, memorial services, wakes and "visitations" I've attended over the course of my life. Even as a toddler, I remember going to Uncle This's or Aunt That's visitations and funerals. I've been to the funerals of parents, contemporaries, relatives of varying degrees of kinship, friends who have acted as mentors and guides and many who have had a major impact on my life. There have been so many, as they euphemistically say in the funeral business, "passed over" that I've lost count. At their funerals they've always been noted for their good points (even a few eulogies that really had to stretch to avoid the old shibboleth about not saying anything bad about the dead). I guess none of us want to be remembered as Cassius put it in Julius Caesar, "The evil that men do lives after them, but the good is often interred with their bones."
Sitting at a funeral, a memorial service or even just in front of the computer screen contemplating all the deaths that have occurred during my lifetime, mainly of people I know since I hardly knew every single person who has died over the course of the last 64 years, I look for the common thread (other than they existed and were part of my life in some way). Many of them were people I knew, trusted, loved and sometimes adored. Sure, they were real people and, more or less, had their quirks, foibles and quite often hints (or outright mentions) of little things that probably not that many people were aware of, particularly if it was something less than stellar. I think of all the people I put on pedestals in my life only to find the feet of clay of many of them long before the formerly sainted one shuffled off the mortal coil.
I heard of another death a while ago of someone I knew, formerly admired greatly and who, I felt, did something I didn't agree with in the slightest and so the pedestal broke and the person was relegated to a nodding acquaintance. They had many good qualities but I couldn't really see them that well after that episode. Probably that's a bad thing and something I should work to overcome.
Pedestals are damn uncomfortable things, I imagine, unless you're a Stylite and retreat to your column for the sake of your soul. Even so I imagine the Stylites didn't see living on a pedestal (or a column) to be a comfortable thing, exposed to the wind and weather, totally visible at all times, no privacy, no creature comforts and probably living on the generosity of followers to whom you were supposed to guide and mentor into a more spiritual life through your words and examples. Certainly Stylites are no longer in fashion as they once were, and modern people tend to put people like rock or movie stars, sports figures, clerical people, teachers, and the like on pedestals only to be extremely willing to tear them down at the least sign of perceived weakness. Perhaps that is what I did to so many in my life -- put them on pedestals and loved them there only to find that they weren't perfect by a long shot. Still, there have been a few, a very few, who, even though I saw their feet of clay, still stayed on their pedestals in my heart until the day they died and even to this day. I hope they aren't too disappointed in how I turned out after all their love and care.
I guess what I have learned about pedestals and death is that I can love without idolizing, accept the humanity without looking for sainthood, and pray for the souls of the departed, even the ones who I felt fell off their columns and pedestals. I pray they rest in peace and rise in glory, just as I pray someone will do that for me when my turn comes, despite all my flaws and faults and gigantic mistakes. I honestly can say that of all the fallen pedestal-standers there really is only one about whom I can think of not a lot of good and so I guess I need to work on changing that. I need to do it not because I have to in order to earn a gold star or even a gold crown but because I need to do it for me.
May all rest in peace and rise to thrones prepared for them with God. Thank you for the lessons you have taught me, even if I'm a very slow learner sometimes.
And then there's death. Another old saying that notes the transience of life is that "nobody gets out of this life alive." Well, so far as I know, that's the absolute truth. Everybody dies and only a couple of people have managed to leave this planet by translation rather than internment and resurrection (although one of them did get resurrected).
I can't count the number of funerals, memorial services, wakes and "visitations" I've attended over the course of my life. Even as a toddler, I remember going to Uncle This's or Aunt That's visitations and funerals. I've been to the funerals of parents, contemporaries, relatives of varying degrees of kinship, friends who have acted as mentors and guides and many who have had a major impact on my life. There have been so many, as they euphemistically say in the funeral business, "passed over" that I've lost count. At their funerals they've always been noted for their good points (even a few eulogies that really had to stretch to avoid the old shibboleth about not saying anything bad about the dead). I guess none of us want to be remembered as Cassius put it in Julius Caesar, "The evil that men do lives after them, but the good is often interred with their bones."
Sitting at a funeral, a memorial service or even just in front of the computer screen contemplating all the deaths that have occurred during my lifetime, mainly of people I know since I hardly knew every single person who has died over the course of the last 64 years, I look for the common thread (other than they existed and were part of my life in some way). Many of them were people I knew, trusted, loved and sometimes adored. Sure, they were real people and, more or less, had their quirks, foibles and quite often hints (or outright mentions) of little things that probably not that many people were aware of, particularly if it was something less than stellar. I think of all the people I put on pedestals in my life only to find the feet of clay of many of them long before the formerly sainted one shuffled off the mortal coil.
I heard of another death a while ago of someone I knew, formerly admired greatly and who, I felt, did something I didn't agree with in the slightest and so the pedestal broke and the person was relegated to a nodding acquaintance. They had many good qualities but I couldn't really see them that well after that episode. Probably that's a bad thing and something I should work to overcome.
Pedestals are damn uncomfortable things, I imagine, unless you're a Stylite and retreat to your column for the sake of your soul. Even so I imagine the Stylites didn't see living on a pedestal (or a column) to be a comfortable thing, exposed to the wind and weather, totally visible at all times, no privacy, no creature comforts and probably living on the generosity of followers to whom you were supposed to guide and mentor into a more spiritual life through your words and examples. Certainly Stylites are no longer in fashion as they once were, and modern people tend to put people like rock or movie stars, sports figures, clerical people, teachers, and the like on pedestals only to be extremely willing to tear them down at the least sign of perceived weakness. Perhaps that is what I did to so many in my life -- put them on pedestals and loved them there only to find that they weren't perfect by a long shot. Still, there have been a few, a very few, who, even though I saw their feet of clay, still stayed on their pedestals in my heart until the day they died and even to this day. I hope they aren't too disappointed in how I turned out after all their love and care.
I guess what I have learned about pedestals and death is that I can love without idolizing, accept the humanity without looking for sainthood, and pray for the souls of the departed, even the ones who I felt fell off their columns and pedestals. I pray they rest in peace and rise in glory, just as I pray someone will do that for me when my turn comes, despite all my flaws and faults and gigantic mistakes. I honestly can say that of all the fallen pedestal-standers there really is only one about whom I can think of not a lot of good and so I guess I need to work on changing that. I need to do it not because I have to in order to earn a gold star or even a gold crown but because I need to do it for me.
May all rest in peace and rise to thrones prepared for them with God. Thank you for the lessons you have taught me, even if I'm a very slow learner sometimes.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thoughts on the Sabbath
This is the first Sunday in I don't remember how long that I haven't spent most of the day working on something that needed doing right then. The book went to the printer (hopefully for the last time) on Thursday, the laundry got done, I got the cat food on Friday, and yesterday I mowed and mopped the floors, did the dishes and several other domestic duties that I'd put off because I had to get something done on Ginger's book. Not that I minded, really; it was fun for the most part but still a stressor that may or may not be completely finished, depending on whether the proof copy looks good. Anyway, there not being much to do in that direction I took today off from just about everything.
I got up today at the usual time of 5:30. My alarm goes off Monday - Friday at that hour but the fur-footers seem to think on any day of the week any time after about 4:30 am is borrowed time and they are going to starve to death if they can't get me rousted from the bed as early as possible. Today I refused to be cajoled, bullied, or forced into rising before i was ready (and the boys have some pretty definite ways of getting me out of bed). I got up anyway, fed them, got my first glass of iced tea, read my email and suddenly was so tired I was having trouble staying awake. I gave in. I went back to bed and slept until nearly 9.
I got up for about 3 hours and darned if I didn't feel the need of another nap, this time only a 2-hour one. I did get up and get enough energy to cook up a pot of squash (they were on sale this week, thank you, God!) with bacon and onions for my meal and read the online manual for the Kindle which hopefully will appear tomorrow. Other than that, I've done just about nothing.
I guess I was a lot more tired and stressed than I knew. Sure, I take a nap every possible day but there's been a lot of stress in my life lately and even with the naps there have been strings of nights when I haven't slept well, wakened early and didn't do more than lightly doze until the alarm clock went off -- or a cat had a hairball.
It brought to mind a discussion we had at our mentor's training session last weekend, namely how to actually observe a sabbath. Sure, most folks go to church on Sunday (some on Saturday night) and that is what they consider their Sabbath "duty". The rest of the day is spent in recreation -- picnics, playing in the pool with the kids, watching the Cubs lose yet again (Lord, how have they offended thee to cause so many losses over so many years?) or hoping the Redskins or anybody who plays Dallas wins. We also do the chores we didn't have time for on Saturday because Susie had to go to gymnastics or Bobby had soccer, if he didn't have to play on Sunday morning. By Monday we're still tired and not really ready to head back to the office for another week of work before repeating the process again and again.
Genesis tells us that on the seventh day God rested. I wonder what God did on that day since the Cubs, soccer, swimming pools, trips to visit Grandma and playing golf hadn't been invented yet? I'm sure it wasn't laundry, getting groceries, cleaning the bathroom, or even spending time answering emails and trying to figure out what needs to be done on Monday much less ordering the flowers to bloom, ensuring the lions were playing nicely with the lambs, the natural laws set in place were working and everything was being fruitful and multiplying like they were supposed to do.
Jesus told us that "the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath" (Mark 2:27). The synagogue officials we heard in the Gospel last week certainly didn't dig that; after all, no less than God Almighty had written it in stone that people were to "Remember the Sabbath day" (Genesis 20:8) and, by the Eternal, they were going to make sure people did, even the upstart teacher who presumed to heal a bent-over old woman ON THE SABBATH IN THE SYNAGOGUE ITSELF!!
Which brings my thoughts back to the discussion. It was easy to think of places were we "do" ministry of various types --- at church, with the scouts or civic groups, etc. We even do ministry at the office, the golf course, even at times in the grocery line (including the 15-item-or-less lane where someone is bound to have at least 22 items to check out). The one place we forget to observe the Sabbath is within ourselves. We forget that we are duty-bound to minister to ourselves if we are to be able to minister to others in whatever manner we are called to do so. We have to take time for ourselves, even if the world says that's horribly selfish of us.
Today has seemed like a pretty long day, truth be told. Still, I feel a bit more rested than usual, a little more ready to face the slog tomorrow -- and the day after, and the day after that, etc. In fact, I think I will turn off the tv, the computer and hopefully the cats and go to bed early. And I may try that a little more often in days to come. I've found that if I don't minister to me, it won't get done. I'm worth it and God sort of expects it.
Whether the Sabbath is Saturday, Sunday or even ten minutes in the middle of a busy Tuesday, the Sabbath was made for me, not me for it. So long as I thank God for giving me the day, the hour, the minutes to take a breather, recharge my batteries a bit, then I am obeying the 4th Commandment and doing what Jesus said.
Now off to observe some Sabbath time. Goodnight and God bless.
I got up today at the usual time of 5:30. My alarm goes off Monday - Friday at that hour but the fur-footers seem to think on any day of the week any time after about 4:30 am is borrowed time and they are going to starve to death if they can't get me rousted from the bed as early as possible. Today I refused to be cajoled, bullied, or forced into rising before i was ready (and the boys have some pretty definite ways of getting me out of bed). I got up anyway, fed them, got my first glass of iced tea, read my email and suddenly was so tired I was having trouble staying awake. I gave in. I went back to bed and slept until nearly 9.
I got up for about 3 hours and darned if I didn't feel the need of another nap, this time only a 2-hour one. I did get up and get enough energy to cook up a pot of squash (they were on sale this week, thank you, God!) with bacon and onions for my meal and read the online manual for the Kindle which hopefully will appear tomorrow. Other than that, I've done just about nothing.
I guess I was a lot more tired and stressed than I knew. Sure, I take a nap every possible day but there's been a lot of stress in my life lately and even with the naps there have been strings of nights when I haven't slept well, wakened early and didn't do more than lightly doze until the alarm clock went off -- or a cat had a hairball.
It brought to mind a discussion we had at our mentor's training session last weekend, namely how to actually observe a sabbath. Sure, most folks go to church on Sunday (some on Saturday night) and that is what they consider their Sabbath "duty". The rest of the day is spent in recreation -- picnics, playing in the pool with the kids, watching the Cubs lose yet again (Lord, how have they offended thee to cause so many losses over so many years?) or hoping the Redskins or anybody who plays Dallas wins. We also do the chores we didn't have time for on Saturday because Susie had to go to gymnastics or Bobby had soccer, if he didn't have to play on Sunday morning. By Monday we're still tired and not really ready to head back to the office for another week of work before repeating the process again and again.
Genesis tells us that on the seventh day God rested. I wonder what God did on that day since the Cubs, soccer, swimming pools, trips to visit Grandma and playing golf hadn't been invented yet? I'm sure it wasn't laundry, getting groceries, cleaning the bathroom, or even spending time answering emails and trying to figure out what needs to be done on Monday much less ordering the flowers to bloom, ensuring the lions were playing nicely with the lambs, the natural laws set in place were working and everything was being fruitful and multiplying like they were supposed to do.
Jesus told us that "the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath" (Mark 2:27). The synagogue officials we heard in the Gospel last week certainly didn't dig that; after all, no less than God Almighty had written it in stone that people were to "Remember the Sabbath day" (Genesis 20:8) and, by the Eternal, they were going to make sure people did, even the upstart teacher who presumed to heal a bent-over old woman ON THE SABBATH IN THE SYNAGOGUE ITSELF!!
Which brings my thoughts back to the discussion. It was easy to think of places were we "do" ministry of various types --- at church, with the scouts or civic groups, etc. We even do ministry at the office, the golf course, even at times in the grocery line (including the 15-item-or-less lane where someone is bound to have at least 22 items to check out). The one place we forget to observe the Sabbath is within ourselves. We forget that we are duty-bound to minister to ourselves if we are to be able to minister to others in whatever manner we are called to do so. We have to take time for ourselves, even if the world says that's horribly selfish of us.
Today has seemed like a pretty long day, truth be told. Still, I feel a bit more rested than usual, a little more ready to face the slog tomorrow -- and the day after, and the day after that, etc. In fact, I think I will turn off the tv, the computer and hopefully the cats and go to bed early. And I may try that a little more often in days to come. I've found that if I don't minister to me, it won't get done. I'm worth it and God sort of expects it.
Whether the Sabbath is Saturday, Sunday or even ten minutes in the middle of a busy Tuesday, the Sabbath was made for me, not me for it. So long as I thank God for giving me the day, the hour, the minutes to take a breather, recharge my batteries a bit, then I am obeying the 4th Commandment and doing what Jesus said.
Now off to observe some Sabbath time. Goodnight and God bless.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The woman with the Bent Back
And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, "Woman, you are set free from your ailment." When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.--Luke 13:11-13
The story begins with Jesus teaching in the synagogue. That's cool; that was a job that was permitted on the sabbath, unlike things like cooking, cleaning, doing farm work and what have you. You could be kind and move your livestock to water and feed them so long as you didn't have to light a fire and cook the food.
Enter a woman, most likely an older woman, one who most probably had no husband, son, brother, father or other male relative to look after and escort her out in public. There isn't even a mention of a slave accompanying her. We don't even get to know her name other than the description "woman with the bent back." Of course, there are many other stories of unnamed women -- Jarius' daughter, the woman with the hemorrhage, the Syrophoenician woman, the woman with the alabaster jar, the woman at the well, the unnamed followers of Jesus who along with Mary Magdalene supported Jesus and his ministry. The woman with the bent back is another in the cast around whom pivotal deeds and teachings swirled and appeared.
If you saw this woman walking around you would see that it wasn't easy to move when bent over like a human question mark. She had been bent this way for eighteen years, a number that is represented by the letters of the word chai, Hebrew for "life." It must have been a hard life but she coped as best she could even to walking to the synagogue to worship on the sabbath as the law commanded.
I wonder what she thought when Jesus summoned her to him in the synagogue. To be summoned by a male stranger, even a teacher, was almost as unheard-of as a Jewish woman with male relatives or even male servants walking around in public. Was she startled? Afraid of what the teacher might say or denounce? Anxious that she would be singled out even more than her deformity already did? Curious to hear what he wanted? Wanting badly to run away but being totally unable to do so? In think perhaps all these ran through her mind in the space of a heartbeat or two. Still, she did as Jesus asked and approached him, probably with fear and trembling and perhaps resignation because I doubt seriously that she had any hope of anything in her life changing substantially.
What a surprise she got. For the first time in eighteen years she could stand erect. Muscles that had been cramped and bones that had been twisted straightened in a flash. For the first time in eighteen years she could see not just people's feet but their faces and eyes. perhaps it was a mercy not to have seen them when she was in her former shape; it might have caused more grief had she known of the glares of distaste for a handicapped person to dare to be seen in public, the quick glances of pity and the upraised looks of "Thank God I am not like that one!" At any rate, here she was, standing tall and proud, cane or staff tossed aside and hands raised in thank giving to God as the officials turned their backs and berated the one who, through the power and mercy of God, did the deed that set the woman free. The synagogue officials overlooked that entirely; they were too busy pointing fingers and proclaiming the unrighteousness and sabbath-dishonoring of someone who dared do a healing on the sabbath instead of waiting decently until the next day. They left God out of the equation in their attempt to protect God and the laws God had given on Sinai.
Jesus cured the woman's bent body, restored it to health and functionality. People with disabilities and deformities are still present in society yet many of us avert our eyes or move slightly away as if it were some kind of contagion we must avoid. In that way we're not really much different than the people on the street the woman with the bent back passed so many centuries ago. To the ancients, and even to some modern people, such illnesses and deformities are manifestations of sinfulness and unclean-ness. If only they believed, if only they acknowledged their sins, if only they said the right words everything would be made right and all would be well. Jesus didn't ask for her conversion first before healing her, though. He didn't ask for her acknowledgment of sin before she could be cured. Instead he put love of God and love of neighbor ahead of purity laws and even the literal reading of the commandment to "Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy."
Sometimes doing good is a more important -- and more holy -- sabbath act than sitting in church and listening to sermons about how to obey the law. Somehow an act that appears to be work on a day dedicated to rest, re-creation, restoration and reverence can be a response that enables another to experience the mercy and grace of God. Perhaps something done with kindness and attentiveness to a need can change another's whole life, even if done on the sabbath.
Just ask the woman with the formerly-bent back.
The story begins with Jesus teaching in the synagogue. That's cool; that was a job that was permitted on the sabbath, unlike things like cooking, cleaning, doing farm work and what have you. You could be kind and move your livestock to water and feed them so long as you didn't have to light a fire and cook the food.
Enter a woman, most likely an older woman, one who most probably had no husband, son, brother, father or other male relative to look after and escort her out in public. There isn't even a mention of a slave accompanying her. We don't even get to know her name other than the description "woman with the bent back." Of course, there are many other stories of unnamed women -- Jarius' daughter, the woman with the hemorrhage, the Syrophoenician woman, the woman with the alabaster jar, the woman at the well, the unnamed followers of Jesus who along with Mary Magdalene supported Jesus and his ministry. The woman with the bent back is another in the cast around whom pivotal deeds and teachings swirled and appeared.
If you saw this woman walking around you would see that it wasn't easy to move when bent over like a human question mark. She had been bent this way for eighteen years, a number that is represented by the letters of the word chai, Hebrew for "life." It must have been a hard life but she coped as best she could even to walking to the synagogue to worship on the sabbath as the law commanded.
I wonder what she thought when Jesus summoned her to him in the synagogue. To be summoned by a male stranger, even a teacher, was almost as unheard-of as a Jewish woman with male relatives or even male servants walking around in public. Was she startled? Afraid of what the teacher might say or denounce? Anxious that she would be singled out even more than her deformity already did? Curious to hear what he wanted? Wanting badly to run away but being totally unable to do so? In think perhaps all these ran through her mind in the space of a heartbeat or two. Still, she did as Jesus asked and approached him, probably with fear and trembling and perhaps resignation because I doubt seriously that she had any hope of anything in her life changing substantially.
What a surprise she got. For the first time in eighteen years she could stand erect. Muscles that had been cramped and bones that had been twisted straightened in a flash. For the first time in eighteen years she could see not just people's feet but their faces and eyes. perhaps it was a mercy not to have seen them when she was in her former shape; it might have caused more grief had she known of the glares of distaste for a handicapped person to dare to be seen in public, the quick glances of pity and the upraised looks of "Thank God I am not like that one!" At any rate, here she was, standing tall and proud, cane or staff tossed aside and hands raised in thank giving to God as the officials turned their backs and berated the one who, through the power and mercy of God, did the deed that set the woman free. The synagogue officials overlooked that entirely; they were too busy pointing fingers and proclaiming the unrighteousness and sabbath-dishonoring of someone who dared do a healing on the sabbath instead of waiting decently until the next day. They left God out of the equation in their attempt to protect God and the laws God had given on Sinai.
Jesus cured the woman's bent body, restored it to health and functionality. People with disabilities and deformities are still present in society yet many of us avert our eyes or move slightly away as if it were some kind of contagion we must avoid. In that way we're not really much different than the people on the street the woman with the bent back passed so many centuries ago. To the ancients, and even to some modern people, such illnesses and deformities are manifestations of sinfulness and unclean-ness. If only they believed, if only they acknowledged their sins, if only they said the right words everything would be made right and all would be well. Jesus didn't ask for her conversion first before healing her, though. He didn't ask for her acknowledgment of sin before she could be cured. Instead he put love of God and love of neighbor ahead of purity laws and even the literal reading of the commandment to "Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy."
Sometimes doing good is a more important -- and more holy -- sabbath act than sitting in church and listening to sermons about how to obey the law. Somehow an act that appears to be work on a day dedicated to rest, re-creation, restoration and reverence can be a response that enables another to experience the mercy and grace of God. Perhaps something done with kindness and attentiveness to a need can change another's whole life, even if done on the sabbath.
Just ask the woman with the formerly-bent back.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Coming down from the mountain
I've been home a little less than three hours from a training session for EfM mentors that started on Thursday at 2pm and wound up today (Saturday) at 2pm. we spent 18 hours in class, learning how to do administrative stuff, figuring out how to do theological reflections and common lessons so that we as mentors are not teachers but guides, practicing new skills and even familiar ones in new applications and situations, and in general talking about God, theology, and service. not a bad way to spend time over three consecutive days.
Now comes another phase of the work --- processing what I have learned, organizing and filing all the handouts and materials and notes, and starting to get ready for the next year's sessions. There's always an excitement about beginning a new year of EfM, visiting a different set of common lessons, preparing materials and formats for reflections, preparing the mind to switch gears from student in training to mentor in class.
Still, the aura of the training sessions haven't worn off yet. People I didn't know from Adam's puppy dog Thursday at 2pm are people I have things in common with, people I've shared meals and activities with, people with whom I've shared worship in various forms including a Eucharist. We may never be bosom buddies and, in fact, I may never see most of them again (although I've learned never to say "never") but the hugs, the laughs, the sharing of stuff that really matters to all of us brought us together and bound us together with ties as fine as spider silk but as strong as our commitment to the program.
So now to work. Well, maybe not right this minute or even this evening. I still want to mentally process being home again after coming down from the mountain (ok, maybe only a hundred or so feet higher in altitude but you know what I mean) and think about what I've learned, experienced and received.
And I can't wait to begin to work through some of the stuff that seemed so incomprehensible just a day or two ago. First, though, I need some Sabbath time.
Thank you, God, for this program, those who work with it, those who train the workers, the students who are embarking on a period of serious study, and for the chance to be part of it all.
Now comes another phase of the work --- processing what I have learned, organizing and filing all the handouts and materials and notes, and starting to get ready for the next year's sessions. There's always an excitement about beginning a new year of EfM, visiting a different set of common lessons, preparing materials and formats for reflections, preparing the mind to switch gears from student in training to mentor in class.
Still, the aura of the training sessions haven't worn off yet. People I didn't know from Adam's puppy dog Thursday at 2pm are people I have things in common with, people I've shared meals and activities with, people with whom I've shared worship in various forms including a Eucharist. We may never be bosom buddies and, in fact, I may never see most of them again (although I've learned never to say "never") but the hugs, the laughs, the sharing of stuff that really matters to all of us brought us together and bound us together with ties as fine as spider silk but as strong as our commitment to the program.
So now to work. Well, maybe not right this minute or even this evening. I still want to mentally process being home again after coming down from the mountain (ok, maybe only a hundred or so feet higher in altitude but you know what I mean) and think about what I've learned, experienced and received.
And I can't wait to begin to work through some of the stuff that seemed so incomprehensible just a day or two ago. First, though, I need some Sabbath time.
Thank you, God, for this program, those who work with it, those who train the workers, the students who are embarking on a period of serious study, and for the chance to be part of it all.
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