I've never really thought much about the Saturday before Easter, but I think that's kind of on purpose. Saturday is the day that nothing changes.
The first time I lost someone I really loved was when I was 14, when my Aunt Kay died. I was still in bed when Mom told me the news, and I remember rolling over and crying for a long time. But then later, standing in the shower, I remember thinking, did that really just happen? For a moment, I almost really believed it had just been a dream. And I remember later, at the funeral, when of course there was no more pretending, realizing that unlike most of the things I had cried about up to that point in my life, this wouldn't just be OK.
Saturday is the day when you wake up and realize that it wasn't just a dream. That all the bad things that happened yesterday weren't just a bad day, they were the beginning of a new reality. Saturday is when it sinks in, when you start looking ahead and saying, this person died yesterday, but today they're just dead, and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.
For us, now, the Saturday before Easter is a day of waiting. But the first Saturday before Easter wasn't. Who knew there was anything to wait for? I think death still feels like that most of the time, even on this side of Easter. But at the same time, we're blessed to look back at Friday and Saturday from the other side. We at least have that idea, however faint and far away, that even when death is at its most real, it still isn't over.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thoughts for Good Friday
Today is Good Friday, and I wanted some good, old-fashioned, hardcore, high-church solemnity. So, I went to Catholic church. Not even just Catholic church, but the cathedral of the diocese of Atlanta.
The solemnity was somewhat broken up by the toddler in the pew in front of me happily shrieking and touching everything within an arm's-length radius, but it had all the necessary parts: the canted psalms, the good ten minutes of standing and kneeling, the veneration of the cross (that was a little awkward for me, I won't lie), the homily about our own betrayal of Jesus. I like some guilt and solemnity now and then. Clearly not everyone shares my opinion, or Joel Osteen would be poor. But, at least judging from today's Facebook statuses, a lot of people do. What is it about the guilt and darkness that draws us?
Last year at this time, I was having a horrible semester for a combination of a lot of little reasons. I needed Lent then. In fact, I wasn't sure I was so keen on Easter. It didn't feel like Easter. If I could have stayed in the darkness of Good Friday for a little longer and kept Easter as the light on the horizon, I might have. I like the days of guilt and darkness and solemnity because often they acknowledge liturgically what is already present. They validate our brokenness. They make it holy.
This semester has been a good one. It's had its moments to be sure, but on the whole, much closer to Easter than Good Friday. Still, the brokenness is never very far away. Even if it feels like Easter already, it's good to remember what we've been through. Because there will come a time again when it won't feel like Easter, and then we will have rehearsed this. We'll know that death and life come very close together.
The bulletin made a note at the end that there would be no concluding rites after communion. The church would remain in prayer during the Triduum. I liked it. It was like a way of saying, we're not going to conclude this, because it's not over yet. We've spent time in solemnity and we leave in silence, but it's not over yet. We've acknowledged our brokenness like we want and need to, but it's not over yet. We wait still for the redemption and newness of Easter. But it's not over till we get there.
The solemnity was somewhat broken up by the toddler in the pew in front of me happily shrieking and touching everything within an arm's-length radius, but it had all the necessary parts: the canted psalms, the good ten minutes of standing and kneeling, the veneration of the cross (that was a little awkward for me, I won't lie), the homily about our own betrayal of Jesus. I like some guilt and solemnity now and then. Clearly not everyone shares my opinion, or Joel Osteen would be poor. But, at least judging from today's Facebook statuses, a lot of people do. What is it about the guilt and darkness that draws us?
Last year at this time, I was having a horrible semester for a combination of a lot of little reasons. I needed Lent then. In fact, I wasn't sure I was so keen on Easter. It didn't feel like Easter. If I could have stayed in the darkness of Good Friday for a little longer and kept Easter as the light on the horizon, I might have. I like the days of guilt and darkness and solemnity because often they acknowledge liturgically what is already present. They validate our brokenness. They make it holy.
This semester has been a good one. It's had its moments to be sure, but on the whole, much closer to Easter than Good Friday. Still, the brokenness is never very far away. Even if it feels like Easter already, it's good to remember what we've been through. Because there will come a time again when it won't feel like Easter, and then we will have rehearsed this. We'll know that death and life come very close together.
The bulletin made a note at the end that there would be no concluding rites after communion. The church would remain in prayer during the Triduum. I liked it. It was like a way of saying, we're not going to conclude this, because it's not over yet. We've spent time in solemnity and we leave in silence, but it's not over yet. We've acknowledged our brokenness like we want and need to, but it's not over yet. We wait still for the redemption and newness of Easter. But it's not over till we get there.
The old, old story, part 2
There was a kind of cool moment at the Maundy Thursday service at Trinity last night. Kathy talked a little about how we usually think of the Last Supper--something very somber--compared to what it probably was, a family laughing and enjoying each other's company before things changed completely. And also, she said, they probably weren't all on one side of the table, a la da Vinci.
For communion, usually we go up to the altar in shifts, but the service was small enough that everyone could just squeeze around the altar rail at once. It's a mostly straight altar rail that spans the front of the sanctuary, rather than one that goes around a sort of island like at home at Epiphany. And I looked down the row from one end and saw a wave of people tearing bread, dipping, chewing, and standing, one after another, and I thought, we're all on the same side of the table.
There's nothing profoundly theological about that. As Kathy said, that da Vinci depiction is hardly the way the Last Supper actually went down. But at the same time, since that is such a dominant image, it seemed for just an instant like we were making up that image. Like we were writing ourselves into the story.
Like I said last time, I think that's a big part of what Holy Week is all about. That's why we wave palms and march down Washington Street, it's why we have communion, it's why we wash feet (for those who unlike me don't intentionally skip chapel on the day that's scheduled), why we strip the church and watch it fall into shadows as candles are extinguished one by one. We act out this story because it makes us who we are.
After church a group of us met for dinner at Taco Mac, and people just kept coming, and we had to smush tables together and there were long rows of people on either side. And we laughed and enjoyed each other's company. And we all know that the time for this is winding down. So in a less intentional, less liturgical way, we acted out the story again. Because it's our story. It makes us who we are--inside church and out.
For communion, usually we go up to the altar in shifts, but the service was small enough that everyone could just squeeze around the altar rail at once. It's a mostly straight altar rail that spans the front of the sanctuary, rather than one that goes around a sort of island like at home at Epiphany. And I looked down the row from one end and saw a wave of people tearing bread, dipping, chewing, and standing, one after another, and I thought, we're all on the same side of the table.
There's nothing profoundly theological about that. As Kathy said, that da Vinci depiction is hardly the way the Last Supper actually went down. But at the same time, since that is such a dominant image, it seemed for just an instant like we were making up that image. Like we were writing ourselves into the story.
Like I said last time, I think that's a big part of what Holy Week is all about. That's why we wave palms and march down Washington Street, it's why we have communion, it's why we wash feet (for those who unlike me don't intentionally skip chapel on the day that's scheduled), why we strip the church and watch it fall into shadows as candles are extinguished one by one. We act out this story because it makes us who we are.
After church a group of us met for dinner at Taco Mac, and people just kept coming, and we had to smush tables together and there were long rows of people on either side. And we laughed and enjoyed each other's company. And we all know that the time for this is winding down. So in a less intentional, less liturgical way, we acted out the story again. Because it's our story. It makes us who we are--inside church and out.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The old, old story
I love Holy Week. All of it, from babies waddling down the church aisle with palm branches bigger than they are, to the bleakness of Good Friday, to the joy of Easter. I love the fact that there are extra church services. I love taking time to debate the christological implications of Jesus Christ Superstar with friends. I'm just nerdy that way.
I think the reason I like Holy Week so much is partly the story it tells, but only partly. This is the high point of the Christian year, and there's a lot of important stuff going on, stuff without which we might not have our faith tradition as we know it. There's a reason the evangelists spend a disproportionate amount of time on the Passion compared to the rest of Jesus' life. This is the climax of the story.
But I like Holy Week not just because of what the story is. I like it because I think this week, we do an especially good job telling it. That depends, of course, on people listening and participating. But for those who don't just go from Palm Sunday to Easter, who stick around for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, it's like we really get a chance to go through these last days with Jesus. We get to experience the highs and lows, the joy and the sorrow and the doubt and the unfortunate fickleness that come along with following Jesus. Those extra church services all have a purpose, they all do something different.
It's the story that makes us who we are, as a c0mmunity across the world and ages. The whole story, from the first day of Advent to Christ the King (or insert your own more inclusive appellation) Sunday. But during the liturgical drama of this week it's easier to remember it's a story, and that reminds us who we are. And it reminds us that we're still part of a story, one that keeps unfolding.
I think the reason I like Holy Week so much is partly the story it tells, but only partly. This is the high point of the Christian year, and there's a lot of important stuff going on, stuff without which we might not have our faith tradition as we know it. There's a reason the evangelists spend a disproportionate amount of time on the Passion compared to the rest of Jesus' life. This is the climax of the story.
But I like Holy Week not just because of what the story is. I like it because I think this week, we do an especially good job telling it. That depends, of course, on people listening and participating. But for those who don't just go from Palm Sunday to Easter, who stick around for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, it's like we really get a chance to go through these last days with Jesus. We get to experience the highs and lows, the joy and the sorrow and the doubt and the unfortunate fickleness that come along with following Jesus. Those extra church services all have a purpose, they all do something different.
It's the story that makes us who we are, as a c0mmunity across the world and ages. The whole story, from the first day of Advent to Christ the King (or insert your own more inclusive appellation) Sunday. But during the liturgical drama of this week it's easier to remember it's a story, and that reminds us who we are. And it reminds us that we're still part of a story, one that keeps unfolding.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Signs and wonders from Iowa
I know many Christians are writing blog entries today that are the exact opposite of mine, but I'm celebrating the Iowa Supreme Court's decision that the gay marriage ban is unconstitutional.
It's in actions like this that we experience the "already and the not yet" that we throw around so much in seminary. We don't yet live in a society or world where all of God's beloved children are treated as such--as fully human in all the beautiful diversity that entails. The kingdom is not yet. But every once in a while, like today, a sign of that future breaks through. And that is a cause for praise and celebration now. That is already.
But if only it was the church pointing to the kingdom instead of the state. If only the Body of Christ were in the forefront of this movement toward justice, which I truly believe is God's movement--though many will disagree--instead of so often fighting it. I'm thankful that God works despite us as well as through us. And I pray that as we move more and more from what's already to what's not yet, the church can be more and more a part of this work.
It's in actions like this that we experience the "already and the not yet" that we throw around so much in seminary. We don't yet live in a society or world where all of God's beloved children are treated as such--as fully human in all the beautiful diversity that entails. The kingdom is not yet. But every once in a while, like today, a sign of that future breaks through. And that is a cause for praise and celebration now. That is already.
But if only it was the church pointing to the kingdom instead of the state. If only the Body of Christ were in the forefront of this movement toward justice, which I truly believe is God's movement--though many will disagree--instead of so often fighting it. I'm thankful that God works despite us as well as through us. And I pray that as we move more and more from what's already to what's not yet, the church can be more and more a part of this work.
Friday, March 27, 2009
For the remembering of me
Today I made good decisions (maybe) by going to Friday Eucharist instead of finishing my Greek homework. Dr. Saliers was presiding, which meant everything in the service was extra poetic. He threw something into the liturgy about "memory on the tails of the stars" or something. Very Dr. Saliers.
When he got to the words of institution, instead of "Do this in remembrance of me," which of course is ingrained in everyone's mind who has ever been to church on a regular basis, he said "Do this for the remembering of me." And while I was sort of sitting there floating along with his liturgy, I heard that and went, damn! I LOVE IT! It's amazing how such a small, almost semantic change of wording can make such a big difference (to me, anyway). It's close enough that the Greek could probably encompass either or both equally. But the first one, the one we always say, sounds like we do the Eucharist because we remember Jesus, because we're supposed to. And the second one sounds like we do it in order to remember Jesus, or to keep remembering him.
I wrote a paper for New Testament last year about how Jesus' institution of the Lord's Supper gave the disciples (and the early Christian communities who the Gospels were written for) a way to keep acting out the Kingdom in Jesus' absence. It's a way to be, for just a fleeting moment, the community we're meant to be, in the hope that as we practice this more and more, that moment will be less and less fleeting. It's a way that God reminds us who we are as the Body of Christ.
The truth is that we don't always remember Jesus, not like we should. We remember that he lived and that he died and that we're supposed to do what he would have done, but we don't often remember in practice who Jesus is and how we participate in that. That's why I love communion. Because we do it for the remembering of him, and the remembering of the Kingdom he embodies and leads us to.
When he got to the words of institution, instead of "Do this in remembrance of me," which of course is ingrained in everyone's mind who has ever been to church on a regular basis, he said "Do this for the remembering of me." And while I was sort of sitting there floating along with his liturgy, I heard that and went, damn! I LOVE IT! It's amazing how such a small, almost semantic change of wording can make such a big difference (to me, anyway). It's close enough that the Greek could probably encompass either or both equally. But the first one, the one we always say, sounds like we do the Eucharist because we remember Jesus, because we're supposed to. And the second one sounds like we do it in order to remember Jesus, or to keep remembering him.
I wrote a paper for New Testament last year about how Jesus' institution of the Lord's Supper gave the disciples (and the early Christian communities who the Gospels were written for) a way to keep acting out the Kingdom in Jesus' absence. It's a way to be, for just a fleeting moment, the community we're meant to be, in the hope that as we practice this more and more, that moment will be less and less fleeting. It's a way that God reminds us who we are as the Body of Christ.
The truth is that we don't always remember Jesus, not like we should. We remember that he lived and that he died and that we're supposed to do what he would have done, but we don't often remember in practice who Jesus is and how we participate in that. That's why I love communion. Because we do it for the remembering of him, and the remembering of the Kingdom he embodies and leads us to.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Neighborhood watch
Tonight I'm going to exegete neighborhood watch signs. That's right.
I pass neighborhood watch signs on my way to and from school every day, though I don't usually take much notice, because after all, they are neighborhood watch signs. But for whatever reason I noticed one yesterday. It had a nice picture of some houses and said something like "watching out for each other" or something.
I remember getting to ride around the neighborhood with Dad when I was little and he had neighborhood watch. It was fun because I wanted to catch people. It was like being a detective. The neighborhood watch signs in our neighborhood, as I recall, had a big eye on them.
So I noticed the nice houses and slogan on this sign in Druid Hills and thought about how it was a different conception about what neighborhood watch was supposed to be. Not a bad-guy-catching adventure symbolized by a big scary we're-watching-you eye, but a chance to take care of the people you live with in a small way.
Probably neighborhood watch in Druid Hills isn't any different than neighborhood watch in our little corner of Vienna. I bet kids still ride along hoping to catch the bad guys. But I like the shift in meaning. Sometimes nicer language can just serve to mask a lack of real change, but I believe the language and symbols we use to describe things really can and do affect how we think about them. Which, of course, applies to God, too--especially when it comes to inclusive language and masculine/feminine imagery, but really in any set of symbols we use to conjure up an image of the divine. And which applies to other people--whether, for example, we consider them "sinners" or "children of God." (That was in something I was reading recently too...She Who Is?)
So that's why God is like a neighborhood watch sign. You know you wish you had thought of it first.
I pass neighborhood watch signs on my way to and from school every day, though I don't usually take much notice, because after all, they are neighborhood watch signs. But for whatever reason I noticed one yesterday. It had a nice picture of some houses and said something like "watching out for each other" or something.
I remember getting to ride around the neighborhood with Dad when I was little and he had neighborhood watch. It was fun because I wanted to catch people. It was like being a detective. The neighborhood watch signs in our neighborhood, as I recall, had a big eye on them.
So I noticed the nice houses and slogan on this sign in Druid Hills and thought about how it was a different conception about what neighborhood watch was supposed to be. Not a bad-guy-catching adventure symbolized by a big scary we're-watching-you eye, but a chance to take care of the people you live with in a small way.
Probably neighborhood watch in Druid Hills isn't any different than neighborhood watch in our little corner of Vienna. I bet kids still ride along hoping to catch the bad guys. But I like the shift in meaning. Sometimes nicer language can just serve to mask a lack of real change, but I believe the language and symbols we use to describe things really can and do affect how we think about them. Which, of course, applies to God, too--especially when it comes to inclusive language and masculine/feminine imagery, but really in any set of symbols we use to conjure up an image of the divine. And which applies to other people--whether, for example, we consider them "sinners" or "children of God." (That was in something I was reading recently too...She Who Is?)
So that's why God is like a neighborhood watch sign. You know you wish you had thought of it first.
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