Things I'm not giving up for Lent this year:
1) Sweets. I've done this a bunch before, prompted by the example of my Catholic aunts when I was a kid. I always expected to weigh 10 pounds less by Easter. It never happened. Instead my chocolate addiction was resurrected (yes, resurrected) with a vengeance each time, making it that much harder for next year.
2) Money. I've tried this before too--not buying anything unnecessary--prompted by a sermon my first year in seminary. I thought that was kind of in the true spirit of Lent, so I did it for two years, then got tired of it. Not too long ago I read A.J. Jacobs's Year of Living Biblically, where he tries to adhere to Scripture as literally as possible, and I remember thinking it would be a good Lenten practice to try to take Luke 6:30, "Give to everyone who begs from you," literally for 6 weeks. I still think that would be good. But turns out I don't have very much money these days, so maybe next year when I am rich. I know--nowhere does it say "Give to everyone who begs from you if you can comfortably afford it." But maybe that's just a good verse to generally keep in mind for now...
3) Meat. Who doesn't eat meat???
4) Facebook. It occurs to me that this would be another excellent option, probably also in the "true spirit" of Lent. I waste vast amounts of time on Facebook. Refreshing the news feed, checking if anyone liked my status, keeping tabs on the relationship status of every guy I've ever had a crush on. This is conducive neither to good stewardship of time nor to good mental health. If I gave up--or even limited--my Facebook access, I would have all sorts of time for things like prayer and meditation and learning Spanish. But then again, when your social life isn't exactly abuzz offline, Facebook does help you feel connected. So it's staying, too.
I'm thinking about these things because last year, when I started this blog as my Lenten discipline and committed to have one theological thought a day and write it down, I kind of ran out of things to talk about toward week three or four. That's crazy! If the goal is to think about my whole life in all its aspects more theologically--to see everything through the lens of faith and not just explicitly churchy things--how do you run out??
I know if I read the Bible more, I would more naturally think of life in terms of what I read. I want that for myself--for Scripture to be so much a part of me that I can't separate it from the things I experience on a day to day basis. I've been trying to be better about that for a while now. But maybe for writing I also need some focus. You know, so I could chronicle my experiences during my Facebook fast, or how I felt when I couldn't just walk past the overly-cheerful men collecting donations outside Giant (that did happen today; I was a little annoyed at how enthusiastically they greeted me, like they were personally excited to see me.) Anyway, I'm going to keep thinking, and maybe inspiration will strike!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Ashes to ashes
Today being Ash Wednesday, I went to church. It was a joint service with a church nearby, it was as sparsely attended as might be expected (not everyone shares my enthusiasm for liturgical solemnity), and it was at 7:30 in the evening.
In high school, when I was first able to drive myself places, I started going to church before school on Ash Wednesday. These days it would take a lot more than repentance to get me up that early, but I liked having the ashes on my forehead all day. They showed people who I was. Specifically, they showed people that I was the kind of person who got up at ungodly hours for godly purposes. They showed people what a religious badass I was. Sort of like all the years I secretly looked forward to Lent because I got to feel hardcore explaining to people why I couldn't eat that delicious looking donut.
In college, my church had a noon service, so I went to that one. It wasn't quite as badass, I suppose, but I still got to walk around campus with a big gray smudge on my forehead for most of the day, so that was good.
I remember one of my friends in high school remarking cynically (as she often did with regard to the church) how every Ash Wednesday, people gathered and listened to Matthew 6, about fasting in secret and not letting anyone know, and promptly went and did the exact opposite by getting smeared up with ashes. And honestly, because even then I knew deep down why I had gotten up so early, I kind of agreed with her. Isn't walking around with a big smudgy cross on your face just a big, meaningless show of piety?
That's why part of me was glad our service was later this year. I got my smudgy cross and went home, watched Modern Family, wrote this, and will proceed to shower off the ashes. The outside world knows nothing of my piety, and my immortal soul is probably better off for it.
But then again, I miss those early morning ashes. Because they do help you remember that there's something different about the day. Today I barely remembered it was anything but Wednesday. I didn't have to be careful pushing my bangs back. No well-meaning stranger said, "Hey, you got a little something..." Today wasn't solemn, and I didn't feel repentant, and except for a semi-treacherous run in the street and several Facebook posts on my newsfeed reminding me that I was returning to dust, I certainly didn't think about my mortality.
And I didn't get to see someone someone else with a smudgy forehead and smile at them, knowing we shared something. I missed that too. Maybe what we share is the religious badassery of getting up early to repent, but maybe, maybe, it's something more as well. Maybe those ashes do show people whose mark we bear, and remind us to act worthy of it. Maybe.
If anyone's reading--thoughts??
In high school, when I was first able to drive myself places, I started going to church before school on Ash Wednesday. These days it would take a lot more than repentance to get me up that early, but I liked having the ashes on my forehead all day. They showed people who I was. Specifically, they showed people that I was the kind of person who got up at ungodly hours for godly purposes. They showed people what a religious badass I was. Sort of like all the years I secretly looked forward to Lent because I got to feel hardcore explaining to people why I couldn't eat that delicious looking donut.
In college, my church had a noon service, so I went to that one. It wasn't quite as badass, I suppose, but I still got to walk around campus with a big gray smudge on my forehead for most of the day, so that was good.
I remember one of my friends in high school remarking cynically (as she often did with regard to the church) how every Ash Wednesday, people gathered and listened to Matthew 6, about fasting in secret and not letting anyone know, and promptly went and did the exact opposite by getting smeared up with ashes. And honestly, because even then I knew deep down why I had gotten up so early, I kind of agreed with her. Isn't walking around with a big smudgy cross on your face just a big, meaningless show of piety?
That's why part of me was glad our service was later this year. I got my smudgy cross and went home, watched Modern Family, wrote this, and will proceed to shower off the ashes. The outside world knows nothing of my piety, and my immortal soul is probably better off for it.
But then again, I miss those early morning ashes. Because they do help you remember that there's something different about the day. Today I barely remembered it was anything but Wednesday. I didn't have to be careful pushing my bangs back. No well-meaning stranger said, "Hey, you got a little something..." Today wasn't solemn, and I didn't feel repentant, and except for a semi-treacherous run in the street and several Facebook posts on my newsfeed reminding me that I was returning to dust, I certainly didn't think about my mortality.
And I didn't get to see someone someone else with a smudgy forehead and smile at them, knowing we shared something. I missed that too. Maybe what we share is the religious badassery of getting up early to repent, but maybe, maybe, it's something more as well. Maybe those ashes do show people whose mark we bear, and remind us to act worthy of it. Maybe.
If anyone's reading--thoughts??
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Sinking in
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
