In the past few weeks, my house has gained a new bathroom, new paint, and most recently, refinished hardwood floors.
All this change is making me anxious.
Yes, it's change for the good. No, it's not the lead-up to selling the house and moving somewhere new, though I do have those thoughts and I do sometimes voice them as a threat inside this brick English bungalow, a great starter home in always-desirable Oak Park.
Living here is like wearing new clothes--the sort of new clothes you purchase for an interview or speech. Who am I, I wonder when I am all dressed up. Who is the person who lives within these new yellow walls, with the refinished hardwood floors and the blue bathroom? What's with the pretty surroundings?
The old and comfy mess of our house is in retreat. The kids' bedrooms still have dirty walls and worn floors. The back room, the one with the desks and computer, is full of the usual paper and books, plus stuff from the front rooms that has been stashed there, out of the way of the painters and floor sanders. The pictures will eventually go back on the walls. The stacks of music and magazines--well, I guess now is when we find out what we really need and what we can get rid of.
Did I mention that the piano is in the kitchen? And the kitchen may be slated for an overhaul?
Transformation is hard, whether it's home or self. It's not like St. Paul in I Corinthians saying that we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. That is then--on the day when the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. Now we have to put on Christ anew each day, over and over again, like donning a new wardrobe or learning to live in a new environment. It's uncomfortable at times. How off-balance did those disciples feel after their encounters with the risen Christ? Probably a lot worse than I do when stepping around the piano to get to the dishwasher.
Christ's resurrected body could pass through locked doors. Yet Thomas could touch the wounds in his hands. What possibilities await us?
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Friday, April 06, 2007
Happy Good Friday
My daughter just woke up. On her way back from the bathroom, she said, "Happy Good Friday, Mom."
Eliza has Down syndrome. I've always hated the upbeat generalizations people often make about individuals with Down syndrome: "They are such happy children" or "They love music." But I have to admit--heck, I'd even brag--that Eliza's intellectual disability makes her remarkably clear-sighted at times. Today is an occasion, and Eliza loves occasions: happy birthday, happy anniversary, happy Good Friday.
So far, it has been a happy Good Friday. It started early in my household. I drove my fourteen-year-old son to church at 6:15 this morning. The Youth Director challenges the teens to show up for the 6:30 a.m. worship service on Good Friday. Then he takes them to the Original House of Pancakes for breakfast. Kurt donned a dark suit, a black shirt and tie, and extremely cool sunglasses for the occasion. He was dressing up because at noon, he will part of a choir of adults singing Richard Hillert's setting of the St. John Passion. It's a good thing it was not fully light when we left the house, because I was fighting back a smile as I looked at this kid in his aviator sunglasses. Being fourteen, he would not have appreciated my grin.
I came back home, read the New York Times online, and mixed and kneaded the dough for cinnamon rolls, which will make me a hero to college-age son, home for the weekend. He will probably wake up around noon, when those rolls come out of the oven.
Happy Good Friday.
"It was nine o'clock in the morning when they crucified him." (Mark 15:25) That would be right about now, when the sun is climbing in the sky, and a busy day is going into full swing. What did those citizens of Jerusalem, up and about and doing their pre-Sabbath errands, think of this Galilean dragging a cross through the streets? They joined the soldiers in charge as they mocked and derided Jesus. Probably it was all in a day's life on the streets in Roman-occupied Jerusalem. Whatever the people may have heard of this man, Jesus--miracles, preaching--was now just another tale come to naught. Who could have known that this crucifixion would immortalize the cross as a symbol of God's compassion for his wayward creatures?
Darkness came over the land at noon, and lasted until three o'clock. Jesus cried out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" and then breathed his last. The curtain of the temple was torn in two, a curious detail reported in Matthew, Mark and Luke. John doesn't say anything about the temple, but the pierced side detail comes from John, with blood and water flowing from the dead body of our Savior.
We relive Jesus' suffering and death in worship services, devotions, private thoughts, but at the same time we bake the coffee cake, order the lily, iron the outfit, and rehearse the music in preparation for Easter. Meaningless rituals? Remnants of pagan celebrations of spring? Or something about life and death and God's power over all things?
The day before yesterday--Wednesday--I went to two funerals. Actually, a funeral, and a memorial service held almost three weeks after the death of my sister-in-law. For me, it was a day to be gotten through, to be polite, to serve and to be served. Thinking too much brought grief and questions, and this was a day for self-control.
The funeral was a hymn-filled 11:00 a.m. church service, thanking God for the life of a ninety-year-old woman, who a few days earlier, after a life filled with Christian service, had chosen hospice and the end of dialysis, looking forward to Christ welcoming her into heaven. We sang her casket down the aisle and off to the cemetery with the final stanza of "O Day Full of Grace," the one that begins "When we on that final journey go." The funeral luncheon was ham and cornflake-topped potatoes, three-bean salad, fruit, and pink lemonade. A foretaste of Easter and a celebration of old-fasioned church hospitality.
The memorial service was much sadder. My sister-in-law died of cervical cancer, two weeks after diagnosis. Her husband held her until the crash cart came into the room and the medical personnel asked him to leave. Her last words to him were "I'm scared." I am not close to my brother-in-law (my husband's brother) and barely knew my sister-in-law. Yet this is a loss that is hard to comprehend. At the memorial service, my brother-in-law played a video of snapshots of his wife, with Kris Kristofferson on the soundtrack singing "Look at that old photograph, is it really you?" My job at the service was to speak grace and comfort, singing "Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me home."
We commend the spirits of our dead to a God who died. We prepare for the new life of Easter.
Happy Good Friday.
Eliza has Down syndrome. I've always hated the upbeat generalizations people often make about individuals with Down syndrome: "They are such happy children" or "They love music." But I have to admit--heck, I'd even brag--that Eliza's intellectual disability makes her remarkably clear-sighted at times. Today is an occasion, and Eliza loves occasions: happy birthday, happy anniversary, happy Good Friday.
So far, it has been a happy Good Friday. It started early in my household. I drove my fourteen-year-old son to church at 6:15 this morning. The Youth Director challenges the teens to show up for the 6:30 a.m. worship service on Good Friday. Then he takes them to the Original House of Pancakes for breakfast. Kurt donned a dark suit, a black shirt and tie, and extremely cool sunglasses for the occasion. He was dressing up because at noon, he will part of a choir of adults singing Richard Hillert's setting of the St. John Passion. It's a good thing it was not fully light when we left the house, because I was fighting back a smile as I looked at this kid in his aviator sunglasses. Being fourteen, he would not have appreciated my grin.
I came back home, read the New York Times online, and mixed and kneaded the dough for cinnamon rolls, which will make me a hero to college-age son, home for the weekend. He will probably wake up around noon, when those rolls come out of the oven.
Happy Good Friday.
"It was nine o'clock in the morning when they crucified him." (Mark 15:25) That would be right about now, when the sun is climbing in the sky, and a busy day is going into full swing. What did those citizens of Jerusalem, up and about and doing their pre-Sabbath errands, think of this Galilean dragging a cross through the streets? They joined the soldiers in charge as they mocked and derided Jesus. Probably it was all in a day's life on the streets in Roman-occupied Jerusalem. Whatever the people may have heard of this man, Jesus--miracles, preaching--was now just another tale come to naught. Who could have known that this crucifixion would immortalize the cross as a symbol of God's compassion for his wayward creatures?
Darkness came over the land at noon, and lasted until three o'clock. Jesus cried out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" and then breathed his last. The curtain of the temple was torn in two, a curious detail reported in Matthew, Mark and Luke. John doesn't say anything about the temple, but the pierced side detail comes from John, with blood and water flowing from the dead body of our Savior.
We relive Jesus' suffering and death in worship services, devotions, private thoughts, but at the same time we bake the coffee cake, order the lily, iron the outfit, and rehearse the music in preparation for Easter. Meaningless rituals? Remnants of pagan celebrations of spring? Or something about life and death and God's power over all things?
The day before yesterday--Wednesday--I went to two funerals. Actually, a funeral, and a memorial service held almost three weeks after the death of my sister-in-law. For me, it was a day to be gotten through, to be polite, to serve and to be served. Thinking too much brought grief and questions, and this was a day for self-control.
The funeral was a hymn-filled 11:00 a.m. church service, thanking God for the life of a ninety-year-old woman, who a few days earlier, after a life filled with Christian service, had chosen hospice and the end of dialysis, looking forward to Christ welcoming her into heaven. We sang her casket down the aisle and off to the cemetery with the final stanza of "O Day Full of Grace," the one that begins "When we on that final journey go." The funeral luncheon was ham and cornflake-topped potatoes, three-bean salad, fruit, and pink lemonade. A foretaste of Easter and a celebration of old-fasioned church hospitality.
The memorial service was much sadder. My sister-in-law died of cervical cancer, two weeks after diagnosis. Her husband held her until the crash cart came into the room and the medical personnel asked him to leave. Her last words to him were "I'm scared." I am not close to my brother-in-law (my husband's brother) and barely knew my sister-in-law. Yet this is a loss that is hard to comprehend. At the memorial service, my brother-in-law played a video of snapshots of his wife, with Kris Kristofferson on the soundtrack singing "Look at that old photograph, is it really you?" My job at the service was to speak grace and comfort, singing "Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me home."
We commend the spirits of our dead to a God who died. We prepare for the new life of Easter.
Happy Good Friday.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The Fiery Furnace
Daniel 3:1-29
During the midweek Lenten services at my church, we have listened to the Old Testament lessons from the Easter Vigil service. These are the lessons that are read in darkness during the first part of that service, with only the Christ candle for light.
Easter Vigil is an ancient liturgy, and the Old Testament stories we hear that night are even older. In many and various ways, they tell the same story: how God, time and again, rescues his people.
Ancient philosophers believed that everything in the world was formed of only four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. You find all four of these elements in the Easter Vigil lessons, and in the liturgy of Easter Vigil as well. Think of God gathering the waters together in one place and creating dry land. Think of the wind—air--that God made blow over the earth to dry up the waters of the flood. Think of the waters of the Red Sea that parted for the children of Israel, and the earth in the field of dry bones. In the liturgy itself, there is the water of baptism. And on that Saturday night, the air in the sanctuary hangs heavy with the scent of Easter, the hyacinths and lilies that wait in pots of damp earth behind the communion rails in the chancel.
Earth, air, water—and fire. Somewhere back in grade school you probably learned that fire is both friend and foe. And so it is at Easter Vigil. We keep watch on that night by the light of the Christ Candle, lit from a modest bonfire in the Grace courtyard. The fire shows us the light of Christ, his presence among us. But the fire of the fiery furnace, in the passage from the book of Daniel that was read a few moments ago—that fire is dangerous.
Veteran Easter Vigil lectors might tell you that the story of The Three Young Men in the Fiery Furnace is the best of the Easter Vigil lessons. It is certainly the one that is the most fun to read aloud. After the majesty of the Creation story, the rainbow ending to the Flood, the drama of the Exodus, and the poetic promises of Ezekiel, we get, what Stephen Sondheim would call, “Comedy tonight!
"So the satraps, the prefects, and the governors, the counselors, the treasurers, the justices, the magistrates and all the officials of the provinces, assembled for the dedication of the statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had set up."
Could there be a more effective way to ridicule Babylon’s courtiers and the meaningless rigamarole of bowing down to a statue this is nothing more than the king’s alter ego?
Of course, in the feature-film version of this story, any actor worth his salt is going to want to play Nebuchadnezzar—not Shadrach, Meshach or Abednego. Nebuchadnezzar is a man full of contradictions. He mistakes elaborate ceremonies and golden statues for true religion, but he is also open-minded enough to give important jobs to young Jewish captives, guys like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego (and Daniel, too). But then he gets tripped up by his own laws, when conniving, jealous court officials report that the young Jews are disobeying their king. He confronts them, gets really angry and orders the fire made even hotter. And then his own men are killed when Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego are thrown, bound, into the fire.
Nebuchadnezzar's foil is the Most High God. When he looks into the furnace he sees four men, unbound, walking around, unhurt. He recognizes power greater than his own. He tells the men to come out, and it is he who proclaims the Easter message in this text:
"Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who has sent his angel and delivered his servants who trusted in him."
Ah, but. It is not Easter yet, at least not in this church year. It is Lent, and metaphorically speaking, we’re still in the furnace with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.
Now we may be accustomed to thinking of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego as Bible heroes, as examples of unshakeable faith. But the speech in which they defy the king’s orders, comes up a little short, if you’re looking for firm conviction. Here’s what they say:
"If our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire and out of your hand, O king, let him deliver us. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods and we will not worship the golden statue that you have set up."
If God saves us, fine. If not, well, so it goes.
So it goes. Martyrdom by fire is rare these days, but baptism by fire—ordeals of suffering, of being challenged by pain or grief, depression, addiction, alienation--these things do happen to us as human beings. And when we’re in those fiery furnaces, we don’t know if we’re going to come out with the hair on our head un-singed, our clothes not even smelling of smoke. We may get hurt. Burns can leave terrible scars.
There was a fourth person in the furnace, someone with the appearance of a god. God himself? God’s angel? Either way, it is God becoming part of human pain, human anger, human suffering. The God of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego is not just a God who rescues his people. This is a God who suffers with his people.
Some words from Dietrich Bonhoeffer:
It is good to learn early on that suffering and God
are no contradiction,
but much more a necessary unity:
for me the idea that God himself suffered
was always one of the most convincing teachings of Christianity.
I think that God is closer to suffering than to happiness,
and to find God in this manner gives peace and rest,
and a strong and courageous heart.
I said earlier that some people—well, that would be me—regard this lesson from Daniel as the best one to get to read at Easter Vigil. Frankly, I think part of the attraction is that it’s the last lesson. Anticipation is in the air. Soon we will stand up and walk. Soon we will assemble around the font and be reminded that baptism joins us to the death and resurrection of Christ. Soon we will follow the fire of the Christ candle into church. Soon the lights will come on, the flowers will come out. Soon it will be Easter.
But tonight, our anticipation is focused on Holy Week, and the events that lead up to the death of God—the death that makes our ultimate victory possible. This God who died for us stands beside us in the furnace of our mortal lives and with his presence fuses his suffering and ours with the resurrection.
In the fire of the furnace, there is the light of Christ.
During the midweek Lenten services at my church, we have listened to the Old Testament lessons from the Easter Vigil service. These are the lessons that are read in darkness during the first part of that service, with only the Christ candle for light.
Easter Vigil is an ancient liturgy, and the Old Testament stories we hear that night are even older. In many and various ways, they tell the same story: how God, time and again, rescues his people.
Ancient philosophers believed that everything in the world was formed of only four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. You find all four of these elements in the Easter Vigil lessons, and in the liturgy of Easter Vigil as well. Think of God gathering the waters together in one place and creating dry land. Think of the wind—air--that God made blow over the earth to dry up the waters of the flood. Think of the waters of the Red Sea that parted for the children of Israel, and the earth in the field of dry bones. In the liturgy itself, there is the water of baptism. And on that Saturday night, the air in the sanctuary hangs heavy with the scent of Easter, the hyacinths and lilies that wait in pots of damp earth behind the communion rails in the chancel.
Earth, air, water—and fire. Somewhere back in grade school you probably learned that fire is both friend and foe. And so it is at Easter Vigil. We keep watch on that night by the light of the Christ Candle, lit from a modest bonfire in the Grace courtyard. The fire shows us the light of Christ, his presence among us. But the fire of the fiery furnace, in the passage from the book of Daniel that was read a few moments ago—that fire is dangerous.
Veteran Easter Vigil lectors might tell you that the story of The Three Young Men in the Fiery Furnace is the best of the Easter Vigil lessons. It is certainly the one that is the most fun to read aloud. After the majesty of the Creation story, the rainbow ending to the Flood, the drama of the Exodus, and the poetic promises of Ezekiel, we get, what Stephen Sondheim would call, “Comedy tonight!
"So the satraps, the prefects, and the governors, the counselors, the treasurers, the justices, the magistrates and all the officials of the provinces, assembled for the dedication of the statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had set up."
Could there be a more effective way to ridicule Babylon’s courtiers and the meaningless rigamarole of bowing down to a statue this is nothing more than the king’s alter ego?
Of course, in the feature-film version of this story, any actor worth his salt is going to want to play Nebuchadnezzar—not Shadrach, Meshach or Abednego. Nebuchadnezzar is a man full of contradictions. He mistakes elaborate ceremonies and golden statues for true religion, but he is also open-minded enough to give important jobs to young Jewish captives, guys like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego (and Daniel, too). But then he gets tripped up by his own laws, when conniving, jealous court officials report that the young Jews are disobeying their king. He confronts them, gets really angry and orders the fire made even hotter. And then his own men are killed when Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego are thrown, bound, into the fire.
Nebuchadnezzar's foil is the Most High God. When he looks into the furnace he sees four men, unbound, walking around, unhurt. He recognizes power greater than his own. He tells the men to come out, and it is he who proclaims the Easter message in this text:
"Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who has sent his angel and delivered his servants who trusted in him."
Ah, but. It is not Easter yet, at least not in this church year. It is Lent, and metaphorically speaking, we’re still in the furnace with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.
Now we may be accustomed to thinking of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego as Bible heroes, as examples of unshakeable faith. But the speech in which they defy the king’s orders, comes up a little short, if you’re looking for firm conviction. Here’s what they say:
"If our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire and out of your hand, O king, let him deliver us. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods and we will not worship the golden statue that you have set up."
If God saves us, fine. If not, well, so it goes.
So it goes. Martyrdom by fire is rare these days, but baptism by fire—ordeals of suffering, of being challenged by pain or grief, depression, addiction, alienation--these things do happen to us as human beings. And when we’re in those fiery furnaces, we don’t know if we’re going to come out with the hair on our head un-singed, our clothes not even smelling of smoke. We may get hurt. Burns can leave terrible scars.
There was a fourth person in the furnace, someone with the appearance of a god. God himself? God’s angel? Either way, it is God becoming part of human pain, human anger, human suffering. The God of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego is not just a God who rescues his people. This is a God who suffers with his people.
Some words from Dietrich Bonhoeffer:
It is good to learn early on that suffering and God
are no contradiction,
but much more a necessary unity:
for me the idea that God himself suffered
was always one of the most convincing teachings of Christianity.
I think that God is closer to suffering than to happiness,
and to find God in this manner gives peace and rest,
and a strong and courageous heart.
I said earlier that some people—well, that would be me—regard this lesson from Daniel as the best one to get to read at Easter Vigil. Frankly, I think part of the attraction is that it’s the last lesson. Anticipation is in the air. Soon we will stand up and walk. Soon we will assemble around the font and be reminded that baptism joins us to the death and resurrection of Christ. Soon we will follow the fire of the Christ candle into church. Soon the lights will come on, the flowers will come out. Soon it will be Easter.
But tonight, our anticipation is focused on Holy Week, and the events that lead up to the death of God—the death that makes our ultimate victory possible. This God who died for us stands beside us in the furnace of our mortal lives and with his presence fuses his suffering and ours with the resurrection.
In the fire of the furnace, there is the light of Christ.
Friday, March 02, 2007
March madness--win or lose
I prefer endings--happy or tragic--that are scripted, or scored. I mean a musical score, not "scored at the buzzer."
This weekend, however, is the Lutheran School State Basketball Tournament here in Illinois, and my son, the eighth-grade basketball star, is putting his dream on the line. He and his teammates are playing hard. They have their eye on the championship.
I get scared even typing that word, for fear I jinx something. The team won this afternoon. There is more basketball tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon, Sunday. If they keep on winning, the next game is harder. If they lose, it's harder still.
I am a pre-Title IX girl. Didn't play sports in high school. Wasn't much good in grade school volleyball. Can't imagine throwing myself into win-or-lose jeopardy in front of bleachers filled with fans.
Why? Because I hate to lose. Which, of course, is why I should have played sports--to learn that I could lose and survive, because tomorrow is another day.
Winning is fleeting, too. How long does the glow last? After a while, the trophy gets shoved to the back of the shelf. The grade school champions, and the members of all the other teams, will have to finish their homework, turn in their uniforms, and start all over again in high school.
Yet remarkable moments live on. Think of those passages in life when everything suddenly comes together. The baby is born and in your arms. The words flow from your fingertips onto the paper or the screen. The music is in tune, in tempo, and filled with whole ideas and emotion. The angel has stirred the waters. Her presence stops clocks, or slows them. The air is clear and the mind grasps all 360 degrees and the infinite depth of reality.
I have known these moments in scripted and scored performances, in labor before a birth and in labor at the keyboard. My son knows them on the basketball court. He sees the openings, he sees the ball, his timing in those moments is perfect.
The afterglow of such success warms your spirit for days. You can feel the magic, feel the rhythm even years later.
Losing makes me want to hide in the back of a deep, deep closet, behind the scratchy woolen coats, among the dust bunnies and the odd shoes. I do not want to do homework, or housework. I do not see how to return to the land of the living, having learned the rough and tough truth that many, many things do not turn out happily.
Mountaintop experiences and time spent in the bitter pit can both lead to disorientation and listlessness. Returning to plain living is hard. Next week there will be a letdown in our household after the many weeks of basketball practice and many hours of staying cool, calm, and focused (mostly).
Two of the boys on our team came to today's game from their grandfather's funeral. (One of these kids is a starter--his presence is critical.) Funerals, it seems to me, are mountaintop moments, even though they are about the hard, tough truth that we all must die. Heaven opens when we gather to look death in the face, and God's mansions seem very close to earth. The angels gather, and the Spirit hovers above those whose grief overflows. We see, as St. Paul says, through a mirror dimly, but in such moments, we do see the blurry substance of God's immortal, substantial promises.
God protect the winners and the losers, the joyful as well as the disappointed.
Go Vikings! Go Grace!
This weekend, however, is the Lutheran School State Basketball Tournament here in Illinois, and my son, the eighth-grade basketball star, is putting his dream on the line. He and his teammates are playing hard. They have their eye on the championship.
I get scared even typing that word, for fear I jinx something. The team won this afternoon. There is more basketball tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon, Sunday. If they keep on winning, the next game is harder. If they lose, it's harder still.
I am a pre-Title IX girl. Didn't play sports in high school. Wasn't much good in grade school volleyball. Can't imagine throwing myself into win-or-lose jeopardy in front of bleachers filled with fans.
Why? Because I hate to lose. Which, of course, is why I should have played sports--to learn that I could lose and survive, because tomorrow is another day.
Winning is fleeting, too. How long does the glow last? After a while, the trophy gets shoved to the back of the shelf. The grade school champions, and the members of all the other teams, will have to finish their homework, turn in their uniforms, and start all over again in high school.
Yet remarkable moments live on. Think of those passages in life when everything suddenly comes together. The baby is born and in your arms. The words flow from your fingertips onto the paper or the screen. The music is in tune, in tempo, and filled with whole ideas and emotion. The angel has stirred the waters. Her presence stops clocks, or slows them. The air is clear and the mind grasps all 360 degrees and the infinite depth of reality.
I have known these moments in scripted and scored performances, in labor before a birth and in labor at the keyboard. My son knows them on the basketball court. He sees the openings, he sees the ball, his timing in those moments is perfect.
The afterglow of such success warms your spirit for days. You can feel the magic, feel the rhythm even years later.
Losing makes me want to hide in the back of a deep, deep closet, behind the scratchy woolen coats, among the dust bunnies and the odd shoes. I do not want to do homework, or housework. I do not see how to return to the land of the living, having learned the rough and tough truth that many, many things do not turn out happily.
Mountaintop experiences and time spent in the bitter pit can both lead to disorientation and listlessness. Returning to plain living is hard. Next week there will be a letdown in our household after the many weeks of basketball practice and many hours of staying cool, calm, and focused (mostly).
Two of the boys on our team came to today's game from their grandfather's funeral. (One of these kids is a starter--his presence is critical.) Funerals, it seems to me, are mountaintop moments, even though they are about the hard, tough truth that we all must die. Heaven opens when we gather to look death in the face, and God's mansions seem very close to earth. The angels gather, and the Spirit hovers above those whose grief overflows. We see, as St. Paul says, through a mirror dimly, but in such moments, we do see the blurry substance of God's immortal, substantial promises.
God protect the winners and the losers, the joyful as well as the disappointed.
Go Vikings! Go Grace!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Immortal? Impossible?
Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes
Most blessed, most glorious
The Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, thy great name we praise.
Unresting, unhasting and silent as light . . .
The hymn goes on. I can recite much of it from memory, but I had to look it up in the hymnbook to punctuate it. The syllables waltz around so delightfully that just the sound of the words is reason enough to keep singing. The tune is more folk waltz than "Blue Danube," which is just as well. The sing-song-y tune keeps those words flying by, words by which we try to understand what God is.
And that's impossible. Though, as the hymn says at the end, "'Tis only the splendor of light hideth thee."
It's all good.
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes
Most blessed, most glorious
The Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, thy great name we praise.
Unresting, unhasting and silent as light . . .
The hymn goes on. I can recite much of it from memory, but I had to look it up in the hymnbook to punctuate it. The syllables waltz around so delightfully that just the sound of the words is reason enough to keep singing. The tune is more folk waltz than "Blue Danube," which is just as well. The sing-song-y tune keeps those words flying by, words by which we try to understand what God is.
And that's impossible. Though, as the hymn says at the end, "'Tis only the splendor of light hideth thee."
It's all good.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Mouths to be kissed
Here in northeast Illinois, the sun has set on 2006. Streaks of bright but fading blue appear behind the drizzly grey clouds in the western sky. Farewell to the old year. The sun rises tomorrow on 2007.
But first comes the night, and as Steven Sondheim said in a song, "there are mouths to be kissed, and mouths to be fed . . . in the meanwhile." In the dark, there will be parties, penance, toasts. Truths to tell, truths deferred, temptations. Movies to watch, curled up on the couch in pajamas. Emotions to master, feelings to indulge. Glitter, gaiety, the unfettered festivities of all of us who live to see another year begin. Bitterness, sorrow, confession, forgiveness.
Tonight's passage is like the part of a Shakespeare play where the characters are transported to the Forest of Arden, or the magical isle in The Tempest, a place where fools and clowns play at a story line that parallels that of the noble characters. Life is turned inside out or propriety is laid aside, showing lovers and tragedians their flaws, mistakes and folly. At the end of Act Five the ones whose fates we have followed most intently emerge with greater self-understanding, prepared to love unselfishly or repent in preparation for death. Drama and poetry make meaning of the whole mess of life.
But what meaning is to be found in tonight's revelries? Today, December 31, the news is full of year-end stories, attempts to find significance within the arbitrary dimensions of twelve months of calendar time. What was most important in 2006? Who mattered most? Where are we--heavens!--trending? Is there wisdom for the future encoded in the Top Ten This-and-That of 2006?
It's simpler just to look at the hard news of the day, which included the story of the hanging death of Saddam Hussein, and reports on the funeral events of a 93-year-old ex-president of the United States. Different heads of different kinds of states. Different ends.
I read a news story this morning summarizing comments from European governments on the execution of Saddam. Foreign ministers affirmed sovereignty of Iraq and the execution of justice but deplored the execution itself. Someone (I suppose I could go back and look it up) said, more or less, that revenge gets you nowhere, especially in a troubled, violent society. "Live by the sword, die by the sword" is not, apparently, a recipe for peace.
Stories about Gerald Ford have focused on his role in healing the nation after Watergate. He pardoned Richard Nixon, despite accusations that a deal had been made, that letting Nixon go was a corrupt and cowardly thing to do. I remember friends who were outraged that Nixon was not brought to trial, not held accountable deed by deed, document by document, tape by tape. Yet the passage of time has vindicated Ford's decision. What would a Nixon trial have been like? What would the punishment have been?
My evening begins at church, where fortunately, there is a box of Kleenex on the organ, near my choir chair. I do not much like meditating on the passage of time. The years gone by are too evident in my face, in my attitude toward life, in my growing and near-grown children. Later, I must dress up and go to a party, where I will be wise and witty, or more likely, dim, dull and out of it.
The high points of life--the times of real insight, joy, deep pain--do not come at calendar celebrations like New Year's Eve. They do not come with fireworks at midnight, confetti, champagne, or beef tenderloin. The real Forests of Arden or the storms on the heath that transform us come in the course of living, when we must seek peace and not revenge, ask for and give forgiveness, seize happiness and serve our neighbor.
Yes, there are mouths to be kissed and mouths to be fed, but as part of everyday life. Which is kind of the point of Sondheim's song, in which the singer finally states that she will settle down someday and marry "the miller's son."
Time to get ready for the evening. Peace to you in the new year.
But first comes the night, and as Steven Sondheim said in a song, "there are mouths to be kissed, and mouths to be fed . . . in the meanwhile." In the dark, there will be parties, penance, toasts. Truths to tell, truths deferred, temptations. Movies to watch, curled up on the couch in pajamas. Emotions to master, feelings to indulge. Glitter, gaiety, the unfettered festivities of all of us who live to see another year begin. Bitterness, sorrow, confession, forgiveness.
Tonight's passage is like the part of a Shakespeare play where the characters are transported to the Forest of Arden, or the magical isle in The Tempest, a place where fools and clowns play at a story line that parallels that of the noble characters. Life is turned inside out or propriety is laid aside, showing lovers and tragedians their flaws, mistakes and folly. At the end of Act Five the ones whose fates we have followed most intently emerge with greater self-understanding, prepared to love unselfishly or repent in preparation for death. Drama and poetry make meaning of the whole mess of life.
But what meaning is to be found in tonight's revelries? Today, December 31, the news is full of year-end stories, attempts to find significance within the arbitrary dimensions of twelve months of calendar time. What was most important in 2006? Who mattered most? Where are we--heavens!--trending? Is there wisdom for the future encoded in the Top Ten This-and-That of 2006?
It's simpler just to look at the hard news of the day, which included the story of the hanging death of Saddam Hussein, and reports on the funeral events of a 93-year-old ex-president of the United States. Different heads of different kinds of states. Different ends.
I read a news story this morning summarizing comments from European governments on the execution of Saddam. Foreign ministers affirmed sovereignty of Iraq and the execution of justice but deplored the execution itself. Someone (I suppose I could go back and look it up) said, more or less, that revenge gets you nowhere, especially in a troubled, violent society. "Live by the sword, die by the sword" is not, apparently, a recipe for peace.
Stories about Gerald Ford have focused on his role in healing the nation after Watergate. He pardoned Richard Nixon, despite accusations that a deal had been made, that letting Nixon go was a corrupt and cowardly thing to do. I remember friends who were outraged that Nixon was not brought to trial, not held accountable deed by deed, document by document, tape by tape. Yet the passage of time has vindicated Ford's decision. What would a Nixon trial have been like? What would the punishment have been?
My evening begins at church, where fortunately, there is a box of Kleenex on the organ, near my choir chair. I do not much like meditating on the passage of time. The years gone by are too evident in my face, in my attitude toward life, in my growing and near-grown children. Later, I must dress up and go to a party, where I will be wise and witty, or more likely, dim, dull and out of it.
The high points of life--the times of real insight, joy, deep pain--do not come at calendar celebrations like New Year's Eve. They do not come with fireworks at midnight, confetti, champagne, or beef tenderloin. The real Forests of Arden or the storms on the heath that transform us come in the course of living, when we must seek peace and not revenge, ask for and give forgiveness, seize happiness and serve our neighbor.
Yes, there are mouths to be kissed and mouths to be fed, but as part of everyday life. Which is kind of the point of Sondheim's song, in which the singer finally states that she will settle down someday and marry "the miller's son."
Time to get ready for the evening. Peace to you in the new year.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas Day 2006
My blog got a mention in the Christmas morning sermon today, a sermon that began with a discussion of social networking on the internet, inspired by Time's Person of the Year story. The pastor contrasted the self-obsession of bloggers and networkers with how Christ's presence in our lives frees us from sin and selfishness and turns us outward to serve one another.
Fortunately, the Perverse Lutheran was mentioned as a site that our not-so-cyber-savvy pastor actually looks at from time to time, not as an example of a diary-on-line by someone compelled to publish her every thought.
Clearly this is not a blog where I post everything I'm thinking. If it were, you'd have to worry, because the dates of recent posts would suggest that I'm not thinking much at all these days.
Which is not the case. I'm doing as much thinking as ever. It's what brains do. But somehow, my thoughts of late do not strike me as all that edifying for others. Grief is private. My grief about the loss of my husband is so private I barely speak it to myself.
The rest of me has turned extrovert. Peppy, perky extrovert--because that's what it takes to keep an 80-voice children's choir on task as they prepare to sing--and sing, and sing some more--on Christmas Eve. There is little room for thought, no words of my own. Just the beat, the cue, the cut-off, and the occasional glare.
The children sang very well, and looking at them brought me great joy. What will I remember from all the music and singing of last night? Children's faces shining solemnly with the joy of singing together on Christmas Eve. Some sang with serenity, some with great anticipation. Some with mischievous happiness--isn't this fun! Some with thoughtful scowls. Some with no thought at all, just enthusiasm.
Children turned inside out as they proclaimed 'the Lord God incarnate, Jesus Christ."
Fortunately, the Perverse Lutheran was mentioned as a site that our not-so-cyber-savvy pastor actually looks at from time to time, not as an example of a diary-on-line by someone compelled to publish her every thought.
Clearly this is not a blog where I post everything I'm thinking. If it were, you'd have to worry, because the dates of recent posts would suggest that I'm not thinking much at all these days.
Which is not the case. I'm doing as much thinking as ever. It's what brains do. But somehow, my thoughts of late do not strike me as all that edifying for others. Grief is private. My grief about the loss of my husband is so private I barely speak it to myself.
The rest of me has turned extrovert. Peppy, perky extrovert--because that's what it takes to keep an 80-voice children's choir on task as they prepare to sing--and sing, and sing some more--on Christmas Eve. There is little room for thought, no words of my own. Just the beat, the cue, the cut-off, and the occasional glare.
The children sang very well, and looking at them brought me great joy. What will I remember from all the music and singing of last night? Children's faces shining solemnly with the joy of singing together on Christmas Eve. Some sang with serenity, some with great anticipation. Some with mischievous happiness--isn't this fun! Some with thoughtful scowls. Some with no thought at all, just enthusiasm.
Children turned inside out as they proclaimed 'the Lord God incarnate, Jesus Christ."
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