If you want to move bookcases, you have to empty them. And when the painting and the sanding of floors is finished, you have to put the bookcases back in the living room and put the books back on the shelves. Somewhere in this process, a wise woman makes no-nonsese decisions about what to keep and what to get rid of.
We moved the bookshelves back into their corners two months ago, but the restoration of order among the shelves' occupants is a summer-long project. Currently, the books in the tall bookcases from my husband's bachelor apartment are organized strictly on the "get them to fit" principle. Kurt Vonnegut novels and Jane Eyre are stacked horizontally next to The Fischer-Dieskau Book of Lieder. Two small books by the Yarn Harlot balance on top of a coffee-table volume of Clint Eastwood photos. The read and the unread, the worthy and the trashy, sit side-by-side. Some titles I can't find at all, and others completely surprise me. Who brought home the book about elephants?
I want to get rid of some of these books. I don't mind the living room bookcases being jammed with handsome hardcovers and ragged paperbacks. And the books on the forty feet of shelves over and around the computer desk are the most interesting part of the room. But what about the books in my bedroom and the books in the kitchen, the books that used to be on the stairway landing, and the books that were stacked at the top of the stairs? What about the books in the attic?
It's a two-person, four-decade book collection. It's been weeded out from time to time. The growth rate has slowed. But I'm sure there are well over a thousand books under this roof. And it's not the kind of house where books can be confined to a wood-panelled library.
Practical people say "Get rid of the books you've never opened, and the ones you'll never open again." They're just clutter. They collect dust. My sister says, "Why would you keep a book you've already read?" My brother-in-law says, "Just get rid of them." The article in Woman's Day magazine on reorganizing your home lists books among the worst clutter offenders.
But hey--does anyone ever tell you to throw away your old photographs? To send those boxes of snapshots to the thrift shop, or put them out at a garage sale for 50 cents or a dollar?
The books on my shelves hold memories more vivid than those in any photo album. Memories of reading Anna Karenina during spring break of my sophomore year in high school (and not really getting it). Plowing through Shelby Foote's three-volume history of the Civil War when my kids were small. (Didn't get anywhere close to Appomatox until everyone slept through the night.) Real Boys, by William Pollack, has helped me keep faith with my sons and their buddies as they pound and punch each other. Spitta's Bach is a legacy from my father. All those novels by Larry McMurtry, Elmore Leonard, and John D. MacDonald keep Lon's presence alive in this house. And Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel is just waiting to be enjoyed by another crop of tow-headed, truck-loving boys.
Yes, there are books I will give away. Not every book is packed with associations from my past, or hopes for the future. I don't need to keep two copies of Organizing for the Creative Person on the shelf. Some books that end up in the pile going to the library's used book sale will be there because the things they represent are not so important to me any more. I'm not ever going to teach myself Quark Express 4. I really hated The Prince of Tides when I read it twenty-odd years ago. It may be time to let it go.
I'm almost afraid to find the box that holds the Harry Potter books, lest I be tempted to reread volume six--or all six volumes--to get ready for the July 21 debut of volume seven. That Jane Austen biography on the high shelf--I need to take another look at that. I've got friends who'll enjoy the Nick Hornby novels. And maybe someday I'll read the Dostoevsky biography that Lon brought home from the freebie table at the newspaper. It was headed for the discard pile the other night, but then I opened it, and it was interesting, in a weird Russian, Siberia-and-back-again kind of way.
Time to get to work on those boxes in my bedroom. Sort, organize, and wander off into all the worlds contained in those books.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
So Many Questions
My fourteen-year-old son renewed his baptismal vows this morning in the rite of confirmation. At our church, confirmands write a witness statement, about their faith. Here is Kurt's. I am very proud of him.
.
SO MANY QUESTIONS
by Kurt Grahnke
Everyone has asked themselves why God would allow some bad things to happen to them--death, illness, or just bad luck. I was told that it was all part of God’s plan for me.
I’ve asked these “why” questions more than ever over the last year. Why did my dad get Alzheimer’s disease, which led to his death last September? Is there a line between God and science?
A lot of my questions have been about what I can do in my future. A lot of teens, myself included, do not know what it is that they do best. God gave me the abilities to play basketball and volleyball very well, but I can’t rely on those things. He gave me intelligence, but I am not sure of which ways my brain operates the best. I would like to become a journalist, but I would also like to explore science and psychology.
We ask God to lead us in these confusing years. Most of us cannot find him immediately. So we start to ask questions about God and our faith. We are told to read scripture and pray to communicate with God, but with two basketball teams, school, and a girlfriend I have kinda left these things out of the picture at times.
I have witnessed falling short several times in my life. For instance, this year I was on the volleyball team and the basketball team. On both teams I helped lead my team to the State Tournament. I knew we were the most talented team there both times, and there was no doubt in my mind that we could win both tournaments. Well, in volleyball, we ended up losing a semi-final game that we had nearly won. In basketball, a smaller, less talented team crept up on us towards the end and beat us by two points.
I kept thinking to myself, why does it seem that I always fall short? Then I asked the question, “What is God trying to tell me?”
My bible verse, Hebrews 12:1 reads:
Therefore since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.
What is the race set before me and how will this race end? Well, I don’t know that now. There are so many questions yet to be answered, and some of my questions may never be answered.
I look at my dad. He lived a confusing life. He questioned lots of things, including God, when he was a teenager. As he developed his dementia, he seemed to find joy in coming to church and found comfort in the hymns. A person looks at his life and would think that he “fell short” and was unable to finish his race, because he had to stop working and stop doing other things he cared about. But when I think about this I think maybe he did not fall short -– maybe he did fill out God’s plan for him, even if that was not what he planned for himself.
My dad is a messenger and an inspiration to me. My mother sees a resemblance between me and my dad. We enjoy the same music and we both have this strong will about us.
So I use that will to run this race that is set before me. There are problems in my way, the “weight and sin that clings so closely.” But I am surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses that God has given me, so great a line of people willing to help me run the race. So let me lay aside the weight, the sin, and run the race.
.
SO MANY QUESTIONS
by Kurt Grahnke
Everyone has asked themselves why God would allow some bad things to happen to them--death, illness, or just bad luck. I was told that it was all part of God’s plan for me.
I’ve asked these “why” questions more than ever over the last year. Why did my dad get Alzheimer’s disease, which led to his death last September? Is there a line between God and science?
A lot of my questions have been about what I can do in my future. A lot of teens, myself included, do not know what it is that they do best. God gave me the abilities to play basketball and volleyball very well, but I can’t rely on those things. He gave me intelligence, but I am not sure of which ways my brain operates the best. I would like to become a journalist, but I would also like to explore science and psychology.
We ask God to lead us in these confusing years. Most of us cannot find him immediately. So we start to ask questions about God and our faith. We are told to read scripture and pray to communicate with God, but with two basketball teams, school, and a girlfriend I have kinda left these things out of the picture at times.
I have witnessed falling short several times in my life. For instance, this year I was on the volleyball team and the basketball team. On both teams I helped lead my team to the State Tournament. I knew we were the most talented team there both times, and there was no doubt in my mind that we could win both tournaments. Well, in volleyball, we ended up losing a semi-final game that we had nearly won. In basketball, a smaller, less talented team crept up on us towards the end and beat us by two points.
I kept thinking to myself, why does it seem that I always fall short? Then I asked the question, “What is God trying to tell me?”
My bible verse, Hebrews 12:1 reads:
Therefore since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.
What is the race set before me and how will this race end? Well, I don’t know that now. There are so many questions yet to be answered, and some of my questions may never be answered.
I look at my dad. He lived a confusing life. He questioned lots of things, including God, when he was a teenager. As he developed his dementia, he seemed to find joy in coming to church and found comfort in the hymns. A person looks at his life and would think that he “fell short” and was unable to finish his race, because he had to stop working and stop doing other things he cared about. But when I think about this I think maybe he did not fall short -– maybe he did fill out God’s plan for him, even if that was not what he planned for himself.
My dad is a messenger and an inspiration to me. My mother sees a resemblance between me and my dad. We enjoy the same music and we both have this strong will about us.
So I use that will to run this race that is set before me. There are problems in my way, the “weight and sin that clings so closely.” But I am surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses that God has given me, so great a line of people willing to help me run the race. So let me lay aside the weight, the sin, and run the race.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Virginia Tech
I'm sure I was not the only parent in America who listened to the reports from Virginia Tech on Monday afternoon and felt compelled to phone a son or daughter away at school. I got my son's voice mail shortly before three o'clock, and wasn't sure what message to leave. "I know you're alright, but I just had to call," I said. And more stuff, less coherent, with the "love you" closing.
I still think of my twenty-year-old, college sophomore son as one of my three teenagers. Yet he is the age of those college kids in the videos, the Virginia Tech students being interviewed, the roommates of the killer, the friends of the dead. They don't seem as young to me anymore. They have earned the right to be called adults. So many, so suddenly must no longer feel safe in the world. This is life-changing knowledge, the kind you wish they could absorb slowly, in small sips. Drinking such icy water all at once and way too fast can cause paralyzing brain-freeze, even life-freeze.
As they seek healing, the Virginia Tech students gather in community. One young woman on the radio, when asked if she wanted to go back home to her family, said, No, I need to be with my friends and share this with them.
Oh, the Facebook and My Space pages as twenty-year olds mourn other twenty-year-olds.
How can such violence be redeemed? Better "gun-safety" laws? Better counseling centers on campus? Discard civil liberties and lock up potential madmen? So that these dead shall not have died in vain? You don't have to be a cynic, just a realist, to feel that not much will change in the long run.
But today's college students will carry this week and its sad, horrific news in their hearts for a long time. To honor the dead, some may try a little harder to give their own lives meaning, to enjoy the sunshine and love and appreciate family and friends. Some will struggle with fear and uncertainty, trying to keep their balance inside a world where you can't always protect yourself from serious harm. Some day, there will be another shooting, some other terrible news, and they will be shaken by memories of April 2007.
Young adults this age go to war. They are kidnapped in Iraq. They are the brutalizers and the victims in parts of Africa and Asia, and in the cities of North America and Europe. But yet a steady, hopeful light burns in them, shining out
from their youth, from the way they do not shirk from bullies and danger, from the way they stand by their friends..
Dear Lord, watch with all who grieve and protect them with your everlasting love. .
I still think of my twenty-year-old, college sophomore son as one of my three teenagers. Yet he is the age of those college kids in the videos, the Virginia Tech students being interviewed, the roommates of the killer, the friends of the dead. They don't seem as young to me anymore. They have earned the right to be called adults. So many, so suddenly must no longer feel safe in the world. This is life-changing knowledge, the kind you wish they could absorb slowly, in small sips. Drinking such icy water all at once and way too fast can cause paralyzing brain-freeze, even life-freeze.
As they seek healing, the Virginia Tech students gather in community. One young woman on the radio, when asked if she wanted to go back home to her family, said, No, I need to be with my friends and share this with them.
Oh, the Facebook and My Space pages as twenty-year olds mourn other twenty-year-olds.
How can such violence be redeemed? Better "gun-safety" laws? Better counseling centers on campus? Discard civil liberties and lock up potential madmen? So that these dead shall not have died in vain? You don't have to be a cynic, just a realist, to feel that not much will change in the long run.
But today's college students will carry this week and its sad, horrific news in their hearts for a long time. To honor the dead, some may try a little harder to give their own lives meaning, to enjoy the sunshine and love and appreciate family and friends. Some will struggle with fear and uncertainty, trying to keep their balance inside a world where you can't always protect yourself from serious harm. Some day, there will be another shooting, some other terrible news, and they will be shaken by memories of April 2007.
Young adults this age go to war. They are kidnapped in Iraq. They are the brutalizers and the victims in parts of Africa and Asia, and in the cities of North America and Europe. But yet a steady, hopeful light burns in them, shining out
from their youth, from the way they do not shirk from bullies and danger, from the way they stand by their friends..
Dear Lord, watch with all who grieve and protect them with your everlasting love. .
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Resurrection
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?
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?
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!
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