A drop of golden sun

Just saw the animated movie Tangled for the first time on Christmas Day (a gift to my six-year old niece). Sorry, but I am not a fan. I know, I know - curmudgeon. It’s not that it wasn’t funny - it was! It was even laugh-out-loud funny in many places. All the “girls” watched it together, while all the guys watched Captain America in the other room. Quite the gender-specific activity.

The problem with me (perhaps I should say, one of the problems) is that I tend to be analytical about everything. My friend Kris, who writes wonderful and funny stories about adventures with her children, said on her blog that I have “enough meaningful thoughts for ten people.” It was meant as a compliment. Of course (being analytical), I couldn’t help wondering if it makes me sound like a geek’s geek. But really, Kris, thanks - you are very kind!

Anyway, my analytical brain kicked in while watching Tangled. The plot hinges on this golden drop of sunlight that falls to earth and becomes a magical flower. Right away I’m thinking, why only one drop of sunlight? What made this one so special? What conditions created it? Why did it become a flower and not a special stone?

And then, the “old woman” finds it and discovers it will make her young and beautiful again - provided she sings it a special song. Well, I’m sorry, but how did she figure that out? How did she know it was a song? And if you realized that a flower would give you magical powers if you sang it a special song, how long might it take you to find the right words, not to mention the melody? And that was only the beginning. Primarily, however, I couldn’t find the point of the movie, and when it was all over, I had nothing to take with me, although I had been entertained. It was just over. (Having a lot of deep and meaningful thoughts means I like movies that provide material for those thoughts. It's a problem.)

Haute Sphere - Nativity by Sylvain Dubuisson

Funny thing, though. Today I came across a news story about a nativity scene created by a French artist. It is completely abstract, and called the ‘Haute Sphere.” It is a geodesic dome of porcelain, surrounding a golden halo resting on a bed of sand. At first when I looked at it I just thought, okay, whatever. But then I let myself contemplate it a bit, and wouldn’t you know, I thought of Tangled and the drop of golden sunlight. 


Maybe there is a little deeper meaning in that story (unintentional on the part of the writers) that I can take with me after all. What if the Incarnation was like a drop - the only drop ever - of sunlight, of God-light? The golden halo of the Holy Spirit, nestled on the earth in a bed of straw. The child, born of this sun-drop, through Mary, with powers unimaginable: the power to restore, to save lives. And there’s even a special song:

Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts! 

Heaven and earth are full of your glory. 

Hosanna in the Highest! 

Blessed is he who comes in the Name of the Lord. 

Hosanna in the Highest!

Well, how about that.  Guess I got something out of Tangled after all.

Pregnant... hope, that is

Her story was so similar to mine, even though she is much younger. She has a certain gentleness that I did not recognize right away, did not realize was born of her grief. It came to light in class one day, as we were discussing the moral issues surrounding reproductive technologies such as surrogate motherhood. Suddenly we were linked, joined together in the sorrowful sisterhood of women who desire but cannot have children of our own bodies.

Pregnancy and motherhood are integral parts of Advent and the Christmas story. The scripture readings this week have been about Elizabeth, the barren woman who becomes miraculously pregnant; Hannah, the barren women who pleaded with God and becomes the mother of Samuel; and Mary, the young virgin who becomes miraculously pregnant and will give birth to the Son of God.

All this longing, all this expectation, all this... pregnancy! Yet even those of us who never carried a child inside (which includes all the males of the species) can understand this; we all have hopes and expectations.

It is Christmas Eve; soon we will celebrate the birth of Jesus. It has been a difficult autumn, and I am deeply in need of celebration! I need my Christian family, I need candles, incense, music, prayer. I need worship! I need hope; I need to remember that longings do get fulfilled, that they will be fulfilled.

Expectant Mary - waiting in hope for the coming Savior

Talking about infertility in class this fall brought me to a surprising realization: my own empty womb has been a gift. It is a gift because it has forced me to struggle, to not take life for granted, and because it helps me to understand the suffering of others. It makes me deeply human. 

Yet the inability to get pregnant does not have to mean actual "infertility."  The biological emptiness often yields many different kinds of fruit. I think of the friends who’s journey of infertility led to the gift of five (five!) adopted children. Or the childless classmate who devotes herself to helping teens. Or my own clumsy attempts to bless the children born of others, including the precious daughters brought to me by my husband.

I have been reminded again this Advent about longing, about expectant hope, and about fulfillment. I have learned once more that sorrow is a preparation for joy. My stress has been high, and so my longing has been deep. I will celebrate Christmas with all my heart! And I will keep longing for Jesus’ return with a pregnant, joyful hope.

A Hymn for Advent

EACH WINTER AS THE YEAR GROWS OLDER 
By William & Annabeth Gay (1969)

Each winter as the year grows older, 
We each grow older too. 
The chill sets in a little colder; 
The verities we knew 
Seem shaken and untrue. 

When race and class cry out for treason, 
When sirens call for war, 
They overshout the voice of reason 
And scream till we ignore 
All we held dear before. 

Yet I believe beyond believing, 
That life can spring from death: 
That growth can flower from our grieving; 
That we can catch our breath 
And turn transfixed by faith. 

So even as the sun is turning 
To journey to the north, 
The living flame, in secret burning, 
Can kindle on the earth 
And bring God's love to birth. 

O Child of ecstasy and sorrows, 
O Prince of peace and pain, 
Brighten today's world by tomorrow's, 
Renew our lives again; 
Lord Jesus, come and reign!

Anticipation

I remember vividly the year the biggest box under the Christmas tree was for me. Me! Not that I am competitive or anything ;-), but when you are fourth in a family of six, there's always competition for the biggest something (it took until I was in college to realize I didn't always actually want the biggest piece of pie). The gift did not disappoint, either: Betsy McCall Fashion Designer, right up my artistic alley (thanks, Mom!). Somewhere long ago I lost all the design sheets and templates, but I still have the light box - it is one of my most  treasured possessions, and I even occasionally still use it. 

Children get Christmas right, even though they sort of get it wrong, too. They know how to anticipate it. They make Christmas lists and start getting excited well in advance. When I am around little ones I can sense this almost palpable shiver, a contagious energy that helps everyone around them look forward to the big day. If they still believe in Santa there is another dimension to their excitement, an imaginary other-world excitement about icicles and elves and shimmering North Pole villages.

On the other hand, as kids we're mostly just excited because we are anticipating the presents. Imagine if just seeing packages under the tree now was enough to get our hearts racing. And think how great it would be if we still could love just about anything and everything we get!! But, alas, I got older, I developed preferences, and I got disappointed - not the right color, not the right style, not right..So I shifted my expectations from the material part of Christmas to the spiritual, the whole "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" thing. Now, I don't want to sound overly cynical or unspiritual, but Christmas still remained un-wonderful for me. For a few years I allowed myself to get overwhelmed by cookie baking and present making and shopping and stuff, stuff, stuff, before I stopped having such high expectations of myself. And a few words to remember that "it's all about Jesus" didn't stand a chance against the effort of squeezing Christmas celebrations into a few days off work.

Advent Candles

But lately the inevitable growing up and losing my childhood excitement over Christmas has been replaced with a new excitement: Advent. Advent, strangely enough, was not part of either my family or church traditions (we were in what I now call  a "liturgy free zone"). But I have recently - finally - figured out the gift of Advent. It is four weeks focused on anticipation, a relatively long and leisurly opportunity to get my heart ready for the biggest and best Gift of all.

The most important thing to remember about Advent is that it is NOT about anticipating the birth of Jesus. Because if it was, we would just be pretending, since he’s already been born. Advent is for remembering that Jesus is coming back – the second coming, his promise to return. Advent is simultaneously a preparation for celebrating the first coming and a kind of “am I ready?” check-in for the second.

Can't wait!

Silly Goose

Lucy did not appear on the lakeshore this morning, honking to announce her arrival, as she has for the past two and a half weeks. We can only assume that she was bagged by a goose hunter, as the season opened today. Not that it is legal to shoot a domestic goose - it most certainly is not. But Lucy was a wanderer, a free-spirit, apparently, of the farm goose world, and she took her chances with the wild things. Ultimately it was the humans who could not be trusted.

We don’t really know if she had ever been given a name by the people who raised her. I christened her Lucy - not very imaginatively, I’m afraid - after she appeared several successive days in our yard. We called around - 4-H clubs, the Extension office - but could find no clue as to where she came from. We even drove around the area looking for farms with poultry, but no luck. For a couple of days Lucy was joined by another female Pilgrim goose (which I named Polly), but Polly only came along for a couple of days, and then disappeared again. Polly was actually meaner-tempered, more suspicious, and honked a lot. I can only assume she did not care particularly for the free life and went home, wherever that was.

It was a tremendous amount of fun learning about Lucy - her breed, the Pilgrim, is relatively rare, and they are known for being mild-tempered. The first few days she stayed close to the lake, and would quickly swim off if anyone came close. Eventually she started coming closer to the house, and once even nested under the deck - leaving, naturally, lots of squishy evidence behind. But usually just before dark she would fly away, low across the water, to a small floating island of reeds about a half mile away (as the goose flies). It is out of sight of the house, so we only know about the spot because we were on our neighbor’s boat when suddenly the two geese (Lucy and Polly) went cruising by, and we saw where they landed.  First thing in the morning she would come back, climb up the bank, and honk - not too much, just enough to let us know she was "home."

Hubby is more of a farm person than I; he did not grow up on a farm, but near them, and had plenty of animals around. He fed her some cracked corn, and changed water in a pail for her every day (she frequently would stand by the pail and honk). I am more of a silly animal romantic, like the little girls who fall in love with horses but don’t know anything about their care and feeding. 

Lucy would only come close to us if we were giving her pieces of bread - this clearly was something she knew about, and loved - in fact, she would come running (waddling really fast, that is). I loved looking at her beautiful feathers, and wished I could get my hands in them. I once got her to come close and then tried to pet her, but that was not to be tolerated, and it took a bit more bread before she would get near me again.

I am a vegetarian, so I grew weary of neighbor’s jokes about her being our Thanksgiving dinner. In a completely inconsistent way, however, I did lust after her feathers a bit: she would have provided enough for a nice goose down pillow. We were amused by her personality - she honked whenever a car came in the driveway; she would preen herself by splashing her head in the water in the pail, instead of just going into the lake. Silly goose! She liked hanging out near us, or seemed to - maybe it was just the possibility of bread.

We did think about catching her - we actually tried once, unsuccessfully. Lack of confidence, I think, and concern about hurting her. Of course, now she’s probably dead, so that was probably a misplaced concern.

It was hard not to get at least a little mad and sad this morning. Perhaps I am the silly goose for growing fond of a creature that appeared out of nowhere and that we were unprepared to shelter; silly for letting my heart get a little involved; silly for thinking she might be okay despite waking to the sound of shotguns; silly to hope the hunters would spare her.

There always danger in loving, I think, whether people or animals. Pets die, friends die, spouses die. To be open to love is to risk grief and regret. But it's better to be silly, if that’s what it is, than never to experience the wonder of a beautiful living, created thing.

Really Seeing You

God has developed such a compassionate heart in some people that they can clearly see the face of Christ in every person they encounter.  (I think of Mother Teresa and the Missionaries of Charity, and how they see Jesus in every poor person they minister to in Calcutta. Or Saint Francis kissing the leper.) 

Not so with me. When I look at others, I usually see myself. I treat them as mirrors, and look at them to see how I appear, or what they have for me, or how they will treat me. When I do see them, it is rare that I see Christ!  I mean, really – look at how they act, what they are wearing, what they are saying! How is that Jesus? 

If I work really hard at it, if I remind myself that I am supposed to see Jesus in other people, then I can muster up a bit of love, some fellow feeling and compassion. Were someone to be rude to me, however, I think it would evaporate in a heartbeat. On those occasions when my own image recedes and I actually see the person in front of me – those are good days. I want more of those days.

Girl Before a Mirror (Picasso)

Paul says (1 Cor 13:12) that we only see “but a poor reflection as in a mirror” (NIV); some translation say “as in a mirror, dimly,” or as many of us have heard it, “through a glass darkly” (KJV). I wonder if that doesn’t mean the only way we can see God is through other people. We need to learn to see him there, no matter how flawed the reflection. Paul goes on to say, “now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”  

When we see other people, we rarely see them as they really are – we mostly see ourselves. We don’t “know” them. When I do come to know and like someone (particularly if I like how they are to me) I might be able to “see” Jesus in him or her. But it’s a struggle to see Jesus in strangers, in people who get in my way, or make me uncomfortable. What would be thrilling to me would be to learn to see people as “lovely” even without knowing anything about them, just because God loves them.  That would be like seeing God.

One day we will be able to see God face to face. I believe on that day we also will be able to see others as they truly are. No more mirrors! We will not only know and be known by God, but we will be able to know each other. Until then, I'll just have to keep trying.

Brownies and the Atonement

There’s a half-price shelf in the bookstore at the Liturgical Press offices that I scour anytime I’m on campus during business hours. Last week I found a slightly damaged copy of a new book by Susan Pitchford, called God in the Dark. It did not take much of a perusal to determine that I had found a treasure - sensitive, thoughtful, deep...and funny. Today I started to read it, and although I’m not very far yet, I'm enjoying it very much. 

Here’s a quote from the second chapter (“The Good News, Part Two”):

• I once had a dream in which I was invited to a friend’s family party, where everyone had brought a different type of brownies - one for every theory of the atonement. The ones I tried were the "penal substitutionary atonement brownies," which were so sinful and deadly that you’d better let Jesus eat them for you.

I think using brownies to explain all the different theories of who Jesus is and why he died would be awesome! (Liberation theology brownies would use only Fair Trade chocolate, of course). 

I spent two weeks this summer in a class studying the development of doctrine and exploring ideas about Jesus Christ. It’s heady stuff - and I mean that in every way you can imagine. We covered the history of the earliest Christians and how they worked through what they had just experienced. We examined the intersection of major periods in human history - the Enlightenment, Reformation, Industrial Revolution, modernism - with theology. (It is truly fascinating that the way ordinary people as well as theologians think about Jesus is deeply influenced by their context, especially scientific development.) 

Ultimately, from the moment the angel announced the Incarnation to Mary, everyone who ever encountered Jesus asked the same question: “Who is this guy?” 

I left the class with more questions than I had when we started - which I think (and I know our professor would agree) is a good thing. Because whatever you think of Jesus, whoever you think he is, he’s more than that. 

To journey with Jesus means to keep on trying to figure him out - brownies, anyone?

Surprised by Beauty

The light caught and reflected off the white feathers of the birds in flight, creating a moment of utter splendor in an otherwise drab scene. It reminded me of C.S. Lewis and his description of being “surprised by joy” - only in this case it was being surprised by beauty. 

Moments like this take my breath away. They come without warning and often in the most prosaic of settings: the sky is dark and threatening, and then thunderclouds part to reveal one shaft of streaming silver light, in full view as I travel down the freeway on my commute to the city. Lake gulls reflect the light as they fly over the industrial part of town. A single delicate blossom opens to the sun in a sidewalk crack.

Twin Falls, Idaho - July 2010

It could perhaps be just the incongruous setting that reveals the beauty, but I don’t think so. I enjoy the splendor of the sunset in a gorgeous landscape just as much and perhaps even more than when it is over a junkyard. What makes these moments special for me is their unexpectedness. I was not looking for sun-reflected feathers on my way home from running errands yesterday. And on my drive to work I am usually preoccupied with the upcoming tasks of the day or worried about how snarly the traffic always is when it rains. When beauty thrusts itself upon me in these moments I experience it as sheer gift. 

Sunbeams and silver linings are another way of talking about joy in dark times. Sometimes I think my blog may seem preoccupied with sadness, with trauma, with grief. I do often reflect on these things, for the simple reason that so many of those I know and love are in the midst of heartache. But my intent is not to dwell on the sadness but to celebrate the light that pierces the greatest darkness, the bright bits of hope and love that remind us that storms do pass, that there is greater meaning and purpose to life than our own small selves. And to thank God for that. 

Helpless

Two stories, both unimaginable, both tragically real. One is recent, still raw; the other many years ago, but inscribed in my memory.

- The grandson and great-nephew of some friends was killed in a freak accident at a chiropractor's office. Some of you may have heard about it on the news: the 18-month-old crawled under a therapy table and managed to push the button to lower it while he was still underneath. The office staff had left the room and his mother was immobilized, helpless to prevent it.

- Twenty years ago a colleague of mine was traveling over the Thanksgiving holiday with her husband and two young adult sons. They were in two cars, with the sons following mom and dad. The roads were icy and somehow the sons’ car started to spin, sliding directly into the path of a semi-trailer truck. They were killed at the scene with mom and dad watching in their rear-view mirror, helpless to prevent it. I will never forget her devastation.

I have been thinking about helplessness a lot over the last couple of weeks since little Ben died. I was so struck by the idea of not being able to pull him out, to stop him, to stop the table. As adults we are watchful, vigilant; we do not want any child to be hurt. We do our best, especially with the little ones, and we certainly have been given both the ability and responsibility to keep them out of harms way. 

Ultimately I remembered, however, if truth be told, we are all helpless. We did not give ourselves life; we cannot stop death.  We may be able to hold it at bay, but that’s not the same thing. I have several friends going through this right now with cancer.

Crucified by Dorie Bliss (pastel)

For me, this all makes the Incarnation that much more amazing: God took on not just "flesh" but the helplessness of humanity. I heard a priest on the radio one morning talking about once having trouble with fruit flies in the wine at Mass (I think he was in the tropics). He was praying over the bread and wine and said he added (silently) kind of jokingly, “Lord, couldn’t you do something about these flies?” And in his mind he heard, “when I was hanging on the cross, covered in blood and unable to move, I was a feast for the flies.” The priest said he hardly could speak the words of consecration after that, he was so overcome with grief.

In a strange and wonderful way it is the helplessness of Jesus on the cross that brings peace to us in our own despair and weakness. You would think it is, or should be, the glorious victory of the resurrection. But somehow the remembrance of the process - that a great sacrifice was made for us, not just of death but of helplessness and shame and suffering - gives a deeper meaning to the conclusion (especially when we are in the midst of grief and loss). Through sharing in our helpless state, God transformed it into something beautiful and worthy that leads us to new life. 

For two thousand years theologians have sought to understand and explain why the cross had to precede the resurrection. It is a mystery. But in that mystery is comfort, peace and reassurance in the face of our own helplessness. 

Psalm 63


O God, you are my God, for you I long;
for you my soul is thirsting.
My body pines for you 

like a dry, weary land without water.

So I gaze on you in the sanctuary
to see your strength and your glory.
For your love is better than life,
my lips will speak your praise.
So I will bless you all my life,
in your name I will lift up my hands.

My soul shall be filled as with a banquet,
my mouth shall praise you with joy.
On my bed I remember you.
On you I muse through the night
for you have been my help;
in the shadow of your wings I rejoice.
My soul clings to you;
your right hand holds me fast.

Not My Time

In The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis, professional devil Screwtape provides encouragement and advice to his "dear nephew" and junior tempter Wormwood. Wormwood has been assigned to a new Christian, to separate him from God ("the Enemy") and put him back on the path to ruin. The book is amazing amalgam of insight and cynical humor: 

• "My dear Wormwood, the contemptuous way in which you spoke of gluttony as a means of catching souls, in your last letter, shows only your ignorance. One of the great achievements of the last hundred years has been to deaden the human conscience on that subject, so that by now you will hardly find a sermon preached or a conscience troubled about it in the whole length and breadth of Europe." 

I recently picked up a copy of the book at a garage sale and decided to read it again (I think the last time was in college) because I "borrowed" the idea from Lewis for the final paper for my Old Testament Class: "The Top Ten Ways to Lose the Promised Land." I based it on the Prophets and the various ways they admonished the Israelites and wrote it as if it were Satanic advice. It was a fun project!


Lewis has a section in the book where Screwtape is advising Wormwood how to create in his subject feelings of personal injury, based on the sense that a legitimate claim (what we would call our "rights") has been denied. The example he gives is time:

• "Now you will have noticed that nothing throws him into a passion so easily as to find a tract of time which he reckoned on having at his own disposal unexpectedly taken from him. It is the unexpected visitor (when he looked forward to a quiet evening), or the friend's talkative wife (turning up when he looked forward to a tete-a-tete with the friend), that throws him out of gear... They anger him because he regards his time as his own and feels that it is being stolen. You must therefore zealously guard in his mind the curious assumption 'My time is my own.'... The assumption which you want him to go on making is so absurd that, if once it is questioned, even we cannot find a shred of argument in its defense. The man can neither make, nor retain, one moment of time; it all comes to him by pure gift.... He is also, in theory, committed to a total service of the Enemy; and if the Enemy appeared to him in bodily form and demanded that total service for even one day, he would not refuse. He would be greatly relieved if that one day involved nothing harder than listening to the conversation of a foolish woman and he would be relieved almost to the pitch of disappointment if for one half-hour in that day the Enemy said, 'Now you may go and amuse yourself.'"

When I read that I realized with a pang how often I assume my time belongs to ME. My life is heavily scheduled with work and school and family, so when I find some free "tracts of time" I covet them and consider them my own. It is easy for me to deeply resent any interruption of these by the demands of other people, especially people who just want (or need) to chit-chat when I just want to do whatever I want to do. Often it's not even because I have something I really need to do, or anything important. I just want to have that time to "amuse myself."

I confess that I am hungry for free time, and not a little jealous of those who are retired and have more unstructured time than I do. But Lewis rightly points out that no one's time is their own - none of us created it, and as Christians it ALL belongs to God. It does me good to remember that every moment of every day is a gift, and the people who make demands on my time (even little demands, like an extra fifteen minutes after church to talk about inconsequential things when I am ready to go home) give me opportunities to share God's grace and demonstrate the truth of my commitment in "total service" to Christ. 

Hungry for Church

Today we visited with some friends who provide crisis care for children. An infant recently was placed with them who has been diagnosed with “failure to thrive.” 

Remember the international scandal about orphanages in Romania, which were so short-staffed that infants were rarely cuddled but instead just lay in their cribs all day, getting only a diaper change and a quick feeding? Those babies failed to thrive - they were listless, expressionless, and never smiled. Many died. That’s the result of extreme neglect - babies with no human love actually lose their will to live.

We stood in our friends’ garage (they were having a garage sale) and mourned for this little one, currently hospitalized. And then we discussed the mundane things of life, the garage sale, growing mint, new pets, running errands. It felt so odd to me - not far is away is a child being coaxed to fight for her own life, and we’re discussing garage sales.  But that’s the way life is, full of contrasts that coexist.

I thought about that (the both-and of life) when I came across yet another Internet article by someone who seems to think the world is an either-or place. He claims that at one time in Christianity the church was all about “the institution” but now it is all about “the experience.” But I believe these are not opposing concepts; they not only have always existed together but support and complement each other.

The church is a great mystery, one of the many beautiful mysteries of our Christian faith. Because it is a mystery, scholars, mystics and theologians have used multiple metaphors to explain and describe it. Christians throughout the ages have struggled to live it, to give it expression in the world. The church is a body, an organic entity, a unity of diverse parts. It is an expression of divine action. She is the Bride of Christ, a woman, often faithless yet always being wooed back to God. The church is the pilgrim people of God, individuals on a journey of faith in the company of others. It is herald, servant, sacrament. It is a table, a place where the faithful gather to offer their lives and receive the bread of angels.

I am hungry for church. I need the institution and the doctrines so I will be challenged and comforted, have my soul lifted and my thinking deepened. I need the experience of church, for only there do I get to participate in the glorious mystery of the Eucharist! I need the church for my journey of faith, to learn and struggle and grow in the company of flawed human beings, despite the fact that they often do not get it right, just as I often do not. 

St. Gabriel Church, Toronto

I am hungry for worship in the presence of my family and friends as well as those fellow travelers who are still strangers to me. I am hungry for beauty, for the handiwork of artists and musicians who create structures and liturgies that lead me into reverence and honor for our Creator and Saviour. 

I want to be a both-and Christian, to have the courage to live my faith in the world and to embrace the church in all its manifestations. For me church is about experience and institutions, fellowship within structures, hierarchy in the service of community. Yet living in the both-and of church and personal faith is a continual challenge and there is much I have yet to learn.

A Fish Who Floats

We have six fish. We were not going to name them, because if you name anything then you feel bad if it dies (that's my theory, anyway, and I hate feeling bad when a fish dies). But hubby prevailed, and we named the first five after the Deutero-canonical books: Sirach, Tobit, Judith, Baruch, and Big Mac (I Maccabees). The second summer these five spent outdoors in a fountain hubby built, two more appeared. We named them Little Mac (II Maccabees) and Wisdom. When we brought them indoors for the winter, Wisdom got "ick" and died (could be a sad commentary on modern life, but I'm not going there).

Our fish watching TV - really (Mac is in the center)

One of our fish, Big Mac, is quirky. Okay, strange. He started out bright orange, but then after a year lost all his color, so now he's kind of a sickly white. Some time ago hubby got a little worried (can you tell my husband is the fish person?) because Big Mac didn't seem quite right - he kept bobbing up to the top of the aquarium, as if he couldn't keep himself down in the water. But after keeping an eye on him for months, we have finally decided that he just likes it. He swims with the other fish to eat, and moves around just fine. But he likes to sleep - or rest, or whatever fish do - upside down at the top of the aquarium. It looks like he is dead, really, but then he'll move a little, or get into the jet stream of the filter and just bounce around. Weird fish.

I have some sympathy for this bland-colored, different fish. I wonder what the real-life consequences of being so different would be, if he (or she, we really don't know) was not in the safety of the aquarium. If the other fish were not forced to keep company with him, would they leave him alone? Would he be ostracized? Hubby is going to move them into the fountain again soon, and we are wondering if Big Mac will get picked off by a heron or something as he's floating on the surface. Or maybe he only floats indoors.

It is hard to be different. I feel it myself, some days than others. It depends a great deal on the context: am I with people who love me no matter what? Or am I in a crowd of strangers and they all sound smarter, act cooler and seem more together than I am? Am I surrounded by people who share my spiritual passion and understand my journey or am I with people who are uncomfortable just hearing the word "Catholic" spoken out loud?

I suspect that everybody feels different sometimes. We are so diverse as humans that the only way to not ever feel different would be to never move outside a safe circle of friends and relatives. And I suppose some people want to and are able to do that. I have read that some people move overseas and then built cultural enclaves in gated communities so they never have to encounter the host culture. Other people avoid engaging in conversations that might reveal opposing points of view. What's the fun in that?

Human diversity is a marvelous gift of God's creation, even if it causes us to struggle sometimes. But the struggle is part of the gift, because it helps us figure out who we are, who we want to be, and how we want to be to other people. We are all quirky, after all. Maybe even a little strange.

What We Really Want

Think for just a minute - think about what you want.
No, really - what is it that you want?


This was the question posed during the homily at the Easter Vigil when my sister and brother-in-law were received into the church two years ago. At the time (Fr. K gave us a few seconds to think) I thought about my other sister (the one in the hospital) and how I wanted her to be "fixed," to be whole again. And I thought about some of the things I wanted to accomplish in my life.


So did you think of something? Okay, good. 
Now here's the deal: that's not what you really want.


Yeah, I know, that's what I thought, too, when Fr. K. said that to us. What do you mean that's not what I really want? But he went on to say, "what you really want is perfection, for the world to be transformed, for everything to be in perfect order in the way God planned."


And he was right. When I looked deeper, past my immediate needs and wishes, I could see that those really are my truest desires. I don't just want my circumstances to be easier; I want the world to be completely different.


Therein lies the real thrill of Easter (and the point of his homily): Jesus was not resurrected to his "old" life. He did not get his body back the way it was; he did not just get his wounds fixed. He was resurrected to a new life, a perfect way of being. And - how great our joy! His death and resurrection mean that true transformation is possible. And that's what we all really want.

Clearer on the Concepts

All during Lent I refrained from using disposable coffee cups. I usually buy coffee 3-5 times per week, so over the course of six weeks I figure I saved about 30 cups from going into a landfill somewhere. Seems like a good thing to me! So I decided to continue the practice post-Lent (which of course is part of the point).

At Caribou you save 50 cents for bringing in a reusable mug; at Dunn Brothers it's 25 cents; Starbucks is only 10 (come on, big S!). The other day I was in the mood for an egg biscuit at McDonald's (I know, I know), so I thought I would bring my mug in and see how it went. Sure, no problem, the (very) young man said. Before I could say anything else, he grabbed a disposable cup, filled it with coffee, poured it in my mug, and tossed the disposable. "There you go!" A classic case of being unclear on the concept.

As I continue to deepen my understanding of the historical, liturgical, ecclesiological, and theological richness of the Christian faith, sometimes I feel like a kid in a candy store, gazing wide-eyed and open-mouthed at all the wonders. At other times I feel more like a bull in a china shop, clumsy and ill-suited to navigate around the treasures. But most of the time I experience this journey as a gradual growth in clarity on the concepts.

Today is the octave of Easter - one of three feasts which is celebrated for eight days (Christmas and Pentecost are the others). My schedule was so busy (and I am so accustomed from my upbringing to only celebrating Easter on Easter Sunday) that I did not have or make much opportunity last week to celebrate. But - wonderfully - there's always next year, now that I am getting clearer on the concept. 

The "eight days" idea is actually pretty cool - eight days to observe, to reflect, to rejoice. I mean, if it's an important event, what's the rush? Modern western culture is always in a hurry. I remember being so amazed, when we visited B&J in South Africa, that the South Africans (the whites, anyway) take hours over their evening meals. I doubt ours is ever longer than half an hour. 

But the eighth day is also a "first day" - Sunday, first day of the week. There is an overlap that makes that day both an ending and a beginning. This is the kind of rich conceptual element in which I take so much pleasure! Jesus said "it is finished!" on the sixth day (Friday), and rested on the seventh (just as God finished his work of creation on the sixth day and rested on the seventh). On the first day (Sunday) Jesus rose from the dead, but it also was an eighth day, because the resurrection marked the end of death forever. The following Sunday (the eighth day, today!) Jesus appeared to his disciples and ended their waiting and wondering. But it also is a first day, because He did something new: he breathed on them, gave them the Holy Spirit and the power to forgive and retain sins (John 20:19-23).

Every Sunday we rest; every Sunday we are renewed and restored to begin again. The last and first day. What a concept!

Easter... still emerging...

It's Thursday, and Easter has just begun! The season of Lent, of preparation is over, but with the resurrection comes the spring of Christian life. Now is the opportunity to renew and refresh our joy. Sometimes, however, circumstances make that difficult.

Photo by Dave Morlock

I said earlier that Easter "emerges." In my neck of the woods the weather has been echoing that notion. On Easter Sunday we had a gloriously sunny day, not hot, but actual sunshine. Monday, too, thank God (thanks, God)! These two days of sun were like pure gold, because we have been on a long and disheartening journey toward spring. To wit: yesterday, yes, April 27, it snowed, and not just a bitty flurry. 

But I am noticing that as miserable as the weather has been (basically seven months of winter) spring is still coming. The snow melts right away. Plants are pushing up. The rain/snow has turned the grass green. Buds on the trees are swelling, albeit slooooowly. There is a power at work and it will prevail, despite the apparent obstacles.

I will just have to keep an eye on the signs of spring, and watch its progress with hope. (I trust the spiritual parallel is obvious.)

Easter Emerges

I love the resurrection narrative in the gospel of Matthew, where there is a mighty earthquake, the soldiers collapse and the stone is rolled away from the tomb. It has all the drama one would expect for someone rising from the dead. But there's just one problem: Jesus isn't in this story. He does not come bursting out of the tomb, "Ta-da, here I am!" He is long gone, out quietly walking in the garden, waiting for the moment when he would speak to Mary.

We associate Easter Sunday with trumpets and choirs and exclamations of "He is risen! Truly he is risen!" This is right and good - these are expressions of our profound joy, and the angels and saints in heaven join in the triumphant chorus!

It occurred to me, however, that Jesus' resurrection actually comes in well under the radar. Jesus appears and disappears. Even his disciples do not always recognize him when they encounter him. They begin to believe and understand what he said about rising from the dead, but they need his help to fully comprehend it. And it is still a few more weeks - at Pentecost - before they are confident enough to talk about it publicly.

Thus there is an emergent quality to the Easter story that is meaningful to me personally. My ongoing experiences of resurrection (along with those daily experiences of dying) tend not to be jubilant "ta-das" but more like glimpses of the Lord, brief, life-altering encounters with Jesus, glimmers of hope and a growing confidence in the truth of his life and words. 

The Easter season has come to me this year with a great gladness of heart! It has been a struggle to articulate my thoughts in this blog during Lent, but the effect has been to spend a lot more time in joyful contemplation of my faith. I thank those of you who have bothered to read my attempts, and hope you will continue to visit once in a while, as I intend to keep writing. The fasting of Lent is done, but the season of Easter has just begun!