By Stephen Crippen
Late last fall, Fr. Mike Raschko told our Christian Anthropology class what he planned to preach about on Christ the King Sunday. The Gospel was from Matthew, the day of judgment when sheep will be separated from goats, the righteous from the unrighteous.
Fr. Raschko’s vision of judgment day is a lot different than the one in Matthew, the one illuminated by Michelangelo’s terrifying Sistine Chapel frescoes. It goes something like this: when we die, we will find ourselves in a comfortable room, and God will be there. God will offer us a glass of warm brandy and invite us to sit down. And then God will show us two doors, one of which we must walk through. One door leads to separation from God; the other leads to a closer relationship with God. (Hell and heaven, then.)
But by the time we arrive in that room, we already will know which door we’ve chosen, time and again, throughout our lives. We will have walked through one of the doors many hundreds of times, so when the moment of truth comes, it will actually be a little anti-climactic.
I like this image, and appreciate the theology behind it. I think it was C.S. Lewis who wrote, “The doors to hell are locked from the inside.” I know that in my own life, hell is a chosen state of existence, chosen by me. And being in heaven is as simple (and difficult) as saying Yes to God.
And Lent is a time to be in that room, to be more conscious about the choices we make. The precise meaning of ‘repentance’ is to turn, or turn around, and in Lent (or at least in my Lent) it’s all about turning. I see the door I’m choosing in my life, and, in response to God’s invitation, turn and look at the other door. Will I walk through that door instead?
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Lenten Voices: Understanding St. Patrick
by Ellen Hill
When I was growing up, I never understood Saint Patrick's Day or as they say in Boston, "Saint Paddy's Day. As a little girl it meant drunks on the subway and public drunkenness on the streets. If you watched the coverage this year from Ireland to New York, it remains the same. Well, except for Seattle, which seems to incorporate all of the above matched with a second soaking of rain.
I didn't understand it then and I don't now.
Especially since Saint Patrick's Day falls in the middle of Lent. Does this mean everyone has an exemption? My Irish grandfather told me the Irish did. It took me years to appreciate anything about March 17. I later learned that March 17 is thought to be the day Saint Patrick died and thus became his feast day. However in Boston, the story goes that March 17, 1776 is the day the British evacuated Boston during the Revolutionary War. General George Washington's password to his troops was "Saint Patrick". Today, March 17th is referred to as Evacuation Day in Boston and is an official holiday.
We learned in school that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and that was about it. Upon further reading, I found the biography of an interesting man who lived as a slave in pagan Ireland. A vibrant scholar who by force of character preached Christianity and in thirty years converted Ireland. He was an outspoken critic of slavery in the fifth century, something the papacy did not weigh in on until several centuries later. And one of the earliest advocates for women, he showed an unusual empathy toward the downtrodden. His building and support of monasteries where tolerance and learning thrived, was essential in the growth of civilization. It seems there was a whole wealth of information other than the snake story.
The first Saint Patrick's Day parade was in New York and was soon followed by Boston. The parades were a proud answer to the prejudice of their day when "Irish need not apply" signs were openly posted.
I'll try to remember that next year. I will recite the prayer for protection taken from the Druids, chanted by Saint Patrick against evil and spells,
"Be Christ this day my strong protector:
against poison and burning
against drowning and wounding,
through reward wide and plenty.
Christ beside me, Christ before me;
Christ behind me, Christ within me........."
-Saint Patrick's Breastplate
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
When I was growing up, I never understood Saint Patrick's Day or as they say in Boston, "Saint Paddy's Day. As a little girl it meant drunks on the subway and public drunkenness on the streets. If you watched the coverage this year from Ireland to New York, it remains the same. Well, except for Seattle, which seems to incorporate all of the above matched with a second soaking of rain.
I didn't understand it then and I don't now.
Especially since Saint Patrick's Day falls in the middle of Lent. Does this mean everyone has an exemption? My Irish grandfather told me the Irish did. It took me years to appreciate anything about March 17. I later learned that March 17 is thought to be the day Saint Patrick died and thus became his feast day. However in Boston, the story goes that March 17, 1776 is the day the British evacuated Boston during the Revolutionary War. General George Washington's password to his troops was "Saint Patrick". Today, March 17th is referred to as Evacuation Day in Boston and is an official holiday.
We learned in school that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and that was about it. Upon further reading, I found the biography of an interesting man who lived as a slave in pagan Ireland. A vibrant scholar who by force of character preached Christianity and in thirty years converted Ireland. He was an outspoken critic of slavery in the fifth century, something the papacy did not weigh in on until several centuries later. And one of the earliest advocates for women, he showed an unusual empathy toward the downtrodden. His building and support of monasteries where tolerance and learning thrived, was essential in the growth of civilization. It seems there was a whole wealth of information other than the snake story.
The first Saint Patrick's Day parade was in New York and was soon followed by Boston. The parades were a proud answer to the prejudice of their day when "Irish need not apply" signs were openly posted.
I'll try to remember that next year. I will recite the prayer for protection taken from the Druids, chanted by Saint Patrick against evil and spells,
"Be Christ this day my strong protector:
against poison and burning
against drowning and wounding,
through reward wide and plenty.
Christ beside me, Christ before me;
Christ behind me, Christ within me........."
-Saint Patrick's Breastplate
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Lenten Voices: Why Fast? Who Cares?
By Rev. Samuel Torvend
As we left the restaurant, my sister, Rebecca, reminded her six-year-old son, Rex, that he had “given up” candy for Lent. Though raised in a Lutheran home, my nephew attends a Roman Catholic parochial school where the Lenten practice of fasting is lived out as doing without something special for the Forty Days. My sister’s reminder was not met with much happiness. Her son’s face scrunched up and in an irritated voice he asked why, JUST THIS ONCE, he couldn’t have a piece of candy. After all, he said, it’s grandma’s birthday! His mother, not wishing to entertain exceptions to this Lenten practice, replied that there was ice cream and birthday cake waiting for him at home. Disaster was averted. His face softened and he happily jumped into the car.
Observing this rather brief interchange, I thought to myself: What is he being asked to do? Does he know why he is “giving up” something in late winter and early spring? For a young boy who absolutely loves sugar, does he think this practice an annoyance foisted upon him by his own mother and holy mother church? Are we intended to fast for only Forty Days and then return to eating as usual, much feasting, too much feasting?
And so I wonder if it is helpful to be mindful of the social context in which the practice of fasting emerged among Christians. When Lent emerged the agrarian populations of western and eastern Europe, the practice of fasting was rooted in human necessity. The warming weather of spring would spoil foods kept in storage. Thus, it was important to eat the foods before they were no longer edible. At the same time, late winter and early spring are the birthing season for herds of animals. By refusing to eat beef, lamb, and pork, Christians helped the next generation of animals survive and so replenish the herd.
But of course this form of fasting, rooted in the desire for human and animal survival, was shot through with biblical overtones. Christians saw themselves in solidarity with Noah and all the animals saved in the ark as they refused to eat animals during Lent, their fasting a gesture toward a new creation. And they were well aware of the Jewish and Christian practice of fasting – but fasting in order to set aside food for those who were chronically hungry. In other words, fasting allowed one to save food or money that could be given to the poor. Thus, in many medieval churches, a hunger cloth – which pictured those in need – was hoisted up on the wall throughout Lent as an instruction for a fasting people as to where their alms should be directed. Yes, fasting focused on the hungry poor, not on simply “giving up something” because “that’s what we do in Lent” or refraining from delectable foods because it makes us pleasing to God or is simply a test of our endurance.
Let us be mindful of these words which also resonate throughout Lent:
Is this not the fast which I choose, To loosen the bonds of wickedness,
To undo the bands of the yoke, And to let the oppressed go free And break every yoke?
Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry And bring the homeless poor into the house;
When you see the naked, to cover him; And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Isaiah 58: 6-7, 10
Father Samuel Torvend is Associate to the Rector for Adult Formation at St. Paul's.
As we left the restaurant, my sister, Rebecca, reminded her six-year-old son, Rex, that he had “given up” candy for Lent. Though raised in a Lutheran home, my nephew attends a Roman Catholic parochial school where the Lenten practice of fasting is lived out as doing without something special for the Forty Days. My sister’s reminder was not met with much happiness. Her son’s face scrunched up and in an irritated voice he asked why, JUST THIS ONCE, he couldn’t have a piece of candy. After all, he said, it’s grandma’s birthday! His mother, not wishing to entertain exceptions to this Lenten practice, replied that there was ice cream and birthday cake waiting for him at home. Disaster was averted. His face softened and he happily jumped into the car.
Observing this rather brief interchange, I thought to myself: What is he being asked to do? Does he know why he is “giving up” something in late winter and early spring? For a young boy who absolutely loves sugar, does he think this practice an annoyance foisted upon him by his own mother and holy mother church? Are we intended to fast for only Forty Days and then return to eating as usual, much feasting, too much feasting?
And so I wonder if it is helpful to be mindful of the social context in which the practice of fasting emerged among Christians. When Lent emerged the agrarian populations of western and eastern Europe, the practice of fasting was rooted in human necessity. The warming weather of spring would spoil foods kept in storage. Thus, it was important to eat the foods before they were no longer edible. At the same time, late winter and early spring are the birthing season for herds of animals. By refusing to eat beef, lamb, and pork, Christians helped the next generation of animals survive and so replenish the herd.
But of course this form of fasting, rooted in the desire for human and animal survival, was shot through with biblical overtones. Christians saw themselves in solidarity with Noah and all the animals saved in the ark as they refused to eat animals during Lent, their fasting a gesture toward a new creation. And they were well aware of the Jewish and Christian practice of fasting – but fasting in order to set aside food for those who were chronically hungry. In other words, fasting allowed one to save food or money that could be given to the poor. Thus, in many medieval churches, a hunger cloth – which pictured those in need – was hoisted up on the wall throughout Lent as an instruction for a fasting people as to where their alms should be directed. Yes, fasting focused on the hungry poor, not on simply “giving up something” because “that’s what we do in Lent” or refraining from delectable foods because it makes us pleasing to God or is simply a test of our endurance.
Let us be mindful of these words which also resonate throughout Lent:
Is this not the fast which I choose, To loosen the bonds of wickedness,
To undo the bands of the yoke, And to let the oppressed go free And break every yoke?
Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry And bring the homeless poor into the house;
When you see the naked, to cover him; And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Isaiah 58: 6-7, 10
Father Samuel Torvend is Associate to the Rector for Adult Formation at St. Paul's.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Lenten Voices: The Last Word
by Stephen Crippen
The Last Word
Behind our young dog Hoshi
lurks Death
watching hungrily the beatings
of Hoshi’s ill-formed heart
occasionally looking us in the eye
as if to say
I’ll come to collect your other dog too
and if you let me
drain all delight from your house.
***
Behind every joyous baptism
lurks Destiny
recalling soberly how some children
drowned in Katrina’s fetid waters
occasionally looking us in the eye
as if to say
I have some ideas about what awaits your beloved
even if I can’t be entirely sure.
***
Behind every newlywed couple
lurks Discord
counting his chits
keeping his lists
occasionally looking one of them in the eye
as if to say
if you like I’ll help you ‘to have and to hold’
all those things that can only be served
in a portion for one.
***
Behind every Easter
lurks Death, Destiny, Discord
looking us squarely in the eye
proudly saying
we have won many battles.
And you and I, we huddle together
long before dawn
ignite feeble flames
sing The Light of Christ
and hail the One who defeats even
foes as formidable as these.
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
The Last Word
Behind our young dog Hoshi
lurks Death
watching hungrily the beatings
of Hoshi’s ill-formed heart
occasionally looking us in the eye
as if to say
I’ll come to collect your other dog too
and if you let me
drain all delight from your house.
***
Behind every joyous baptism
lurks Destiny
recalling soberly how some children
drowned in Katrina’s fetid waters
occasionally looking us in the eye
as if to say
I have some ideas about what awaits your beloved
even if I can’t be entirely sure.
***
Behind every newlywed couple
lurks Discord
counting his chits
keeping his lists
occasionally looking one of them in the eye
as if to say
if you like I’ll help you ‘to have and to hold’
all those things that can only be served
in a portion for one.
***
Behind every Easter
lurks Death, Destiny, Discord
looking us squarely in the eye
proudly saying
we have won many battles.
And you and I, we huddle together
long before dawn
ignite feeble flames
sing The Light of Christ
and hail the One who defeats even
foes as formidable as these.
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Lenten Voices: Part II. "Because it works"
By Jayme Hegelson
If my first two blog posts have been overly negative toward the Christ it is because I believe faith demands it. Faith is entirely dependent on history and history's atrocities thus need to be acknowledged and scrutinized. This history of God's bloody role in the human narrative simply should not be ignored.
But while I have focused on these essential issues of justice I would be out of balance not to acknowledge that my form of justice just doesn't seem to get the results I would hope for. In my every day life, my form of justice doesn't seem to generate much hope at all! So there is another history I want to look at and that is the history of this thing we name 'love'.
I have only recently come to learn more about what love is like and it has come by experiencing the love of many ordinary people in my present day life. My best friend brought me soup when I had the flu, my best friends from St. Paul's joined me to usher in the rein of our Lord and Saviour Mr. Hussein Obama. I believe I can live a life of love and abundance because I have seen others live such a life. So I've tried to live my life similarly and lo-and-behold, my life got better! It started working! It became enjoyable! I even get a natural high from the thing. I have seen love work to my overall betterment and good. My understanding of the gospel has changed with my everyday powerful experience of love.
Similarly, the story of Jesus and his passion have been passed down generation after generation precisely because the truth and power of his love. We don't read the 'Good Spell' because it came from God but because it works, because it is effective. Because our lives get better from reading and living it. The chief reason that Jesus' life came to such a violent end is because the workings of human justice came into direct conflict with this 'new way' that Jesus effectively introduced to us. That way is love. Jesus loved us literally to his death. Think of that: He went to his bitter end on the cross and never quit his annoying habit of loving the crap out of everyone around him! Jesus and a great many other prophets have long held that love is more powerful than the sword but in Jesus' time as in ours we seem to be stuck in an 'eye for an eye' mentality. My first two blog posts of this series are testament to my attachment to this form justice. And while I believe a passion for justice isn't misguided the simple fact of the matter is demanding justice for every wrong, indeed for any wrong, just doesn't end up working very well. We see this debate still working itself out on the world stage of politics as Bush and now Obama try to figure out just what kind of retribution we need to dole out in the interests of national security. World and national governments still believe that justice in the eye-for-an-eye ethic is necessary if not very wise. Is it?
I would challenge the reader that our politicians' and our governments' ethics are direct reflections of our own. It is a Seattle tradition to distance ourselves from government and from those evil people in Washington. But I believe we have no one to blame but ourselves if Bush decided to invade Iraq and Obama continues the tradition by shooting the hell out of Afghanistan. While it may be naive to believe that killing and war in any form are carte blanch wrong/ineffective for a government to engage in, still it is we who enact this killing even if we are a few steps removed from the action in Iraq or the shenanigans of Gat-Mo. I am reminded of a Presbyterian pastor's sermon in Scotland not long ago when I there studying Philosophy for a semester. He and a bunch of his blokes joined hands in some icy bay in the N. Sea to symbolically block an American nuclear sub from docking at a British naval yard. He believed in Jesus ethic of love over the eye-for-an-eye mentality and went swimming. I thought he was stupid but the fact is this man had great integrity when it came to living out the actions that love required of him.
For whatever faults I personally find with what I think Jesus did NOT do during his life, these faults pale in comparison with the mission and singular focus of Jesus' life: to introduce this 'new-way'. It is a way that can and does transform the world and ourselves. And it's functionally easy to achieve. We just need to follow and copy those more experienced than us in loving well. Those people do exist and thankfully are found in abundance. Also, there's plenty of dead ones to read about and look at too; they line the walls of our church and our babies love to touch them when they're acting up at Mass.
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
If my first two blog posts have been overly negative toward the Christ it is because I believe faith demands it. Faith is entirely dependent on history and history's atrocities thus need to be acknowledged and scrutinized. This history of God's bloody role in the human narrative simply should not be ignored.
But while I have focused on these essential issues of justice I would be out of balance not to acknowledge that my form of justice just doesn't seem to get the results I would hope for. In my every day life, my form of justice doesn't seem to generate much hope at all! So there is another history I want to look at and that is the history of this thing we name 'love'.
I have only recently come to learn more about what love is like and it has come by experiencing the love of many ordinary people in my present day life. My best friend brought me soup when I had the flu, my best friends from St. Paul's joined me to usher in the rein of our Lord and Saviour Mr. Hussein Obama. I believe I can live a life of love and abundance because I have seen others live such a life. So I've tried to live my life similarly and lo-and-behold, my life got better! It started working! It became enjoyable! I even get a natural high from the thing. I have seen love work to my overall betterment and good. My understanding of the gospel has changed with my everyday powerful experience of love.
Similarly, the story of Jesus and his passion have been passed down generation after generation precisely because the truth and power of his love. We don't read the 'Good Spell' because it came from God but because it works, because it is effective. Because our lives get better from reading and living it. The chief reason that Jesus' life came to such a violent end is because the workings of human justice came into direct conflict with this 'new way' that Jesus effectively introduced to us. That way is love. Jesus loved us literally to his death. Think of that: He went to his bitter end on the cross and never quit his annoying habit of loving the crap out of everyone around him! Jesus and a great many other prophets have long held that love is more powerful than the sword but in Jesus' time as in ours we seem to be stuck in an 'eye for an eye' mentality. My first two blog posts of this series are testament to my attachment to this form justice. And while I believe a passion for justice isn't misguided the simple fact of the matter is demanding justice for every wrong, indeed for any wrong, just doesn't end up working very well. We see this debate still working itself out on the world stage of politics as Bush and now Obama try to figure out just what kind of retribution we need to dole out in the interests of national security. World and national governments still believe that justice in the eye-for-an-eye ethic is necessary if not very wise. Is it?
I would challenge the reader that our politicians' and our governments' ethics are direct reflections of our own. It is a Seattle tradition to distance ourselves from government and from those evil people in Washington. But I believe we have no one to blame but ourselves if Bush decided to invade Iraq and Obama continues the tradition by shooting the hell out of Afghanistan. While it may be naive to believe that killing and war in any form are carte blanch wrong/ineffective for a government to engage in, still it is we who enact this killing even if we are a few steps removed from the action in Iraq or the shenanigans of Gat-Mo. I am reminded of a Presbyterian pastor's sermon in Scotland not long ago when I there studying Philosophy for a semester. He and a bunch of his blokes joined hands in some icy bay in the N. Sea to symbolically block an American nuclear sub from docking at a British naval yard. He believed in Jesus ethic of love over the eye-for-an-eye mentality and went swimming. I thought he was stupid but the fact is this man had great integrity when it came to living out the actions that love required of him.
For whatever faults I personally find with what I think Jesus did NOT do during his life, these faults pale in comparison with the mission and singular focus of Jesus' life: to introduce this 'new-way'. It is a way that can and does transform the world and ourselves. And it's functionally easy to achieve. We just need to follow and copy those more experienced than us in loving well. Those people do exist and thankfully are found in abundance. Also, there's plenty of dead ones to read about and look at too; they line the walls of our church and our babies love to touch them when they're acting up at Mass.
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
Lenten Voices: Learning to Love Hypocrisy
By Laura Onstot
I spent a year in a small Southwestern town dotted with great Mexican restaurants, a bar where the devil supposedly showed up once for tequila, several gas stations catering to tourists passing through, and, of course, a giant Wal-Mart. When I first arrived I made a promise to myself—I would not shop there. And for a few months I didn’t.
Not shopping there was kind of tricky but doable. At least twice a month I’d make the drive to Santa Fe to stop at Trader Joe’s (those cheesy Hawaiian shirts were a great help in times of great homesickness). But in the meantime, the town had two smaller stores of the “grocery” persuasion. Both had food stuffs that had not been processed into something else. You could get produce, milk and uncooked meat—the basics.
It wasn’t exactly an uplifting shopping experience. Both stores had a weird smell that always hit with an accompanying wave of nausea when walking through the sliding glass doors. The lettuce leaves were inevitably wilted and the tomatoes too squishy. And then one day I got home with a jar of Alfredo sauce only to realize the expiration date had passed months ago.
The sauce was in a jar and I’m sure it was fine—but I already lived in a place where heroin needles dotted my yard and one kid shot another kid in the leg outside my apartment within a week of my moving in. Did I really have to suffer expired Alfredo sauce too?
And that’s how I found myself at the sliding glass doors of the Wal-Mart. Walking in, I found a small but fresh produce selection. A manager did once suggest that maybe there is no such thing as “polenta” but I could get a steak to grill and it would come out alright. A friend and I even picked up live lobsters there once.
It wasn’t long before I was buying other things there that I normally would have saved for a Santa Fe trip—a four cup coffee maker, laundry detergent, cases of Tecate (best beer in a can!). And just like that, I became a Wal-Mart hypocrite.
That word creeps up a lot in my head when I think about my faith. Last week I attended a service at a friend’s church. It was the kind of no-girls-allowed place that gives me a knot in my stomach and makes my throat close off a little. I believe down to my core that so many of the messages of those churches are wrong, completely at odds with the message of Christ, and frankly dangerous. But so help me I stood up with the woman next to me and sang my heart out through the worship songs, bowed my head when the pastor prayed (sneaking in a quick cross of myself at the “amen”) and sat quietly contemplating the sermon—a meditation on miracles that I actually resonated a little with right up until the second the pastor took a shot at rationalism.
I still don’t know how I feel about the whole experience. Was I playing along for show, hoping to avoid causing a scene or embarrassing a friend, and is that fair to him, his church, and the people that worship there? And I got a little chilled at one point during a worship song (complete with, horror of horrors, electric guitar!), actually feeling a little in touch with this God I understand so poorly—does that mean I betrayed myself and the things I believe about the meaning of Jesus? I don’t know but I suspect that much cognitive dissonance about your words and actions and feelings, you’ve definitely entered hypocrite territory.
The thing is I don’t think the fact that I shopped at Wal-Mart means I can’t keep being angry when the company busts attempts at unionizing the staff. And I don’t think the fact that I walk around in this hazy realm of being a pretty crappy Christian and a crappy progressive all at the same time means I shouldn’t keep trying to do right by both. And I don’t think the fact that I’m a hypocrite means I should stop clinging to the one thing I feel certain of—grace.
Laura attended her first St. Paul's mass on Ash Wednesday 2004 and now sings in the Parish Choir. She is a staff writer for the Seattle Weekly (online at http://www.seattleweekly.com/), a novice knitter, a lover of mountains, and is always up for communing over an aged scotch.
I spent a year in a small Southwestern town dotted with great Mexican restaurants, a bar where the devil supposedly showed up once for tequila, several gas stations catering to tourists passing through, and, of course, a giant Wal-Mart. When I first arrived I made a promise to myself—I would not shop there. And for a few months I didn’t.
Not shopping there was kind of tricky but doable. At least twice a month I’d make the drive to Santa Fe to stop at Trader Joe’s (those cheesy Hawaiian shirts were a great help in times of great homesickness). But in the meantime, the town had two smaller stores of the “grocery” persuasion. Both had food stuffs that had not been processed into something else. You could get produce, milk and uncooked meat—the basics.
It wasn’t exactly an uplifting shopping experience. Both stores had a weird smell that always hit with an accompanying wave of nausea when walking through the sliding glass doors. The lettuce leaves were inevitably wilted and the tomatoes too squishy. And then one day I got home with a jar of Alfredo sauce only to realize the expiration date had passed months ago.
The sauce was in a jar and I’m sure it was fine—but I already lived in a place where heroin needles dotted my yard and one kid shot another kid in the leg outside my apartment within a week of my moving in. Did I really have to suffer expired Alfredo sauce too?
And that’s how I found myself at the sliding glass doors of the Wal-Mart. Walking in, I found a small but fresh produce selection. A manager did once suggest that maybe there is no such thing as “polenta” but I could get a steak to grill and it would come out alright. A friend and I even picked up live lobsters there once.
It wasn’t long before I was buying other things there that I normally would have saved for a Santa Fe trip—a four cup coffee maker, laundry detergent, cases of Tecate (best beer in a can!). And just like that, I became a Wal-Mart hypocrite.
That word creeps up a lot in my head when I think about my faith. Last week I attended a service at a friend’s church. It was the kind of no-girls-allowed place that gives me a knot in my stomach and makes my throat close off a little. I believe down to my core that so many of the messages of those churches are wrong, completely at odds with the message of Christ, and frankly dangerous. But so help me I stood up with the woman next to me and sang my heart out through the worship songs, bowed my head when the pastor prayed (sneaking in a quick cross of myself at the “amen”) and sat quietly contemplating the sermon—a meditation on miracles that I actually resonated a little with right up until the second the pastor took a shot at rationalism.
I still don’t know how I feel about the whole experience. Was I playing along for show, hoping to avoid causing a scene or embarrassing a friend, and is that fair to him, his church, and the people that worship there? And I got a little chilled at one point during a worship song (complete with, horror of horrors, electric guitar!), actually feeling a little in touch with this God I understand so poorly—does that mean I betrayed myself and the things I believe about the meaning of Jesus? I don’t know but I suspect that much cognitive dissonance about your words and actions and feelings, you’ve definitely entered hypocrite territory.
The thing is I don’t think the fact that I shopped at Wal-Mart means I can’t keep being angry when the company busts attempts at unionizing the staff. And I don’t think the fact that I walk around in this hazy realm of being a pretty crappy Christian and a crappy progressive all at the same time means I shouldn’t keep trying to do right by both. And I don’t think the fact that I’m a hypocrite means I should stop clinging to the one thing I feel certain of—grace.
Laura attended her first St. Paul's mass on Ash Wednesday 2004 and now sings in the Parish Choir. She is a staff writer for the Seattle Weekly (online at http://www.seattleweekly.com/), a novice knitter, a lover of mountains, and is always up for communing over an aged scotch.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Lenten Voices: The Three Temptations
by Sharon Cumberland
I’ve been writing poems based on the life of Jesus (Yeshua in my poems) using a variation of a form called “bout rime”--French for “end rhymes.” In my practice I take the fourteen end-rhyming words from a Shakespearean sonnet and work them into my poem as interior rhyme (i.e. not on the end of lines). You shouldn’t be able to notice the rhyming words but they cause me to take the poem in different directions than I otherwise would, and they hold the poem together. They even relate to Shakespeare’s sonnet in an oblique sort of way. This one is based on Sonnet 144.
THE THREE TEMPTATIONS
He was not only hungry, but lost. The desert
is the same in all directions. Despair set in.
He could neither walk nor sit still.
At this impasse a man approached him,
so fair, so graceful,
that Yeshua believed he was an angel.
You look ill, the man said. Let me share my meal.
With that a banquet--not just bread, but leg of lamb,
mint sauce, nectarines, honey and figs--
was spread on the desert floor.
Yeshua felt a rush of relief:
The evil is behind me!
He thanked God and reached toward the manna.
But the man with saphire eyes handed him a stone.
Look! he said. It's so easy!
He rolled it in his hands--
instantly the stone was roasted goat,
charred, mouthwatering, fragrant.
Yeshua felt the scratch of danger down his spine,
then turned from the devil
to face the wilderness again.
But the man with the delicate hands was beside him.
Come, now, your pride will kill you!
He spread his arms and the desert
became the world--glittering, needy-- so many
souls to love. They hunger for you!
The fiend said this in a voice that rang like cymbals.
Yeshua rubbed his eyes, sat down in the hot sand.
It's true that they need me, he told his Father.
Tell me what to do.
But the man whose feet were like ivory
spoke again: Look, friend!
A chasm fell away. They were on the Temple roof
and the desert below was Jerusalem.
Go to them, he said. Fly down to your people.
(The press of his sinuous fingers on Yeshua's back).
The Son of God can do anything!
And suddenly Yeshua could see it all,
like a pageant spread over the sand.
He turned to the beautiful man, and said
Yes, you're right, I can.
He embraced the demon who was, he realized,
as needy as any. Go to Hell, said Yeshua, kindly.
I'll be there shortly.
First it was rage, then doubt,
then a squint of anticipation
over the devil's golden brow
before he led the Rabbi out.
Sharon Cumberland is a member of St. Paul's and an Associate Professor of English at Seattle University.
I’ve been writing poems based on the life of Jesus (Yeshua in my poems) using a variation of a form called “bout rime”--French for “end rhymes.” In my practice I take the fourteen end-rhyming words from a Shakespearean sonnet and work them into my poem as interior rhyme (i.e. not on the end of lines). You shouldn’t be able to notice the rhyming words but they cause me to take the poem in different directions than I otherwise would, and they hold the poem together. They even relate to Shakespeare’s sonnet in an oblique sort of way. This one is based on Sonnet 144.
THE THREE TEMPTATIONS
He was not only hungry, but lost. The desert
is the same in all directions. Despair set in.
He could neither walk nor sit still.
At this impasse a man approached him,
so fair, so graceful,
that Yeshua believed he was an angel.
You look ill, the man said. Let me share my meal.
With that a banquet--not just bread, but leg of lamb,
mint sauce, nectarines, honey and figs--
was spread on the desert floor.
Yeshua felt a rush of relief:
The evil is behind me!
He thanked God and reached toward the manna.
But the man with saphire eyes handed him a stone.
Look! he said. It's so easy!
He rolled it in his hands--
instantly the stone was roasted goat,
charred, mouthwatering, fragrant.
Yeshua felt the scratch of danger down his spine,
then turned from the devil
to face the wilderness again.
But the man with the delicate hands was beside him.
Come, now, your pride will kill you!
He spread his arms and the desert
became the world--glittering, needy-- so many
souls to love. They hunger for you!
The fiend said this in a voice that rang like cymbals.
Yeshua rubbed his eyes, sat down in the hot sand.
It's true that they need me, he told his Father.
Tell me what to do.
But the man whose feet were like ivory
spoke again: Look, friend!
A chasm fell away. They were on the Temple roof
and the desert below was Jerusalem.
Go to them, he said. Fly down to your people.
(The press of his sinuous fingers on Yeshua's back).
The Son of God can do anything!
And suddenly Yeshua could see it all,
like a pageant spread over the sand.
He turned to the beautiful man, and said
Yes, you're right, I can.
He embraced the demon who was, he realized,
as needy as any. Go to Hell, said Yeshua, kindly.
I'll be there shortly.
First it was rage, then doubt,
then a squint of anticipation
over the devil's golden brow
before he led the Rabbi out.
Sharon Cumberland is a member of St. Paul's and an Associate Professor of English at Seattle University.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Lenten Voices: An Aspiring Guilty Bystander
by Ellen Hill
Lent is usually viewed as a journey leading up to Easter. A time to fast, meditate and look inward. A penitential period that hopefully leaves us bathed in the light of Easter. We often refer to Lent as entering the wilderness. It’s a dark and scary place where we might actually encounter our own weakness and an awareness of sin.
The world is a scary place in the best of times. This Lent carries the baggage of an economy in trouble, families left homeless, and growing numbers of unemployed. Thousands ruined by the greed of a few. How is this new? Was the world kinder to our parents or grandparents? With such turmoil swirling around us, can there be any better time to step back and examine how we live our lives? Is this not the best time to work for change? Is this not the best time to share what's in our cupboard both physically and spiritually? Is this an opportunity to examine our values? Our lifestyle? Our priorities?
Our life in community teaches that loss is an ever-present fact of life.
Each of us experiences these losses in their own way, and may or may not find profundity in contemplating those losses. That which is deep may also be dark, but darkness itself should not be mistaken for depth. The point is the journey. If this journey ends in an open heart, what could be more profound?
"Lent and Easter", Wisdom from Thomas Merton is a little book of reflections. Edited from his writings for Lent and Easter with text supported by scripture and prayer, it is a lovely companion in the Lenten journey.
"The function of penance and self-denial is then contrition, or the "breaking up" of that hardness of heart which prevents us from understanding God's command to love, and from obeying it effectively." --from Seasons of Celebration
"There is a time to listen, in the active life as everywhere else, and the better part of action is waiting, not knowing what is next and not having a glib answer." --from Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
Thomas Merton
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Lent is usually viewed as a journey leading up to Easter. A time to fast, meditate and look inward. A penitential period that hopefully leaves us bathed in the light of Easter. We often refer to Lent as entering the wilderness. It’s a dark and scary place where we might actually encounter our own weakness and an awareness of sin.
The world is a scary place in the best of times. This Lent carries the baggage of an economy in trouble, families left homeless, and growing numbers of unemployed. Thousands ruined by the greed of a few. How is this new? Was the world kinder to our parents or grandparents? With such turmoil swirling around us, can there be any better time to step back and examine how we live our lives? Is this not the best time to work for change? Is this not the best time to share what's in our cupboard both physically and spiritually? Is this an opportunity to examine our values? Our lifestyle? Our priorities?
Our life in community teaches that loss is an ever-present fact of life.
Each of us experiences these losses in their own way, and may or may not find profundity in contemplating those losses. That which is deep may also be dark, but darkness itself should not be mistaken for depth. The point is the journey. If this journey ends in an open heart, what could be more profound?
"Lent and Easter", Wisdom from Thomas Merton is a little book of reflections. Edited from his writings for Lent and Easter with text supported by scripture and prayer, it is a lovely companion in the Lenten journey.
"The function of penance and self-denial is then contrition, or the "breaking up" of that hardness of heart which prevents us from understanding God's command to love, and from obeying it effectively." --from Seasons of Celebration
"There is a time to listen, in the active life as everywhere else, and the better part of action is waiting, not knowing what is next and not having a glib answer." --from Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
Thomas Merton
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Lenten Voices: Lessons of Saint Homer the Glutton
By John Sutherland
One of my favorite Lenten stories comes from "The Simpsons."
Homer, whose gluttony is so painfully arresting in every episode, happens upon a soft drink vending machine. No one is nearby, so he decides to "stick it to the man" and just reach up the chute to grab a can for free. His arm gets stuck.
He hollers in agony for help, but while he's lying there, he sees another vending machine a short distance away, and in a moment of delightful comic overkill, he reaches up that one, too, and gets both arms stuck.
His cries finally draw a crowd, including the rescue team from the fire department. But after they've tried all the normal procedures, they conclude that they're going to have to amputate his arms.
As they're starting up the chain saws for this draconian operation, one of the firemen thinks of something: "Wait a minute, Homer. You're not holding onto the can, are you?"
I have my own things I'm hanging onto, things I'm trying to let go of. My disciplines this year involve dust, clutter, and VISA cards. If I am even partly successful, I will feel the blessed relief.
Lent has a reputation for being a season of heaviness, but I'm convinced it should be just the opposite. It's meant to lighten our lives, to let us walk away from the things that are holding us back.
It's a return to the concentration on who we really are. And we are all beautiful creatures of God.
Lent is not a chore; Lent is a gift.
John Sutherland has been a member of St. Paul's for twenty years. He is sometimes a member of the choir, has done time on the Vestry, and generally tries to bake enough communion bread to keep his hands from idleness.
One of my favorite Lenten stories comes from "The Simpsons."
Homer, whose gluttony is so painfully arresting in every episode, happens upon a soft drink vending machine. No one is nearby, so he decides to "stick it to the man" and just reach up the chute to grab a can for free. His arm gets stuck.
He hollers in agony for help, but while he's lying there, he sees another vending machine a short distance away, and in a moment of delightful comic overkill, he reaches up that one, too, and gets both arms stuck.
His cries finally draw a crowd, including the rescue team from the fire department. But after they've tried all the normal procedures, they conclude that they're going to have to amputate his arms.
As they're starting up the chain saws for this draconian operation, one of the firemen thinks of something: "Wait a minute, Homer. You're not holding onto the can, are you?"
I have my own things I'm hanging onto, things I'm trying to let go of. My disciplines this year involve dust, clutter, and VISA cards. If I am even partly successful, I will feel the blessed relief.
Lent has a reputation for being a season of heaviness, but I'm convinced it should be just the opposite. It's meant to lighten our lives, to let us walk away from the things that are holding us back.
It's a return to the concentration on who we really are. And we are all beautiful creatures of God.
Lent is not a chore; Lent is a gift.
John Sutherland has been a member of St. Paul's for twenty years. He is sometimes a member of the choir, has done time on the Vestry, and generally tries to bake enough communion bread to keep his hands from idleness.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Lenten Voices: Part 1 - He deserved to die
by Jayme Hegelson
My only critique of the other blog postings thus far is that some are far too sunny in their disposition for my current mood. I'd argue that on the whole there is little to be sunny about in this season of Lent...at least not yet...not for me anyway.
Jesus deserved to die. If he hadn't appeared to ancient Palestine and instead to a modern day world full of people like me, I am convinced we'd still kill him and I think we could be just in doing so.
For the better part of Jesus' life, he did many good works and he told many good stories. As a man he led a life of integrity and genuine love that I use as an example of how I want to live my life. And if Jesus were truly just a man, then I can't believe I could find anything wrong with his conduct deserving of any charge, much less one involving the sentence of death. Here then is my chief rub and the scandal of this man we call a God: That Jesus was and is God and changes everything.
Consider the things this Jesus-God did and more importantly the things he didn't do during his life: Jesus cured the blindness of only a handful of humans during his short stint on Terra Firma. What of the thousand or million other blind men and women he chose NOT to heal in nations he never bothered to visit? Jesus favored a prostitute, honored and showed her a great love by accepting her gifts and conversing with her. But what did he do to address the pervasive system of human sex trafficking that occurred at the time? What was her life like after he left? Was she beaten after her protector and lover left? How much did she bleed in the political chaos and upheaval that have characterized such radical movements in the 20 centuries since? Jesus cast out demons and forgave many their sins. And yet what happened to these poor and destitute afterward? Were they saved only to go on and live a life of slavery in the slums of Jerusalem?
I bring up these things because I truly believe Jesus needs no defense. I don't think he had one or has one to this day. Maybe that's why he let himself be crucified. There is simply no excuse for not saving a life when you had the power to do so. There is no excuse for allowing the generational atrocities the he's allowed to happen in my family and other families in our Parish either. How is it that I bear the marks and consequences of my grandfather and great-grandfather's sins? One of my grandpa's pulled a gun on his family and I'm going to therapy today as a result...even though I wasn't even born when the incident occurred. No, Jesus didn't stay around to better the world enough to prevent such atrocities and abuses. He did enough to prove he was God, even got resurrected to give us this concept of hope, but then he left.
I've heard and know by heart all the counter arguments to what I've said, but I'll still say them. I got a Bachelor's in Theology and Philosophy and am an expert in all the arguments about the 'economy of Grace' and that what Jesus-God did was necessary for our growth and the preservation of our precious human free will. As far as they go, these arguments have much merit. I have great hope in my life precisely because I have experienced the great economy of God's grace. There can be no doubt of this! One might say that my life, marked by the brutal consequences of sins of others and yes even myself, have shaped me into the man I am today. I have gifts of counseling and empathy and love I would have never developed had I not been dealt the cards life and fate and dealt me. But Jesus-God still isn't off the hook no matter what the end result ends up being. No one would dare wish a young child get abused even if one could with foresight and great power transform that ruined life into something special or spectacular. Of course, more often than not abuse and sin don't end up improving any of us. I don't know about you, but I would have never traded a theoretical healthy family for an unhealthy one just so I could experience God's great powers of redemption that i have in fact experienced. That's why grace and the hope found in the resurrection can be no balm for our hurts and our sins. And it must never be an excuse for more violence. This is why God must die; this is why he had to be killed. At some point he would have to answer for the things in his great might and wisdom he did NOT do. He didn't protect me. He didn't shield me from harm. He had the power do to so and didn't. Doesn't matter how good the reasons or intentions were, it is a part of our human DNA, our good human DNA to require justice from any powerful being or agency that doesn't fulfill their responsibility to do no harm and to prevent harm if we can help it.
It is our human duty in the full dignity of our station in Creation to do no harm and to help if we have the power to do so. In his power Jesus failed to do all he was capable of and for this he must be held accountable. It is my belief that this failure of the Jesus-God played a part in the bloody outcome of ancient passion narrative. And so it is that I believe the cross calls us to fulfill our duty to make this world a better place. But more on this later...
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
My only critique of the other blog postings thus far is that some are far too sunny in their disposition for my current mood. I'd argue that on the whole there is little to be sunny about in this season of Lent...at least not yet...not for me anyway.
Jesus deserved to die. If he hadn't appeared to ancient Palestine and instead to a modern day world full of people like me, I am convinced we'd still kill him and I think we could be just in doing so.
For the better part of Jesus' life, he did many good works and he told many good stories. As a man he led a life of integrity and genuine love that I use as an example of how I want to live my life. And if Jesus were truly just a man, then I can't believe I could find anything wrong with his conduct deserving of any charge, much less one involving the sentence of death. Here then is my chief rub and the scandal of this man we call a God: That Jesus was and is God and changes everything.
Consider the things this Jesus-God did and more importantly the things he didn't do during his life: Jesus cured the blindness of only a handful of humans during his short stint on Terra Firma. What of the thousand or million other blind men and women he chose NOT to heal in nations he never bothered to visit? Jesus favored a prostitute, honored and showed her a great love by accepting her gifts and conversing with her. But what did he do to address the pervasive system of human sex trafficking that occurred at the time? What was her life like after he left? Was she beaten after her protector and lover left? How much did she bleed in the political chaos and upheaval that have characterized such radical movements in the 20 centuries since? Jesus cast out demons and forgave many their sins. And yet what happened to these poor and destitute afterward? Were they saved only to go on and live a life of slavery in the slums of Jerusalem?
I bring up these things because I truly believe Jesus needs no defense. I don't think he had one or has one to this day. Maybe that's why he let himself be crucified. There is simply no excuse for not saving a life when you had the power to do so. There is no excuse for allowing the generational atrocities the he's allowed to happen in my family and other families in our Parish either. How is it that I bear the marks and consequences of my grandfather and great-grandfather's sins? One of my grandpa's pulled a gun on his family and I'm going to therapy today as a result...even though I wasn't even born when the incident occurred. No, Jesus didn't stay around to better the world enough to prevent such atrocities and abuses. He did enough to prove he was God, even got resurrected to give us this concept of hope, but then he left.
I've heard and know by heart all the counter arguments to what I've said, but I'll still say them. I got a Bachelor's in Theology and Philosophy and am an expert in all the arguments about the 'economy of Grace' and that what Jesus-God did was necessary for our growth and the preservation of our precious human free will. As far as they go, these arguments have much merit. I have great hope in my life precisely because I have experienced the great economy of God's grace. There can be no doubt of this! One might say that my life, marked by the brutal consequences of sins of others and yes even myself, have shaped me into the man I am today. I have gifts of counseling and empathy and love I would have never developed had I not been dealt the cards life and fate and dealt me. But Jesus-God still isn't off the hook no matter what the end result ends up being. No one would dare wish a young child get abused even if one could with foresight and great power transform that ruined life into something special or spectacular. Of course, more often than not abuse and sin don't end up improving any of us. I don't know about you, but I would have never traded a theoretical healthy family for an unhealthy one just so I could experience God's great powers of redemption that i have in fact experienced. That's why grace and the hope found in the resurrection can be no balm for our hurts and our sins. And it must never be an excuse for more violence. This is why God must die; this is why he had to be killed. At some point he would have to answer for the things in his great might and wisdom he did NOT do. He didn't protect me. He didn't shield me from harm. He had the power do to so and didn't. Doesn't matter how good the reasons or intentions were, it is a part of our human DNA, our good human DNA to require justice from any powerful being or agency that doesn't fulfill their responsibility to do no harm and to prevent harm if we can help it.
It is our human duty in the full dignity of our station in Creation to do no harm and to help if we have the power to do so. In his power Jesus failed to do all he was capable of and for this he must be held accountable. It is my belief that this failure of the Jesus-God played a part in the bloody outcome of ancient passion narrative. And so it is that I believe the cross calls us to fulfill our duty to make this world a better place. But more on this later...
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
Friday, March 13, 2009
a word from the editor
We want to encourage comments and discussion here on the St. Paul's parish blog! However, there are a couple guidelines we request that people follow.
- No anonymous comments. All of our contributors post under their real names, and so we ask that those who wish to comment return the favor. Anonymous comments won't be accepted.
- Discussion is welcomed, but please be courteous. We really do hope that the posts here are thought provoking, and welcome comments that engage the material. If you disagree with something that is posted, feel free to discuss it in the comments. However, comments that are disrespectful and/or rude will probably be removed.
If you have posted anonymously and not seen your comment show up, please post again. If you have any questions about this feel free to contact me. And if you want to comment but do not know how, catch me at Coffee Hour or shoot me an email! It's a cinch once you get the hang of it!
Thanks!
Alissa
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Lenten Voices: Unplugged
by Laura Onstot
I recently found myself discussing the down-for-repairs organ with a friend and music director for a large Baptist congregation in southern California. “So are you using a piano then?” he asked.
“No, just the choir.”
“Couldn’t you at least get a keyboard or something?”
“Yeah… We don’t believe in worshiping with things that plug in.”
His church has a rock band. And I have to admit, I kind of judge him for that, which I’m pretty sure is something Jesus wouldn’t do.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about lines and where we draw them when it comes to faith and worship. Believing someone’s faith is somehow less “right” because they use electric guitars and no hymnal seems pretty obviously wrong. But what about the ordination of women or a strict Calvinist view of salvation, complete with the requirement to be a confessing Christian? Two very dear family members attend churches with very conservative stances on both of those things. And much as I love them, I’m not sure this is the kind of place where we ought to agree to disagree.
What speaks to me about the message of Jesus is grace. Grace is that crazy circular logic where God just accepts you, warts and all. And as a result, you can and should love others. Again the warts thing applies. And finally, when you screw up and treat other people like dirt, because of your warts, you get to forgive yourself, even if they don’t. And why is that you ask? Because God forgives you. I love how that works. (And Lord knows I’ve needed my share of grace.)
But when people are suddenly pushed into boxes (that coincidentally always seem to reflect some kind of social norm—there was a time when Blacks had to sit in a different section of the congregation) it seems to tip that whole elegant grace cycle off its axis. Something about telling one half of the population that because of their genitalia at birth (or sexual orientation for that matter) they can’t use potential vibrant gifts for ministry seems completely counter to the message of grace. So does deciding who is and isn’t saved by virtue of their spiritual path.
And I’m not sure that two Christians, one who sees Jesus’ message as one of grace and one who sees the message as one of grace with a whole lot of caveats, really both have the same religion. I attended a Unitarian solstice service once and came away realizing that while I disagree with them on some things, at least if they’re wrong they’ve erred on the side of seeing Godliness in everyone else. It feels sometimes like if my family members are wrong, they’re erring on the side of putting people into tiny boxes arranged in a hierarchical pyramid of salvation. And I’m just not sure that’s something we should agree to disagree on. Then again, maybe that’s where I fall away from grace.
Laura attended her first St. Paul's mass on Ash Wednesday 2004 and now sings in the Parish Choir. She is a staff writer for the Seattle Weekly (online at http://www.seattleweekly.com/), a novice knitter, a lover of mountains, and is always up for communing over an aged scotch.
I recently found myself discussing the down-for-repairs organ with a friend and music director for a large Baptist congregation in southern California. “So are you using a piano then?” he asked.
“No, just the choir.”
“Couldn’t you at least get a keyboard or something?”
“Yeah… We don’t believe in worshiping with things that plug in.”
His church has a rock band. And I have to admit, I kind of judge him for that, which I’m pretty sure is something Jesus wouldn’t do.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about lines and where we draw them when it comes to faith and worship. Believing someone’s faith is somehow less “right” because they use electric guitars and no hymnal seems pretty obviously wrong. But what about the ordination of women or a strict Calvinist view of salvation, complete with the requirement to be a confessing Christian? Two very dear family members attend churches with very conservative stances on both of those things. And much as I love them, I’m not sure this is the kind of place where we ought to agree to disagree.
What speaks to me about the message of Jesus is grace. Grace is that crazy circular logic where God just accepts you, warts and all. And as a result, you can and should love others. Again the warts thing applies. And finally, when you screw up and treat other people like dirt, because of your warts, you get to forgive yourself, even if they don’t. And why is that you ask? Because God forgives you. I love how that works. (And Lord knows I’ve needed my share of grace.)
But when people are suddenly pushed into boxes (that coincidentally always seem to reflect some kind of social norm—there was a time when Blacks had to sit in a different section of the congregation) it seems to tip that whole elegant grace cycle off its axis. Something about telling one half of the population that because of their genitalia at birth (or sexual orientation for that matter) they can’t use potential vibrant gifts for ministry seems completely counter to the message of grace. So does deciding who is and isn’t saved by virtue of their spiritual path.
And I’m not sure that two Christians, one who sees Jesus’ message as one of grace and one who sees the message as one of grace with a whole lot of caveats, really both have the same religion. I attended a Unitarian solstice service once and came away realizing that while I disagree with them on some things, at least if they’re wrong they’ve erred on the side of seeing Godliness in everyone else. It feels sometimes like if my family members are wrong, they’re erring on the side of putting people into tiny boxes arranged in a hierarchical pyramid of salvation. And I’m just not sure that’s something we should agree to disagree on. Then again, maybe that’s where I fall away from grace.
Laura attended her first St. Paul's mass on Ash Wednesday 2004 and now sings in the Parish Choir. She is a staff writer for the Seattle Weekly (online at http://www.seattleweekly.com/), a novice knitter, a lover of mountains, and is always up for communing over an aged scotch.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Lenten Voices: Giving Up Lent
By Ellen Hill
Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
Most of us start Lent with the usual question. What am I giving up for Lent? We gather our children to explain the next six weeks and involve them in a meaningful way in an expression of their faith.
So it was, many years ago that we sat around our dinner table to discuss what we could do individually and as a family for Lent. Our eight-year-old, Meg, said with a mischievous smile. “I’m giving up Lent for Lent.”
Meg had a wicked sense of humor, which often made keeping a straight face and any attempt at discipline difficult. She liked church for the people but found the service rather long. We tried to convince her that giving up something no matter how small made her a part of our Lenten community. We talked about all the things parents might when you want your children to have a spiritual life. We talked and talked to no avail.
Then as Easter approached, Megan devised her plan. Meg knew there was a shelter for children right near St. Paul’s. She gathered her stuffed animals and some Easter baskets. Then enlisted her older sister to help in collecting from the neighbors. Anne, of the more practical bent, asked our dentist for toothbrushes and toothpaste. They put a book in each basket. They both found out exactly how many children would be there on Easter morning so no one would be disappointed. Together, they discovered Lent and had a wonderful adventure.
Meg found her own path. Not in the giving up but in the giving.
If the Easter journey is about the light of Christ, perhaps joy should light the way.
Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it,
And look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.
--Kermit the Frog
To Meg, always a stargazer.
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
Most of us start Lent with the usual question. What am I giving up for Lent? We gather our children to explain the next six weeks and involve them in a meaningful way in an expression of their faith.
So it was, many years ago that we sat around our dinner table to discuss what we could do individually and as a family for Lent. Our eight-year-old, Meg, said with a mischievous smile. “I’m giving up Lent for Lent.”
Meg had a wicked sense of humor, which often made keeping a straight face and any attempt at discipline difficult. She liked church for the people but found the service rather long. We tried to convince her that giving up something no matter how small made her a part of our Lenten community. We talked about all the things parents might when you want your children to have a spiritual life. We talked and talked to no avail.
Then as Easter approached, Megan devised her plan. Meg knew there was a shelter for children right near St. Paul’s. She gathered her stuffed animals and some Easter baskets. Then enlisted her older sister to help in collecting from the neighbors. Anne, of the more practical bent, asked our dentist for toothbrushes and toothpaste. They put a book in each basket. They both found out exactly how many children would be there on Easter morning so no one would be disappointed. Together, they discovered Lent and had a wonderful adventure.
Meg found her own path. Not in the giving up but in the giving.
If the Easter journey is about the light of Christ, perhaps joy should light the way.
Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it,
And look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.
--Kermit the Frog
To Meg, always a stargazer.
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Lenten Voices: Q&A - the A-word
By Stephen Crippen
Q: How come during Lent we can’t say Alle—
A: Don’t say it!
Q: Sheesh. Calm down. Why can’t we say Alle—
A: I said don’t say it!!
Q: Okay okay! What should I say instead?
A: I don’t know. How about watermelon.
Q: Fine, have it your way. Why can’t we say [watermelon] during Lent?
A: Because Lent is partly about fasting.
Q: What does this have to do with food? It’s just a word.
A: In Lent we eat more simply, but we also fast the eyes, and the ears…and we fast in a more general, spiritual sense. We stop saying [watermelon] because it’s our most joyful song of praise.
Q: But every Sunday is a celebration of the Resurrection. Aren’t we supposed to be joyful? Isn’t this just a dour, stern old rule that we can throw out?
A: Well, lots of people only have time to come to church on Sundays, so even though Sundays are not technically part of Lent, most people would not participate in Lent very much if we didn’t make changes on Sundays too. And even if you’re keeping Lent in an intense way, it won’t feel right to have Sundays stand in such stark contrast. And there are at least two other reasons to stop saying [watermelon] for a while.
Q: Do tell.
A: For one thing, to stop doing a thing increases your appreciation of the thing. If we shouted Watermelon! any old time we wanted to, it would be less special.
Q: But—
A: Don’t interrupt.
Q: I will if I want to! But the problem is that when you tell me I can’t say it, I think it a lot more. It’s like telling me to not think of the color green. If you tell me not to, I’ll start thinking about green like crazy.
A: Right. But that just proves my point. By the time Easter Vigil comes around, you’ll be bursting with desire to say [watermelon].
Q: Okay fine. So what’s the other reason?
A: The other reason—and probably the best reason—is that everyone, at one time or another, goes through a period when they don’t want to say [watermelon]. Our spiritual life needs to make room for grief, for waiting, for quiet reflection, for time and space to turn our lives around. And time for remorse, if that’s what’s called for.
Q: But won’t visitors come to church and think we’re having a funeral?
A: I don’t know. Maybe. But if they watch and listen more closely they’ll also discover that we are practicing an adult spirituality—often enough with children as our best teachers—that makes room for darkness, silence, sobriety, and solemnity. And if they hang in there with us, in a few weeks they’ll get to ring bells and shout Watermelon! to their heart’s content.
Q: (whispering) Alle—
A: Knock it off!!
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Q: How come during Lent we can’t say Alle—
A: Don’t say it!
Q: Sheesh. Calm down. Why can’t we say Alle—
A: I said don’t say it!!
Q: Okay okay! What should I say instead?
A: I don’t know. How about watermelon.
Q: Fine, have it your way. Why can’t we say [watermelon] during Lent?
A: Because Lent is partly about fasting.
Q: What does this have to do with food? It’s just a word.
A: In Lent we eat more simply, but we also fast the eyes, and the ears…and we fast in a more general, spiritual sense. We stop saying [watermelon] because it’s our most joyful song of praise.
Q: But every Sunday is a celebration of the Resurrection. Aren’t we supposed to be joyful? Isn’t this just a dour, stern old rule that we can throw out?
A: Well, lots of people only have time to come to church on Sundays, so even though Sundays are not technically part of Lent, most people would not participate in Lent very much if we didn’t make changes on Sundays too. And even if you’re keeping Lent in an intense way, it won’t feel right to have Sundays stand in such stark contrast. And there are at least two other reasons to stop saying [watermelon] for a while.
Q: Do tell.
A: For one thing, to stop doing a thing increases your appreciation of the thing. If we shouted Watermelon! any old time we wanted to, it would be less special.
Q: But—
A: Don’t interrupt.
Q: I will if I want to! But the problem is that when you tell me I can’t say it, I think it a lot more. It’s like telling me to not think of the color green. If you tell me not to, I’ll start thinking about green like crazy.
A: Right. But that just proves my point. By the time Easter Vigil comes around, you’ll be bursting with desire to say [watermelon].
Q: Okay fine. So what’s the other reason?
A: The other reason—and probably the best reason—is that everyone, at one time or another, goes through a period when they don’t want to say [watermelon]. Our spiritual life needs to make room for grief, for waiting, for quiet reflection, for time and space to turn our lives around. And time for remorse, if that’s what’s called for.
Q: But won’t visitors come to church and think we’re having a funeral?
A: I don’t know. Maybe. But if they watch and listen more closely they’ll also discover that we are practicing an adult spirituality—often enough with children as our best teachers—that makes room for darkness, silence, sobriety, and solemnity. And if they hang in there with us, in a few weeks they’ll get to ring bells and shout Watermelon! to their heart’s content.
Q: (whispering) Alle—
A: Knock it off!!
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Lenten Voices: Music is the Logic of God
By John Sutherland
I grew up the son of a Lutheran pastor. Lutherans, as you may know, consider themselves among the theological heavyweights in Christendom. They don't just have dogma; they have argument, logic, explications. The admirable Doctor Luther wrote many, many volumes of every idea he had on God, the human race, and everything they had to do with one another. And these volumes spawned more volumes in the centuries that have passed since his life.
I grew up surrounded by these volumes, by these arguments, by this logic. But for me, the greatest Lutheran theologian, the one who gave me the deepest understanding of matters divine, was Johann Sebastian Bach.
I am not alone in this. Bach is sometimes referred to as "the fifth evangelist," after the authors of the fourth accepted gospels.
Luther, a fine musician himself, might have approved. And while I stand in awe of the bold audacity of his 95 theses, it's his "Ein feste burg" that hits me right in the heart.
Music is the logic of God.
I wake up to the elegant clarity of Bach's "Goldberg Variations" every morning, part of my attempt to create my new day.
I had the pleasure of playing the double bass in a production of Saint Matthew's Passion when I was in college, that bass part being the throbbing heartbeat of God that was the foundation of the entire work. That throbbing stays with me to this day.
I remember my Lutheran choir singing the cantata "Come, Sweet Death," and thinking, yes, even death makes sense to me now.
Music is the logic of God.
I've been listening to the other Bach Passion oratorio, Saint John's, this Lent. I feel it, carry it with me, even when I can't hear it. On my way out of the Ash Wednesday mass, Mother Melissa wished me a peaceful and holy Lent. Perhaps because I was having exactly what she wished for me, I just smiled soberly and nodded back to her, finding myself wordless.
But it's okay. At Saint Paul's, we live on music as part of the rich tapestry of worship. Music isn't merely pretty. It's the throbbing foundation of what we do when we reach out to God and to each other. It's how God explains God's self.
We all know how each liturgy seeks its own unity: it's common for the sermon, and then the communion motet, to reflect the day's Gospel text. And so often I have the experience of hearing the Gospel read (wonderfully), and the explicated in the homily (even better), and then sung. And it's in the singing that I really get it, down to my bones. Because music is the logic of God.
John Sutherland has been a member of St. Paul's for twenty years. He is sometimes a member of the choir, has done time on the Vestry, and generally tries to bake enough communion bread to keep his hands from idleness.
I grew up the son of a Lutheran pastor. Lutherans, as you may know, consider themselves among the theological heavyweights in Christendom. They don't just have dogma; they have argument, logic, explications. The admirable Doctor Luther wrote many, many volumes of every idea he had on God, the human race, and everything they had to do with one another. And these volumes spawned more volumes in the centuries that have passed since his life.
I grew up surrounded by these volumes, by these arguments, by this logic. But for me, the greatest Lutheran theologian, the one who gave me the deepest understanding of matters divine, was Johann Sebastian Bach.
I am not alone in this. Bach is sometimes referred to as "the fifth evangelist," after the authors of the fourth accepted gospels.
Luther, a fine musician himself, might have approved. And while I stand in awe of the bold audacity of his 95 theses, it's his "Ein feste burg" that hits me right in the heart.
Music is the logic of God.
I wake up to the elegant clarity of Bach's "Goldberg Variations" every morning, part of my attempt to create my new day.
I had the pleasure of playing the double bass in a production of Saint Matthew's Passion when I was in college, that bass part being the throbbing heartbeat of God that was the foundation of the entire work. That throbbing stays with me to this day.
I remember my Lutheran choir singing the cantata "Come, Sweet Death," and thinking, yes, even death makes sense to me now.
Music is the logic of God.
I've been listening to the other Bach Passion oratorio, Saint John's, this Lent. I feel it, carry it with me, even when I can't hear it. On my way out of the Ash Wednesday mass, Mother Melissa wished me a peaceful and holy Lent. Perhaps because I was having exactly what she wished for me, I just smiled soberly and nodded back to her, finding myself wordless.
But it's okay. At Saint Paul's, we live on music as part of the rich tapestry of worship. Music isn't merely pretty. It's the throbbing foundation of what we do when we reach out to God and to each other. It's how God explains God's self.
We all know how each liturgy seeks its own unity: it's common for the sermon, and then the communion motet, to reflect the day's Gospel text. And so often I have the experience of hearing the Gospel read (wonderfully), and the explicated in the homily (even better), and then sung. And it's in the singing that I really get it, down to my bones. Because music is the logic of God.
John Sutherland has been a member of St. Paul's for twenty years. He is sometimes a member of the choir, has done time on the Vestry, and generally tries to bake enough communion bread to keep his hands from idleness.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Lenten Voices: Recovering the Early Church
By Rev. Samuel Torvend
The Lent of my childhood was devoted to a sustained reflection on the suffering and death of Jesus of Nazareth -- forty days which drew us toward the Holy Cross of Good Friday. Indeed, forty days of thinking about the crucifixion seemed to balance fifty days of Easter rejoicing. Truth be told, such a focus during Lent emerged in the late Middle Ages (1350-1500) when European Christians desperately wanted to know that God shared with them the terrible suffering of the Black Plague and its ensuing social chaos. This intense focus on the suffering of Jesus seemed a source of solace for many. God is not aloof from our pain and bewilderment. God is with us in our suffering. Indeed, the Jesus of Mark’s gospel cries out in his death, My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? Is that not how many medieval Christians experienced life?
In the twentieth century, Christians began to see Lent in a new light, one that was recovered from the early church (50-600). Rather than focusing on human depravity and the terrible “price” of Jesus’ death, early Christians saw the Forty Days as a time of intense preparation for the Three Days: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday/Resurrection Sunday. That is, they experienced Lent as a journey leading to the celebration of Christ’s dying and rising in the community of faith. Indeed, the Forty Days focused on the community’s preparation of people who would experience the dying and rising of baptism at the Easter Vigil and during the Fifty Days of Easter.
Yet the work of preparing those who would “die” to an old way and “rise” to a new way of living in the world prompted early Christians, and now contemporary Christians, to ask challenging questions: How have we ourselves been faithful to the baptismal covenant? What calls out for conversion or renewal in our lives so that we might more clearly and faithfully serve the reign of God among us? If late medieval Christians experienced Lent as a time to reflect on the power of personal sin and its forgiveness in the death of Jesus, early Christians experienced the Forty Days as a communal journey of renewal toward the Holy Washing and the Holy Meal – those places where Christians are born anew in the font and nourished with food and drink for courageous living in the world.
This early Christian emphasis is alive among us today as we consider the Forty Days a retreat – a time set aside – to prepare for Easter’s baptism and its renewal in our lives; a time to reflect seriously and patiently on the flow of God’s grace within us and our world; a time to ask if we might take a risk, a risk in our service to the reign of God’s justice, peace, and joy. During the Forty Days, I return to the questions asked of those about to be baptized and those who intend to renew the baptismal covenant: Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons? Will you strive for justice and peace among all people? Will you respect the dignity of every human being? I sometimes think that Forty Days are insufficient in length to think about and answer those challenging questions which push Christians from the sacred liturgy into the liturgy of living in the world. Perhaps it is good, then, that we have more than one Lent to return again and again to the questions and the mercy of God which surrounds our Lenten questioning.
Father Samuel Torvend is Associate to the Rector for Adult Formation at St. Paul's.
The Lent of my childhood was devoted to a sustained reflection on the suffering and death of Jesus of Nazareth -- forty days which drew us toward the Holy Cross of Good Friday. Indeed, forty days of thinking about the crucifixion seemed to balance fifty days of Easter rejoicing. Truth be told, such a focus during Lent emerged in the late Middle Ages (1350-1500) when European Christians desperately wanted to know that God shared with them the terrible suffering of the Black Plague and its ensuing social chaos. This intense focus on the suffering of Jesus seemed a source of solace for many. God is not aloof from our pain and bewilderment. God is with us in our suffering. Indeed, the Jesus of Mark’s gospel cries out in his death, My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? Is that not how many medieval Christians experienced life?
In the twentieth century, Christians began to see Lent in a new light, one that was recovered from the early church (50-600). Rather than focusing on human depravity and the terrible “price” of Jesus’ death, early Christians saw the Forty Days as a time of intense preparation for the Three Days: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday/Resurrection Sunday. That is, they experienced Lent as a journey leading to the celebration of Christ’s dying and rising in the community of faith. Indeed, the Forty Days focused on the community’s preparation of people who would experience the dying and rising of baptism at the Easter Vigil and during the Fifty Days of Easter.
Yet the work of preparing those who would “die” to an old way and “rise” to a new way of living in the world prompted early Christians, and now contemporary Christians, to ask challenging questions: How have we ourselves been faithful to the baptismal covenant? What calls out for conversion or renewal in our lives so that we might more clearly and faithfully serve the reign of God among us? If late medieval Christians experienced Lent as a time to reflect on the power of personal sin and its forgiveness in the death of Jesus, early Christians experienced the Forty Days as a communal journey of renewal toward the Holy Washing and the Holy Meal – those places where Christians are born anew in the font and nourished with food and drink for courageous living in the world.
This early Christian emphasis is alive among us today as we consider the Forty Days a retreat – a time set aside – to prepare for Easter’s baptism and its renewal in our lives; a time to reflect seriously and patiently on the flow of God’s grace within us and our world; a time to ask if we might take a risk, a risk in our service to the reign of God’s justice, peace, and joy. During the Forty Days, I return to the questions asked of those about to be baptized and those who intend to renew the baptismal covenant: Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons? Will you strive for justice and peace among all people? Will you respect the dignity of every human being? I sometimes think that Forty Days are insufficient in length to think about and answer those challenging questions which push Christians from the sacred liturgy into the liturgy of living in the world. Perhaps it is good, then, that we have more than one Lent to return again and again to the questions and the mercy of God which surrounds our Lenten questioning.
Father Samuel Torvend is Associate to the Rector for Adult Formation at St. Paul's.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Lenten Voices: Shoeboxes
By Kate Rickard
On Tuesday I sat on my bed eating a Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Truffle Bar and feeling slightly sorry for myself. And so, like any other American woman who is feeling down on a Tuesday afternoon, I turned on Oprah. The screen flickered to life and there was Oprah, listening with her mouth hanging open in incredulity to a woman who claimed her life had been utterly changed. I stopped eating and leaned closer, feeling in that moment such desperation for change that I surprised myself.
The woman shared that her transformation began one day when she opened her closet door. Her shoe boxes, stacked 7 rows high above her on closet shelves, came crashing down on top of her and she crumpled to the ground under their weight. She was literally buried underneath her last-minute, must-have, already-forgotten purchases. This avalanche caused her to re-think her priorities and simplify her life.
I decided this story was a sign that I had been avoiding my own “shoeboxes” long enough. So I turned off the TV to take a few minutes to stop and reflect on my life.
I finally listened to the inner voice of truth that had been whispering to me. I, too, feel buried in possessions, striving and covetousness. It is easier to keep buying and to keep going… and accumulating… and working… and consuming… and driving… and deciding… and moving… and watching… and saying yes...than to stop and tend to my soul and what is truly of value in my life. Having been so constantly in motion, the stillness and silence moved me to recognize my bankruptcy as one who invests in insignificant, forgettable things that literally trap me beneath their weight.
Barbara Cawthorne Crafton* writes the following about this state many of us find ourselves in: “How did we come to know that we were dying a slow and unacknowledged death? And that the only way back to life was to set all our packages down and begin again, carrying with us only what we really needed?”
I came to recognize this death in myself as I watched a woman share her story on Oprah. This Lent, I once again set aside my need to consume and this frantic living that threatens to bury me. I choose to stop and sit a while. And I will take my time selecting those essential things that I need for the journey ahead.
Crafton finishes, “We travail. We are heavy-laden. Refresh us, O homeless, jobless, possession-less Savior. You came naked and naked you go. And so it is for us. So it is for all of us.”
*From Living Lent by Barbara Cawthorne Crafton
Kate Rickard has attended St. Paul's for over 2 years and is in discernment for Holy Orders. She loves hiking, eating chocolate, and spending time with her husband, Jordan, and shiba-pug, Henry.
On Tuesday I sat on my bed eating a Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Truffle Bar and feeling slightly sorry for myself. And so, like any other American woman who is feeling down on a Tuesday afternoon, I turned on Oprah. The screen flickered to life and there was Oprah, listening with her mouth hanging open in incredulity to a woman who claimed her life had been utterly changed. I stopped eating and leaned closer, feeling in that moment such desperation for change that I surprised myself.
The woman shared that her transformation began one day when she opened her closet door. Her shoe boxes, stacked 7 rows high above her on closet shelves, came crashing down on top of her and she crumpled to the ground under their weight. She was literally buried underneath her last-minute, must-have, already-forgotten purchases. This avalanche caused her to re-think her priorities and simplify her life.
I decided this story was a sign that I had been avoiding my own “shoeboxes” long enough. So I turned off the TV to take a few minutes to stop and reflect on my life.
I finally listened to the inner voice of truth that had been whispering to me. I, too, feel buried in possessions, striving and covetousness. It is easier to keep buying and to keep going… and accumulating… and working… and consuming… and driving… and deciding… and moving… and watching… and saying yes...than to stop and tend to my soul and what is truly of value in my life. Having been so constantly in motion, the stillness and silence moved me to recognize my bankruptcy as one who invests in insignificant, forgettable things that literally trap me beneath their weight.
Barbara Cawthorne Crafton* writes the following about this state many of us find ourselves in: “How did we come to know that we were dying a slow and unacknowledged death? And that the only way back to life was to set all our packages down and begin again, carrying with us only what we really needed?”
I came to recognize this death in myself as I watched a woman share her story on Oprah. This Lent, I once again set aside my need to consume and this frantic living that threatens to bury me. I choose to stop and sit a while. And I will take my time selecting those essential things that I need for the journey ahead.
Crafton finishes, “We travail. We are heavy-laden. Refresh us, O homeless, jobless, possession-less Savior. You came naked and naked you go. And so it is for us. So it is for all of us.”
*From Living Lent by Barbara Cawthorne Crafton
Kate Rickard has attended St. Paul's for over 2 years and is in discernment for Holy Orders. She loves hiking, eating chocolate, and spending time with her husband, Jordan, and shiba-pug, Henry.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Lenten Voices: I remember sky
by Ellen Hill
I remember sky
It was blue as ink
Or at least I think
I remember sky.
I remember snow,
Soft as feathers.
Sharp as thumbtacks,
Coming down like lint,
And it made you squint
When the wind would blow
I remember seven. I loved the entire world. I loved the crunch of snow. I loved building snow forts with my Dad. I welcomed the lilacs in spring and homemade ice cream in July filled with fat blueberries. I loved my parents I loved second grade with Sister Margaret Agnes. Sister Margaret Agnes had soft blue eyes and a warm hug for everyone her class. She told me I was the best reader in the class. I think she probably told that to everyone in the class because everyone looked forward to school. I loved reading, school, and Sister Margaret Agnes. I especially loved church.
In Catholic school, we were encouraged to go to morning Mass. I was a sponge for all of it – the music, the incense, the statues – everything. Life was indeed very good.
Until we started preparation for Holy Communion. Then the world darkened to sin (original, mortal & venial), confession, penance, and Lent. The Lenten journey was Stations of the Cross, giving something up, and receiving the innate knowledge that you were a sinner. My seven-year-old self still loved it all. Starting with the ashes on Ash Wednesday, I wore my ashes proudly. I knew that had I lived in the Roman times I would easily face the lions, surrounded by my fellow Christians. And, since the time was Boston in the fifties, I didn't really understand that I was in the middle of a truly homogeneous community. Everyone wore ashes, everyone crossed them selves passing a church and every man placed hat over heart even on a train when passing a church.
The transition is quite clear in my school pictures. Grade 1: sunny smile, face to the camera. Grade 2: less smile, face positioned downward. Grade 3: trying to smile, head down, wearing the worried expression that I still carry, and so on and so on.
Yes, we were taught we all were sinners, really bad sinners. Why, even the Pope went to confession every morning. Why should my seven-year-old self feel anything but being covered in sin. Somehow, that overwhelming sense of sin and guilt eradicated everything else. And as the years passed, the school walls seemed to grow higher and higher until finally I began to question, to read and seek answers outside those walls.
At seventeen, after my father’s death, I discovered Thomas Merton. His writing opened both mind and heart. Here is his description of Ash Wednesday.
“And yet Ash Wednesday is full of joy. …the great sorrow of mankind is turned to joy by the love of Christ, and the secret of happiness is no longer to see any sorrow but in the light of Christ’s victory over sorrow. And then all sorrow contributes somehow to our happiness. Thus I sit here and look out the window at the bare trees and the grey guest house wall and at my own happy corner of the sky.”
I remember days, or at least I try.
But as years go by, they’re a sort of haze
And the bluest ink isn’t really sky.
And at times think I would gladly die
For a day of sky.
-----Stephen Sondheim
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
I remember sky
It was blue as ink
Or at least I think
I remember sky.
I remember snow,
Soft as feathers.
Sharp as thumbtacks,
Coming down like lint,
And it made you squint
When the wind would blow
I remember seven. I loved the entire world. I loved the crunch of snow. I loved building snow forts with my Dad. I welcomed the lilacs in spring and homemade ice cream in July filled with fat blueberries. I loved my parents I loved second grade with Sister Margaret Agnes. Sister Margaret Agnes had soft blue eyes and a warm hug for everyone her class. She told me I was the best reader in the class. I think she probably told that to everyone in the class because everyone looked forward to school. I loved reading, school, and Sister Margaret Agnes. I especially loved church.
In Catholic school, we were encouraged to go to morning Mass. I was a sponge for all of it – the music, the incense, the statues – everything. Life was indeed very good.
Until we started preparation for Holy Communion. Then the world darkened to sin (original, mortal & venial), confession, penance, and Lent. The Lenten journey was Stations of the Cross, giving something up, and receiving the innate knowledge that you were a sinner. My seven-year-old self still loved it all. Starting with the ashes on Ash Wednesday, I wore my ashes proudly. I knew that had I lived in the Roman times I would easily face the lions, surrounded by my fellow Christians. And, since the time was Boston in the fifties, I didn't really understand that I was in the middle of a truly homogeneous community. Everyone wore ashes, everyone crossed them selves passing a church and every man placed hat over heart even on a train when passing a church.
The transition is quite clear in my school pictures. Grade 1: sunny smile, face to the camera. Grade 2: less smile, face positioned downward. Grade 3: trying to smile, head down, wearing the worried expression that I still carry, and so on and so on.
Yes, we were taught we all were sinners, really bad sinners. Why, even the Pope went to confession every morning. Why should my seven-year-old self feel anything but being covered in sin. Somehow, that overwhelming sense of sin and guilt eradicated everything else. And as the years passed, the school walls seemed to grow higher and higher until finally I began to question, to read and seek answers outside those walls.
At seventeen, after my father’s death, I discovered Thomas Merton. His writing opened both mind and heart. Here is his description of Ash Wednesday.
“And yet Ash Wednesday is full of joy. …the great sorrow of mankind is turned to joy by the love of Christ, and the secret of happiness is no longer to see any sorrow but in the light of Christ’s victory over sorrow. And then all sorrow contributes somehow to our happiness. Thus I sit here and look out the window at the bare trees and the grey guest house wall and at my own happy corner of the sky.”
I remember days, or at least I try.
But as years go by, they’re a sort of haze
And the bluest ink isn’t really sky.
And at times think I would gladly die
For a day of sky.
-----Stephen Sondheim
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Lenten Voices: Happy Jesus Day
by Jayme Helgeson
Let me admit that my concept of "blog" these days is as a digital forum for my angry transference issues...or projection issues. It's a place to rant and not generally a place to do good research. Good research bloggers end up writing for bigger online publications and thus graduate to write for Slate Magazine or some other organic, non-profit, NPR-like organization. So it's only fitting that I started my research for this blog by checking out Lent on Wikipedia where I learned (surprise surprise) absolutely nothing. So on with the rant:
I hate Lent. I imagine also that many jaded folks who grew up in any sort of Bible-belt share my sunny disposition. Right on the heels of another horrible tradition, making and breaking New Year's resolutions, comes Lent - another resolution of sorts. By February, having barely endured the darkest days of the Winter, Christmas creditors after their first dues, and pangs of doom from a fast approaching tax season, I've already lost my taste for resolutions of any kind. My self flagellation only escalates to pure emasculation come the advent of Valentine's Day. Hungry, tired, heart-broken, beat up and bruised, depressed as hell and medicated to the hilt, next comes a happy Jesus on a flannel board shouting, "Give up coffee for 40 days. And you'll save lots of money too!" Keep reading to hear more about the happy Jesus.
I've grown up giving up on just about everything that ever felt good and pleasurable. Sex, sexuality, candy cigarettes, cussing, and the Democratic Left, it was all bad Bad BAD! The indoctrination started in Good News Club where a hunched over old woman taught us pre-pubescent boys the Bloody Passion narrative on a sparkling white flannel board with Happy Jesus, Happy Peter, and Happy Paul all herding around a bunch of silly sheep. At age 7, I already instinctively hated sheep and everything they stood for. And I basically sucked at Bible verses and never got as many Oreo cookies at snack time as my so-called "best-friend" Leif. After class my good buddy Leif would quiz me about words he knew and I didn't from the dictionary he'd obviously studied for hours before. Then he'd whip me at Super Mario Bros. I was just a dumb idiot loser.
And that's basically the Protestant story. We immediately succeed at failing at our freshly ground-out Lenten resolutions. We sit there and drool on our favorite blouses whilst we peer over at those impossible people that succeed at resolutions and goals and the like. And then we continue another favorite Protestant habit, one we engage in year-round: we hate on ourselves for how much we suck. "Oh, so you only ate rice today. Wow, I couldn't do that..." And then to add to the madness this: deep down we suspect that Mr. Perfect Fasting Guy has got to be the most miserable of all. So Sunday Mass comes around and we flock to church and promptly get stuck between the madness of a good God who allows evil, sets up a religion based on flogging and cruel cross hanging, and bunch of boring desert meditation. I've been taught to look at Jesus' fast in the wilderness and his temptation by Satan to be some sort of test. And then I practice and fail that test over and over again. In the back of my mind I'm thinking, What's the great meaning of a fast to a god anyway? If he dies he'll just be resurrected...or in any case he knows with certain and confident foresight that Daddy won't actually allow him to be killed or harmed anyway. How human really can you be when you already have all these super-powers? What's a fast to a man with ultimate endurance?
I am not without hope however. I have hope because I've discovered that the God of the Bible isn't really all that different from me anyway. God's a big cheat. Take away resurrection powers and let's see how good the Jesus would be at taking on Satan face to face. He can't win a wrestling match with a human either, not without cheating, not without turning his mighty opponent into a half-paralyzed gimp. On the intellectual side, Jesus wasn't all that much better as far as godly integrity goes. Taking on the mantle of a God, he naturally appointed himself authority over the meaning of all scriptures. Suddenly somehow all the scriptures were all about him (save the psalms...I love the psalms...they are...thank God still about me). Getting drunk and feasting on fast days? Sure! I'm God! We should celebrate because now I'm here and soon I won't be! (Throw in a reference from Isaiah somewhere or mention Elijah in passing). Pour expensive perfume on me? Sure! I'm God and very special at that! Never mind those poor drunks down at the social services clinic that could really use a hefty cash donation....
God is good, God is great, thank you for this food, Alllllmen. More to come soon....
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Lenten Voices: Self-indulgence By Lenten Observance
by Laura Onstot
For my first Lenten observance, at the tender age of 19, I gave up chocolate. This resulted in a frantic midnight phone call to Kazaa, the now defunct uber-delivery service, for a liter of Breyer’s Dulce de Leche. Scarfing it down in my dorm in the early morning hours, it occurred to me, this probably isn’t what God had in mind.
I’ve gone through several iterations of Lent since then—a few times I gave up meat for the duration, ending with a steak and lobster tail dinner. There’s really nothing quite like finishing a month and a half of self-denial in the name of faith with a meal centered on gluttony—like Mardi Gras in reverse.
Once I thought about giving up making fun of the batty receptionist at a job, but given the inevitability of failure (she thought the fax machine teleported paper, seriously) that seemed a task too steep.
So last year I decided to do something different. I wanted to really examine my life, find something that didn’t fit with a grace-filled existence, and do my darndest to let it go and let God, or whatever. Last year, I gave up anxiety.
My anxiousness isn’t paralyzing the way it is for others. Mine has always been more a kind of constant companion that often results in a few hours lost sleep and heart-pounding moments of panic every time I get an e-mail from my boss, certain that this time, it’s to say I’ve been fired.
When you get right down to it, I think my anxiety is rather selfish. I’ve been incredibly blessed—my vocation and my job are one and the same, I have intelligent, compassionate friends who are far more adept in the kitchen than I and happy to share those talents. My roommates are inspiring, my family is supportive, and my income enough to keep up a travel habit. I’m terrified of losing all that and I don’t have a faith strong enough to sustain me if I did. Enter anxiety.
So for Lent I wanted to tell God that even though I know I’ll always be anxious, that faith in God’s love will never truly be enough, I do desire to live more fully as a person of grace. Of course, how one actually gives up anxiety is another trick entirely. I tried jogging and maintaining a better diet. And in the spirit of Lent, really for the first time, I made a serious commitment to praying.
That last part was especially difficult. I’ve never been one to do it as a life style. I repeat prayers in church, and I mean them. I thank God every Friday after Thanksgiving when family and friends gather at my home for giving me so much. But daily, thoughtful, prayer just hasn’t been something I’ve felt comfortable doing. Unsure how to go about it and not being one to just start talk about my feelings with anyone, let alone mysterious entities I can’t see and don’t really understand, I started at the beginning.
“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.”
I still have anxiety, and I’m still a very awkward communicant with God. But I kept using the prayer, long after last year’s Easter vigil. I still do. And you know, it kind of works.
Laura attended her first St. Paul's mass on Ash Wednesday 2004 and now sings in the Parish Choir. She is a staff writer for the Seattle Weekly (online at www.seattleweekly.com), a novice knitter, a lover of mountains, and is always up for communing over an aged scotch.
Laura attended her first St. Paul's mass on Ash Wednesday 2004 and now sings in the Parish Choir. She is a staff writer for the Seattle Weekly (online at www.seattleweekly.com), a novice knitter, a lover of mountains, and is always up for communing over an aged scotch.
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