by Alissa Newton
When the alarm goes off at 3:30am Sunday morning I turn it off without even waking up. I have this habit, honed through the many middle-of-the-night phone calls from the road when Andrew was touring early in our marriage. I developed the ability to answer the phone, even talk to my husband, while continuing my sleep uninterrupted. I would have no memory of the event. Since I know this about myself, the second alarm goes off at 3:35, followed by Andrew's alarm at 3:45. That's the one that does it, because it's on his side of the bed and I am not able to reach it without sitting up and climbing over him. At that point, I'm up.
And glad to be - I was due at church at 4:15. I am there by 4:30.
As a child and young person growing up in an evangelical church there was always an Easter sunrise service. And, seeing as my mom was the choir director, we were always there for it. I have dim memories of being loaded into our green van half asleep in the morning darkness, and trudging up the hill behind our church building wrapped in blankets. We would sit in the rows of folding chairs that had been placed outside next to the giant tree overlooking the plot of land our congregation hoped to build on someday. And we faced toward the sunrise. It was never a long service, being as it was outside and people were cold, but it was timed so that the sun would come up as Pastor Rick was preaching, or maybe as we were singing. Wrapped in my blanket, perched on the edge of my cold metal chair, it was always the sunrise that thrilled me. Though the music and the preaching was fine, the goosebumps and that tight, holy feeling that spread though my body as we said "He is risen" to each other wouldn't have been there without the magic of that rising sun. That is what I remember about Easter mornings as a child.
Now that I'm an Anglo-Catholic Episcopalian in Seattle, I don't have Easter morning outside. For one thing, the sun makes fewer appearances here in the Pacific Northwest than it does in Sacramento, CA where I grew up. Most Episcopal churches participate in a liturgy called the Triduum , which is one service that takes place on three days: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and a service that is either late in the evening on Holy Saturday, or early on Easter Sunday, the Easter Vigil. I've done the Vigil both ways - when I was confirmed at St. Mark's it was a Saturday evening. Now at St. Paul's we are fairly hardcore about liturgy. So, of course, our Vigil is on Easter Sunday, and it starts at 5am.
I am there at 4:30, putting on my alb and enduring a gentle ribbing from my friend Kate, who managed to be there on time. The only thing better, in my opinion, than attending the Vigil is serving in it. While our 5am, heavily choreographed, ancient, three hour long liturgy is a far cry from the 45 minutes huddled under a blanket outdoor experience of my childhood, I feel a similar anticipation and excitement in this service to what I felt watching all those sunrises, years ago.
The church is dark as people file in. We wait in our white robes, holding our sturdy candles, unlit. Outside is Seattle, drizzling rain and for the most part fast asleep. But there is a steady stream of pilgrims coming in, getting their tapers at the door, finding places in the dark sanctuary, settling children on the wooden pews. The little Nelson kids are wide eyed, electrified with the rush of being awake when they are usually asleep, the novelty of total darkness in a place where there is always at least one candle burning.
The Vigil is like a sunrise, but longer. From the darkness a tiny light comes - a fire, lit at the back of our space, blessed, and then spread to the hundred or so handheld candles that fill the pews. Songs are sung, and we listen to many stories of the People of God, their readings punctuated by psalms and sung prayer. About 45 minutes in ushers quietly move down the aisles, offering replacement candles because most are dangerously close to burning out.
Then, still in darkness, a baptism. Kate and I are left back at the altar while the rest of the servers process with the baptismal candidate back towards the font, where our new fire began some hour ago. We wait until backs are turned and then tiptoe towards the altar rail that separates the congregation from the servers up front, so we can see. Baptisms always make me cry, like seeing someone married or born or dying does. It's something I cannot quite explain.
The sun is almost up now, not outside but in here, where we are. After the baptism Melissa, our priest, takes a bouquet of rosemary and dips it in the waters. She walks around the entire place, flicking water on everyone, letting each of us share in the sacrament of joining that has just taken place. The choir sings a long, chaotic recitation of all our saints, and we remember. Or maybe we just listen in awe. When she returns to the altar we servers face the congregation and all wait for the moment.
This is where Lent makes sense to me. This moment wouldn't be what it is, if we had not been avoiding the word "Alleluia" for the past six weeks. It wouldn't be what it is if our space had not been bare of flowers for the past six weeks, if our priests had not been in simple, spare vestments, if our altar had not gone unadorned by silver, if our Bread was not coarse wheat instead of the usual honeyed white. If we had not just spent ninety minutes in heavy candlelit darkness, if we had not listened again to the Old Testament stories of Creation, Flood, Dry Bones and promises this moment wouldn't hit with the weight that it does. And, this is key to me, if we were not together, a community of faith, all sorts of people who have been doing all of this in union these past six weeks.
"Alleluia Christ is Risen," she sings it. And the lights fly on (not all together, but choreographed, like a sunrise).
"The Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia!" we sing it back, and the pilgrims reach into pockets and purses for bells of all shapes and sizes and begin to ring them vigorously. The organ is playing something familiar and triumphant, and we can see for the first time the explosion of white flowers on both sides of the Table, the gold vestments adorning our sacred ministers and the matching cloth adorning our table.
The sun is up. And we proceed to celebrate an entire mass, basking in the glory of our new year, our new hope, the silver cups and plates, the white bread, the Alleluia, the Mystery of Easter that we can come close to in a sunrise, in a dark liturgy that ends in explosions of gold and light, in all these symbols and sacraments saying with their shapes, lines, and colors what our words cannot express.
"Whew!" My friend who works at the coffee shop down the block from St. Paul's says to me when I stop in after the Vigil for my americano. "That's commitment!"
But it isn't. It's Easter. It is the sun coming up, the trees turning white and pink, and the earth warming. It is a new fire inside me and hope burning so strong that my eyes water. It is a Mystery, and I would set one hundred alarm clocks if I had to, to make sure that I got to be there and hold my small piece of the Light.
Alissa is St Paul's Lay Pastor for Children and Young Families, a postulant to Holy Orders, and the editor of the parish blog. This post was originally published on her personal blog.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Yet Even at the Grave…
by Stephen Crippen
I’m not a big fan of Lenten disciplines (is anyone?) but one discipline I’ve cottoned onto is the omission of ‘alleluia,’ not only from the liturgy, but from the regular conversations of my life. That’s why when I blogged about it this Lent, I couldn’t manage even to type the word out on my computer! It’s a weirdness I have. I admit it.
So imagine my excitement every year when Melissa sings it for the first time, punctures the power of another alleluia-less Lent, breaks the rule because on Easter Day the rule becomes its opposite: “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” she calls. And we sing back, “The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia!”
But this year, I didn’t get very excited. To be honest, as the lights flashed on and the bells rang and we sang the Gloria and we once again filled the liturgy with countless ‘alleluias,’ I didn’t feel glad. I felt a little manipulated. I thought, “I’m supposed to be chipper. Too bad I’m not.”
The biggest reason of course is that our delightful dog Hoshi ran off with our hearts on Holy Monday. His own heart gave out, and he died, poor baby, on a table in a clinic in Lynnwood, around 4:30 a.m. Nowhere in Scripture or our tradition do we hold that non-human animals receive the gift of eternal life. Yet I wonder: Hoshi’s premature death was so outrageous, so palpably sad, so unnecessary, so impossible to explain or interpret or justify…why can’t I hold out a little hope, childish though it might be, that I’ll see him again, that the line in Revelation about tears being wiped from our eyes means—for me at least—that Hoshi himself will greet me one day and lick my eyes (one of his weird but delightful pastimes)? That would take care of the tears, let me tell you.
And there are other reasons not to sing ‘alleluia’ with enthusiasm. I am not so self-focused to think that the grief of our family eclipses the grief that haunts the countless billions on earth who know death, live in the midst of death, call death by many names—many familiar names.
So here’s how I’ve worked it out, at least this year. This year—and every year, to some extent—I can’t sing ‘alleluia’ on Easter without thinking of All Souls, that holy day of black vestments, that day when the Church stares death squarely in the face and sings, “All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
If I made an ‘alleluia’ banner, I would weave strands of crimson and black into it. If I typed the word out, I would punctuate it with a period, not an exclamation mark. If I rang an ‘alleluia’ bell, I would let some of the soundings clang and clatter. If I sang the Great Alleluia—which we all did at the Vigil—I would drop out here and there. It’s not because I doubt the Good News of Resurrection, though often enough I do. It’s certainly not that I’m mad—at God, or the Church, or anyone in particular—that despite Christ’s redemptive work of salvation, humanity still contends with death, grief, injustice, and despair. (Seriously. I’m a therapist and I’ve had some therapy: I’m sad but I’m not angry! ;)
No, I would color my ‘alleluia’ crimson because I might be singing ‘alleluia,’ but I’m also—no joke—standing by that grave. I might rejoice in Christ’s presence, but there is still those aching absences. Hoshi. My mother. My friend Richard. The grief felt by those I love. The silent prophetic voices of all the innocent dead.
I’m not chipper this Easter. But I am singing…when I can. And when I sing, I eke it out, that great and terrible word, that song of joyful life in the midst of death:
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”—Book of Common Prayer, Burial Rite II, page 499.
I’m not a big fan of Lenten disciplines (is anyone?) but one discipline I’ve cottoned onto is the omission of ‘alleluia,’ not only from the liturgy, but from the regular conversations of my life. That’s why when I blogged about it this Lent, I couldn’t manage even to type the word out on my computer! It’s a weirdness I have. I admit it.
So imagine my excitement every year when Melissa sings it for the first time, punctures the power of another alleluia-less Lent, breaks the rule because on Easter Day the rule becomes its opposite: “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” she calls. And we sing back, “The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia!”
But this year, I didn’t get very excited. To be honest, as the lights flashed on and the bells rang and we sang the Gloria and we once again filled the liturgy with countless ‘alleluias,’ I didn’t feel glad. I felt a little manipulated. I thought, “I’m supposed to be chipper. Too bad I’m not.”
The biggest reason of course is that our delightful dog Hoshi ran off with our hearts on Holy Monday. His own heart gave out, and he died, poor baby, on a table in a clinic in Lynnwood, around 4:30 a.m. Nowhere in Scripture or our tradition do we hold that non-human animals receive the gift of eternal life. Yet I wonder: Hoshi’s premature death was so outrageous, so palpably sad, so unnecessary, so impossible to explain or interpret or justify…why can’t I hold out a little hope, childish though it might be, that I’ll see him again, that the line in Revelation about tears being wiped from our eyes means—for me at least—that Hoshi himself will greet me one day and lick my eyes (one of his weird but delightful pastimes)? That would take care of the tears, let me tell you.
And there are other reasons not to sing ‘alleluia’ with enthusiasm. I am not so self-focused to think that the grief of our family eclipses the grief that haunts the countless billions on earth who know death, live in the midst of death, call death by many names—many familiar names.
So here’s how I’ve worked it out, at least this year. This year—and every year, to some extent—I can’t sing ‘alleluia’ on Easter without thinking of All Souls, that holy day of black vestments, that day when the Church stares death squarely in the face and sings, “All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
If I made an ‘alleluia’ banner, I would weave strands of crimson and black into it. If I typed the word out, I would punctuate it with a period, not an exclamation mark. If I rang an ‘alleluia’ bell, I would let some of the soundings clang and clatter. If I sang the Great Alleluia—which we all did at the Vigil—I would drop out here and there. It’s not because I doubt the Good News of Resurrection, though often enough I do. It’s certainly not that I’m mad—at God, or the Church, or anyone in particular—that despite Christ’s redemptive work of salvation, humanity still contends with death, grief, injustice, and despair. (Seriously. I’m a therapist and I’ve had some therapy: I’m sad but I’m not angry! ;)
No, I would color my ‘alleluia’ crimson because I might be singing ‘alleluia,’ but I’m also—no joke—standing by that grave. I might rejoice in Christ’s presence, but there is still those aching absences. Hoshi. My mother. My friend Richard. The grief felt by those I love. The silent prophetic voices of all the innocent dead.
I’m not chipper this Easter. But I am singing…when I can. And when I sing, I eke it out, that great and terrible word, that song of joyful life in the midst of death:
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Monday, April 13, 2009
To Bee or Not To Bee: Why there is a bee on the Paschal Candle this year
by Ralph Carskadden
Once a year, at the Great Vigil of Easter, sometime between sundown on Holy Saturday and sunrise on Easter Day, Christians in the Western liturgical tradition gather in churches and cathedrals to kindle a new fire from which a great candle representing the Risen Christ is lighted. That Paschal candle is carried into the midst of the faithful, and there a deacon or cantor sings an ancient prose hymn praising Christ the Light who dispels the gloom of sin and banishes darkness. This hymn, called the Exsultet, from the Latin “rejoice,” is one of the poetic treasures of the Church, dating back to at least the 4th century. The chant begins with an invitation for the heavenly host, the entire creation, Mother Church, and finally our own assembly to share in the rejoicing.
Most—but not all—of the ancient sources include several lines giving thanks for the bees who made the wax from which the candle was made, and by which the flame is fed: “In the solemn offering of this wax candle, made out of the work of bees;” fire “nourished by the melting wax which the mother bee produced for the substance of this precious light.”
In southern Italy, by the 10th-11th century, the text of this hymn together with the musical notation was written on long illustrated scrolls. As the deacon stood in the ambo (pulpit) elevated above the people and sang the chant, the scroll unrolled over the desk of the ambo and the gathered faithful could see paintings which illustrated the text. While the verses regarding bees were sung, those standing near the ambo saw a picture of people harvesting the wax and the honey from bee hives and nests.
When the Roman Catholic Church restored the Great Vigil in the 1950’s and translated the official texts from Latin to English, the sections of the poem regarding the bees were retained. With revisions in 1970 the bees were dropped. Episcopalian scholars working on the current prayer book followed the Roman lead and when the Book of Common Prayer came out in 1976 the bees were not to be found. The latest Lutheran revision of the liturgy now includes the bees, and the new Roman Catholic translation in English of the Exsultet appears to have restored them once again. Many Episcopal parishes who celebrate the Great Vigil have used a form of the Exsultet chant published by Nashotah House, one of the seminaries of the church, which retains one of the lines from ancient sources regarding the bees.
To bee or not to bee has obviously been a question amongst liturgical scholars.
In late February I was in Oak Harbor to take my 98 year old mother out for lunch. While passing a nature store I noticed a poster in the window which read BRING BACK THE BEES. On it were illustrated a number of the species of bees which are so very important to the pollination of crops and the production of honey. The current bee-colony-collapse disorder is threatening agriculture and food production on which our daily life and the economic health depend. I am delighted that for just this year we depart from the Prayer Book and “bring back the bees” in the Exsultet at the Great Vigil. The added line is this: “We sing the glories of this pillar of fire, the brightness of which is undiminished even when its light is divided and borrowed, for it is fed by the melting wax which the bees, your servants, have made for the substance of this candle.”
If one knows ancient Greek mythology, the restoration of bees to a chant at St. Paul’s is particularly appropriate. The name Melissa means “honey bee” in Greek! The word for honey in Greek is “mel” and it is from this root that we get the word mellifluous, meaning sweetly or smoothly flowing, honey-like.
There is profound theological significance to the mention of bees. At the beginning of the Exsultet the whole creation is invited to rejoice. The celebration of the Resurrection occurs at a specific time of year in which (at least in the northern hemisphere) the natural world is undergoing rebirth and renewal. As sacramental Christians, we know that the “outward and visible” can be a sign of the “inward and spiritual.” The creation itself is a form of proclamation, visible evidence of God’s power to bring life from death! For too long humankind has abused and ignored so much of the creation. In every way possible the Church needs to assist her members in reconnecting with the earth and reclaiming a sense of responsible and caring stewardship for all living things. I believe that including a creature as small as a bee in our Easter rejoicing this year is a good thing, a tiny step toward making our prayers and faith more “green”.
The Paschal candle which I ornamented this year includes a small sturdy bee - a token of all the creatures, great and small, who in their own ways share our rejoicing and make life on this planet possible and wonderful.
Ralph Carskadden is a Priest Associate at St. Paul's.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Lenten Voices: A Good Friday sort of poem
By Sharon Cumberland
I was inspired to write this poem two Lents ago when we chanted the “Kyrie Pantokrator” at St. Paul’s. I was so taken with the phrase “I bend the knee of my heart” that I went home and developed another set of phrases that were similar, and this is the poem that resulted. It seems like a Good Friday sort of poem to me.
KYRIE PANTOKRATOR
The world was not for me, but for my brothers,
the horses, the science kits, the classrooms,
the rough training for the world, which was not
for me, but for my husbands, the work, the money,
the camaraderie over drinks and waitresses, which
was not for me but for my fathers, the wives, the tidy
homes and waiting children, the warm bed,
which was not for me.
I beat the chest of my soul.
The clear path was not for me but for the scions,
the boys of promise and grace, their football fields,
the locker room and all its promises, which was not
for me but for the scholars, their tutors, the books
and allowances, the mighty potential, which
was not for me but for the junior partners,
their swaddles of opportunity, the slap on the back,
which was not for me.
I bite the tongue of my mind.
The audience was not for me but for the speakers,
their podiums and printing presses, the bull horns which
were not for me but for the soldiers, their flags and taxes,
the guns and petroleum, their certainty of righteousness
which was not for me but for the kings, the popes, the presidents,
their parades and treasure, their chest of ribbons,
which was not for me.
I brandish the fist of my bowels.
The Church was not for me but for the Adams,
the ones who look like You in their secret bodies,
like the Father and the suffering Son in his ribs
and rags, which were not for me but for the saints,
their faith and miracles. Only the martyrs,
their persecutions, their resistance, the hopes
of forgiveness for their jealousy, their cowardice,
their despair, Pantokrator, are for me.
I bend the knee of my heart.
Sharon Cumberland is a member of St. Paul's and an Associate Professor of English at Seattle University.
I was inspired to write this poem two Lents ago when we chanted the “Kyrie Pantokrator” at St. Paul’s. I was so taken with the phrase “I bend the knee of my heart” that I went home and developed another set of phrases that were similar, and this is the poem that resulted. It seems like a Good Friday sort of poem to me.
KYRIE PANTOKRATOR
The world was not for me, but for my brothers,
the horses, the science kits, the classrooms,
the rough training for the world, which was not
for me, but for my husbands, the work, the money,
the camaraderie over drinks and waitresses, which
was not for me but for my fathers, the wives, the tidy
homes and waiting children, the warm bed,
which was not for me.
I beat the chest of my soul.
The clear path was not for me but for the scions,
the boys of promise and grace, their football fields,
the locker room and all its promises, which was not
for me but for the scholars, their tutors, the books
and allowances, the mighty potential, which
was not for me but for the junior partners,
their swaddles of opportunity, the slap on the back,
which was not for me.
I bite the tongue of my mind.
The audience was not for me but for the speakers,
their podiums and printing presses, the bull horns which
were not for me but for the soldiers, their flags and taxes,
the guns and petroleum, their certainty of righteousness
which was not for me but for the kings, the popes, the presidents,
their parades and treasure, their chest of ribbons,
which was not for me.
I brandish the fist of my bowels.
The Church was not for me but for the Adams,
the ones who look like You in their secret bodies,
like the Father and the suffering Son in his ribs
and rags, which were not for me but for the saints,
their faith and miracles. Only the martyrs,
their persecutions, their resistance, the hopes
of forgiveness for their jealousy, their cowardice,
their despair, Pantokrator, are for me.
I bend the knee of my heart.
Sharon Cumberland is a member of St. Paul's and an Associate Professor of English at Seattle University.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Lenten Voices: Small Deaths
By Ellen Hill
When my son Michael was a little boy, he underwent several operations for his heart. I read him many stories including those about his patron saint, Saint Michael The Archangel, who in the Talmudic tradition translates as "One who is like God". His name is the battle cry of the angels in their heavenly battle against Satan. Could there be a better saint for a small boy in a scary situation? Michael saw an angel that was bigger and better than "He-Man", his favorite toy. Larger than life, with bigger wings and followed by an army of angels, who better to surround you in the operating room? How does a child find the courage to confront the pain and fear that he is too young to communicate? Michael went through many operations with all the grace and dignity that a small child could manage. I do believe his faith was there sustaining him in those mighty images.
We all search for role models for ourselves and our children. As a child, I sought out strong women who battled adversity and survived. While I searched, I found something completely at odds with what I was looking for, not a woman, not bigger than life but someone who failed and failed terribly.
Three times Peter denied Christ. Three times. As the years go by and I grow older, more and more I take Peter to my heart. Peter, the fisherman who answered the call to follow. The rock on which the early church was built. The cock crowed and Peter faced his darkest moment. How did he confront that enormous unknown filled with the pain of betrayal?
Each day we make choices, decisions, actions. We make promises to ourselves and those we love. We take actions that succeed or fail. Each day we change by those choices. Sometimes life holds insurmountable pain as surely as it holds joy. And, we stumble along carrying our failures and vulnerability with us. And like Peter we manage to keep going. Surely, the third denial was an insurmountable moment, but belief carried Peter into a life of proclaiming the gospel and building the church. In the end it was his choice to be crucified upside down. Every day brings each of us moments of pain and beauty illuminated by faith.
Michael entered his operating room many, many times. Perhaps it is my conceit, that it was that belief of a child that enabled him to walk out.
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
When my son Michael was a little boy, he underwent several operations for his heart. I read him many stories including those about his patron saint, Saint Michael The Archangel, who in the Talmudic tradition translates as "One who is like God". His name is the battle cry of the angels in their heavenly battle against Satan. Could there be a better saint for a small boy in a scary situation? Michael saw an angel that was bigger and better than "He-Man", his favorite toy. Larger than life, with bigger wings and followed by an army of angels, who better to surround you in the operating room? How does a child find the courage to confront the pain and fear that he is too young to communicate? Michael went through many operations with all the grace and dignity that a small child could manage. I do believe his faith was there sustaining him in those mighty images.
We all search for role models for ourselves and our children. As a child, I sought out strong women who battled adversity and survived. While I searched, I found something completely at odds with what I was looking for, not a woman, not bigger than life but someone who failed and failed terribly.
Three times Peter denied Christ. Three times. As the years go by and I grow older, more and more I take Peter to my heart. Peter, the fisherman who answered the call to follow. The rock on which the early church was built. The cock crowed and Peter faced his darkest moment. How did he confront that enormous unknown filled with the pain of betrayal?
Each day we make choices, decisions, actions. We make promises to ourselves and those we love. We take actions that succeed or fail. Each day we change by those choices. Sometimes life holds insurmountable pain as surely as it holds joy. And, we stumble along carrying our failures and vulnerability with us. And like Peter we manage to keep going. Surely, the third denial was an insurmountable moment, but belief carried Peter into a life of proclaiming the gospel and building the church. In the end it was his choice to be crucified upside down. Every day brings each of us moments of pain and beauty illuminated by faith.
Michael entered his operating room many, many times. Perhaps it is my conceit, that it was that belief of a child that enabled him to walk out.
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Lenten Voices: Beyond Salvation and Resurrection
By Jayme Hegelson
I was sick with the flu earlier this week. For two whole days I was a weak inhuman blob. I couldn't even find much enjoyment in my standard being-sick pleasure regime - hours and hours of entitled TV watching. There was a certain desperation that came when neither the TV nor the medications could improve my misery. Everything just sucked for two whole days.
What I usually like about being sick, and what I particularly enjoyed this time, was the part after being sick - when I felt well again. The relative absence of life for two days made the life I was now experiencing exquisite. Normal everyday lunch fare became nirvana incarnate. The taco truck's tacos were more than orgasmic. My morning two sugars and cream in black coffee was crack-cocaine with none of the disagreeable side-effects. Colors had more color, time had meaning, pain became bliss. And I swear my vision was sharper than ever.
That got me to thinking more on the subject of what it is to be human. Humans are unique animals, I believe, in their ability to be both less and more than a mere mammal. Other animals, like the squirrel, just are what they are. A squirrel is just a squirrel. A sick squirrel is a sick squirrel and it cannot deviate from this certain reality determined by it's genetic code and parental conditioning. Humans are profoundly different in that we can choose to be inhuman or to be extraordinarily human. I have the ability and gift to evolve well beyond my programming, to spurn my genetic code and traumatic upbringing, to truly become more than what Fate had destined for me to be. I am in my deepest essence a creative being who can be profoundly affected by the actions of creative beings. So too am I uniquely able to self-destruct or be outwardly violent well beyond any inherent genetic or character defects dealt to me by heredity or history. If I embrace the human legacies of depravity I can reduce myself to an existence equivalent to a duck in Central Park begging for trash and stale bread crumbs.
I have what would some would rightly proclaim to be a profound set of character defects. Until recent years I lived as a slave to these defects; a life of utter and total dis-ease. There were many reasons for this putrid state of affairs both in my control and out of it, but suffice to say a set of vital interventions have conspired to teach me what it is to be more human than I ever was in childhood or young-adulthood. Just reaching this point of feeling human again, in its most basic animal sense was itself like a revelation. To not be sick with the flu, to not not feel so horribly like nothing, indeed to feel something safe and good again feels like a salvation of sorts.
And so I am saved by Christ by the action of his example, by realizing my inherent design and goodness. It is a point of some debate within my psyche whether I have truly changed or whether I have merely shed all the filth the world and I pasted all over me. But one might very well ask what is the point of this redemption, this salvation, and this Love if I don't get to enjoy it forever? I like being alive, human, and I am eager to do so much more with my life! If I follow a parallel (though hopefully less violent course) to my end as did the Christ (i.e. to my certain and undeniable death) in what can I rest my hope? In merely that I did good works, loved well, and helped the world become a better place? Honestly, I find life to be a less than satisfying story no matter its quality and length if I just go back to being dirt. I felt like dirt last week, and that was no fun. Actually being dirt can't be that fun either.
If we are to embrace the facts of the history of the Christ, of his birth, life, and his violent death and then consider the claims he made about himself (that he was God), then he better be more than dirt now too. And what do you know! Our text gives us hope in a bizarre and truncated story about this Christ who reverses 3 days of decomp, comes to life slightly less solid than before, orders some of his old heavenly work-hands to get the rock door out of the way, and then appears to thousands and doesn't bother with the physics of solid doors, walls, and walking any great distances anyway. He appears and then is just gone and there are no bones and no trace of him beyond a host of manic stories about a super hero who wasn't, a God who didn't save the Jewish nation from its own quick and violent end, and a God who promised us to come back in some nebulous future and make everything OK. Apparently a good many, including our patron Saint Paul, saw this God-man come back to life, believed him and ditched marriage "normal" life to tell the good news to many nations. But they never stopped looking over their backs to see if the fire and emanate wrath were striking down the evil Romans as promised. In the end I suppose Paul died lonely and at least a little disappointed somewhere in the bleak deserts of Spain.
So we are left with Love, Faith in the example of His-Story, and Hope for a good ending. Like all the school girls watching the recent blockbuster "Twilight" over and over again, we read our favorite story over and over again, year after year, and hope for a good ending, that all we have seen so far is not the end of the story, that there will be another installment, that there is another better episode in preparation, and that we will live and breathe the air of a new creation as yet shrouded in unknowable mystery. Even Jesus, the one and only God-man Earth has ever known, powerful enough even to overcome death didn't know the timing or nature of this eschatological mystery. The time, it turns out, wasn't as short as originally proclaimed and hoped.
Jayme is a is a 30 year-old St. Paul's parishioner hailing from Montana who loves skiing and hiking in the Pacific Northwest.
I was sick with the flu earlier this week. For two whole days I was a weak inhuman blob. I couldn't even find much enjoyment in my standard being-sick pleasure regime - hours and hours of entitled TV watching. There was a certain desperation that came when neither the TV nor the medications could improve my misery. Everything just sucked for two whole days.
What I usually like about being sick, and what I particularly enjoyed this time, was the part after being sick - when I felt well again. The relative absence of life for two days made the life I was now experiencing exquisite. Normal everyday lunch fare became nirvana incarnate. The taco truck's tacos were more than orgasmic. My morning two sugars and cream in black coffee was crack-cocaine with none of the disagreeable side-effects. Colors had more color, time had meaning, pain became bliss. And I swear my vision was sharper than ever.
That got me to thinking more on the subject of what it is to be human. Humans are unique animals, I believe, in their ability to be both less and more than a mere mammal. Other animals, like the squirrel, just are what they are. A squirrel is just a squirrel. A sick squirrel is a sick squirrel and it cannot deviate from this certain reality determined by it's genetic code and parental conditioning. Humans are profoundly different in that we can choose to be inhuman or to be extraordinarily human. I have the ability and gift to evolve well beyond my programming, to spurn my genetic code and traumatic upbringing, to truly become more than what Fate had destined for me to be. I am in my deepest essence a creative being who can be profoundly affected by the actions of creative beings. So too am I uniquely able to self-destruct or be outwardly violent well beyond any inherent genetic or character defects dealt to me by heredity or history. If I embrace the human legacies of depravity I can reduce myself to an existence equivalent to a duck in Central Park begging for trash and stale bread crumbs.
I have what would some would rightly proclaim to be a profound set of character defects. Until recent years I lived as a slave to these defects; a life of utter and total dis-ease. There were many reasons for this putrid state of affairs both in my control and out of it, but suffice to say a set of vital interventions have conspired to teach me what it is to be more human than I ever was in childhood or young-adulthood. Just reaching this point of feeling human again, in its most basic animal sense was itself like a revelation. To not be sick with the flu, to not not feel so horribly like nothing, indeed to feel something safe and good again feels like a salvation of sorts.
And so I am saved by Christ by the action of his example, by realizing my inherent design and goodness. It is a point of some debate within my psyche whether I have truly changed or whether I have merely shed all the filth the world and I pasted all over me. But one might very well ask what is the point of this redemption, this salvation, and this Love if I don't get to enjoy it forever? I like being alive, human, and I am eager to do so much more with my life! If I follow a parallel (though hopefully less violent course) to my end as did the Christ (i.e. to my certain and undeniable death) in what can I rest my hope? In merely that I did good works, loved well, and helped the world become a better place? Honestly, I find life to be a less than satisfying story no matter its quality and length if I just go back to being dirt. I felt like dirt last week, and that was no fun. Actually being dirt can't be that fun either.
If we are to embrace the facts of the history of the Christ, of his birth, life, and his violent death and then consider the claims he made about himself (that he was God), then he better be more than dirt now too. And what do you know! Our text gives us hope in a bizarre and truncated story about this Christ who reverses 3 days of decomp, comes to life slightly less solid than before, orders some of his old heavenly work-hands to get the rock door out of the way, and then appears to thousands and doesn't bother with the physics of solid doors, walls, and walking any great distances anyway. He appears and then is just gone and there are no bones and no trace of him beyond a host of manic stories about a super hero who wasn't, a God who didn't save the Jewish nation from its own quick and violent end, and a God who promised us to come back in some nebulous future and make everything OK. Apparently a good many, including our patron Saint Paul, saw this God-man come back to life, believed him and ditched marriage "normal" life to tell the good news to many nations. But they never stopped looking over their backs to see if the fire and emanate wrath were striking down the evil Romans as promised. In the end I suppose Paul died lonely and at least a little disappointed somewhere in the bleak deserts of Spain.
So we are left with Love, Faith in the example of His-Story, and Hope for a good ending. Like all the school girls watching the recent blockbuster "Twilight" over and over again, we read our favorite story over and over again, year after year, and hope for a good ending, that all we have seen so far is not the end of the story, that there will be another installment, that there is another better episode in preparation, and that we will live and breathe the air of a new creation as yet shrouded in unknowable mystery. Even Jesus, the one and only God-man Earth has ever known, powerful enough even to overcome death didn't know the timing or nature of this eschatological mystery. The time, it turns out, wasn't as short as originally proclaimed and hoped.
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, April 5, 2009
Lenten Voices: On losing the rituals of loss
by John Sutherland
Two weeks ago, my laptop blew up, and with it, all of my notes for my next three Lenten blog entries. Since I’m over 40, and forgetting is just what I do, I can’t recall even the general subject matter of any of them. I just have the vague sense that they were brilliant, beautiful, and perhaps gone forever.
This blog has been a wonderful Lenten discipline for me, so this small loss is still a loss I feel. More importantly, I see it as a dot within a larger pattern. There’s a recurring theme in my spiritual journey seems to go like this: just when I form a ritual to deal with life’s hardships, small or large, so I can be all peaceful and joyful about it, something happens to the ritual itself. The world runs it over with its virtual truck.
And I think I sometimes recognize the driver of that truck, and it’s God. (It’s almost as though God and religion are two different things. Ya think?)
I have wildly ambivalent feelings about religion. It most often seems to be focused on people, not at God. It’s an attempt to codify reality, and reality is too complex to be codified. This is why I’m part of a religious community that’s not very dogmatic: dogma shoves God into a box, and God will not be so shoved. Here, at least, God stands a chance of getting some focus, even with all this religion around.
I could use this argument to judge my fundamentalist sisters and brothers, but that would be ignoring the huge plank in my own eye. The point I’m getting to is, God takes care of me by not letting me get attached to anything too much, even my religion. As soon as I fall in love with Lent, it’s prone to blow up. And it’s probably for my own good.
And so, I’m in this cycle: I think I learn something, I make a little progress, and then I get a hard lesson that I still have more to learn. But that cycle, ironically, is why I need a religious community, a regular religious practice. In this flux and uncertainty, I need a place of continual renewal, somewhere I can scrape myself up off the ground and carry on. And yes, it does focus largely on people. And one of those people is me.
I guess I’ll have to keep coming back.
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.
Two weeks ago, my laptop blew up, and with it, all of my notes for my next three Lenten blog entries. Since I’m over 40, and forgetting is just what I do, I can’t recall even the general subject matter of any of them. I just have the vague sense that they were brilliant, beautiful, and perhaps gone forever.
This blog has been a wonderful Lenten discipline for me, so this small loss is still a loss I feel. More importantly, I see it as a dot within a larger pattern. There’s a recurring theme in my spiritual journey seems to go like this: just when I form a ritual to deal with life’s hardships, small or large, so I can be all peaceful and joyful about it, something happens to the ritual itself. The world runs it over with its virtual truck.
And I think I sometimes recognize the driver of that truck, and it’s God. (It’s almost as though God and religion are two different things. Ya think?)
I have wildly ambivalent feelings about religion. It most often seems to be focused on people, not at God. It’s an attempt to codify reality, and reality is too complex to be codified. This is why I’m part of a religious community that’s not very dogmatic: dogma shoves God into a box, and God will not be so shoved. Here, at least, God stands a chance of getting some focus, even with all this religion around.
I could use this argument to judge my fundamentalist sisters and brothers, but that would be ignoring the huge plank in my own eye. The point I’m getting to is, God takes care of me by not letting me get attached to anything too much, even my religion. As soon as I fall in love with Lent, it’s prone to blow up. And it’s probably for my own good.
And so, I’m in this cycle: I think I learn something, I make a little progress, and then I get a hard lesson that I still have more to learn. But that cycle, ironically, is why I need a religious community, a regular religious practice. In this flux and uncertainty, I need a place of continual renewal, somewhere I can scrape myself up off the ground and carry on. And yes, it does focus largely on people. And one of those people is me.
I guess I’ll have to keep coming back.
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.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Lenten Voices: Rejoice and Be Glad Now!
by Stephen Crippen
One of my Lenten disciplines this year has been singing the Exsultet most days throughout the season. I take my pitch (e-flat), breathe, and start singing it, usually in the kitchen where the granite countertops create a fairly live acoustical space.
The Exsultet technically isn’t about Lent, so maybe it’s odd that this is one of the things I’m doing to keep the season. But then, it all hangs together: the wilderness of Lent, and the Easter proclamation of deliverance from the wilderness, from bondage, from death. The Exsultet is sung during the Service of Light at the beginning of the Easter Vigil. After we’ve entered the church and lit our tapers from the new paschal candle, which in turn was lit from a new fire, we hear in the Exsultet an exhortation to rejoice.
And we’re not alone. The song begins, “Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…” Then, “Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth…” Then, “Rejoice and be glad now, Mother Church…” And finally, us, you and me: “All you who stand near this marvelous and holy flame…” All creation, all the cosmos, is encouraged to rejoice.
Gary James rehearsed the Exsultet with me yesterday. I say this with deep respect for Gary, but rehearsing with him can be a character-building experience. He knows that he needs to be honest about what he’s hearing, that if I’m going to improve, he can’t spare my feelings. This year he said, “You know, it sounds pretty good, but I have to say you’re not really sounding like you’re getting anyone to rejoice about anything. Remember, they are hearing this at five-o-clock in the morning! You need to exhort them to rejoice.”
Point well taken. And…maybe that’s my general problem, not just my problem as an occasional cantor. How often do I exhort people to rejoice? My mother was always better at this than me. When she planned her funeral, she picked Philippians 4:4-7 as her second reading (“Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say, Rejoice!”). She had a lifetime of health problems and suffered an untimely death, but when she exhorted people to rejoice, it worked. You could tell she meant it.
So back to Lent, that season of (non?) rejoicing. Singing the Exsultet over the last six weeks has helped me understand better that God is inviting us into a life of rejoicing, a life in which we say Yes to God’s vision of justice and mercy and peace for all people—and for all the round earth herself—and rejoice as we see that vision realized. Indeed, God’s salvific work has already begun, and has already been glorious. Rejoice now, rejoice and sing now, rejoice and be glad now! I am exhorting you!
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
One of my Lenten disciplines this year has been singing the Exsultet most days throughout the season. I take my pitch (e-flat), breathe, and start singing it, usually in the kitchen where the granite countertops create a fairly live acoustical space.
The Exsultet technically isn’t about Lent, so maybe it’s odd that this is one of the things I’m doing to keep the season. But then, it all hangs together: the wilderness of Lent, and the Easter proclamation of deliverance from the wilderness, from bondage, from death. The Exsultet is sung during the Service of Light at the beginning of the Easter Vigil. After we’ve entered the church and lit our tapers from the new paschal candle, which in turn was lit from a new fire, we hear in the Exsultet an exhortation to rejoice.
And we’re not alone. The song begins, “Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…” Then, “Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth…” Then, “Rejoice and be glad now, Mother Church…” And finally, us, you and me: “All you who stand near this marvelous and holy flame…” All creation, all the cosmos, is encouraged to rejoice.
Gary James rehearsed the Exsultet with me yesterday. I say this with deep respect for Gary, but rehearsing with him can be a character-building experience. He knows that he needs to be honest about what he’s hearing, that if I’m going to improve, he can’t spare my feelings. This year he said, “You know, it sounds pretty good, but I have to say you’re not really sounding like you’re getting anyone to rejoice about anything. Remember, they are hearing this at five-o-clock in the morning! You need to exhort them to rejoice.”
Point well taken. And…maybe that’s my general problem, not just my problem as an occasional cantor. How often do I exhort people to rejoice? My mother was always better at this than me. When she planned her funeral, she picked Philippians 4:4-7 as her second reading (“Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say, Rejoice!”). She had a lifetime of health problems and suffered an untimely death, but when she exhorted people to rejoice, it worked. You could tell she meant it.
So back to Lent, that season of (non?) rejoicing. Singing the Exsultet over the last six weeks has helped me understand better that God is inviting us into a life of rejoicing, a life in which we say Yes to God’s vision of justice and mercy and peace for all people—and for all the round earth herself—and rejoice as we see that vision realized. Indeed, God’s salvific work has already begun, and has already been glorious. Rejoice now, rejoice and sing now, rejoice and be glad now! I am exhorting you!
Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Lenten Voices: Empathy
by Ellen Hill
Every night the media brings more grim stories of houses foreclosed and families made homeless. It seems the businesses thriving in these times are auctioneers who place the houses back on the market and the people who empty them. Many families hope against hope that they will somehow be saved. Until at the last minute they are forced to leave with only a bag or two of belongings. The belongings, furniture, clothes, pictures are all discarded. Nothing is saved, resold or given to someone who could use it.
Entire lives are placed in a dumpster. From kitchen to back yard, from clothes to toys, everything is turned into trash. One cleaner said its the family pictures and the toys that are the most disturbing. The family shelters are overwhelmed as are the food banks. It is the lucky family that can find a shelter that will keep the family together
I grew up in family where you put back the things you couldn't afford. My father turned a budget into a math problem and even made it fun. We had a certain amount to spend and a list of groceries to buy. My father taught us how to find a ripe tomato, how to thump a watermelon and to buy in season. He taught us to love food and respect the money we had by living within our means. We were never embarrassed at the register because we had already done the math. If the math was wrong something went back. It was as simple as that. We were in control of our lives and we had still the ability to share with others. If you asked me to define my childhood, I would say ideal. Two loving parents who had dreams for their children but supplied the skills to function in the world. Sometimes people refer to children as free spirits. Children are taught kindness, social skills, and conversely, all the negatives. Hopefully, when we send them out into the world they will not define that world only in terms of their own needs.
My mother always said, "There but for the grace of God go I ." She lived it. A simple idea that everyone needs help at difficult times and difficult times come to everyone. Everyone is hurt or can be. Grace and kindness, it seems so simple, so straightforward. The ability to have empathy and pass it on in a meaningful way.
My mother never gave a beggar a dollar without asking what exactly was he going to do with it. If the answer involved alcohol then she would buy him a meal and sit with him to be sure he ate it. My teenage self varied between wanting the earth to swallow me up or pretending not to know her. Her compassion made me intensely uncomfortable. It took me years to realize that she too was outside her comfort zone. My mother was an intensely private person who shared little with anyone outside her own family. She was a woman who moved slowly throughout her world. Yet I once watched her dive into a crowd to help a man having an epileptic seizure. Following the first aid directives of the time, she shoved her wallet into his mouth and held his hand until help came. With my mother it was never about religion, for hers was an unforgiving God, it was simply the inability to look away.
"Jesus answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
Every night the media brings more grim stories of houses foreclosed and families made homeless. It seems the businesses thriving in these times are auctioneers who place the houses back on the market and the people who empty them. Many families hope against hope that they will somehow be saved. Until at the last minute they are forced to leave with only a bag or two of belongings. The belongings, furniture, clothes, pictures are all discarded. Nothing is saved, resold or given to someone who could use it.
Entire lives are placed in a dumpster. From kitchen to back yard, from clothes to toys, everything is turned into trash. One cleaner said its the family pictures and the toys that are the most disturbing. The family shelters are overwhelmed as are the food banks. It is the lucky family that can find a shelter that will keep the family together
I grew up in family where you put back the things you couldn't afford. My father turned a budget into a math problem and even made it fun. We had a certain amount to spend and a list of groceries to buy. My father taught us how to find a ripe tomato, how to thump a watermelon and to buy in season. He taught us to love food and respect the money we had by living within our means. We were never embarrassed at the register because we had already done the math. If the math was wrong something went back. It was as simple as that. We were in control of our lives and we had still the ability to share with others. If you asked me to define my childhood, I would say ideal. Two loving parents who had dreams for their children but supplied the skills to function in the world. Sometimes people refer to children as free spirits. Children are taught kindness, social skills, and conversely, all the negatives. Hopefully, when we send them out into the world they will not define that world only in terms of their own needs.
My mother always said, "There but for the grace of God go I ." She lived it. A simple idea that everyone needs help at difficult times and difficult times come to everyone. Everyone is hurt or can be. Grace and kindness, it seems so simple, so straightforward. The ability to have empathy and pass it on in a meaningful way.
My mother never gave a beggar a dollar without asking what exactly was he going to do with it. If the answer involved alcohol then she would buy him a meal and sit with him to be sure he ate it. My teenage self varied between wanting the earth to swallow me up or pretending not to know her. Her compassion made me intensely uncomfortable. It took me years to realize that she too was outside her comfort zone. My mother was an intensely private person who shared little with anyone outside her own family. She was a woman who moved slowly throughout her world. Yet I once watched her dive into a crowd to help a man having an epileptic seizure. Following the first aid directives of the time, she shoved her wallet into his mouth and held his hand until help came. With my mother it was never about religion, for hers was an unforgiving God, it was simply the inability to look away.
"Jesus answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."
Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.
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