On Saturday night, I finally made peace with myself about my hatred of ceremony. No more resisting or dithering about with rationales. I just don’t like it. That is all right. Allowing this without judgment or condemnation let me relax and be awed by the adult Baptisms and first Holy Communions and Confirmations. Just awesome! It takes so much to say, there is something more important than texting, I am going to declare myself for it and conform my life to it.
And what a life has been promised, as in Romans 6: 1-4.
Romans 6: 1 – 4. What shall we say then? Are we to continue in sin that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin still live in it? Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized pinto Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.
In the midst of all the goings on I realized that Satan just loves that I am confused and angry and hurt about some church issues that have cropped up. Nothing better than to drown out the message of the resurrection with resentment and worry. Glad that I am on to this trick, the plague of thinking seems to have abated.
How good today was, with so many small pleasures, with so much eternal joy.
Did my level best to avoid the crush of big deals on Good Friday, hoping for a peaceable gathering to say the stations of the cross. So many traditions abandoned. A text full of clever ‘relevancies,’ of the sort that drove the pious from the church in tears in the wake of Vatican II. All stayed right where they were in the pews. Would it be too much to ask those gathered to walk the stations as has been the custom for so long? Did not think that I would be one to long for tradition, but I did. Likewise I longed for the kid in the pew ahead of me to stop banging around. My concentration was so broken I felt compelled to mention it. Great offense was taken. How dare I take note of the child’s persistent, insistent rudeness?
So it is not unfair to say that I suffered on Good Friday, in whatever minor ways came my way, including bureaucracy within banking.
But on to the point. The spiritual and the Ignatian traditions invite us to visit the scene of the Crucifixion, to walk the walk, smell the blood, feel the pain, endure the anguish, and, finally, to lose our friend. To be enveloped in darkness and quaking and the rending of the temple veil. Not our time versus old times, but time transcendent, when all things happen, when we are present in our love and loss and complicity and confusion and sorrow.
And what did you do, member of the crowd? Were you there cheering for death? Were you there hoping against hope for deliverance? Did you wish you could stay the proceedings but feared to act? Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
This photograph embodies the darkness with hope still radiant over the hill. The link that follows provides historical information about that treasured hymn.
19th Century African American Spiritual: Were You There?
Imagine if today a friend jumped up in the middle of supper and insisted on washing your feet. You would wish your friend would return to rummaging through the media and texts that have so handily eclipsed table dialogue. You might be, for once, grateful for the distraction that the immediacy of technology demands. And you would likely not want to reciprocate. Perhaps you, too, would turn to the phone, mirroring the isolation of endless parallel play.
The call to extend absolution may be paramount, but if Jesus was correct — as He tended to be — this cannot occur without connection. More than a text or a Tweet may be required. Something to consider while clicking the days away.
The moon on Holy Thursday was, in the recently popular expression, “amazeballs,” and has been captured here by an aspiring professional, with permission.
What shall I relinquish for Lent? What about the unrelenting, incessant, unremitting demand that I do all things well in order to be good. The evil of internalizing the Protestant work ethic. This has been my lifelong counterfeit God, no longer to be worshiped in tabernacles of to-do lists, upon completion of which, a new one arises, and through which each tasks becomes less satisfying than the one before it. Diminishing returns, I have heard it called.
Yesterday two stunning things happened. I watched a film clip of a cousin returning to the place of origin, a place so primitive that it cannot sustain human life. There, pure language has been said to be preserved, and there, inexplicably, the literature of memoir has flourished. Drawn to this place as if in a dream. What is there that must be seen?
Stumbled upon a movie, Wit, which left me sobbing and gasping in the middle of the night, for all the raw beauty (yes, beauty) and passion of the end of our days, for all the realizations, for all the falling away of falsehood. Finally and most importantly, for the pure joy of knowing that for all the soul’s excursions, there is but one point of origin and return, one point that awaits lovingly and patiently for all eternity.
None of the scurrying about of the spirit is worth much, no blue ribbons of redemption to be coveted and claimed. Just being, eternal and unshakable.