How Shall A Young Man Cleanse His Ways?

Some years ago I spent a lot of time wondering about the Mosaic Law. Specifically, I wondered why the Old Testament Jews seemed to love it so much. A lot of do's and don't's, perhaps immediate to them in their time, important to obey, but to love it, to praise it? Why?

Then a wonderful priest visited out parish (the Reverend Canon John Rettger (for those of you with Google) and gave a talk on the Mosaic Law and its many intricacies. Father Rettger is a learned cleric with a tender pastoral way about him. I asked him my burning question: why did the Jews love the Law so much? After a moment of thought, he directed me to Psalm 119. "Pray that psalm a few times and you might understand," he said.

Most people consider Psalm 119 to be simply tedious and repetitive. It is a one note samba whose message could be given in eight verses, not the 176 that comprise it. It has 22 eight-verse sections, one for every letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Our lectionary offers it only in eight-verse bits a few times each liturgical year.

I did, however, follow the priest's advice and read the psalm through, I can't say I "prayed" it then, but to my astonishment, I almost understood the deep and mysterious hold the Law had on people in the Old Testament times. We know, of course, that the Law was given to the Jews at Mount Sinai and that it is reiterated/paraphrased several times in the Torah. It defined and connected the people through their journey to the promised land and for many centuries after that. It connects them still.

In the Order of Julian of Norwich, it is our custom to pray the psalms each day, morning and evening, according to the schedule in the Book of Common Prayer. In this way the person praying will complete the Psalter each 30 day month. It takes two and a half days to pray through Psalm 119; we begin on the evening of Day 24 and finish on the evening of Day 26. Since my affiliation with the Order of Julian, I have read Psalm 119 more than thirty-six times, and it never fails to move me. At least one verse will stand out and call to me every time. Even as a post-modern, 21st Century, Protestant Christian, I can feel a feeling for the Law.

The Law, which the psalmist sings is the verbal embodiment of the LORD. It is evidence of God's love for God's people and their obligation to God.
You laid down your commandments,
   that we should fully keep them.  v 4

The way of the law is freedom. To obey the Law is a gift and an act of will.
My life is always in my hand,
   yet I do not forget your law. v 109

and
I will run the way of your commandments,
   for you have set my heart at liberty. v 32

There is no end to the Law. Mastering it is impossible. Its mysteries are deep but one must persist.
I am your servant; grant me understanding,
   that I may know your decrees. 

and
Oh, how I love your law!
   all the day long it is in my mind. v 97

Psalm 119 does not list the commandments but only sings of them. No time is given to the specific words from Mount Sinai; the difficulty or ease of obeying the Law is not an issue. It is, in fact, not a test but a gift. No specific commandment is mentioned because the Law is, for the psalmist, a single command. It is all one, beautiful and compelling. It is God's hand on our lives.

The Law comforts. It challenges. It teaches. It protects. It is the very bond between God and God's people. The Law reaches into every place and time in a person's life. To obey the Law at all times is to be with God at all times. It is to "pray without ceasing."

Outside the Law there is no freedom, no virtue, no love. The world is a trackless waste. The Law can follow you into any trouble, even the most desolate condition. It is priceless, sheltering, restoring, sanctifying.

Your statutes have been like like songs to me
   wherever I have lived as a stranger. v54


We draw lines. It's how we manage our world. The Law in the Hebrew Scriptures was all about drawing lines, ordering things, keeping categories apart, for safety, for ease, for ritual purity. But some of the lines that we draw are wispy and faint.

The line that supposedly separates Christianity and Judaism is such a line. Jesus was an observant Jew as were his followers. He and they quoted Scripture all the time. His ministry was based on the understanding of the LORD that he was taught and grew up with and experienced himself. How could it be otherwise? His Passion was replete with Passover imagery. Isaiah could have written his birth narrative.

I believe we can draw strength from the same source from which Jesus drew strength and I believe that, as he is the fulfillment of the law, we can view this long psalm from that perspective. Try putting "Jesus" in wherever there is a reference to the Law.

My life is always in my hand,
   yet I do not forget Jesus

I will run the way of your Son, Jesus
   for he has set my heart at liberty

Jesus has been like like a song to me
   wherever I have lived as a stranger

I'm not advocating Christianizing this or any part of the Hebrew Scriptures. We mustn't read the OT as if it couldn't stand on its own. I does stand on its own. But, as Christians, we have double vision. As far as we are able, we read that Scripture from its original perspective and from our own. How could we not? This exercise is just a way to help myself see what the Law might have meant to the Hebrew people, and, in turn, to see anew what Jesus means to me.

Outside the Law Jesus there is no freedom, no virtue, no love. The world is a trackless waste. Jesus The Law can follow you into any trouble, even the most desolate condition. He It is priceless, sheltering, restoring, sanctifying.

What's So Good About The Good Place?

I've been wanting to write about this show for months now. Maybe I'm a frustrated Television Without Pity (RIP) Recapper . Or maybe I can't get over what appears to me as a modern sequel to The Screwtape Letters. Either way, certain aspects of this show have stayed with me and puzzled and delighted me in surprising ways. So if you haven't seen season one of The Good Place and/or don't want any spoilers, stop reading this post immediately.

Here is a show in which a young woman, Eleanor Shellstrop (Kristin Bell) is welcomed to the afterlife by Michael - no last name (Ted Danson). Michael is clearly a bit nervous as he had just had a promotion in which he was allowed to design his own Utopian neighborhood in, select its citizens and keep everything on a heavenly even keel. Eleanor is assured that she is in the good place. "Whew," she seems to say.

How did she make it into the good place, she wonders? Michael assures her that this is a common question. The data of one's life are analyzed with each act given a number of points accorded by level of goodness to be balanced by each bad act and its negative points assigned in a similar manner. Now I don't know about you, but that was how I learned it in Catholic School. It was a bit less data driven, but basically your good had to outweigh your bad. Very transactional. Very bank account, business ledger-ish.

Problem is, of course, that Eleanor knows immediately that she is there by mistake. When she meets her "soul mate, Chidi (William Jackson Harper) and her near neighbors Tahani (Jameela Jamil) and Jianyu (Manny Jacinto), she is terrified that her own lack of virtue will come to light, she will be outed and sent off to perdition.

Eleanor is increasingly frightened about her fate. Chidi, a ponderous ethics scholar undertakes to teach her about ethics in an effort to "save" her after she confesses the mistake to him. She doesn't fit in with Tahani, the wealthy philanthropist and Jianyu a Buddhist monk whose vow of silence has accompanied him into the after life.

To everyone but me apparently, this is a light-hearted comedy, so fluffy, funny things happen. An even keel is not maintained. Michael just about goes bonkers as his perfect neighborhood becomes increasingly chaotic. Our four new residents are increasingly miserable and increasingly turn to each other for comfort with varying degrees of honesty.

Everyone knows that Kristin Bell can figure things out. Three seasons of Veronica Mars have not gone in vain. I had every confidence that she would survive this crisis as she had done so magnificently before. I had also begun to dismiss every bit of religious relevance in the show. Now I didn't care about that; I just hoped that Veronica, I mean Eleanor, would survive and the other three as well.

And I was not disappointed. Eleanor guesses that not only does she not deserve to be in the good place, neither do Chidi or Tahani or Jianyu. Is this a massive error on Michael's part? Nope. They are in The Bad Place. Their torture for all eternity was to be the way they would deceive and annoy each other. If you are Satan, this is a brilliant plot! Let that self deception and self loathing eat away at people for all eternity. Let them project their misery on each other. You can sit back and enjoy the show.

The problem is this: In their time together, these four condemned souls actually grew in every possible virtue known to network television. They became kinder, more honest, wiser, more generous. What Michael, and his many helpers did not reckon on was that divine spark in all humanity. Given a bit of time it will come out and we will turn around. Put us with each other and, if you're Satan, you just might be asking for trouble.

I think C.S. Lewis would have loved this show. Nothing like making Satan look a fool. Nothing like letting his evil plans blow up in his handsome face. Just like Wormwood at the close of The Screwtape Letters, Michael had to see his condemned souls find virtue, grow in love and be lost to him.

Of course, this is television and Season II is on the horizon. Michael has a plan to thwart these newly saved souls. Will it work? Or will Kristin Bell prove herself more than a match for any bad guy once more? I'll be watching.

A Quiz for Lent

Answer each of these five questions and scroll way, way down for the answers. 

1.     In origin the word “Lent” means
a. Sorrow
b. Spring
c. Revival
d. Lost

2.   The 40 days of Lent correspond to
a. the 40 days and nights of rain in the Flood
b. the 40 years that the Israelites wandered in the desert
c. the 40 days that Jesus spent in the wilderness
d. all of the above

     

        3.    Prayer, fasting and alms giving during Lent are
        a. required for all
        b. required for parish clergy only
        c. voluntary for all

        d. required for bishops only

 

    4.   Lent is officially over

               a. with the first alleluia at the Easter vigil
          b. at sunrise on Easter Sunday
          c. with communion on Maundy Thursday
          d. after the Good Friday service

        5.    The 40 days of Lent do NOT include
        a. Holy Saturday
        b. Ash Wednesday
        c. the Sundays in Lent
        d. St Patrick’s Day

Keep scrolling...










Answers   

1.  b
2. c  or  d
3. c
4. a
5. c

Mothering Sunday

*

This Sunday, the 4^th Sunday of Lent, is called Laetare Sunday or “Refreshment Sunday.” It is from an old prayer that begins the service of Eucharist for that day, “Rejoice, with Jerusalem” (in Latin Laetare cum Hierusalem) pointing in hope to the victory about to be won. 

Historically, Lent was observed very strictly and very severely. A bit of refreshment and laetare was called for midway through the season.

But this Sunday has another feature. It was a custom in England, several hundred years ago, to visit one’s “Mother Church” or cathedral on this Sunday.  This practice naturally led to family reunions and celebrations. Another historical element was that young girls and boys in domestic service were allowed to go home one day each year to visit their mothers, (yes, just one day each year!) and it was traditionally on this Sunday that the leave was granted. This became known as "going a-mothering" and the day was called Mothering Sunday.  Tradition has it that a special cake, called a simnel cake, made with marzipan and dried fruit, was part of the occasion.

In England today this Sunday is simply called Mother’s Day; the historical element largely ignored in favor of flowers and sentimental greeting cards.

Here is something pretty for the day -

‘I’ll to thee a Simnel bring
‘Gainst thou go’st a mothering,
So that, when she blesseth thee,
Half that blessing thou’lt give to me.’ 
Robert Herrick 1648



*This cemetery has particular significance to me as my mother and I used to walk in it in the evening gathering violets that grew wild there.

What Some People Say About Lent

Every Lent, we ought to be looking at the various ways in which we get involved in manufacturing the gods that suit us.  Every Lent is a time to get that little bit further beyond the idolatry, that constantly keeps us prisoner and draws us back to the old world.  When Jesus has cleared out the temple, when he has thrown out those people involved in manufacturing religion, there he stands with his friends in a great silence and a great space.  And he says: this is the space where all people may feel at home; this is a space large enough for all to come because this is where God lives.
   

                                               Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury,
                                                                       from a Sermon, March 11, 2012

In this season of Lent, we take some time to focus on what that means for our lives, whether it is as simple as giving up chocolate candy or as profound as taking on a commitment to serve the poor or to serve others in some new way. Whatever it is, let that something be something that helps you participate in the movement of God's love in this world following in the footsteps of Jesus.
                                                                                               
                                                                     Presiding Bishop Michael Curry,
                   Lenten message to the Episcopal Church, February 10, 2016

I believe at the heart of our Lenten journey is the opportunity for us to decrease    so that Christ can increase in and through us.
                                                                      Brian Prior, Bishop of Minnesota,
                                                                       Blog Post February 25, 2014

Lent begins not with confession. Lent begins with love. Lent is like a retreat. The first and central point is reclaim, renew and refresh our identity as God’s beloved children. 

                                      Brother Luke Ditewig, Society of Saint John the Evangelist
                                                                           Blog Post February 24, 2013

From Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, Christians are invited to do without some things they are perfectly capable of having -- such as rich food or loud parties with their friends -- and to take on some things that they are just as capable of avoiding -- such as a moral inventory or a lunch date with someone they are mad at.
"Lent," it is called, from an English word meaning "spring"-- not just a reference to the crocuses pushing their ways out of the ground in the season before Easter, but also to the greening of the human soul--pruned with repentance, fertilized with fasting, spritzed with self-appraisal, mulched with prayer. 

                                                                         Barbara Brown Taylor

                                                                 from a Sermon, February 21, 2010

The “A” Word

The word “Alleluia” translates “Praise the Lord.” It is a statement of unreserved joy and gladness. It speaks of salvation, glory and the goodness of God.

We neither say nor sing this word during Lent. God, of course, still deserves our praise, but we refrain from this one particular word to remind us of the solemn nature of the season. Recalling the Babylonian exile, the psalmist asks, “How shall we sing the Lord’s song upon an alien soil?” (Psalm 137) During Lent, we are effectively living on an alien soil. Mindful in this season of our distance from God, we intentionally work to draw closer. If you feel that you miss the alleluia during Lent, if its absence saddens you just a bit, then the tradition is doing its job.

We put the word away so that we may shout and sing it with abandon at Easter. It rests hidden during Lent. At Easter we give it no rest at all.

Here at my church, Nativity Episcopal, we literally hide the alleluia. With the help of our young faithful, we decorate an alleluia banner, making it as spectacular and gaudy as possible, and then hide it somewhere in the church until, on Easter, it is joyfully found, unfurled and proclaimed.  Suddenly, all those unspoken and unsung alleluias burst forth with renewed meaning.

But for now … shhh!

Lent Basics

The word “Lent” comes from the Old Anglo-Saxon word, lencton, meaning lengthening, as in the time of the year when the days get longer. Because it always occurs (in the northern hemisphere) at this lengthening time of the year, Lent basically means “Spring.” As with many elements of our Church Year and liturgy, traditions around Lent developed over time.

We know that in the Apostles’ time, people did not actually prepare for Baptism, see the compelling example in Acts 8. But a century or two later, people typically received Baptism at Easter time, and there was a period of preparation imposed. At first, days and then weeks before Easter were spent in preparation. 

In the 4^th Century, the Lenten period was regularized to 40 days, beginning on Ash Wednesday and, excluding Sundays, up to the Vigil of Easter, the traditional time for Baptisms.Later all members of the church participated in the Lenten preparation as each year brought a new chance to renew one’s relationship with the Lord.

These days of Lent are tied to the 40 days when Jesus fasted in the desert, but because 40 is such an important number in all Scripture, we can draw a connection to the 40 days of the flood in Genesis as well as the 40 years of the Israelites' wandering in the desert. The number 40 signifies a completion of a task, a reward earned: Jesus’ ministry, the rainbow after the flood, the Promised Land. And, of course, there are 40 weeks in a typical pregnancy.

Prayer, fasting and almsgiving are the three traditional disciplines of Lent. As a means of repentance and devotion they are deeply rooted in the Old Testament; Jesus, as an observant Jew, built his ministry around these practices. To “have the mind of Christ” as Paul urges in 1 Corinthians 2:16, we are invited to walk beside Jesus through his life and ministry. But because we are imperfect in this walk, we repeat it year after year.

The color for Lent is purple, a solemn and penitential but also a royal color. There are no flowers in the sanctuary during Lent. In our church, Nativity Episcopal, the fourteen Stations of the Cross are mounted on the side walls. The choir and the altar party process in silence. We neither sing nor say alleluia.  Incidentally, Lent is officially over with the first "alleluia" at the vigil. Scripture readings and hymns reflect the tone of the season. In the Gospel accounts, Jesus is in mounting danger as his ministry intensifies. We are reminded of the very high stakes upon which our salvation is based.

In modern times, some Christians have distanced themselves from what may seem like the harsh and coercive practices of Lent.  We see that Lenten disciplines are inconvenient and burdensome, but perhaps the reward at the end might make it all worthwhile. The Resurrection is Christ’s and ours, too, if we want it.

“Lent is one of those elements of Christian practice that binds the Christian community to one another and to its beginnings.”
Sr Joan Chittister
The Liturgical Year

Ash Wednesday

“I invite you, therefore, to the observance of a holy Lent.” BCP page 265

Ash Wednesday - Lent Begins  

Ash Wednesday is the first of forty days of walking a path to the glory of Easter. Yet we begin with a reminder of our imperfection, our mortality and God’s forgiveness which awaits us. And we do this physically, outwardly and courageously.

Remember when you were baptized and the priest made a cross on your forehead with holy oil? Today that cross is retraced, but with ashes to form the shape of the cross which is our means of eternal life. It’s the same cross and it’s the same invitation. The ashes that signify mortality today signify the immortality promised to us.

Ashes were also an ancient mark of sorrow and repentance. Job marked himself with ashes when God spoke to him, “Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes,” he said. Job 42:6.

All the people of Nineveh donned sackcloth and ashes when Jonah warned them about their sinful ways. “The Ninevites believed God. A fast was proclaimed, and all of them, from the greatest to the least, put on sackcloth. When Jonah’s warning reached the king of Nineveh, he rose from his throne, took off his royal robes, covered himself with sackcloth and sat down in the dust.” Jonah 3:5-6

Today we do not go to such extremes, but each year our church invites us into this moment of repentance and forgiveness. Ash Wednesday, Lent, and, in fact, the whole Church Year is a way for us, the faithful, to walk with Jesus through his life and ministry, just as he became man to walk with us.

Ashes to Go

You may come across a news item about a new-ish ministry that offers ashes on Ash Wednesday in very public places such as bus terminals and busy street corners. It may surprise, delight or shock you, but this offering could be the one act of worship some of those people perform all year, and who knows where it might lead?

Large and Small Favorite Books Read in 2016

Above are pictured the books I most loved reading in the year just passed. Instead of mentioning them in order of preference or order read, I will mention them in order of size. At church, our choir lines up by size; we lined up by size in elementary school. So - size order.

1. The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis
Lewis is not without his mental blocks, prejudices, opinions, and quirks, but I loved this little fantasy about people trying to decide between heaven or hell. It's a short read and it kept me smiling. Warning: Heaven might make you uncomfortable; it's just so darn loving!

2. A Testament of Devotion by Thomas R. Kelly
Thomas Kelly knew how to pray! Few people do and fewer can talk or write about it. His understanding of God is breathtaking and simple. EG "The God-blinded self sees naught of personal degradation or of personal eminence, but only the Holy Will working impersonally through him."

3. Prayer and Contemplation by Robert Llewelyn
I am called out repeatedly in this, as Llewelyn seems to know all my bad habits. But equally I am encouraged and nourished as he seems to know all my highest intentions. "The one great enemy of prayer [is} subjectivity - those sideways glances at ourselves to see how we are getting along." And then. "Offerings [of prayer] were never meant to help or strengthen or do anything except be offered."

4. Secrets in the Dark by Frederick Buechner
This is a collection of some of Buechner's most famous and beloved sermons. Being sermons, they will sound a bit conversational, a bit less formal than you would expect from a writer. There is often a sense of place and time that seem unnecessary as one reads, but....here are some of the most brilliant and moving calls to Christ that I have ever read...or heard. In one chapter he digs so deeply into the story of Jairus' daughter that I thought I could hear the sheets rustle as she got up from her bed.

5. Winter by Adam Gopnik
This is the only "secular" title on my list from 2016. Last Christmas, a wonderful friend gave me this book after I'd confessed to her that I love winter. The author also loves it and we spent a toasty companionable couple of weeks together in such contexts as Christmas, polar explorations, literature and philosophy and, not surprisingly as Gopnik is a Canadian, hockey. Every moment was enjoyable and full of brilliant writing and loads of information.

6. The Complete Julian of Norwich by Father John Julian
Father John Julian, scholar, poet and translator, is the founder of the Order of Julian of Norwich, so it stands to reason that his Complete Julian would be the quintessential translation and commentary about this magnificent work. And it is. Besides the most careful and studied translation of the Revelations of Divine Love, there is a helpful introduction and an engaging appendix. No stone is left un-turned in this exploration of Julian's life and writing. If you are "new" to Julian, this is the way in.

7. God's Funeral by A.N. Wilson
The title derives from a poem by Thomas Hardy in which people sadly acknowledge the death of God, or at least of the worship of God and God's work in our world. One by one, mourners gather to say goodbye to their faith. Lastly, and with profound regret, Hardy joins them.

God's Funeral traces humankind's increasing distance from belief in God, from the Age of Enlightenment onwards. Wilson is no stranger to lost faith, and he is no stranger to a return to faith, but he keeps himself out of the debate for as long as he can. As a work of the history of ideas, this book is informative and readable. As a history of the role faith plays in human endeavor, it is beyond magnificent. Wilson is also a novelist so he can entertain as well as inform. He can keep a reader guessing and can make a reader laugh or cry.

8. Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright
If your idea of salvation, kingdom of God, or eternal life is simply that you will go to heaven when you die, please read this book. When we pray, "may they rest in peace and rise in glory," do we mean a spiritual glory, a shining soul? Or do we mean that we partake in Christ's same glory when he bodily rose from the dead? Wright seems to imply that he was surprised by the concepts in this book. They certainly surprised me.

9. The David Story by Robert Alter
I admit I am irresistibly drawn to this problem child of the Old Testament. I blame Michelangelo, William Faulkner and Leonard Cohen The hero with the five smooth stones becomes the adulterous predator, becomes the target of an evil "king,"  becomes the wild dancing lover of God, becomes the moody head of a dysfunctional family, becomes the tormented and grieving father, becomes the stately man of God's own heart who gently goes to sleep with his fathers. The Old Testament is a mash up of literary device, holy narrative and God-driven wisdom, and there is no better one to illumine its many dark alleyways than Robert Alter.

In this book, we have the complete text of 1 and 2 Samuel as well as the first 2 Chapters of 1 Kings - word for word, with an exhaustive foot-noted commentary by the author. Alter is a famous scholar of the Hebrew Scriptures and a wonderful writer. David walks right off the page.

10. The Theology of the Old Testament by Walter Brueggeman
Brueggemann takes a very new, for me, approach to the Old Testament. He sees the writings as voices, as rhetoric. Many voices, many points of view come together to describe the One we call God and hint, strongly hint, how we should live as God's people. Brueggemann finds a God that has many roles, many personnae, many ways of reaching us. He takes the term "testament" at face value, presenting these many voices as testimonies, such as are found in courtrooms. Here is a generous, scholarly, and devout way of approaching these writings. Brueggemann, while keeping mostly to an Old Testament point of view, sheds some Christian light on the readings and how they are received by Christians like himself.

 I found my copy at Half Price Books one day and scooped it up. Inside is written the name of its previous owner and the name also of a Divinity School that the owner presumably attended. This is the perfect MDiv book, and I can't help wondering if the individual continued on with the studies, became a minister and, most of all, I wondered why would anyone let this marvelous book get away?

Grace

I was a big fan of the HBO show, Boardwalk Empire, having watched every episode. I remember a lot of it, even now. But one tiny scene from it, however, struck me then and has stayed vividly with me.

In Season 3, Episode 7, titled "Sunday Best," it is Easter Sunday, 1923. Richard Harrow, a paid assassin, who was badly injured in the War (World War I) removes the mask that hides his disfigured face to eat his Easter dinner. He is alone in the kitchen, away from others who might be disturbed by his appearance. Before eating, he bows his head and asks to be mindful of the needs of others. Always. This is, lest I have not made myself clear, a paid killer, praying. Praying!

I myself have gone years and years without saying grace.

In Marilynne Robinson's wonderful novel, Home, Glory Boughton, a preacher's daughter, ruefully confesses to her less-than-believing brother that even at a public lunch counter she feels she must stop a moment before eating to utter a silent blessing.

Saying grace is a practice that I believe even atheists should welcome. Even if you don't believe in a creator, you must know that the earth brought forth whatever you are about to eat. You must know that people worked to bring this food to you. So be thankful; be mindful of all that. For heaven's sake!

So why have I not made this practice my own? Just as a habit of grace was hard to dislodge from Glory and, apparently, Harrow, it has been equally hard to instill in me.

Last June, I decided to take up this very worthy practice of saying grace before meals. Setting a goal of two weeks, I made a brightly colored card and clipped it to my place mat, where I could not miss it. The card fell off the deck, got rained on, was always returned to its spot of remembrance. I couldn't fault myself for lack of intention. Two weeks of being reminded in bright green to say grace would surely establish the habit in me.

Nope

I sat down to meal after meal with the card in plain sight and still almost always forget to pray. Now, seven months on, I am finally remembering to say grace at some meals. But it is not consistent. Though frustrated, I keep trying.

Does praying grace before my meal matter to anyone? Are my efforts God-driven? Am I being thwarted by forces of darkness? I don't know the answer to any of these questions, but I do know that when I remember to pray, I feel a deeper tie to all God's creation. I remind myself that I am privileged to have enough food and a safe place to eat it. I am aware that I may one day not be so blessed but that I will be blessed in other ways.

Meanwhile, I can have fun with all this humility that is forced upon me. I can see my meager efforts for what they are. I can laugh at myself and my Type A goals and my longing to be able to pat myself on the back for achieving them.

But when I do remember to say grace, I say it in earnest. I find myself in a very holy spot, able to speak to God about my day, creation, food, work, troubles, blessings. Like Richard Harrow, I also bow my head and ask to be always mindful of the needs of others. And sometimes I even take off my mask.

"Now They Are All on Their Knees"

This is my final posting this Advent. It is more of a Christmas poem, but not one you'll hear from the pulpit or recited in a Nativity pageant. 

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

“Come; see the oxen kneel,

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

                                                                       by  Thomas Hardy

At some point in his illustrious career, this poet, to his regret, lost his faith. I often wonder why this happens to people and, if the loss saddens them, why they can't recover it? Hardy lived at a time when the Age of Enlightenment had massive sway over people's thinking. Suddenly there were explanations for everything, and humankind seemed almost supremely powerful. We had science. We had machines. People suffered in great numbers while barons of industry amassed wealth. Maybe this was just all too disheartening for him.

His novels, Tess of the D'Ubervilles and Jude the Obscure, in particular, show the failure of religion and, especially, the clergy. What gets people to where they must be in these stories is a grim determination for survival. When things end well, it is only a thin and meager wellness. 

Sp what prompted Hardy to write this poem of longing, of holiness that is just out of reach? Here he is ensconced in a comfortable pub with townspeople who recall the legend that at midnight on Christmas Eve, the animals worship the newborn Savior, yes, even in those modern times. Wherever they are, they fall on their knees, so great is their collective memory of that night of Nativity. All he would need is a word of encouragement to rush to the barn and see the oxen at prayer. Just one word. Which he does not get.

I have swept and I have washed

Either Mary Oliver is the worst housekeeper under heaven, or these are all metaphors.

Making the House Ready for the Lord

Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but
still nothing is as shining as it should be
for you. Under the sink, for example, is an
uproar of mice; it is the season of their
many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves
and through the walls the squirrels
have gnawed their ragged entrances but it is the season
when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And
the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard
while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;
what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling
in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly
up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will
come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox,
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know
that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

Mary Oliver

Chooka - chook

Let there be childhood memories. Let there be shabby old Christmas tree ornaments in dusty boxes. Let there be 100 year old cookie recipes. Let there be faded photos and old worries. Remember the kitchen, the hall, the aunt, the uncle. Remember the rug and the sounds and the sofa. Nobody does this remembering so well as Irish Nobel Laureate, Seamus Heaney. (1939-2013)

Just FYI, I clearly recall playing this exact game with my many cousins on any sofa we could commandeer.


A Sofa in the Forties

All of us on the sofa in a line, kneeling
Behind each other, eldest down to youngest,
Elbows going like pistons, for this was a train

And between the jamb-wall and the bedroom door
Our speed and distance were inestimable,
First we shunted, then we whistled, then

Somebody collected the invisible
For tickets and very gravely punched it
As carriage after carriage under us

Moved faster, chooka-chook, the sofa legs
Went giddy, and the unreachable ones
Far out in the kitchen floor began to wave.

                                   *

Ghost train? Death-gondola? The carved, curved ends,
Black leatherette and ornate gauntness of it
Made it seem the sofa had achieved

Flotation. Its castors on tiptoe,
Its braid and fluent backboard gave it airs
Of supernatural pageantry:

When visitors endured it, straight-backed,
Where it stood off in its own remoteness,
When the insufficient toys appeared on it

On Christmas mornings, it held out as itself,
Potentially heavenbound, earthbound for sure,
Among things that might add up or let you down.

                                  *

We entered history and ignorance
Under the wireless shelf. Yippee-i-ay,
Sang "The Riders of the Range". HERE IS THE NEWS,

Said the absolute speaker. Between him and us
A great gulf was fixed where pronunciation
Reigned tyrannically. The aerial wire

Swept from a treetop down in through a hole
Bored in the windowframe. When it moved in wind,
The sway of language and its furtherings

Swept and swayed in us like nets in water
Or the abstract, lonely curve of distant trains
As we entered history and ignorance.

                                      *

We occupied our seats with all our might,
Fit for the uncomfortableness.
Constancy was its own reward already.

Out in front, on the big upholstered arm,
Somebody craned to the side, driver or
Fireman, wiping his dry brow with the air

Of one who had run the gauntlet. We were
The last thing on his mind, it seemed; we sensed
A tunnel coming up where we'd pour through

Like unlit carriages through fields at night,
Our only job to sit, eyes straight ahead,
And be transported and make engine noise.

Seamus Heaney
from The Spirit Level 1996


What a gift he was to us, and, of course, still is!
Want more?
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/search?q=Seamus+Heaney

Country Roads

It's something of a cliche for poets to write about the countryside. Nature in all its bucolic glory, winding woodsy paths, sturdy country folk at work, all these have been done pretty much to death.

Some of the finest poetry, however, celebrates the rural life and scene. The two poems that I'm sharing today elevate the genre beyond the sentimental. One is about a sermon and one is, if you stretch the point just a bit, itself something like a sermon.

The Chapel

A little aside from the main road,
becalmed in a last-century greyness,
there is the chapel, ugly, without appeal
to the tourist to stop his car
and visit it. The traffic goes by,
and the river goes by, and quick shadows
of clouds, too, and the chapel settles
a little deeper into the grass.

But here once on an evening like this,
in the darkness that was about
his hearers, a preacher caught fire
and burned steadily before them
with a strange light, so that they saw
the splendour of the barren mountains
about them and sang their amens
fiercely, narrow but saved
in a way that men are not now.

                                                                                   R.S. Thomas
                                                                        from Collected Poems 1945-1990


After Apple Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be one or two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough,
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the owrld of hoary grass.
It melted and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend,
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load and load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what would trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone.
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

                                                                                     Robert Frost
                                                                              from North of Boston 1913

Have Pity on Those Whose Chances Grow Thinner

For me, this is the perfect Advent poem.

People get ready there's a train a-coming;
Don't need no baggage you just get on board.
All you need is faith to hear the diesels humming;
Don't need no ticket. You just thank the Lord.

So people get ready for the train to Jordan,
Picking up passengers coast to coast.
Faith is the key. Open the doors and board them;
There's hope for all of those who love the most.

There ain't no room for the hopeless sinner
Who would hurt all mankind just to save his own.
Have pity on those whose chances grow thinner,
For there's no hiding place against the kingdom's throne.

Soooooooo
People get ready there's a train a-coming
Don't need no baggage you just get on board
All you need is faith to hear the diesels humming
Don't need no ticket. You just thank the Lord

                                                                             Curtis Mayfield 1965

I was in college when this was released and I memorized every word. I'm quite certain that it was not the theology of the piece that made me fall in love with it, but, rather, the buttery tones of Mr. Mayfield's voice. Nevertheless, the theology stands up to my notions today and to the season of getting ready that is Advent.

So, come on, don't be shy, sing along with me...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0r9XL0FamA

Make the World Continue

I can say with humility that I have a regular, though extremely imperfect, prayer practice. Prayer is one of the vows I made as a Julian affiliate so I take it very seriously. I also think about prayer a lot. I wonder what it does, what it means, even what it is, the catechism answers notwithstanding.

God asks for prayers; this is well attested in both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures. Our prayers are always heard and even answered in some manner. But God is a mystery and withdraws from our purview. We also walk away. It's complicated.

The poem below by Anna Kamienska is about prayer. As you will see, she is praying for things that are already happening and that recur endlessly and predictably. Is this legitimate? Is there a note of sarcasm in her words, or is it a bitter surrender to God's will? Is God getting a grudging free pass? "Well, you won't answer my real prayers, so here are some that you will answer, [expletive deleted]."And, most importantly: Is it OK to pray like this?

A Prayer That Will Be Answered
by Anna Kamienska

Lord, let me suffer much
and then die

Let me walk through silence
and leave nothing behind not even fear

Make the world continue
let the ocean kiss the sand just as before

Let the grass stay green
so that frogs can hide in it

so that someone can bury his face in it
and sob out his love

Make the day rise brightly
as if there were no more pain

And let my poem stand clear as a windowpane
bumped by a bumblebee's head


Of course it's OK. God doesn't evaluate our prayer, testing it for attitude, grammar or devotion. God just listens. So it's an idea to pray like this once in a while. "Let the grass stay green" versus "thank you for making the grass green," or even "send rain to make the grass green."

Incidentally, this poem was part of the materials for a poetry workshop given in St Paul by Christian Wiman in May of 2015.

Two Songs of the Open Road

What is this urge to travel? What is this beckoning that some feel so strongly and yet is entirely foreign to me?

I am pairing two different poets here. A chardonnay with brie; a ruby port with a dark chocolate. But which is which?

           I

in the stillness
of a bare canyon
I'm a scarecrow
with a cigarette
tied to its face

I'm an incident
in a tumbleweed's travels
on a backroad
a dustcloud in a lizard's eye

***

at the edge of a desolate plain
lies a graveyard
neat as a postage stamp
mailing this bleak postcard
to the afterlife

and every highway
wears on its shoulder
a wandering dog
struck dead


IV

As I stepped out the front door of the hotel, a dust devil
big enough to swallow a car came spinning across the
parking lot, lifting its collection of dirt, papers, dead weeds,
30 feet in the air, until it collided with the carport roof
to die in a shower of debris, except for a small feather,
which wafted toward me and was about to alight on my
raised hand when the final gasp of the whirlwind snatched
it away to go dancing gaily over the top of the building
and I hurried around the hotel to claim the splinter of
grace that was meant for me. But the moment had passed.

Roger Parish
from Lines Written Near Marguerite Street
2006 Red Dragonfly Press

__________________________________________

from "Song of the Open Road"

Afoot and lighthearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth, I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querrulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

                                                    5

From this hour I ordained myself loosed from limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

Walt Whitman
from  Leaves of Grass
1855


Roger is a dear and long time friend of mine. He is also a poet, though, being a persnickety old cuss, rarely releases a line. Whitman, on the other hand, well, you couldn't shut the man up. Yet the desire to see other vistas, to be part of other landscapes, infuses both. Roger has spent months and months wandering the trackless wastes of the American southwest and barely produced 200 words.
Whitman, I get the feeling, had his entire poem, of 224 lines in his head before he'd even reached the corner of his block!

Are you a traveler? What does it mean to you?

Anyhow....enjoy

But Then We Were Children

My poetry-only Advent has never been about poems specifically relating to the season, or even particularly religious poetry. I like religious poetry and seek it out, but other poetry works just as well for me. If it takes the top of my head off, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson, it's good enough for me.

Today, however, I am on an Advent message and will share some lines from W.H. Auden's marvelous work, For the Time Being, a "Christmas Oratorio" which was never actually set to music. This long poem covers the story from before the Annunciation through the Flight into Egypt. Even though it was never fully performed, either spoken or sung, the reader can still hear voices raised in song, can still see movement of characters across a stage. Or maybe it's just my imagination.

The piece I am sharing today is from the first section in which Caesar's world is portrayed, and there is no better passage in all literature that so well describes the utter and endless tedium of a world without Christ. Auden plays with time so that modern references are intertwined with ancient ones. He plays with mood as well, transposing his 20th Century angst with the overwrought Empire of the 1st Century. This "dark night of the soul" is as easily viewed in any godless world or person.

But it was not entirely godless. God's people were there with "the fern's devotion to spatial necessity," going through some sort of motion. It was more that any reaching toward God had been so worn thin by reaching elsewhere. Sound familiar?

The Narrator of the oratorio:

If on account of the political situation,
There are quite a number of homes without roofs, and men
Lying about in the countryside neither drunk nor asleep,
If all sailings have been cancelled until further notice,
If it's unwise now to say much in letters, and if,
Under the subnormal temperatures prevailing,
The two sexes are at present the weak and the strong,
That is not at all unusual for this time of year.
If that were all, we should know how to manage. Flood, fire,
The desiccation of grasslands, restraint of princes,
Piracy on the high seas, physical pain and fiscal grief,
These after all are our familiar tribulations,
And we have been through them all before, many, many times.
As events which belong to the natural world where
The occupation of space is the real final fact
And time turns itself in an obedient circle,
They occur again and again but only to pass
Again and again into formal opposites,
From sword to ploughshare, coffin to cradle, war to work,
So that, taking the bad with the good, the pattern composed
By the ten thousand odd things that can possibly happen
Is permanent in a general average way.

Till lately we knew of no other, and between us we seemed
To have what it took -- the adrenal courage of the tiger,
The chameleon's discretion, the modesty of the doe,
Or the fern's devotion to spatial necessity:
To practice one's specific civil virtue was not
So impossible after all; to cut our losses
And bury our dead was really quite easy: That was why
We were always able to say:"We are children of God
And our Father has never forsaken His People."

But then we were children: That was a moment ago,
Before an outrageous novelty had been introduced
Into our lives. Why were we never warned? Perhaps we were.

More about Auden here  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/w-h-auden

Each Man Kills the Thing He loves

Oscar Wilde (1854 -1900) was famous for snarky commentary and wry drama. He was not, however, famous for his faith. In 1895 he was caught out as a homosexual (illegal in England at that time) and was sentenced to two years hard labor in Reading Gaol. His "Ballad of Reading Gaol" (1898) is deeply religious, and, when I read it again this Advent after many years, I found it to be profound and heartbreaking. That his sentence greatly contributed to his death a few years after his release made this work even more gut-wrenching.

I'm sure you'll recognize all the biblical references in the quoted stanzas. :-)

An early stanza claims....

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

There, and in the title to this post, is the most famous line from the poem. Is it true? Do we have a way of destroying what we love? In Reading Gaol, there was, according to the poem, a man condemned to hang for murdering his wife while in a fit of rage at her infidelity. The narrative tracks, in deadly rhythms, the last days of the man's life and the effect on the other inmates.

Many stanzas later....

Alas! It is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Gray figures on the floor.
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

We might feel awe as well. Hardened criminals weeping and praying for one in their midst who had, committed a much greater crime than theirs? Whence this shared guilt?

For me, Wilde had struck upon the notion of cosmic sin, shared evil, human failing. Can we look at another and see in their wrong doing, our own wrong, even if their crimes out weigh ours? As a mild mannered suburban housewife, am I able to look at a killer, a trafficker, a ponzy schemer and feel some of that guilt simply because I share his or her human nature?

Later on....

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I.

After the man is hanged his grave is left untended, even as he was untended in prison.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save...

Of course, there is One tenderer than the "Chaplain."

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan,
But God's eternal laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
with the scent of costliest nard.

And lastly of the hanged man...

And he of the swollen purple throat,
and stark and staring eyes,
waits for the holy hands that took
the Thief to Paradise:
and a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.


Upon his release from Reading Gaol, Wilde moved to France. He never returned to England, never wavered from his faith in God, and, his faith sure and true, never disavowed his homosexuality. Wilde died penniless two years later.

Rest in peace and rise in glory, Oscar.

More about the poet:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde