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