Off to the mitten

After a long-short week of papers, meetings, summer job training, and not nearly enough sleep, I’m too wrung out to finish writing something for today’s post. Figuring into this equation is that I plan to be in Grand Rapids by noon today for the biennial Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College (my dear alma mater).

This is my first time as a true attendee – in 2008 and 2010 I was behind the scenes as a student committee member (one of my best Calvin experiences). I’m looking forward to lots of reunions with friends and acquaintances as well as many great sessions with wonderful authors. I’m sure I’ll have more to share at some point. Meanwhile, you can check out the FFW website and be convinced that you should attend next time (or, if you’re attending this weekend, look me up and say hello!).

The story I wrestle with

Right after the “more and more” part in Lauren Winner’s Still (like, seriously, the next paragraph), she tells the story of her friend who, preparing for confirmation at 12, told her pastor-father that she wasn’t sure whether she believed everything, whether she could claim these beliefs forever in front of the congregation. Her father’s reply: “What you promise when you are confirmed…is not that you will believe this forever. What you promise when you are confirmed is that that is the story you will wrestle with forever” (p. 172).

This is Christianity to me: the story I have chosen to wrestle with forever.

In the chapter on sacraments in Your Faith, Your Life, the book my inquirers seminar used when I was preparing for confirmation in TEC, Bill Lewellis relates a story from writer Nikos Kazantsakis about a monk at a Grecian monastery. When Nikos asks saintly old Father Makarios, “Do you still wrestle with the devil?” Father Makarios states that he and the devil have grown old together and no longer bother each other. Now, Father Makarios says, “I wrestle with God.”

“With God? And you hope to win?” Nikos asks.

“I hope to lose.”

Bill Lewellis extrapolates—when you wrestle with God, “one of two things can happen. Winning isn’t one. Either you walk away from the relationship, or you wrestle until you lose. When God wins, you have reason to celebrate” (p. 169).

This echoes, somewhat, the story of Jacob, wrestling—with whom? The mysterious figure. God? So his new name (Israel) would suggest. Jacob wrestles all night, and winds up with a limp and a blessing. What a deal.

When my cousin died suddenly at 29, and the pastor at my home church had to deliver a sermon to her family and friends—parents, sister, nieces, husband, sons—he spoke about Jacob.* Jacob went through quite a night, wrestling God, and in the end he lost—and was blessed. But the blessing didn’t take away the limp.

We’re living an awesome and terrible story, and we don’t leave this story unmarked.

Even the resurrected Christ, God incarnate dead-and-raised, kept the marks of his wounds. Those of us on the RCL cycle heard about these wounds in the Gospel reading: “Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side.” And again, for good ol’ Tom: “Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’”

I mean, this is the Jesus who rose from the dead; I’m pretty sure he could’ve gotten rid of the scars if he’d chosen to—but he didn’t, and we know a wounded Christ, a Christ who went through quite a 3-day night, and didn’t leave unmarked.

I think it’s a common impulse to want to get through life unscathed: clean, pure, flawless. That never happens, though. Life leaves marks. And these marks—these physical or emotional limps and scars—are only perceived as imperfection or weakness. Perhaps, really, they’re blessing. They’re what make us human, what show that we’ve really lived. They are our stories, etched onto our selves, indelible and holy reminders.

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How do you wrestle with God? With the Christian story? What are the marks and blessings you’ve received?

 

*I think. I thought I’d recorded this in journals somewhere, but I can’t find it, so I’m apparently trusting solely a years-old memory. My apologies if I happened to get this wrong.

More and more

I’ve been confirmed twice—first in the Christian Reformed Church when I was just shy of 13 (“Public Profession of Faith” is what we called it), and then again last May in the Episcopal Church. Both of these events are stories in themselves; today I’m concerned specifically with the abundance inherent in them.

In the middle of her book on middles (Still), Lauren Winner, an Episcopalian, writes about attending a confirmation service. While she’s fuzzy on the theology around present-day Episcopal confirmation services,* she writes, she likes the repetition of the bishop’s BCP prayer over the confirmands:

Defend, O Lord, your servant N. with your heavenly grace,
that he may continue yours for ever, and daily increase in
your Holy Spirit more and more, until he comes to your
everlasting kingdom.  Amen.

It’s the “more and more” she likes, Winner writes—the redundancy of it, “repeated ten times, twenty times, like a spell.”

I also like the “more and more,” as a statement of spiritual abundance; a playful, extravagant, lavish verbalization of what can be. More and more and more and more. That’s what I can hope for. More and more and more and more. That’s what the bishop asked for me when she laid her hands heavily on my head in the darkened stone church that was a refuge for our small congregation on a stormy, windy Wednesday night.

Easter is a feast season, and this Easter feels abundant to me. I failed at my Lenten discipline(s) again this year, and I wasn’t sure how much of a difference Easter would make—I’m just as busy, tired, and frenetic as I was a couple of weeks ago. It has made a difference, though, the tangibles joy and the sweet alleluias, so fresh on my lips.

In fact, though, this sense of abundance is not limited to the Easter season. This whole year has been full of abundances. This has been a year of great change, a year of surprise, of plans changed—which at first felt unsettlingly like loss, but has turned out to be abundance beyond imagining. More and more and more and more. In the world of this abundance even the silences and shadows feel somehow fuller, and I am grateful.

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Have you experienced abundance recently? How has it affected you? Is the Easter season one of abundance in your life?

 

*While writing this, I read a great “Brief Thought on Confirmation” by Derek Olsen on his blog, Haligweorc.

Blessed Easter

I, with my companions in Western Christianity, celebrated Easter yesterday. I mentioned that I appreciate the Episcopal Holy Week services; I also joy in Easter morning. Yesterday was a glorious Easter celebration with full pews, a baptism, soaring Easter hymns, a big choir, brass accompaniment, a soul-warming swoon-worthy Widor Toccata voluntary, bright sun through stained glass, special coffee hour treats, Easter bonnets and corsages, all the lilies!, etc., followed by dinner with friends (“dinner” may have consisted in significant part of candy) and a nap. Happy Easter.

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Shining like transfiguration

Last year’s Holy Week was my first as an Episcopalian, and TEC is the most liturgical denomination I’ve been a part of. I found (and find) all the services meaningful—Palm/Passion Sunday where in good weather we bless the palms ecumenically, a sort of holy block party with our Methodist and Disciples neighbors; Maundy Thursday where our shared meal becomes liturgy and we kneel to wash feet, and later when we watch together at the Altar of Repose; Good Friday, which we share with the other Episcopal church in town. These are all powerful services. And then there’s Easter Vigil.

Easter Vigil was not a service I’d encountered before coming into TEC. I was used to Easter beginning on, well, Easter, but last spring I stood out in my church’s memorial garden near dusk on Holy Saturday, watching three priests’ rather humorous and ultimately successful attempts to ignite kindling without also igniting vestments.

The paschal candle was lit, then, and from it the candles we would carry into the darkened church, the nave heavy with the perfume of the lilies placed on every spare sill and ledge. As the procession began, it was my turn to not set anything on fire—juggling candles + vestments + sheet music and singing harmony on the way to the chancel took the greater part of my concentration. The candles were necessary even after we reached our seats, as the church remains unlit the Service of the Table (“When the electricity magically comes back on,” the music director chuckled).

As we worked our way through the liturgy, I glanced out at the congregation. I’d been to candlelit services before, quiet evenings of Taizé-style chanting, or Christmas Eves in mega-churches where hundreds of flames light a packed semicircle. In my parish, the hundreds became dozens, and as the last vestiges of twilight faded from the stained glass windows, the lofty corners of the building fell into deep shadow.

Now, it is common knowledge that candlelight makes people look good—any women’s magazine will tell you this—but that night I saw the friends and acquaintances of my parish literally in a new light. In her novel Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (speaking as the Rev. John Ames) writes, “Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?”

For just a moment, I had the courage. I saw the broken, haphazard, holy people with whom I shared Eucharist every week, candlelit and shining—the saints and ministers who inspire and uphold and challenge me. Some I knew better than others, some I hardly knew at all, but in that moment I felt a remarkable intimacy and connection with every one, and in their illuminated faces God shined through.

Moments like this are not the norm for me—I sometimes describe myself as a mystic without the mysticism—but I know these little transfigurations are always glimmering just under the surface. They might break through at any moment; I hope for the courage and willingness to bear witness.

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What is your Holy Week practice like? Is one of the Holy Week services particularly meaningful to you? Have you had memorable experiences during Holy Week? Where do you see God in ordinary moments?

Hungry for stories

I did something I didn’t mean to this weekend: I finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I probably shouldn’t have: I had grading to do ad infinitum, an (academic) book to read, lessons to plan, assignments to complete. I was short on sleep from staying up chatting with my couchsurfer/apparent long-lost twin. But I sat down and read two novels in one evening (mirroring last weekend, when I read the first book one day and saw the film the next).

The HG books are good. Really good. They’re fast, intense, emotionally engaging. I was a wreck a few times during Catching Fire. Twenty minutes after I finished reading, I went to the store and bought Mockingjay. I had to know the ending. I love reading good young adult fiction, and this is.

There’s no way I could sort out all my feelings and opinions about the series in a single blog post, less than 48 hours after reading. The closest I can come to a review right now is to tell you to read the books. And maybe see the movie, too. And definitely listen to the movie soundtrack (Neko Case and Civil Wars and Carolina Chocolate Drops, oh my!).

What I’ve been thinking about is the series’ popularity. I’m a bit of a latecomer where jumping on the HG bandwagon is concerned. I had some idea that the books were around and popular—friends would put up Facebook statuses like “Does anyone have the 3rd Hunger Games book? Can I borrow it RIGHT NOW?” And I knew a lot of people were excited for the movie.

This is not a new phenomenon—it reminds me of what happened with Twilight (which I haven’t read/seen) and Harry Potter (which I have read and loved) and, to a lesser extent, His Dark Materials (good books that I read to see what all the conservative fuss was about).

And where there are popular books/movies, there are people to parse deeper themes, often/particularly religious themes—you know, the The Gospel According to [Franchise] book that always comes out? Now, I’m not opposed to reading “Christianly.” I’d like to think I do so, with my Calvin College education (including my year as a “cultural discerner”), but I don’t think reading Christianly means hypervigilance regarding religious themes. Do we really need another pop-culture Bible study? Is this relevance?

 

I actually think HG has fewer religious overtones than the other popular young adult franchises I mentioned, and I suspect that inserting explicit spirituality into the books would’ve weakened them (this from someone who has read her share of Christian fiction). What I think the HG series is is a compelling story rich with an exploration of the human condition. This is what makes it powerful. Of course there are things for Christians to learn, to draw from, to think about—there are things for everyone. This is a story for humans.

The richness of the HG story is what draws me to it, and it is what creates resonance with my Christianity, with the story at my center. People are hungry for stories; I think that can be seen in the recent popularity of HG, HP, and others. This week, Holy Week, is a powerful reminder that as Christians we wrestle with one of the most compelling stories of all—that of Christ crucified and resurrected.

The Hunger Games trilogy is not a glitter-and-sunshine fairytale. It is haunting, and troubling, and—I think—ultimately beautiful. The final book in particular has met with very mixed responses from readers. One Amazon reviewer complains that at the end of Mockingjay, we are left with no redemption for Katniss. I don’t agree; I think there is redemption in story.

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Have you read the Hunger Games books? Seen the movie? What did you think? What are your favorite stories, and what do they mean to you?

Empty, greening, open

Because sharing my parish Lenten devotional contribution worked so well on Monday, and because I’m unprepared for my Hebrew quiz at 9am, and because this has been and is a busy, busy week (wait––and Holy Week is next week?! Isn’t that supposed to be the busy one?), and, well, because I like catching a few winks here and there… here it is: my other contribution to the parish Lenten devotional.

This means I’m now fresh out of completed posts. I’m rattling around with something about the Anglican Covenant that’s going to be out-of-date if I wait too much longer, and I have a few other ideas, and of course for Holy Week I’m compelled to have Holy-Week-themed pieces. Let’s just hope I can carve out some time for writing!

When I studied in Oregon for a semester, many of my classmates and I spent a week exploring contemplative practices together. One evening we created our own “beggar bowls,” clay pinch pots that we used during Sunday vespers services and other quiet times. The beggar bowls could be many things—a symbolic opening or emptying of oneself, a connection to “poorness of spirit,” or just something to hold on to during prayer/meditation.

I still have the beggar bowl I made during contemplative week, and tactile person that I am, I still like picking it up, cupping it in my palms—a perfect fit—and feeling it gradually warm in my hands. I find Lent an especially appropriate time for this practice, a time for emptying and opening myself to be filled with God’s grace and abundance.

 

Vessel

It is less than elegant,
this small clay bowl
equal in volume to my two hands.

It is lumpy with my thumbprints,
and the color of April mud

on the outside. The inside is glazed
green as the Cascade-Siskyous in November.
It sets empty, cold to the touch,

but when I cup it in my hands, it warms
to my blood and I am

empty, greening, open to the sky.