I went for a long walk this morning at the nature center not too far from my home. I love this place; it's one of two places where my wife has my blessing to scatter my ashes. We go there at least once a month with our son; our dogs usually go with us. We've spotted three deer standing together in a heavily shaded spot near the edge of the trail. We've seen many turtles, countless geese and ducks, a couple of beavers, and a small snake or two. Walking the trail and glancing out at the pond, I almost always feel the presence of God. It's one of the places where I feel closest to God, in fact, on par with the afternoons of solitude I sometimes spent on the shores of Lake Huron as a teenager.
As I walked the trail this morning -- with my wife and son in Chicago for a few days -- I realized how timeless the trees and the life cycle of birds are, and how timeless and endless the process of decomposition is. The logs that are decaying now will crumble within a few more years, and they will again become part of the earth. Yet new trees will exist -- in that place, or ten yards over -- or, if a poor decision is made by some short-sighted person and the nature center is someday turned into a subdivision, well, trees will grow elsewhere. But nature continues. As much as we need to respect and protect the natural world, the whole process of birth, growth, and death is timeless. Yet, paradoxically enough, those particular trees and vines and birds and deer are very much a part of this moment. The same is true for me. I am alive now, and someday I will not be alive -- not on earth, anyway, not in my current, flawed form.
And it's true for every last one of us. I'm small; we are all small. Look up at the sky on a star-filled night and try convincing yourself that you are not small. The closest stars, other than the sun, are billions of miles away (and the sun is 93 million miles from us). This planet has existed for billions of years. The dinosaurs have been gone for 60 million years. Infinity is almost the right word here. Yes, we are small.
And yet we matter. The individual human being matters -- if not to all the people around that person, then at least to God. The least of our brothers and sisters, Christ tells us, must be viewed as deserving of love and respect. (Yes: millions of boys, girls, women, and men have been allowed to starve to death due to the callousness of other human beings -- that is our doing, not God's. Genocides have been committed -- our doing, not God's.) God loves each individual person born at any point in human history. I'm convinced of that. I can't prove it to you; I wouldn't put much stock in anyone who said they had hard evidence that God, the creator, is not just the great clock-maker of deistic lore. No, it's a matter of faith. But it's a belief that is at the core of my faith. Good Friday is at least partly about God's infinite creativity, God's infinite love for us very finite creatures, and God's willingness to come to live among us and help us learn how to die to self -- our foolish, materialistic ways; our violent, inhumane ways of dealing with other people and the world of nature; our willingness to dehumanize others; all signs of our brokenness, our sinfulness -- so that we may live more fully in the love of God that nurtures and redeems. God creates, God loves, God transforms.
For me, Good Friday is about God's great goodness, a goodness that is shared generously with me despite my smallness: my limited life span, the limitations of my body and mind; my brokeness as a sinner. And God's nature truly helps me to realize that death and decay do not mean the end of everything good. The God I worship is the creator of life, the creator of all good things. There's just no way death gets the last laugh when that God is the inventor of all creation.
This Rich Mullins song came to mind near the end of my walk, so I found it on YouTube as soon as I got home. This is from a chapel service at Wheaton College, one of his last performances before his death in 1997. The song is all about grace, and nature, and God's love which is both more powerful and more gentle than anything we can imagine. Not a bad song, I think, for a holy day that focuses on God's redemptive love and our own frailty as God's creation.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Friday, April 06, 2012
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday: Nails, Death, Love That Survives
The nails are not just pointed, as one would expect, but jagged along the edges. There's still bark on the beam they're nailing him to. You want to picture that wood still in the tree, not the form it takes here, as a method of torture. You cannot bear to watch him nailed to that beam, and then the lifting up. The blood streaming from his hands, the thorned crown still on his head. But you're there, even though others have fled. His mother is next to you; you wish she was not here to see this. Mary Magdalene as well. But they, too, look like they're staying. They will not flee.
This afternoon is full of nails, the soldiers hoisting him up; you hear him groan as they pull the beam into place. Bitter wine on a cloth put to his lips. Words exchanged with thieves. Lungs that cannot find enough air. A crying out. Death. This man who is not only a man has died a human's death. Not a death that is antiseptic, free of all pain and anxiety, with the support of loved ones all around, but the most gruesome type of human death, a death characterized by skillful torture, derision, abandonment. And yet he says -- you can hear it from where you stand, twenty feet away -- "Father, forgive them."
Here's what I get out of good Friday: The God I worship loves me, and all people, enough that even when we do our worst to him, he does not reject us but continues to love us and seeks to transform us through mercy, forgiveness, and hope. I've killed Christ a thousand times through my sinfulness, and yet he still loves me enough to want a serious relationship with me. Unearned grace. Amazing grace indeed.
In the end, I find I must embrace a God who loves me (and everyone) that much. God wins me over by loving the human race in the midst of our killing him. Love that survives death; love that heals sinners. On Good Friday, on Calvary hill.
This afternoon is full of nails, the soldiers hoisting him up; you hear him groan as they pull the beam into place. Bitter wine on a cloth put to his lips. Words exchanged with thieves. Lungs that cannot find enough air. A crying out. Death. This man who is not only a man has died a human's death. Not a death that is antiseptic, free of all pain and anxiety, with the support of loved ones all around, but the most gruesome type of human death, a death characterized by skillful torture, derision, abandonment. And yet he says -- you can hear it from where you stand, twenty feet away -- "Father, forgive them."
Here's what I get out of good Friday: The God I worship loves me, and all people, enough that even when we do our worst to him, he does not reject us but continues to love us and seeks to transform us through mercy, forgiveness, and hope. I've killed Christ a thousand times through my sinfulness, and yet he still loves me enough to want a serious relationship with me. Unearned grace. Amazing grace indeed.
In the end, I find I must embrace a God who loves me (and everyone) that much. God wins me over by loving the human race in the midst of our killing him. Love that survives death; love that heals sinners. On Good Friday, on Calvary hill.
Holy Thursday: Bread, Wine, the Garden
Holy Thursday -- the night of the Last Supper, the night when Jesus expressed his deep love for his apostles by telling them he intended to die for them. Very soon. And yet he wanted to celebrate this meal, this passover, with them, so close were they to his heart.
If you're a Christian (or, like me, a very flawed "attempted Christian"), you have to put yourself in that upper room. You have to picture yourself there, reclined at table, fifteen feet or five feet or two feet from Jesus. With all your sinfulness, your lack of humility, your moments of unkindness and petty hostility, your selfishness and materialism, the parts of yourself you wish you could replace with The Better Version of yourself. Even with all that within you, you owe it to yourself to picture yourself in that room. Especially, in fact, with all of that within you. We are taught that Christ died to save sinners, not the righteous. Sinner means me. I bet maybe it means you as well.
Not so sure there's room for sinners? Think about the apostles who were in that room: Judas, who would betray Jesus; Peter, who would in a few hours deny his friend -- the one he called "messiah" -- not once but three times. Surely there's space in that room for you and me.
The Last Supper is -- at its core -- about God's deep, unconditional love for human beings: collectively and individually. The Last Supper is not a theological concept, regardless of how much theology one can derive from it. The Last Supper is an event, a bittersweet celebration in God's courtship of the human soul. It's an intimate gathering. We are called to attend. We have the invitation. There's room at the table. Someone is offering bread, now wine. But it is something more than food that is handed around, something more than drink that is in the cup. The person who is calling is not just anyone, but the God who would be both creator and friend. ("I no longer call you servants, but friends." Of course, if you wish to grow in the friendship, you eventually realize you must learn to recognize and serve the Christ who is in your neighbor, and everyone is your neighbor. Tough to live it out, yes. But the selfless, unconditional love found in the Last Supper, and the next day on Calvary hill, is nourishment for the journey.)
A few hours later, you are in the garden. Jesus is praying. You think you might have heard him weeping. That was a few minutes ago. You are so very drowsy. Maybe you just imagined he was in distress. Yes, that's probably it. There's some wind in the trees. It could have been that.
When you wake up, he's saying something to you -- you and the rest. "Can you not stay awake for just a little while longer?" Not angry, more disappointed. You've disappointed him, but there was love in his face (just as surely as you saw sweat on his temples), as well as distress. He has retreated to the back of the garden again, and you are once more feeling drowsy. If you could just take a short nap. Jerusalem is a bustling place. Your limbs are aching from the distances you've walked in the crowds, edging your way through. Your head hurts from the noise of the city. It isn't so unreasonable for you to want to sleep a while, is it?
No, it's not Easter yet. No one fully understands the concept of Easter at this point. No one has any reason to believe in it yet. There's no glorious resurrection yet, no matter what Jesus seemed to say about rebuilding the temple. He said something extraordinary during the passover meal, too, and now he is weeping, and it's getting ominous; you can feel something is about to change in this city. But you are so very sleepy. A few minutes, that's all you're hoping for.
It's Thursday night. You have to live through Holy Thursday. You wonder how this whole thing is going to turn out.
If you're a Christian (or, like me, a very flawed "attempted Christian"), you have to put yourself in that upper room. You have to picture yourself there, reclined at table, fifteen feet or five feet or two feet from Jesus. With all your sinfulness, your lack of humility, your moments of unkindness and petty hostility, your selfishness and materialism, the parts of yourself you wish you could replace with The Better Version of yourself. Even with all that within you, you owe it to yourself to picture yourself in that room. Especially, in fact, with all of that within you. We are taught that Christ died to save sinners, not the righteous. Sinner means me. I bet maybe it means you as well.
Not so sure there's room for sinners? Think about the apostles who were in that room: Judas, who would betray Jesus; Peter, who would in a few hours deny his friend -- the one he called "messiah" -- not once but three times. Surely there's space in that room for you and me.
The Last Supper is -- at its core -- about God's deep, unconditional love for human beings: collectively and individually. The Last Supper is not a theological concept, regardless of how much theology one can derive from it. The Last Supper is an event, a bittersweet celebration in God's courtship of the human soul. It's an intimate gathering. We are called to attend. We have the invitation. There's room at the table. Someone is offering bread, now wine. But it is something more than food that is handed around, something more than drink that is in the cup. The person who is calling is not just anyone, but the God who would be both creator and friend. ("I no longer call you servants, but friends." Of course, if you wish to grow in the friendship, you eventually realize you must learn to recognize and serve the Christ who is in your neighbor, and everyone is your neighbor. Tough to live it out, yes. But the selfless, unconditional love found in the Last Supper, and the next day on Calvary hill, is nourishment for the journey.)
A few hours later, you are in the garden. Jesus is praying. You think you might have heard him weeping. That was a few minutes ago. You are so very drowsy. Maybe you just imagined he was in distress. Yes, that's probably it. There's some wind in the trees. It could have been that.
When you wake up, he's saying something to you -- you and the rest. "Can you not stay awake for just a little while longer?" Not angry, more disappointed. You've disappointed him, but there was love in his face (just as surely as you saw sweat on his temples), as well as distress. He has retreated to the back of the garden again, and you are once more feeling drowsy. If you could just take a short nap. Jerusalem is a bustling place. Your limbs are aching from the distances you've walked in the crowds, edging your way through. Your head hurts from the noise of the city. It isn't so unreasonable for you to want to sleep a while, is it?
No, it's not Easter yet. No one fully understands the concept of Easter at this point. No one has any reason to believe in it yet. There's no glorious resurrection yet, no matter what Jesus seemed to say about rebuilding the temple. He said something extraordinary during the passover meal, too, and now he is weeping, and it's getting ominous; you can feel something is about to change in this city. But you are so very sleepy. A few minutes, that's all you're hoping for.
It's Thursday night. You have to live through Holy Thursday. You wonder how this whole thing is going to turn out.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust -- and That's Just Fine
Due to my work schedule today, I wasn't able to make it to an Ash Wednesday service. That's fine, though, for I was able to find a couple pockets of time today for some good reflection and prayer, and I feel like my Lent is off to a good start. (Most years, I end up not really getting started on Lent -- ashes on the forehead on Wednesday or not -- until a week or so has gone by, and by half way through Lent, I've usually written it off as another failed part of my so-called Christian walk. Just have to be honest about that.)
This year, however, I made a brief detour so as to drive through a cemetery near where I work. It was, roughly speaking, the equivalent of having ashes imposed and hearing someone tell me, "From ashes you have come and to ashes you shall return; repent of your sins and live the Gospel." (If it had not been so cold and damp, I might have climbed out and walked amongst the graves for five or ten minutes. I may be a strange fellow, but I've always found cemeteries to be exceedingly peaceful places. Nothing like the common human fate to lend one perspective on the foibles of daily life.)
I remember reading once that Jim Carrey, early in his career, at a time when he wasn't successful at all and could barely pay his bills, wrote a check to himself (undated) for a million dollars. He believed in his future success; he promised himself he would be able to cash that check some day. It's good to believe in yourself that way, I suppose; it's healthy to give yourself goals. Yet my occasional trip through a cemetery has a somewhat analogous purpose in my life -- and I do not mean this in any morose way, not at all. But the truth of the matter is, I am sure I will die some day, and I will be completely dependent at that moment (and for all of eternity, yes indeed!) on the grace and great mercy and love of God. So when I trip through the graveyard, that is sort of my own simple way of saying, "I'm one of you; here too lies my fate; and yet there's a resurrection awaiting me some day as well, even if these stones seem incredibly solemn." I'll be worm food or ashes in a blink of an eye. And yet God's love ever surrounds me; I am, through Christ's loving substitution of himself for me, God's darling one. (Yeah, honest, me. And you too!) Proud indeed to be in this club, this group of souls who are not forever confined to this world, even though it's a great place to be for right now. In a bit (a few decades? a few years?) I'm out of here and on to more of God's love. Amen.
Happy Ash Wednesday and a good Lent to all.
This year, however, I made a brief detour so as to drive through a cemetery near where I work. It was, roughly speaking, the equivalent of having ashes imposed and hearing someone tell me, "From ashes you have come and to ashes you shall return; repent of your sins and live the Gospel." (If it had not been so cold and damp, I might have climbed out and walked amongst the graves for five or ten minutes. I may be a strange fellow, but I've always found cemeteries to be exceedingly peaceful places. Nothing like the common human fate to lend one perspective on the foibles of daily life.)
I remember reading once that Jim Carrey, early in his career, at a time when he wasn't successful at all and could barely pay his bills, wrote a check to himself (undated) for a million dollars. He believed in his future success; he promised himself he would be able to cash that check some day. It's good to believe in yourself that way, I suppose; it's healthy to give yourself goals. Yet my occasional trip through a cemetery has a somewhat analogous purpose in my life -- and I do not mean this in any morose way, not at all. But the truth of the matter is, I am sure I will die some day, and I will be completely dependent at that moment (and for all of eternity, yes indeed!) on the grace and great mercy and love of God. So when I trip through the graveyard, that is sort of my own simple way of saying, "I'm one of you; here too lies my fate; and yet there's a resurrection awaiting me some day as well, even if these stones seem incredibly solemn." I'll be worm food or ashes in a blink of an eye. And yet God's love ever surrounds me; I am, through Christ's loving substitution of himself for me, God's darling one. (Yeah, honest, me. And you too!) Proud indeed to be in this club, this group of souls who are not forever confined to this world, even though it's a great place to be for right now. In a bit (a few decades? a few years?) I'm out of here and on to more of God's love. Amen.
Happy Ash Wednesday and a good Lent to all.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Ash Wednesday: I Shall Die Someday, and Thank You for Reminding Me
I am indeed The Mighty Ambivalent Catholic (one of millions, I suspect), but one part of Catholicism that I am not ambivalent about in the least is Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is a day when I remember -- when my faith community actually goes out of its way to remind me -- that I will die. Not only will I die, but I will die within decades or years or months or days or (hold on here) possibly the next few hours.
None of us know the exact time or circumstances of our deaths. What a truism. Yet what an important realization, once we get past the truism and let this idea really settle upon us. If my life is to matter -- if I am to express my love to my wife or my son -- if I am to write that kind letter too long delayed -- if I am to learn to pray better or live better or teach better or simply listen to the important sounds and voices that I should listen to --I had better start doing that soon. Or better yet, now.
Ash Wednesday reminds me to be humble. I am a sinner; I am limited in what I can see or understand clearly; I will some day come to my end through a heart attack or car crash or disease. Yet even with those obvious limitations, I am embraced and saved by a God who loves me dearly. God is, for some reason I do not understand fully, not ambivalent in His love for me. Consequently, yes I can easily embrace Ash Wednesday -- and the ashes on my forehead -- and my mortality -- without much ambivalence. I come from dust, and to dust I someday surely will return. And in the end, things will be fine.
None of us know the exact time or circumstances of our deaths. What a truism. Yet what an important realization, once we get past the truism and let this idea really settle upon us. If my life is to matter -- if I am to express my love to my wife or my son -- if I am to write that kind letter too long delayed -- if I am to learn to pray better or live better or teach better or simply listen to the important sounds and voices that I should listen to --I had better start doing that soon. Or better yet, now.
Ash Wednesday reminds me to be humble. I am a sinner; I am limited in what I can see or understand clearly; I will some day come to my end through a heart attack or car crash or disease. Yet even with those obvious limitations, I am embraced and saved by a God who loves me dearly. God is, for some reason I do not understand fully, not ambivalent in His love for me. Consequently, yes I can easily embrace Ash Wednesday -- and the ashes on my forehead -- and my mortality -- without much ambivalence. I come from dust, and to dust I someday surely will return. And in the end, things will be fine.
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