Those who seek justice from the powers that be, those who do not have an off switch in their minds for questions and analysis, those who attempt to hear the voices silenced by oppression, those who are not satisfied in perpetuating the status quo and are not afraid to speak words to bring it down, those who feel the wounds of the abused as deeply as they feel their own… what will become of us if we cannot find a hope that’s more tangible than every problem we draw out, every sin we condemn, both in ourselves and in the world? The frailty and fragility of a person cannot possibly accumulate the burden of both personal scars and the wounds of others. With buckled knees and hunched backs, our eyes, which have already tended to gaze at the dirt, will be drilled closer to the ground, and soon we will lose the ability to stand straight again. Our heads will no longer fight gravity, and our eyes will see nothing but darkness, whether or not it is actually there. Whatever gifts we have used will become like trying to do surgery by swinging a machete by the blade; altogether useless and rather painful.
Cynicism is not and cannot be the end point under which we are crushed. For those of us who are self-described realists, when we fail to acknowledge and revel in the beauty and goodness that is found intertwined with the brokenness we spend so much time pointing out, we have failed to live up to our name, for beauty, love, and hope are more enduring and immediate realities than the brokenness we see. Not only do we become as blind as those who ignore suffering, but we forfeit a potent method by which we are encouraged, energized and blessed by the one who has already borne these burdens... the one who, by His resurrection, has inaugurated a new reality.
His Kingdom is His, not mine. And if I am part of His Kingdom, then I am entirely His as well, as are these scars, both the ones I have given myself and the ones I have taken on. If He has indeed risen, as I professed today during Eucharist, then my burdens and the cries of this world are not my own to shoulder, for His yoke is easy and His burden is light.
Showing posts with label Suffering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Suffering. Show all posts
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Hello, Memorial Day.
I find it a great irony to be sitting outside enjoying the sun around a place named “Patriot Lake” on Memorial Day writing this, given my disgust for blind nationalism and unaccountable patriotism on account of belonging to a different Kingdom. I question the premises and pride upon which patriotism and nationalism are based, which are often ones of superiority and exclusivity, ones that draw artificial lines between “us” and “them” and divide rather than unite.
Turning onto my street the other day, an oversized pickup truck drove in front of me with two boisterous American flags obnoxiously flapping themselves behind the cab. I about vomited in my car, as every negative association of American consumption, arrogance, and over-indulgence found itself carrying the official representation of what countless millions of people worldwide find oppressive.
I am irked by our tendencies to graft the Gospel into our pre-existing comfort zones and culture, affirming our complacency and status quos instead of overthrowing it. As I sat in my old church, I watched a video commemorating the fallen soldiers, hailed as those who died to “protect our freedoms,” wondering where the prophetic voice of the church was in saying, “No, most recently, they died to protect our oil. Our foreign interests. Our culturally insensitive and ethnocentric version of ‘freedom’.” The psychology behind war and the military is interesting. It takes a construct like honor and pride and convinces young men and women that such are things worth giving their lives for. It glorifies the flag and the country that it represents, so that any criticism of the country’s policies or actions becomes an indictment upon the sacrifice of the soldiers, lives taken by the very country they fought to defend, for reasons obscured by self-serving national interests and political games. Like dogs, we are so blind to it that any critiques will illicit a violently patriotic visceral response, as such conditioning is intended to do, since we are terrified of believing that the deaths of our friends and loved ones were inane. I listened to the pastor talk about the worries of life, listing not having a “Biblical candidate” this November as one of them, as if the Bible only ever talked about abortion, homosexuality and family values, and that the poor, justice, and being peacemakers weren’t topics Christians should trifle with in politics.
It’s ironic, because as I sit here criticizing such things, if I am to be fair and honest, I cannot deny that I would be unable to post this if it weren’t for the actual freedoms we do have. I know that in many ways, the church I critiqued is doing the work of God. I cannot say such things without offending those who really have served God and lost their lives in "legitimate" wars. I can’t say that America hasn’t done good in the world, or that there isn’t support for Just War theories. I wouldn’t be writing this on my Macbook if I didn’t participate in American consumerism, and I have to admit that the car I drive contributes to this country’s selfish quest for energy, magnifying the misery of those around the world affected by our greed, just as much as the pickup truck in front of me. I do not speak as one without blame, but as one who is trying to fight self-deception.
So, “happy” Memorial Day, for what it’s worth. Things just aren’t so Bible-thumping black and white.
Turning onto my street the other day, an oversized pickup truck drove in front of me with two boisterous American flags obnoxiously flapping themselves behind the cab. I about vomited in my car, as every negative association of American consumption, arrogance, and over-indulgence found itself carrying the official representation of what countless millions of people worldwide find oppressive.
I am irked by our tendencies to graft the Gospel into our pre-existing comfort zones and culture, affirming our complacency and status quos instead of overthrowing it. As I sat in my old church, I watched a video commemorating the fallen soldiers, hailed as those who died to “protect our freedoms,” wondering where the prophetic voice of the church was in saying, “No, most recently, they died to protect our oil. Our foreign interests. Our culturally insensitive and ethnocentric version of ‘freedom’.” The psychology behind war and the military is interesting. It takes a construct like honor and pride and convinces young men and women that such are things worth giving their lives for. It glorifies the flag and the country that it represents, so that any criticism of the country’s policies or actions becomes an indictment upon the sacrifice of the soldiers, lives taken by the very country they fought to defend, for reasons obscured by self-serving national interests and political games. Like dogs, we are so blind to it that any critiques will illicit a violently patriotic visceral response, as such conditioning is intended to do, since we are terrified of believing that the deaths of our friends and loved ones were inane. I listened to the pastor talk about the worries of life, listing not having a “Biblical candidate” this November as one of them, as if the Bible only ever talked about abortion, homosexuality and family values, and that the poor, justice, and being peacemakers weren’t topics Christians should trifle with in politics.
It’s ironic, because as I sit here criticizing such things, if I am to be fair and honest, I cannot deny that I would be unable to post this if it weren’t for the actual freedoms we do have. I know that in many ways, the church I critiqued is doing the work of God. I cannot say such things without offending those who really have served God and lost their lives in "legitimate" wars. I can’t say that America hasn’t done good in the world, or that there isn’t support for Just War theories. I wouldn’t be writing this on my Macbook if I didn’t participate in American consumerism, and I have to admit that the car I drive contributes to this country’s selfish quest for energy, magnifying the misery of those around the world affected by our greed, just as much as the pickup truck in front of me. I do not speak as one without blame, but as one who is trying to fight self-deception.
So, “happy” Memorial Day, for what it’s worth. Things just aren’t so Bible-thumping black and white.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Beauty of Easter Lilies
I came home with some Easter Lilies today. I couldn't bring myself to keep them in my room.
A friend sent this to me yesterday:
The Fortieth Day: Holy Saturday
MARK 15:47
"Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where he was laid."
Stone Cold. And the stone is closed. Where do I go from here? Nowhere. Back to the city. Which is a nowhere now. The Master isn't there. The Master is not. Everywhere is nowhere. There's nowhere to go.
What do I do? I don't know what to do. Nothing. The Sabbath has started. So what? So, if I pray I'll be mouthing the sounds. Nothing. And if I pray a vain repetition, what then? Will Heaven be offended? Well, Heaven has offended me!
Joseph's stone is like the period that stops the sentence. Boom! - the story's done. And when the story's over, the very air is empty. No place for me. No home for my soul. Silence. Why do I keep standing here? It's dark. It's midnight. Everyone's gone home. Except me. Abandoned. Nothing.
Why can't I leave the tombs?
Because the whole world is a graveyard. Because this is the one that has my Lord.
Jesus! Jesus! Without you I am a nothing in a nowhere!
You are dead.
My world is annihilated.
And still - I love you.
Mary, do this:
Even in your despair, observe the rituals. It is the Sabbath; then let it be the Sabbath after all. Pray your prayers. However hollow and unsatisfying they may feel, God can fill them. God is God, who made the world from nothing- and God as God can still astonish you. He can make of your mouthings a prayer-and of your groanings a hymn. Observe the ritual. Prepare your spices. Return on Sunday, even to this scene of your sorrow, expecting nothing but a corpse, planning nothing but to sigh once more and to pay respects.
One story is done indeed, my Magdalene. You're right. You've entered the dark night of the soul.
But another story- one you cannot conceive of (it's God who conceives it!) - starts at sunrise. And the empty time between, while sadly you prepare the spices, is in fact preparing you! Soon you will change. Soon you will become that holy conundrum which must baffle and antagonize the world: a saint. Saint Mary Magdalene. "As dying, and behold we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things" - that host of contradictions, the beauty of Spirit, the puzzle of all who know him not, the character of the Saints!
Come again on Sunday, Mary, and see how it is that God makes saints.
Come, follow.
from Reliving the Passion by Walter Wangerin Jr.
A word from Dr. Robinson in response:
"And this is the wonder that is Easter, but the dark night must come first. Then and only then--God, amazing us with that other story out there that we could not conceive of!
But through our dark nights, when as with Mary going to the tomb, or Jonah in the belly of the whale, we still love, we still follow."
Amen.
A friend sent this to me yesterday:
The Fortieth Day: Holy Saturday
MARK 15:47
"Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where he was laid."
Stone Cold. And the stone is closed. Where do I go from here? Nowhere. Back to the city. Which is a nowhere now. The Master isn't there. The Master is not. Everywhere is nowhere. There's nowhere to go.
What do I do? I don't know what to do. Nothing. The Sabbath has started. So what? So, if I pray I'll be mouthing the sounds. Nothing. And if I pray a vain repetition, what then? Will Heaven be offended? Well, Heaven has offended me!
Joseph's stone is like the period that stops the sentence. Boom! - the story's done. And when the story's over, the very air is empty. No place for me. No home for my soul. Silence. Why do I keep standing here? It's dark. It's midnight. Everyone's gone home. Except me. Abandoned. Nothing.
Why can't I leave the tombs?
Because the whole world is a graveyard. Because this is the one that has my Lord.
Jesus! Jesus! Without you I am a nothing in a nowhere!
You are dead.
My world is annihilated.
And still - I love you.
Mary, do this:
Even in your despair, observe the rituals. It is the Sabbath; then let it be the Sabbath after all. Pray your prayers. However hollow and unsatisfying they may feel, God can fill them. God is God, who made the world from nothing- and God as God can still astonish you. He can make of your mouthings a prayer-and of your groanings a hymn. Observe the ritual. Prepare your spices. Return on Sunday, even to this scene of your sorrow, expecting nothing but a corpse, planning nothing but to sigh once more and to pay respects.
One story is done indeed, my Magdalene. You're right. You've entered the dark night of the soul.
But another story- one you cannot conceive of (it's God who conceives it!) - starts at sunrise. And the empty time between, while sadly you prepare the spices, is in fact preparing you! Soon you will change. Soon you will become that holy conundrum which must baffle and antagonize the world: a saint. Saint Mary Magdalene. "As dying, and behold we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things" - that host of contradictions, the beauty of Spirit, the puzzle of all who know him not, the character of the Saints!
Come again on Sunday, Mary, and see how it is that God makes saints.
Come, follow.
from Reliving the Passion by Walter Wangerin Jr.
A word from Dr. Robinson in response:
"And this is the wonder that is Easter, but the dark night must come first. Then and only then--God, amazing us with that other story out there that we could not conceive of!
But through our dark nights, when as with Mary going to the tomb, or Jonah in the belly of the whale, we still love, we still follow."
Amen.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Meditations on a Good Friday
More so than any other day, the humanity in the suffering of Jesus should speak volumes to us today. The death of the divine Christ was to reconcile us to God, His blood paving the way to the throne of God. The church teaches this well.
But the suffering... the angst laced with blood that soaked the dirt of the garden, as much as the church stresses the divinity of Christ (and rightfully so), that was the blood of a man crushed by the will of the Father. Here was a man who wished his friends to at least keep him company as he struggled to stand underneath the burden. Here was a man who wished desperately to drink from a less painful cup.
And so Jesus, the Son of God, yet in every sense of the word, the Son of (hu)Man(ity), bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh, suffered. He hungered, he wept, he ran his fingers through children's hair, felt the coolness of wine run down his throat, reclined and treasured the presence of his friends, and here, his sympathetic nervous system threw itself into high gear knowing that every second brought him further suffering.
The humanity of Jesus suffered. Like us, he suffered. In Scripture, the Passion happens in a few chapters. It is read within the matter of minutes. In the reality of time and space, it took hours. Days.
And for three days, God himself was silent in the grave, giving no answers to those who wept or those who now huddled themselves, locked with fear and confusion as their companions. They themselves must have cried, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani??"
If God did not spare his son... then... how about us?
It is the divinity of Christ that validates and vindicates suffering of his humanity. It is the status of "Son" that reminds the rest of his very human adopted brothers and sisters that silence and darkness in a grave is not a sin, but the path taken by Christ himself. From the smiles that creased the corners of his eyes, to the unrestrained sobs at Lazarus' grave, our broken humanity was vindicated by God himself.
And on the road into Jerusalem upon a donkey, to the road he stumbled through towards Golgotha, to the road headed towards Emmaus, both his divinity and his humanity remind us that we are to live our lives as journeys, never static, never certain of what praise, suffering, or surprises might meet us along the way.
But one thing we know. Jesus, the one who has both suffered and rejoiced, walks beside us. And as he runs or crawls with us, he reminds us that though three days of silence and darkness felt like a lifetime, a Good Sunday is on its way.
But the suffering... the angst laced with blood that soaked the dirt of the garden, as much as the church stresses the divinity of Christ (and rightfully so), that was the blood of a man crushed by the will of the Father. Here was a man who wished his friends to at least keep him company as he struggled to stand underneath the burden. Here was a man who wished desperately to drink from a less painful cup.
And so Jesus, the Son of God, yet in every sense of the word, the Son of (hu)Man(ity), bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh, suffered. He hungered, he wept, he ran his fingers through children's hair, felt the coolness of wine run down his throat, reclined and treasured the presence of his friends, and here, his sympathetic nervous system threw itself into high gear knowing that every second brought him further suffering.
The humanity of Jesus suffered. Like us, he suffered. In Scripture, the Passion happens in a few chapters. It is read within the matter of minutes. In the reality of time and space, it took hours. Days.
And for three days, God himself was silent in the grave, giving no answers to those who wept or those who now huddled themselves, locked with fear and confusion as their companions. They themselves must have cried, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani??"
If God did not spare his son... then... how about us?
It is the divinity of Christ that validates and vindicates suffering of his humanity. It is the status of "Son" that reminds the rest of his very human adopted brothers and sisters that silence and darkness in a grave is not a sin, but the path taken by Christ himself. From the smiles that creased the corners of his eyes, to the unrestrained sobs at Lazarus' grave, our broken humanity was vindicated by God himself.
And on the road into Jerusalem upon a donkey, to the road he stumbled through towards Golgotha, to the road headed towards Emmaus, both his divinity and his humanity remind us that we are to live our lives as journeys, never static, never certain of what praise, suffering, or surprises might meet us along the way.
But one thing we know. Jesus, the one who has both suffered and rejoiced, walks beside us. And as he runs or crawls with us, he reminds us that though three days of silence and darkness felt like a lifetime, a Good Sunday is on its way.
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