Monday, December 23, 2013
"Silent Night"
I tried to leave the biggest carols for the end with varying success. This, like "One More Sleep Till Christmas" seems like the song that you should really only sing on Christmas Eve - or perhaps Christmas evening, despite the fact that it can often feel like Christmas if cruelly over already or at least winding down. For some reason, we seem to have unofficially but collectively decided that Jesus was born some time in the wee hours after midnight.
I was trying to pin down this morning why the peaceful description in the first verse of this song -- Jesus and Mary sleeping together after the ordeal of birth in a stable -- didn't rankle me the way that "Away in a Manger"'s second verse did.
I think it might come down to the peaceful, quiet repose of BOTH mother and child -- presumably interrupted by the shepherds and their escort of heavenly hosts in the second verse. The third verse is about God on High in the form of a tiny child.
But the first verse lets Jesus be human -- just a human child. Or if not "just" a human child then "truly" a human child. And not necessarily a superhumanly aware and kindly child, as my friend pointed out this weekend we like to imagine, but a human child, tired from the trauma of birth, sleeping peacefully in a trough for feeding animals.
It's humble and sweet and human as can be. It's God Himself throwing himself right into the melee of human experience. No easing Himself in, or not in a way that I can see.
I understand the desire to make Jesus into the Ideal Baby, at the very least from a weary parent's perspective. And, of course, it seems somewhat blasphemous to suggest that God was a "bad baby". But I feel that it fights against just what is so extraordinary and splendid about what we celebrate at Christmas:
God Almighty became an ordinary human baby.
I'm glad to imagine a silent but bright, holy night for His birth. I just want to imagine a true human baby sleeping there. True God as well, but no less human. 100% man and 100% God, as we learned in Catholic school, not 50/50.
Sleep in heavenly peace. But sleep, tired and weary and learning first hand what is our much bemoaned lot in life.
Monday, 23 December 2013
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming
Sunday, December 22, 2013
"Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming"
This is officially becoming a bad habit. It's one thing to forget the nightly blogs, considering I only have two more days of Advent anyway, but what is with forgetting to pray before going to sleep last night? Tonight and Thursday night it felt like I only remembered any of it by the skin of my teeth. I guess that's what habit is for -- the process of getting ready for bed (usually) reminds me.
But I'd like to remember on my own.
"Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" was sung this morning at St. Jerome's Catholic Church -- this big, airy but welcoming church near Haley and Cameron's where I've been before (despite my problems with the namesake's doctrines and writings). The tune is just as difficult and annoying to sing as it looked at a glance in the book, which is why I have resisted all the impulses that suggested it as the song for the day in the morning.
The first verse is all tied up in elaborately establishing the simple metaphor of the title (not a hard one to riddle out, but written prettily enough). The second verse gets a little more depth to it:
Isaiah 'twas foretold it,
This Rose I have in mind,
With Mary we behold it,
The Virgin Mother kind.
To show God's love a right,
She bore us a Savior,
When half spent was the night.
It's kind of choppy in its desire to cover all the main bases of the story, but it hits the important points.
My favorite, however, is the last:
O Flower, whose fragrance tender
With sweetness fills the air,
Dispel in glorious splendor
The darkness everywhere;
True man, yet very God,
From sin and death now save us
And share our every load.
It's actually in the opposite order of a lot of other songs that bring up the message -- Advent first this time: what will happen in the Second Coming or through the Holy Spirit in our individual lives as soon as we ask.
This weekend, a friend and I discussed our very different versions of a religious experience, and I couldn't read her look when I leapt on her attempt to find words for a glorious feeling of believing in something wonderful out there to explain I feel that every time about the Eucharist. I admitted that it's only (almost only) when I'm paying attention, and I can hardly claim I have never been distracted even for an entire Mass, but yes. I experience heaven for fifteen minutes every Sunday. Which is why I don't find a denomination that would let me be a pastor. Which is why I am dedicated to going to Mass even when I'm traveling.
Because sweetness fills the air and the darkness is dispelled by glorious splendor -- not just resetting back to neutral, going in the other direction to glorious.
The second part goes into the miracle of Christmas (which despite the other songs does seem the proper order): True man, yet very God. I've tried a lot before and bemoaned earlier in this Advent season that words don't seem to want to go to what a big, amazing deal that is. Bigger to me, somehow, than "From sin and death now save us / And share our every load" even though I know that the first was in order to do the second. Somehow the inexplicable act of love is just...
But plainly stated in that way might be the right road. I make do now with the big statement, fumbling words, and a pause where I make a lot of expressions with my face to encourage my audience to think about it.
And tortured allusions to "House of Asterion" if we're talking about my literature class.
In three days, we celebrate when God became man. Think about it. Really.
And enjoy the magic in the air and splendor replacing the darkness.
"Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming"
This is officially becoming a bad habit. It's one thing to forget the nightly blogs, considering I only have two more days of Advent anyway, but what is with forgetting to pray before going to sleep last night? Tonight and Thursday night it felt like I only remembered any of it by the skin of my teeth. I guess that's what habit is for -- the process of getting ready for bed (usually) reminds me.
But I'd like to remember on my own.
"Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" was sung this morning at St. Jerome's Catholic Church -- this big, airy but welcoming church near Haley and Cameron's where I've been before (despite my problems with the namesake's doctrines and writings). The tune is just as difficult and annoying to sing as it looked at a glance in the book, which is why I have resisted all the impulses that suggested it as the song for the day in the morning.
The first verse is all tied up in elaborately establishing the simple metaphor of the title (not a hard one to riddle out, but written prettily enough). The second verse gets a little more depth to it:
Isaiah 'twas foretold it,
This Rose I have in mind,
With Mary we behold it,
The Virgin Mother kind.
To show God's love a right,
She bore us a Savior,
When half spent was the night.
It's kind of choppy in its desire to cover all the main bases of the story, but it hits the important points.
My favorite, however, is the last:
O Flower, whose fragrance tender
With sweetness fills the air,
Dispel in glorious splendor
The darkness everywhere;
True man, yet very God,
From sin and death now save us
And share our every load.
It's actually in the opposite order of a lot of other songs that bring up the message -- Advent first this time: what will happen in the Second Coming or through the Holy Spirit in our individual lives as soon as we ask.
This weekend, a friend and I discussed our very different versions of a religious experience, and I couldn't read her look when I leapt on her attempt to find words for a glorious feeling of believing in something wonderful out there to explain I feel that every time about the Eucharist. I admitted that it's only (almost only) when I'm paying attention, and I can hardly claim I have never been distracted even for an entire Mass, but yes. I experience heaven for fifteen minutes every Sunday. Which is why I don't find a denomination that would let me be a pastor. Which is why I am dedicated to going to Mass even when I'm traveling.
Because sweetness fills the air and the darkness is dispelled by glorious splendor -- not just resetting back to neutral, going in the other direction to glorious.
The second part goes into the miracle of Christmas (which despite the other songs does seem the proper order): True man, yet very God. I've tried a lot before and bemoaned earlier in this Advent season that words don't seem to want to go to what a big, amazing deal that is. Bigger to me, somehow, than "From sin and death now save us / And share our every load" even though I know that the first was in order to do the second. Somehow the inexplicable act of love is just...
But plainly stated in that way might be the right road. I make do now with the big statement, fumbling words, and a pause where I make a lot of expressions with my face to encourage my audience to think about it.
And tortured allusions to "House of Asterion" if we're talking about my literature class.
In three days, we celebrate when God became man. Think about it. Really.
And enjoy the magic in the air and splendor replacing the darkness.
One More Sleep Till Christmas
Saturday, December 21, 2013
“One More Sleep ‘Til Christmas”
Because I am out of town and staying with friends, my Lenten
observance was slighted in a couple of ways today. To avoid waking them, I didn’t sing. Because I left my hymnal at home, I
forgot to even try.
So tonight, as I prepared to type up this message on Word
instead of the blog post because my new computer is not configured for their
wireless network, I remembered last night when a friend asked everyone their
favorite Christmas song. Some had
categories for traditional carols and secular songs.
“One More Sleep ‘Til Christmas” was my straight-up
favorite. I remember one year
complaining that my voice was completely gone on the one day in the entire year
it is appropriate to sing that song.
But it feels appropriate even now. Across the day, I’ve had with multiple people discussions of
how Christmas is, in one way or another, already starting. Given the weekend, people who can are
already off to see family. Gifts
between those who split up for Christmas have already been exchanged. Heck, I exchanged gifts this morning.
There’s already magic in the air, even this early.
I wonder if Christmas always infects the tail end of Advent,
and I wonder if this is, in a way, appropriate. The last of the waiting for the Second Coming, if we watch
the signs and understand them as such, will be easier and sweeter and more
joyful for knowing that soon all will be made right. Presumably.
With those who welcome His coming already, surely it will begin to feel
like the promise is already being fulfilled.
That’s my current theory anyway. It’s hard not to enjoy a time when most everybody is trying
to be nicer and more loving and set some of the old cynicism and irony
aside. We are all aloud to be a
bit more earnest. We are all
allowed to sing.
About a month ago, I was at a party with the same group of
people (nearly) as last night. I
had the sudden urge left over from grad school days to start a singalong to go
with the roaring fire. Last night,
three of us burst into song a couple of times and I did a few solos because I
could. No one batted an eye, and
it was even considered just – cool.
This time of year.
This whole time of year.
One more sleep till Christmas?
Kermit, I think you might be wrong. You even describe it in your song – Christmas is already
here.
There’s magic in the air this evening, magic in the air
The world is at her best, you know, when people laugh and
care
The promise of excitement is one the night will keep
After all there’s only one more sleep till Christmas.
There’s something in the wind today that’s good for everyone.
Yes, faith is in our hearts today, we’re shinin’ like the
sun
And everyone can see it, the feeling’s running deep
After all, there’s only one more sleep till Christmas.
Friday, 20 December 2013
Just Have To Wrap The Gifts
Friday, December 20, 2013
I realized about the time I went to All-School Mass today that I have already done the song I picked this morning, "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen". I remembered (and how English teacher-y is this?) because I remembered thinking the comma looked odd, even though it made the title finally make better sense.
So instead today, I am going to talk about a part of the bishop's homily.
When priests speak to a mass of primarily students, especially small students, you get some kind of little story. Which makes you wonder a bit what Jesus thought of us. Just saying.
There was a clear moral to this story about a little girl asking Santa for 50 gifts so that she could give them away, and it might even have been a true story. That would account for the interlude that neither I nor the teacher next to me could find the moral significance of.
The little girl really wants to wrap the presents before she brings them to the charity. None of the popular charities want this, of course, because they need to check the gifts and wrapped gifts are less useful to them. The bishop kept stressing that the little girl wanted to wrap them herself, so she kept looking for some place that would take her wrapped presents.
And while the little girl is way ahead of the curve for most kids, I can't help seeing untapped potential in the bishop's interlude about wrapping - namely, a chance to point out one of the main things that is wrong with charity in this country.
The other main thing wrong with charity in this country is exemplified beautifully by the "A Donation Has Been Made in Your Name" gifts I received from several students. Each and every one donated money not to CASA, my favorite charity, or Some Other Place, with which our school has a special relationship, or even the school itself. They donated to "The St. Anne's Teacher Stocking Fund". And the number who did so makes me think the school encouraged it or at least provided a convenient way to do so.
So people give to charity, but the most money tends to go to "rich people" charities -- arts foundations and fancy private schools rather than feeding the hungry and homeless shelters. And don't get me wrong - I work in the arts and at a fancy private school. I appreciate people giving to those places, but I can't help thinking that giving the money even to the Giving Fields, a charity that runs through our school to provide food for soup kitchens, would have been a better use of that charitable impulse. Objectively, I didn't need the glitter-tastic gift the Home and School Association bought with that money as much as the people who hang around my neighborhood because it's near Some Other Place.
Back to the girl who wanted to wrap gifts so much she almost didn't give gifts to sick and needy kids. Do I need to say more than that? Again, that girl seems way ahead of the curve, but still. We think about charity in terms of what it will do for us. We think about what we want to do and give, not what's needed.
We don't ask what's needed, we decide what we are willing/want to do.
That girl (and, more seriously, her parents) didn't think about calling to ask what toys they needed at each of the places she called -- whether they tended to have more boys or girls toys that they needed, whether there were wish lists that the kids had made out, or if there were any toys or kinds of toys they should avoid (like ones that drained batteries quickly for poor families or ones that plug into walls that homeless kids don't have). She and her parents thought about what would make them feel good - picking out some fun toys that she would like and wrapping them up.
There are rewards to charity, and I certainly don't want to demonize people feeling those warm and fuzzies...but don't prioritize how great it'll make you feel over what people in need actually well...need. And, there's no way to sugarcoat this: ask them. Don't assume.
I realized about the time I went to All-School Mass today that I have already done the song I picked this morning, "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen". I remembered (and how English teacher-y is this?) because I remembered thinking the comma looked odd, even though it made the title finally make better sense.
So instead today, I am going to talk about a part of the bishop's homily.
When priests speak to a mass of primarily students, especially small students, you get some kind of little story. Which makes you wonder a bit what Jesus thought of us. Just saying.
There was a clear moral to this story about a little girl asking Santa for 50 gifts so that she could give them away, and it might even have been a true story. That would account for the interlude that neither I nor the teacher next to me could find the moral significance of.
The little girl really wants to wrap the presents before she brings them to the charity. None of the popular charities want this, of course, because they need to check the gifts and wrapped gifts are less useful to them. The bishop kept stressing that the little girl wanted to wrap them herself, so she kept looking for some place that would take her wrapped presents.
And while the little girl is way ahead of the curve for most kids, I can't help seeing untapped potential in the bishop's interlude about wrapping - namely, a chance to point out one of the main things that is wrong with charity in this country.
The other main thing wrong with charity in this country is exemplified beautifully by the "A Donation Has Been Made in Your Name" gifts I received from several students. Each and every one donated money not to CASA, my favorite charity, or Some Other Place, with which our school has a special relationship, or even the school itself. They donated to "The St. Anne's Teacher Stocking Fund". And the number who did so makes me think the school encouraged it or at least provided a convenient way to do so.
So people give to charity, but the most money tends to go to "rich people" charities -- arts foundations and fancy private schools rather than feeding the hungry and homeless shelters. And don't get me wrong - I work in the arts and at a fancy private school. I appreciate people giving to those places, but I can't help thinking that giving the money even to the Giving Fields, a charity that runs through our school to provide food for soup kitchens, would have been a better use of that charitable impulse. Objectively, I didn't need the glitter-tastic gift the Home and School Association bought with that money as much as the people who hang around my neighborhood because it's near Some Other Place.
Back to the girl who wanted to wrap gifts so much she almost didn't give gifts to sick and needy kids. Do I need to say more than that? Again, that girl seems way ahead of the curve, but still. We think about charity in terms of what it will do for us. We think about what we want to do and give, not what's needed.
We don't ask what's needed, we decide what we are willing/want to do.
That girl (and, more seriously, her parents) didn't think about calling to ask what toys they needed at each of the places she called -- whether they tended to have more boys or girls toys that they needed, whether there were wish lists that the kids had made out, or if there were any toys or kinds of toys they should avoid (like ones that drained batteries quickly for poor families or ones that plug into walls that homeless kids don't have). She and her parents thought about what would make them feel good - picking out some fun toys that she would like and wrapping them up.
There are rewards to charity, and I certainly don't want to demonize people feeling those warm and fuzzies...but don't prioritize how great it'll make you feel over what people in need actually well...need. And, there's no way to sugarcoat this: ask them. Don't assume.
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Joy to the World
Thursday, December 18, 2013
"Joy to the World"
And no, I did not choose this song because it expresses my feelings at the last full day of school before Christmas break. At least not consciously. Besides, tomorrow is the day to get excited about. Or perhaps the day after I finish planning the first couple weeks of the very cheery Holocaust unit my class begins in January.
I love the "Let every heart prepare him room" line. Make way in our hearts, in our lives, for Him to take up residence. I'm reading back through Little Women, and that's what it constantly preaches -- make time and room in your life and your heart to listen for the grace of God. To notice Beth, the angel among you; to find a light in Aunt March's house; to realize that you are better off than the poor German family with all their many babies spilling out everywhere.
I admit, however, that I have no idea what the third verse means:
He rules the world with truth and grace
And makes the nations prove
The glorious of His righteousness
And wonders of His love.
He makes the nations prove His righteousness and love. He...makes them be worthy of it? Makes them give witness to it? He...shows His glory through them?
I'm lost.
Sometimes writing these posts, it becomes clearer the more I write about my confusion -- or, at least, I end up with a thematic comment about my confusion, but I'm not feeling much inspiration about it on the way. My mind is occupied with plans and excitement about the coming break and Christmas.
I suppose I need to make room in my heart for God's answer.
"Joy to the World"
And no, I did not choose this song because it expresses my feelings at the last full day of school before Christmas break. At least not consciously. Besides, tomorrow is the day to get excited about. Or perhaps the day after I finish planning the first couple weeks of the very cheery Holocaust unit my class begins in January.
I love the "Let every heart prepare him room" line. Make way in our hearts, in our lives, for Him to take up residence. I'm reading back through Little Women, and that's what it constantly preaches -- make time and room in your life and your heart to listen for the grace of God. To notice Beth, the angel among you; to find a light in Aunt March's house; to realize that you are better off than the poor German family with all their many babies spilling out everywhere.
I admit, however, that I have no idea what the third verse means:
He rules the world with truth and grace
And makes the nations prove
The glorious of His righteousness
And wonders of His love.
He makes the nations prove His righteousness and love. He...makes them be worthy of it? Makes them give witness to it? He...shows His glory through them?
I'm lost.
Sometimes writing these posts, it becomes clearer the more I write about my confusion -- or, at least, I end up with a thematic comment about my confusion, but I'm not feeling much inspiration about it on the way. My mind is occupied with plans and excitement about the coming break and Christmas.
I suppose I need to make room in my heart for God's answer.
Wednesday, 18 December 2013
What Child Is This?
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
"What Child Is This?"
The more I look at Advent and Christmas carols, the more I am convinced that Christmas has more in common with Lent then Advent in intended message -- not so much in what we do to prepare, but well, Advent (as I've written before this season) seems to be about the promise of coming salvation, even assurance that anything we could do would not matter much anyway. The battle is already won.
Christmas carols, in secondary and tertiary verses, remind us why God had to become incarnate and eventually suffer. Yes, that's a huge part of the message of God's Love, but, well, I can't remember feeling ashamed of myself too much at Christmas -- barring my mother's looks if I'm fighting with my sister over something stupid (it's always something stupid).
For sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
That is why He came, to plead for us and to bleed for us. To become like us enough that He could save us.
The King of kings salvation brings
Let loving hearts enthrone Him.
That's really the least we could do, there in the third verse.
Because what's so unfathomable about what child is lying there in a used feeding trough is not that He came to poor parents, that He was born in a stable, but that GOD ALMIGHTY IS LYING THERE DEPENDENT ON IDIOT HUMANS. And I mean absolutely NO disrespect to the Virgin Mother or her sainted husband, simply that compared to the Omniscient Omnipotent, we are all idiot weaklings.
What child is this? Is this child really the King of kings? The Lord of all? The Creator? Did the Creator become the Redeemer?
And is He really here to save us?
Haste, haste to bring Him laud
The babe, the son of Mary.
The God who is willing to be known as such. Haste, haste.
"What Child Is This?"
The more I look at Advent and Christmas carols, the more I am convinced that Christmas has more in common with Lent then Advent in intended message -- not so much in what we do to prepare, but well, Advent (as I've written before this season) seems to be about the promise of coming salvation, even assurance that anything we could do would not matter much anyway. The battle is already won.
Christmas carols, in secondary and tertiary verses, remind us why God had to become incarnate and eventually suffer. Yes, that's a huge part of the message of God's Love, but, well, I can't remember feeling ashamed of myself too much at Christmas -- barring my mother's looks if I'm fighting with my sister over something stupid (it's always something stupid).
For sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
That is why He came, to plead for us and to bleed for us. To become like us enough that He could save us.
The King of kings salvation brings
Let loving hearts enthrone Him.
That's really the least we could do, there in the third verse.
Because what's so unfathomable about what child is lying there in a used feeding trough is not that He came to poor parents, that He was born in a stable, but that GOD ALMIGHTY IS LYING THERE DEPENDENT ON IDIOT HUMANS. And I mean absolutely NO disrespect to the Virgin Mother or her sainted husband, simply that compared to the Omniscient Omnipotent, we are all idiot weaklings.
What child is this? Is this child really the King of kings? The Lord of all? The Creator? Did the Creator become the Redeemer?
And is He really here to save us?
Haste, haste to bring Him laud
The babe, the son of Mary.
The God who is willing to be known as such. Haste, haste.
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
Hark, The Herald Angels Sing
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
"Hark! The Herald Angels Sing"
Now this is the best of Christmas Carols - a lovely, snappy tune with an obvious basic message whose lyrics unwind into beautiful shapes when you bother to take a look. Seriously, it's a popular standard song with strong doctrinal mentions of incarnation and some of the best description of just how shocking it is that I've ever seen.
I guess a few posts back I wished for what I want for Christmas: a way of expressing the awe with which I view the Incarnation. Words don't go there, but these come closer than I have yet:
Veiled in flesh the God-head see!
Hail the incarnate Deity!
Pleased as man with us to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel!
I always thought it was "Pleased with man, with us to dwell" which, on further examination, doesn't make a ton of sense. After all, He had to come down in the first place because He was most drastically NOT pleased with us. Which reminds me of that Noah movie that I am worried is going to wreck the entire Bible study (I mean, really? We're going to have people storm the ark and we're supposed to root for them all to die horrible deaths?).
Moving right along.
God's plan with Jesus is extraordinarily generous even before you consider the alternatives.
Mild He lays His glory by;
Born that we no more may die;
Born to raise us from the earth,
Born to give us second birth.
Seriously, this is gorgeous, powerful stuff. He lays His glory by. He sets aside heaven. That place where we are all striving to go. That state we are all trying to be. He set aside His power, His state, His position above the muck we make here. He waded into the mud -- literally! That stable didn't exactly have plush carpets or even hardwood floors.
So that we don't have to take our deserved punishment for sin. He did all this to let us ascend higher than we ourselves dare. To show us how to fly. To show us how to be more than we think we are.
I really have nothing as beautiful as the lyrics today.
Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"
"Hark! The Herald Angels Sing"
Now this is the best of Christmas Carols - a lovely, snappy tune with an obvious basic message whose lyrics unwind into beautiful shapes when you bother to take a look. Seriously, it's a popular standard song with strong doctrinal mentions of incarnation and some of the best description of just how shocking it is that I've ever seen.
I guess a few posts back I wished for what I want for Christmas: a way of expressing the awe with which I view the Incarnation. Words don't go there, but these come closer than I have yet:
Veiled in flesh the God-head see!
Hail the incarnate Deity!
Pleased as man with us to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel!
I always thought it was "Pleased with man, with us to dwell" which, on further examination, doesn't make a ton of sense. After all, He had to come down in the first place because He was most drastically NOT pleased with us. Which reminds me of that Noah movie that I am worried is going to wreck the entire Bible study (I mean, really? We're going to have people storm the ark and we're supposed to root for them all to die horrible deaths?).
Moving right along.
God's plan with Jesus is extraordinarily generous even before you consider the alternatives.
Mild He lays His glory by;
Born that we no more may die;
Born to raise us from the earth,
Born to give us second birth.
Seriously, this is gorgeous, powerful stuff. He lays His glory by. He sets aside heaven. That place where we are all striving to go. That state we are all trying to be. He set aside His power, His state, His position above the muck we make here. He waded into the mud -- literally! That stable didn't exactly have plush carpets or even hardwood floors.
So that we don't have to take our deserved punishment for sin. He did all this to let us ascend higher than we ourselves dare. To show us how to fly. To show us how to be more than we think we are.
I really have nothing as beautiful as the lyrics today.
Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"
Monday, 16 December 2013
Away in a Manger
Monday, December 16, 2013
"Away in a Manger"
This is my mother's favorite Christmas carol, and it is beautiful played, but today it really strikes me as oddly precious.
I sit here half-reading, half-singing the second verse, and, well, I get snarky:
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes.
All I could think was "for the first and last time in His life, no doubt." I'm being sarcastic, obviously, but Jesus was not a calm, sweet, trying-not-to-disturb-anyone presence on planet Earth. No, he was more the "holler all night until these people finally wake up and take care of the problems" type of adult. It seems odd to think of His baby self as trying not to cause his mother and stepfather any problems with his tears.
Jesus's message is not a comfortable one. There are many tenets of the Catholic faith that make me not only uncomfortable but sometimes angry. In some of these, I am not yet ready to admit myself wrong, but I see my own fear of loss of privilege and comfort in others.
Every so often, a rousing homily makes me realize that I don't do enough for my fellow man. What I'm saying is that a crying baby can be a great wake-up call, and Jesus always used whatever methods He could to wake us up from our indifferent stupor.
And perhaps it's more about being fussy and crying, forcing the issue and refusing to compromise or back down or listen to reason (as only babies and the Almighty can do with perfect stubbornness), that Jesus will:
Fit us for heaven to live with Thee there.
"Away in a Manger"
This is my mother's favorite Christmas carol, and it is beautiful played, but today it really strikes me as oddly precious.
I sit here half-reading, half-singing the second verse, and, well, I get snarky:
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes.
All I could think was "for the first and last time in His life, no doubt." I'm being sarcastic, obviously, but Jesus was not a calm, sweet, trying-not-to-disturb-anyone presence on planet Earth. No, he was more the "holler all night until these people finally wake up and take care of the problems" type of adult. It seems odd to think of His baby self as trying not to cause his mother and stepfather any problems with his tears.
Jesus's message is not a comfortable one. There are many tenets of the Catholic faith that make me not only uncomfortable but sometimes angry. In some of these, I am not yet ready to admit myself wrong, but I see my own fear of loss of privilege and comfort in others.
Every so often, a rousing homily makes me realize that I don't do enough for my fellow man. What I'm saying is that a crying baby can be a great wake-up call, and Jesus always used whatever methods He could to wake us up from our indifferent stupor.
And perhaps it's more about being fussy and crying, forcing the issue and refusing to compromise or back down or listen to reason (as only babies and the Almighty can do with perfect stubbornness), that Jesus will:
Fit us for heaven to live with Thee there.
Sunday, 15 December 2013
Children, Run Joyfully
Sunday, December 15, 2013
"Children, Run Joyfully!"
It seemed an appropriate choice for rose (not pink) candle Sunday. I'm not sure why the Church is suddenly fighting that battle (at least in this diocese) but so it is. Pope Francis doesn't seem like he would care.
Singing this song this morning (a pretty basic one in terms of concept, little poetry to it) is the first time in a long time that the "manger" really hit me. This is one of the cons of growing up Catholic (or any Christian denomination really) -- the manger sounds normal.
Today is the first time in awhile it hit me that "he'll be in a manger" is actually a great way to figure out that you've got the right baby. Seriously, who puts a newborn in a used feeding trough for animals?
Jesus certainly did not choose an easy early life for himself. He knows poverty.
I don't want to descend into this too much, but the "Santa is white" controversy actually obscures that news anchor's odder comment that "Jesus is white -- that's a verifiable fact". Um, no. No he was not. He was also not middle class or top 1%. He was poor. He is on the side of the poor. Not the hardworking American middle class family. The so-poor-you-put-your-newborn-in-a-doggie-dish socioeconomic bracket.
That's how He stood out from all the other babies in Bethlehem (crowded to bursting because of the census, remember) when He came down. So poor He lay in a manger.
I think we forget that all too often.
"Children, Run Joyfully!"
It seemed an appropriate choice for rose (not pink) candle Sunday. I'm not sure why the Church is suddenly fighting that battle (at least in this diocese) but so it is. Pope Francis doesn't seem like he would care.
Singing this song this morning (a pretty basic one in terms of concept, little poetry to it) is the first time in a long time that the "manger" really hit me. This is one of the cons of growing up Catholic (or any Christian denomination really) -- the manger sounds normal.
Today is the first time in awhile it hit me that "he'll be in a manger" is actually a great way to figure out that you've got the right baby. Seriously, who puts a newborn in a used feeding trough for animals?
Jesus certainly did not choose an easy early life for himself. He knows poverty.
I don't want to descend into this too much, but the "Santa is white" controversy actually obscures that news anchor's odder comment that "Jesus is white -- that's a verifiable fact". Um, no. No he was not. He was also not middle class or top 1%. He was poor. He is on the side of the poor. Not the hardworking American middle class family. The so-poor-you-put-your-newborn-in-a-doggie-dish socioeconomic bracket.
That's how He stood out from all the other babies in Bethlehem (crowded to bursting because of the census, remember) when He came down. So poor He lay in a manger.
I think we forget that all too often.
Saturday, 14 December 2013
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
Saturday, December 14, 2013
"Go, Tell It On The Mountain"
Today started with a lot of energy which really fit this song and has ended with some disheartening grading and a semi-unplanned nap that through me for a loop this afternoon, and a sinking feeling of exhaustion with a hint of oncoming fever. So I'm feeling a bit less ready to sally forth unto the nearest mountain (much further away than two years ago). I'm doubting a lot of things currently happening in my life -- like the fact that my sick and well Saturday nights look alarmingly similar.
Forget telling it on the mountain, the furthest I spread the word is less than a mile away at my place of work. It's strange to feel my world contracting so literally. Sure, I was barely employed and not self-sufficient last year, but I drove to Orange several times a week and talked to students via the Internet, I drove to Port Arthur for rehearsal, and I did the shopping and errands (which I didn't love, but hey, free rent) for the house. I traveled more often to see friends out of town, and I just picked up and went off on a writer's residency to the Texas hill country.
Now most days I drive a distance that if I got up earlier I could probably walk, go to work, stay until 4:30 or 5 and then come home. I do what I can at school to set an example for my students, but only some days do I feel like I am the frontline. Don't get me wrong, some days I feel like I did this morning singing this rousing song -- like the front line building up the future of the Catholic Church. I feel proud of being in a Catholic school that takes pride in emphasizing grammar, however painful a task it can be.
Other days I wonder if we can compete with the rest of the messages bombarding the students, especially with how careful we are at the school to avoid anything too controversial. There are hard truths out there. Mountains are dangerous places, and it's irresponsible to send people up to the mountains without telling them how to handle the rocks and snow. But that's not our job but their parents', so how can we send them out to the mountains in good conscience? It's not so much that I want to have those conversations with the students but that I feel beside the point when I know I shouldn't be the one to talk to them about all that the world will confront them with.
That metaphor got very mixed, and now even I'm not entirely sure what I'm talking about. Since this is not a diary and my students routinely google me, I will try to re-focus on the song.
I suppose there is some reassurance in the second verse. Even in this call to arms, there is some confirmation that I am not the lone civilian feeling drafted by the holy light and mission:
The shepherds feared and trembled
When high above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Savior's birth.
But then again, by the third verse, they've gotten over that and answered the call:
And lo, when they had heard it,
They all bowed down and prayed;
They traveled out together
To where the Babe was laid.
So there's the answer -- prayer and faith-filled community. My faith community is in Arizona and expecting a baby, which will keep them fairly busy, so it must be high time I found one here in Beaumont. I've been uncomfortable praying in a group for some time now. I can't nail down just when it started, but, well, there is it. I know it's a problem. Where two or three are gathered in my name and all of that.
I can probably trace it to college when I didn't click with the Catholic Student Center set and prayed alone at meals. I thought I remembered in grad school how important it can be, but the two experiences have left me overly picky about who I share my faith with.
But we're meant to share our faith and our joy widely.
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.
"Go, Tell It On The Mountain"
Today started with a lot of energy which really fit this song and has ended with some disheartening grading and a semi-unplanned nap that through me for a loop this afternoon, and a sinking feeling of exhaustion with a hint of oncoming fever. So I'm feeling a bit less ready to sally forth unto the nearest mountain (much further away than two years ago). I'm doubting a lot of things currently happening in my life -- like the fact that my sick and well Saturday nights look alarmingly similar.
Forget telling it on the mountain, the furthest I spread the word is less than a mile away at my place of work. It's strange to feel my world contracting so literally. Sure, I was barely employed and not self-sufficient last year, but I drove to Orange several times a week and talked to students via the Internet, I drove to Port Arthur for rehearsal, and I did the shopping and errands (which I didn't love, but hey, free rent) for the house. I traveled more often to see friends out of town, and I just picked up and went off on a writer's residency to the Texas hill country.
Now most days I drive a distance that if I got up earlier I could probably walk, go to work, stay until 4:30 or 5 and then come home. I do what I can at school to set an example for my students, but only some days do I feel like I am the frontline. Don't get me wrong, some days I feel like I did this morning singing this rousing song -- like the front line building up the future of the Catholic Church. I feel proud of being in a Catholic school that takes pride in emphasizing grammar, however painful a task it can be.
Other days I wonder if we can compete with the rest of the messages bombarding the students, especially with how careful we are at the school to avoid anything too controversial. There are hard truths out there. Mountains are dangerous places, and it's irresponsible to send people up to the mountains without telling them how to handle the rocks and snow. But that's not our job but their parents', so how can we send them out to the mountains in good conscience? It's not so much that I want to have those conversations with the students but that I feel beside the point when I know I shouldn't be the one to talk to them about all that the world will confront them with.
That metaphor got very mixed, and now even I'm not entirely sure what I'm talking about. Since this is not a diary and my students routinely google me, I will try to re-focus on the song.
I suppose there is some reassurance in the second verse. Even in this call to arms, there is some confirmation that I am not the lone civilian feeling drafted by the holy light and mission:
The shepherds feared and trembled
When high above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Savior's birth.
But then again, by the third verse, they've gotten over that and answered the call:
And lo, when they had heard it,
They all bowed down and prayed;
They traveled out together
To where the Babe was laid.
So there's the answer -- prayer and faith-filled community. My faith community is in Arizona and expecting a baby, which will keep them fairly busy, so it must be high time I found one here in Beaumont. I've been uncomfortable praying in a group for some time now. I can't nail down just when it started, but, well, there is it. I know it's a problem. Where two or three are gathered in my name and all of that.
I can probably trace it to college when I didn't click with the Catholic Student Center set and prayed alone at meals. I thought I remembered in grad school how important it can be, but the two experiences have left me overly picky about who I share my faith with.
But we're meant to share our faith and our joy widely.
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.
Friday, 13 December 2013
Good Christian Friends, Rejoice!
Friday, December 13, 2013
"Good Christian Friends, Rejoice!"
With the mountain of grading I have in store for me this weekend, I am enjoying Friday night much less than usual, so it was nice to get yet another hymn reinforcing my belief in the salvation of all mankind. I am so blessed to have chosen, with a kind of desperation for inspiration, to work with Advent and Christmas hymns this Lent. It has been a wonderful blessing in my life.
Also because these hymns really do the work of this interpretation for themselves, to the point where I wonder how people can sing these songs every year and not come to the obvious conclusion. Look at the second and third verse:
Now ye hear of endless bliss;
Jesus Christ was born for this!
He has opened heaven's door,
And we are blest forever more.
Christ was born for this!
Christ was born for this!
Now ye need not fear the grave;
Jesus Christ was born to save!
Calls you one and calls you all,
To gain his everlasting hall.
Christ was born to save!
Christ was born to save!
Not to condemn. Not to divide the world into his followers and his enemies. No, he did not come to bring peace. He came to bring salvation. He came to set us free from what kept us from becoming more than we were then and, to be honest, in a lot of ways are now. Free from sin and from its painful consequences.
Now we have the hard work of creating endless bliss -- or at least moments of bliss. Jesus came down to try to free us from an eternal hell and from the hells we insist on setting up here on earth to compensate. We are meant to bring moments of heaven to others, to be the Body of Christ and the Face of God.
Yesterday, I did a story with my kids where a deeply wounded and confused character wonders if it's possible that he, being alone and isolated and unique in all the world (the minotaur), could have created the world and then just forgotten about it. We had a sympathetic (mostly) laugh at this character's expense, but it makes me wonder -- how lonely it must be to be God.
How lonely He must be to want us, weak, craven, useless things that we are. But He does. Enough to become like us, to take on our flesh. To die for us. To permanently change His own nature.
Just so we will stop creating so much pain. To give us the chance to shed our burdens, especially our sins, and make something better of our world.
We owe it to Him to strive (in vain) to be worthy not just of that sacrifice but of that trust. Of that love. We owe it to God to make Him feel a little less lonely and unique in the universe as a being of Love.
"Good Christian Friends, Rejoice!"
With the mountain of grading I have in store for me this weekend, I am enjoying Friday night much less than usual, so it was nice to get yet another hymn reinforcing my belief in the salvation of all mankind. I am so blessed to have chosen, with a kind of desperation for inspiration, to work with Advent and Christmas hymns this Lent. It has been a wonderful blessing in my life.
Also because these hymns really do the work of this interpretation for themselves, to the point where I wonder how people can sing these songs every year and not come to the obvious conclusion. Look at the second and third verse:
Now ye hear of endless bliss;
Jesus Christ was born for this!
He has opened heaven's door,
And we are blest forever more.
Christ was born for this!
Christ was born for this!
Now ye need not fear the grave;
Jesus Christ was born to save!
Calls you one and calls you all,
To gain his everlasting hall.
Christ was born to save!
Christ was born to save!
Not to condemn. Not to divide the world into his followers and his enemies. No, he did not come to bring peace. He came to bring salvation. He came to set us free from what kept us from becoming more than we were then and, to be honest, in a lot of ways are now. Free from sin and from its painful consequences.
Now we have the hard work of creating endless bliss -- or at least moments of bliss. Jesus came down to try to free us from an eternal hell and from the hells we insist on setting up here on earth to compensate. We are meant to bring moments of heaven to others, to be the Body of Christ and the Face of God.
Yesterday, I did a story with my kids where a deeply wounded and confused character wonders if it's possible that he, being alone and isolated and unique in all the world (the minotaur), could have created the world and then just forgotten about it. We had a sympathetic (mostly) laugh at this character's expense, but it makes me wonder -- how lonely it must be to be God.
How lonely He must be to want us, weak, craven, useless things that we are. But He does. Enough to become like us, to take on our flesh. To die for us. To permanently change His own nature.
Just so we will stop creating so much pain. To give us the chance to shed our burdens, especially our sins, and make something better of our world.
We owe it to Him to strive (in vain) to be worthy not just of that sacrifice but of that trust. Of that love. We owe it to God to make Him feel a little less lonely and unique in the universe as a being of Love.
Thursday, 12 December 2013
Angels We Have Heard On High
December 12, 2013
"Angels We Have Heard On High"
My prevailing memory of this song is a debate with the director of a charming Christmas show that features the appearance of the angel to the shepherds. He was complaining that the first verse actually sounded a little funny coming from the angel herself. I recommended he look at the later verses, thinking of the third verse:
Come to Bethlehem and see
Him whose birth the angels sing
Come adore on bended knee
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.
Instead, he went with:
Shepherds, why this jubilee?
Why your joyous strains prolong?
What the gladsome tidings be,
Which inspire your heavenly song?
This was delivered to three sleeping shepherds, by the way.
Looking at it today (looking for the first time because this morning I had to rush to school and pick a song I already know well), I love the semi-conversational nature of it. If the fourth verse were in response to the shepherds, it would be a proper conversation. Instead, there is just the lone second verse asking the shepherds what gives and the rest is their words:
Angels we have heard on high!
Sweetly singing o'er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains!
Actually, now I look at it, "Shepherds, why this jubilee?" seems a bit daft after all of that amazement. Of course, the verse goes on to ask what the celebration is for -- which is great. The person or persons responding does not doubt their rather fantastical story of angels singing and mountains replying in the middle of nowhere Bethlehem of all places, just asks what the wonderful news is.
I bet it was something in the shepherds' eyes. I bet their look was new. I bet they were changed men.
I would have liked to see the responder's reaction to first the tale of the birth of the Messiah and then the follow up explanation that he was being laid in a feeding trough for animals. In excelsis Deo.
But as blessed as the shepherds are, I think I am more impressed by whoever answers them. That is what I want to strive to be -- someone who doesn't question other people's joys and glories but asks to share them instantly. I want to be someone who does not doubt the awe and wonder of the world as other people see it.
I want to shed the skepticism and cynicism I have acquired in my life (admittedly less than many). I want to believe instinctively.
But more than that, I want my instinct to be to share others' joy rather than covet it or dismiss it as something I have no part in. The responder to the shepherds could have gone about their own business, but they didn't. They saw joy, and they wanted to take part. So they asked to share it, and they learned of the great Good News of their or any time.
Communities of love and faith however small or brief, I so often forget their importance.
"Angels We Have Heard On High"
My prevailing memory of this song is a debate with the director of a charming Christmas show that features the appearance of the angel to the shepherds. He was complaining that the first verse actually sounded a little funny coming from the angel herself. I recommended he look at the later verses, thinking of the third verse:
Come to Bethlehem and see
Him whose birth the angels sing
Come adore on bended knee
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.
Instead, he went with:
Shepherds, why this jubilee?
Why your joyous strains prolong?
What the gladsome tidings be,
Which inspire your heavenly song?
This was delivered to three sleeping shepherds, by the way.
Looking at it today (looking for the first time because this morning I had to rush to school and pick a song I already know well), I love the semi-conversational nature of it. If the fourth verse were in response to the shepherds, it would be a proper conversation. Instead, there is just the lone second verse asking the shepherds what gives and the rest is their words:
Angels we have heard on high!
Sweetly singing o'er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains!
Actually, now I look at it, "Shepherds, why this jubilee?" seems a bit daft after all of that amazement. Of course, the verse goes on to ask what the celebration is for -- which is great. The person or persons responding does not doubt their rather fantastical story of angels singing and mountains replying in the middle of nowhere Bethlehem of all places, just asks what the wonderful news is.
I bet it was something in the shepherds' eyes. I bet their look was new. I bet they were changed men.
I would have liked to see the responder's reaction to first the tale of the birth of the Messiah and then the follow up explanation that he was being laid in a feeding trough for animals. In excelsis Deo.
But as blessed as the shepherds are, I think I am more impressed by whoever answers them. That is what I want to strive to be -- someone who doesn't question other people's joys and glories but asks to share them instantly. I want to be someone who does not doubt the awe and wonder of the world as other people see it.
I want to shed the skepticism and cynicism I have acquired in my life (admittedly less than many). I want to believe instinctively.
But more than that, I want my instinct to be to share others' joy rather than covet it or dismiss it as something I have no part in. The responder to the shepherds could have gone about their own business, but they didn't. They saw joy, and they wanted to take part. So they asked to share it, and they learned of the great Good News of their or any time.
Communities of love and faith however small or brief, I so often forget their importance.
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen"
The comma actually makes the phrase make so much more sense. I suppose that's what commas are for, which is what I teach every afternoon, after all.
It's the chorus that really gets to me today.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy.
Simple as it is, it makes me think of the Bible verse about those who fear the light are those who sin. Those who are truthful and good have nothing to fear from a light shining on their actions.
But perhaps those people ARE the light --
"Fear not then," said the angle,
"Let nothing you afright;
This day is born a Savior
Of Virgin pure and bright
To free all those who trust in him
From Satan's power and might"
My father told me once, as courtroom advice when we all thought I would end up a lawyer, that a good lawyer has nothing to fear from the truth if she knows it in time. There is no fact that can hurt you if you know how to spin it.
I think about this a lot when I find myself afraid to know the answer to a pivotal question about my life or the world around me. I think about the things I hide from myself in fear and shame. And I wonder if it's too late for those things to be spun or if I just haven't been willing to engage with them.
And now, I will try to remember that the light coming is tidings of comfort and joy. Not just joy, not just all the things you think of with a bright light, but comfort -- which is the opposite of what you think about alongside a call from God.
There is no Truth that can hurt us.
Lent is a time for repentance and rejuvenation, but the Church year begins with hope and comfort -- all this shall pass. The light will shine down on us, and it will not be a fearful thing. We bring tidings of comfort as well as joy.
"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen"
The comma actually makes the phrase make so much more sense. I suppose that's what commas are for, which is what I teach every afternoon, after all.
It's the chorus that really gets to me today.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy.
Simple as it is, it makes me think of the Bible verse about those who fear the light are those who sin. Those who are truthful and good have nothing to fear from a light shining on their actions.
But perhaps those people ARE the light --
"Fear not then," said the angle,
"Let nothing you afright;
This day is born a Savior
Of Virgin pure and bright
To free all those who trust in him
From Satan's power and might"
My father told me once, as courtroom advice when we all thought I would end up a lawyer, that a good lawyer has nothing to fear from the truth if she knows it in time. There is no fact that can hurt you if you know how to spin it.
I think about this a lot when I find myself afraid to know the answer to a pivotal question about my life or the world around me. I think about the things I hide from myself in fear and shame. And I wonder if it's too late for those things to be spun or if I just haven't been willing to engage with them.
And now, I will try to remember that the light coming is tidings of comfort and joy. Not just joy, not just all the things you think of with a bright light, but comfort -- which is the opposite of what you think about alongside a call from God.
There is no Truth that can hurt us.
Lent is a time for repentance and rejuvenation, but the Church year begins with hope and comfort -- all this shall pass. The light will shine down on us, and it will not be a fearful thing. We bring tidings of comfort as well as joy.
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns
Monday, December 9, 2013
"The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns"
I know, I probably should do something for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, but I didn't think of that this morning.
The first verse of this song goes along with what I've been writing about all Advent -- there's nothing WE do to bring about the great promised peace and light, any more than we bring the morning to pass by "staying strong" in the night. The morning is always a free gift. It comes to the strong and the cowering alike.
The King shall come when morning dawns
And light triumphant breaks,
When beauty gilds the eastern hills
And life to joy awakes.
I also love the idea of "life to joy awak[ing]". We could use a little more of that in this world -- remembering the joy we forget not so much in the bustle (I believe) but in the grime we put up everywhere. I think that's what most charity work really is -- removing the grime from our collective soul. Most people who dedicate their lives to charity know that they are unlikely to solve the systemic failures that leaves the majority of the human race in poverty.
We can't bring the dawn, so we light a candle. We wipe away the grime a little and try to make this place more livable.
I say "we" despite the notable lack of charity work in my life -- unless you count my teaching job, which is legitimate but not as obvious a boon to humanity as if I were teaching at a needy school rather than a posh private school. I believe in influencing the future of the Catholic Church there, don't get me wrong, but it doesn't feel as "I go where I am needed and help to solve the problems of our world" as teaching at an inner city school -- for all it would break me in half -- would.
Just a guilty little aside because the students went to the sacrament of confession during school today.
Not, as of old, a little child,
To bear, and fight, and die,
But crowned with glory like the sun
That lights the morning sky.
That is Jesus on His Return -- glorious. He shared our burden once, tried to clear away the source of the grime, but He also fixed the problem. All that bearing and fighting and dying has been done. All we have to do is endure.
What an incredible gift. Over and above everything else -- why do we forget so quickly that the battle is won? The grand battle in which you can and must at some point feel so powerless, that distracts us from the gritty business of actually helping people, and that seems to be entirely composed of shifting, twisting rhetoric...
It's over. We won. We are the mop up crew. All that matters is doing good to those around us, healing the Body of Christ. We're not fighting for the grand cause as soldiers in the army marching to battle. We are tending the wounded of the struggle on both sides.
Or we should be. No one wants to be that jerk still firing his machine gun at the medics.
"The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns"
I know, I probably should do something for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, but I didn't think of that this morning.
The first verse of this song goes along with what I've been writing about all Advent -- there's nothing WE do to bring about the great promised peace and light, any more than we bring the morning to pass by "staying strong" in the night. The morning is always a free gift. It comes to the strong and the cowering alike.
The King shall come when morning dawns
And light triumphant breaks,
When beauty gilds the eastern hills
And life to joy awakes.
I also love the idea of "life to joy awak[ing]". We could use a little more of that in this world -- remembering the joy we forget not so much in the bustle (I believe) but in the grime we put up everywhere. I think that's what most charity work really is -- removing the grime from our collective soul. Most people who dedicate their lives to charity know that they are unlikely to solve the systemic failures that leaves the majority of the human race in poverty.
We can't bring the dawn, so we light a candle. We wipe away the grime a little and try to make this place more livable.
I say "we" despite the notable lack of charity work in my life -- unless you count my teaching job, which is legitimate but not as obvious a boon to humanity as if I were teaching at a needy school rather than a posh private school. I believe in influencing the future of the Catholic Church there, don't get me wrong, but it doesn't feel as "I go where I am needed and help to solve the problems of our world" as teaching at an inner city school -- for all it would break me in half -- would.
Just a guilty little aside because the students went to the sacrament of confession during school today.
Not, as of old, a little child,
To bear, and fight, and die,
But crowned with glory like the sun
That lights the morning sky.
That is Jesus on His Return -- glorious. He shared our burden once, tried to clear away the source of the grime, but He also fixed the problem. All that bearing and fighting and dying has been done. All we have to do is endure.
What an incredible gift. Over and above everything else -- why do we forget so quickly that the battle is won? The grand battle in which you can and must at some point feel so powerless, that distracts us from the gritty business of actually helping people, and that seems to be entirely composed of shifting, twisting rhetoric...
It's over. We won. We are the mop up crew. All that matters is doing good to those around us, healing the Body of Christ. We're not fighting for the grand cause as soldiers in the army marching to battle. We are tending the wounded of the struggle on both sides.
Or we should be. No one wants to be that jerk still firing his machine gun at the medics.
Monday, 9 December 2013
O Come, All Ye Faithful
Monday, December 9, 2013
"O Come, All Ye Faithful"
I think I need to pick the lesser known hymns. They are classics for a reason, but just for that reason, I tend to consider them as a whole. "O Come, All Ye Faithful" is not the meaning of the song in pieces or in entirety, it is learning the Latin and feeling soooooo proud of myself in the children's choir all those years ago. It is wondering if suddenly singing the Latin when it wasn't in the hymnals (it was, I was a stupid kid) would confuse people. I remember wondering what the fourth verse was in English, and then wondering (once it was explained to me/I noticed the concurrence of "Bethlehem", I can't remember which") what the Latin of the other two verses was.
It's one of those songs that's a Christmas song not so much for the subject matter but because, well, it's a Christmas song. Innumerable Christmas singings have made it so. It is not so much a song about Christmas as a song endowed with the spirit of Christmas. It is a piece of the holiday.
It's also another "Rejoice!" and even a bit of "Praise and party down!" which shows what I think a good party is (everybody singing). Of course, that is my idea of a perfect night with people - dinner, conversation, followed by a jam session preferably in Brian Falbo's garden or around a campfire. Man, I miss grad school.
Anyway...
It's hard to separate all of that feeling from the meaning of the hymn itself. It is appropriate, however, that this song is indelibly tied to a time of joy -- after all, that's what it calls us to do.
O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant
And I wonder if it's not just that this, unlike the Advent songs I've mostly stuck to, is designed to be sung at Christmas that makes the present tense so conspicuous here. Not be ready to come when Jesus returns, but be joyful and triumphant now.
That's what I've always thought the benefit of religious devotion was: experiencing the joy of a relationship with God now rather than having to wait until He helps us find our way after we die (see first post of Advent for my take on the afterlife).
I've written a couple of times about the importance of religion staying firmly rooted in the now -- not staying mired in the past or looking forever forward to a time when it will all be better but now. What grace of God do we have to work with and spread now. What can we do to protect and love and serve others now.
O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant! O come ye right away.
"O Come, All Ye Faithful"
I think I need to pick the lesser known hymns. They are classics for a reason, but just for that reason, I tend to consider them as a whole. "O Come, All Ye Faithful" is not the meaning of the song in pieces or in entirety, it is learning the Latin and feeling soooooo proud of myself in the children's choir all those years ago. It is wondering if suddenly singing the Latin when it wasn't in the hymnals (it was, I was a stupid kid) would confuse people. I remember wondering what the fourth verse was in English, and then wondering (once it was explained to me/I noticed the concurrence of "Bethlehem", I can't remember which") what the Latin of the other two verses was.
It's one of those songs that's a Christmas song not so much for the subject matter but because, well, it's a Christmas song. Innumerable Christmas singings have made it so. It is not so much a song about Christmas as a song endowed with the spirit of Christmas. It is a piece of the holiday.
It's also another "Rejoice!" and even a bit of "Praise and party down!" which shows what I think a good party is (everybody singing). Of course, that is my idea of a perfect night with people - dinner, conversation, followed by a jam session preferably in Brian Falbo's garden or around a campfire. Man, I miss grad school.
Anyway...
It's hard to separate all of that feeling from the meaning of the hymn itself. It is appropriate, however, that this song is indelibly tied to a time of joy -- after all, that's what it calls us to do.
O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant
And I wonder if it's not just that this, unlike the Advent songs I've mostly stuck to, is designed to be sung at Christmas that makes the present tense so conspicuous here. Not be ready to come when Jesus returns, but be joyful and triumphant now.
That's what I've always thought the benefit of religious devotion was: experiencing the joy of a relationship with God now rather than having to wait until He helps us find our way after we die (see first post of Advent for my take on the afterlife).
I've written a couple of times about the importance of religion staying firmly rooted in the now -- not staying mired in the past or looking forever forward to a time when it will all be better but now. What grace of God do we have to work with and spread now. What can we do to protect and love and serve others now.
O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant! O come ye right away.
Sunday, 8 December 2013
Alleluia! Hurry, the Lord is Near
Sunday, December 8, 2013
"Alleluia! Hurry, the Lord is Near"
Just at the moment, Christmas isn't feeling all that near, but that's probably just because I sang at the Catholic Student Center, where everyone is so much closer to Christmas break than we are at St. Anne's. Of course, I'm used to that. Mom always got off Lamar earlier than the rest of us.
What struck me when I sang this song this morning was the fact that there was no action in this song. We are enjoyed to hurry to do...nothing really? To "Sound the trumpet" and "Go out to meet him, shout his name".
I mean, considering what He normally asks of us...sign me up?
Love your enemy, do good to those who hate you, have a fun party when I come down from heaven...
Now that I have been facetious about the point, I can admit that it actually feels quite true though humbling. I remember my sister getting very upset when the new Mass parts were introduced -- not because she disagreed with the translation or underlying theology, but because she felt that the Church was focusing on entirely the wrong things.
Pope Francis seems to be saying the same thing. We've been taking "What you bind on Earth will be bound in Heaven...whose sins you forgive will be forgiven them" too much to heart and forgetting that we are the recipients of grace, not the purveyors.
Now, don't get me wrong, we can and should spread it and share it. That's how we make it multiply, but we are not the source of grace. We are the ones shouting Alleluia! at its approach. We are the ones hurrying toward it because we have been granted a taste of how wonderful it is and know that we will want to be there quickly.
It's a joyful time and I admit that I find our cosmic smallness something of a relief, but it can be an extremely humbling time, Advent. All of our actions are after thoughts to the battle of Good and Evil, even in the battle for the redemption of our individual souls. We are the damsels in distress who were saved by our Champion.
We can share and extend that blessing, open our hearts to share that light and love and gift with others, we can sound the trumpet and shout His name to let them know that they are saved, but that is all. All we can do is remind people that they are already saved.
That is our spiritual work.
Besides, there's plenty to do with the other injunction from Jesus and recently reiterated by Pope Francis - love our neighbors as ourselves. Start caring for all the people of this world.
"Alleluia! Hurry, the Lord is Near"
Just at the moment, Christmas isn't feeling all that near, but that's probably just because I sang at the Catholic Student Center, where everyone is so much closer to Christmas break than we are at St. Anne's. Of course, I'm used to that. Mom always got off Lamar earlier than the rest of us.
What struck me when I sang this song this morning was the fact that there was no action in this song. We are enjoyed to hurry to do...nothing really? To "Sound the trumpet" and "Go out to meet him, shout his name".
I mean, considering what He normally asks of us...sign me up?
Love your enemy, do good to those who hate you, have a fun party when I come down from heaven...
Now that I have been facetious about the point, I can admit that it actually feels quite true though humbling. I remember my sister getting very upset when the new Mass parts were introduced -- not because she disagreed with the translation or underlying theology, but because she felt that the Church was focusing on entirely the wrong things.
Pope Francis seems to be saying the same thing. We've been taking "What you bind on Earth will be bound in Heaven...whose sins you forgive will be forgiven them" too much to heart and forgetting that we are the recipients of grace, not the purveyors.
Now, don't get me wrong, we can and should spread it and share it. That's how we make it multiply, but we are not the source of grace. We are the ones shouting Alleluia! at its approach. We are the ones hurrying toward it because we have been granted a taste of how wonderful it is and know that we will want to be there quickly.
It's a joyful time and I admit that I find our cosmic smallness something of a relief, but it can be an extremely humbling time, Advent. All of our actions are after thoughts to the battle of Good and Evil, even in the battle for the redemption of our individual souls. We are the damsels in distress who were saved by our Champion.
We can share and extend that blessing, open our hearts to share that light and love and gift with others, we can sound the trumpet and shout His name to let them know that they are saved, but that is all. All we can do is remind people that they are already saved.
That is our spiritual work.
Besides, there's plenty to do with the other injunction from Jesus and recently reiterated by Pope Francis - love our neighbors as ourselves. Start caring for all the people of this world.
Saturday, 7 December 2013
People, Look East
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Pearl Harbor Day
"People, Look East"
Between realizing as I typed the date and writing the name of the song, I realized how "People, Look East" on Pearl Harbor Day could be deeply ironic, although at least it would have been from the west that the attack flew in.
I already knew this was not going to be a particularly inspired entry. I sang several songs this morning, and I can't find any of them now. I looked at this song in the end, and the second verse continues my weekly theme.
Furrows, be glad, though earth is bare.
One more seed is planted there;
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower flourish.
The repetition of Love the X is on the way is also wonderful, especially the last "Love, the Lord is on the way," but all that I really connected with this evening is the second verse as a beautiful metaphor for what it is to be a person of faith.
Jesus told us that we would reap what we did not sow, and I always responded with something of a quirked eyebrow. I wish a few more of his parables came with simple explanations like the seed in the different kinds of soil. A lot of them seem self-explanatory, but a lot of them have been twisted and others are just sort of...opaque. The dishonest steward is a perennial head-scratcher for me.
But every so often (and sometimes multiple times on the same parable which just shows how patient God really is), I get a window into understanding His meaning.
Sometimes we are asked to be the furrows where the seed is planted. We didn't plant it, we don't have proof it's there. We are asked to act as if we did and do a lot of sweaty, dirty work. And others might reap the rewards of it. Of course, it can be even more disconcerting when we go and harvest the work that others have painstakingly done.
This is what it means to be a person of faith. We toil at communal work, that we may or may not see come to fruition. We toil for a shared responsibility, when we may not have been there when the seed of hope was planned.
To be a person of faith is to believe that "Love, the Rose, is on the way." To believe that something will grow in the soil we till.
It is hard, but we harvest other fields, that we did not sow or plow. We are the Body of Christ. We share the burden of all the different crops.
Pearl Harbor Day
"People, Look East"
Between realizing as I typed the date and writing the name of the song, I realized how "People, Look East" on Pearl Harbor Day could be deeply ironic, although at least it would have been from the west that the attack flew in.
I already knew this was not going to be a particularly inspired entry. I sang several songs this morning, and I can't find any of them now. I looked at this song in the end, and the second verse continues my weekly theme.
Furrows, be glad, though earth is bare.
One more seed is planted there;
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower flourish.
The repetition of Love the X is on the way is also wonderful, especially the last "Love, the Lord is on the way," but all that I really connected with this evening is the second verse as a beautiful metaphor for what it is to be a person of faith.
Jesus told us that we would reap what we did not sow, and I always responded with something of a quirked eyebrow. I wish a few more of his parables came with simple explanations like the seed in the different kinds of soil. A lot of them seem self-explanatory, but a lot of them have been twisted and others are just sort of...opaque. The dishonest steward is a perennial head-scratcher for me.
But every so often (and sometimes multiple times on the same parable which just shows how patient God really is), I get a window into understanding His meaning.
Sometimes we are asked to be the furrows where the seed is planted. We didn't plant it, we don't have proof it's there. We are asked to act as if we did and do a lot of sweaty, dirty work. And others might reap the rewards of it. Of course, it can be even more disconcerting when we go and harvest the work that others have painstakingly done.
This is what it means to be a person of faith. We toil at communal work, that we may or may not see come to fruition. We toil for a shared responsibility, when we may not have been there when the seed of hope was planned.
To be a person of faith is to believe that "Love, the Rose, is on the way." To believe that something will grow in the soil we till.
It is hard, but we harvest other fields, that we did not sow or plow. We are the Body of Christ. We share the burden of all the different crops.
Friday, 6 December 2013
O Little Town of Bethlehem
Friday, December 6, 2013
"O Little Town of Bethlehem"
The first and third verse of this hymn have my heart today.
O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
I like the idea of a town - perhaps as a stand-in for our whole world - as a whole doing anything, but sleeping without a dream seems heartbreakingly appropriate for our world. We drift along, the stars and all the wonders of the universe passing silently by us as we drudge along in something of a stupor.
But it is to us that God Himself came.
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
Sometimes, when preachers rattle their sabers and whip us up into a fervor, we can forget that the battle has already been won. That's probably half of what goes wrong in Christianity today -- acting like we're on the frontlines when we're the mop-up crew. We're the victors, sweeping up the spoils. It probably doesn't feel like victory to a mop-up crew either. They see the devastation, the price of war. So do we. But it is victory, if we believe.
Jesus won the battle one dreamy night in Bethlehem, a middle-of-nowhere hamlet lost in the vast reaches of the Roman Empire over 2,000 years ago. That is where the Eternal Light, the Hope and Joy and Victory of God touched down.
Everything else is just fallout. God Himself became man. Matter. Atoms and substance and all the weird gooey stuff that makes up our bodies. The infinite made finite. I've tried before to say it in a way that captures it but...words don't go there.
The third verse is a lovely, if wildly inadequate, attempt to articulate that gift:
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still
The dear Christ enters in.
He is still all around us. He won the victory.
What looks like a battle is just the aftermath of one.
"O Little Town of Bethlehem"
The first and third verse of this hymn have my heart today.
O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
I like the idea of a town - perhaps as a stand-in for our whole world - as a whole doing anything, but sleeping without a dream seems heartbreakingly appropriate for our world. We drift along, the stars and all the wonders of the universe passing silently by us as we drudge along in something of a stupor.
But it is to us that God Himself came.
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
Sometimes, when preachers rattle their sabers and whip us up into a fervor, we can forget that the battle has already been won. That's probably half of what goes wrong in Christianity today -- acting like we're on the frontlines when we're the mop-up crew. We're the victors, sweeping up the spoils. It probably doesn't feel like victory to a mop-up crew either. They see the devastation, the price of war. So do we. But it is victory, if we believe.
Jesus won the battle one dreamy night in Bethlehem, a middle-of-nowhere hamlet lost in the vast reaches of the Roman Empire over 2,000 years ago. That is where the Eternal Light, the Hope and Joy and Victory of God touched down.
Everything else is just fallout. God Himself became man. Matter. Atoms and substance and all the weird gooey stuff that makes up our bodies. The infinite made finite. I've tried before to say it in a way that captures it but...words don't go there.
The third verse is a lovely, if wildly inadequate, attempt to articulate that gift:
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still
The dear Christ enters in.
He is still all around us. He won the victory.
What looks like a battle is just the aftermath of one.
Thursday, 5 December 2013
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
Thursday, December 5, 2013
"It Came Upon a Midnight Clear"
This is one I have loved for a long time for the melody rather than the lyrics, and I expected to come here with a little snark of "so this is one that makes stuff up" because how do we know it was a "midnight clear" anyway?
And then, half a line into singing it this morning, I just went "Oh, right, follow the star, of course there are no clouds..."
Of course, the song is mostly about the shepherds, but the thing is: this song is really an Advent song, not a Christmas song. I know it's treated as a Christmas song, and there are elements that seem like they could only work in proper Christmastime but no. It is an Advent song.
The first verse is Christmastime -- that quiet that descends in the magic and wonder of Christmas (Eve especially), but the other verses:
Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world
Above its sad and lonely plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever over its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
The only thing keeping this from being sung at every Advent Mass is the suggestion that it's already happening rather than we're waiting for the world to be like that -- but it's gorgeous. That is the promise of being a person of faith: there are moments when the weary world goes still and we can hear the heavenly music playing over all our Babel sounds.
We make so much noise. I just had music playing while I was trying to write this until a moment ago. We makes ourselves weary drowning out the glory and the peace and the love and the music playing. Someday the trumpet will blare and the world will hear it blast forth, we are asked to remember in Advent.
Somedays the world goes quiet and you can hear how it's already here. That is the promise of every day living your faith.
And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! For glad the golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing:
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.
That is what Advent should be. We who wind along the weary way of life and faith in this wicked, weird, and wonderful world need Advent to remind us -- to tell us to take a breath, put down our burdens in celebration of Christmas, and listen for the music. Lent is about self-correction and penance and deeply uncomfortable self-knowledge in a way that Advent, for all its similar solemness and purple labeling, is not.
Advent is, really, the opposite: lay down your burdens and remember that the price has already been paid, that someday Jesus will come back and the world will be at peace, take a moment to rest and remember that you are already saved. You are already blessed. You are forever beloved. Take a moment and listen for the glory of God already surrounding you.
And, of course, not only is there beauty now, but someday it will not be so hard to find:
For, lo, the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And all the world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.
Gorgeous. An Advent hymn.
"It Came Upon a Midnight Clear"
This is one I have loved for a long time for the melody rather than the lyrics, and I expected to come here with a little snark of "so this is one that makes stuff up" because how do we know it was a "midnight clear" anyway?
And then, half a line into singing it this morning, I just went "Oh, right, follow the star, of course there are no clouds..."
Of course, the song is mostly about the shepherds, but the thing is: this song is really an Advent song, not a Christmas song. I know it's treated as a Christmas song, and there are elements that seem like they could only work in proper Christmastime but no. It is an Advent song.
The first verse is Christmastime -- that quiet that descends in the magic and wonder of Christmas (Eve especially), but the other verses:
Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world
Above its sad and lonely plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever over its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
The only thing keeping this from being sung at every Advent Mass is the suggestion that it's already happening rather than we're waiting for the world to be like that -- but it's gorgeous. That is the promise of being a person of faith: there are moments when the weary world goes still and we can hear the heavenly music playing over all our Babel sounds.
We make so much noise. I just had music playing while I was trying to write this until a moment ago. We makes ourselves weary drowning out the glory and the peace and the love and the music playing. Someday the trumpet will blare and the world will hear it blast forth, we are asked to remember in Advent.
Somedays the world goes quiet and you can hear how it's already here. That is the promise of every day living your faith.
And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! For glad the golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing:
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.
That is what Advent should be. We who wind along the weary way of life and faith in this wicked, weird, and wonderful world need Advent to remind us -- to tell us to take a breath, put down our burdens in celebration of Christmas, and listen for the music. Lent is about self-correction and penance and deeply uncomfortable self-knowledge in a way that Advent, for all its similar solemness and purple labeling, is not.
Advent is, really, the opposite: lay down your burdens and remember that the price has already been paid, that someday Jesus will come back and the world will be at peace, take a moment to rest and remember that you are already saved. You are already blessed. You are forever beloved. Take a moment and listen for the glory of God already surrounding you.
And, of course, not only is there beauty now, but someday it will not be so hard to find:
For, lo, the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And all the world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.
Gorgeous. An Advent hymn.
Wednesday, 4 December 2013
Somebody's Knockin' at Your Door
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
"Somebody's Knockin' at Your Door"
I feel as if this post is more deeply inspired by the 50th Anniversary of Doctor Who than the chosen hymn for today...but it's a good message.
For an Whovian fans reading this, well, spoilers!
I'll just say that Moffat pulls off Everybody Lives in epic fashion -- and the Doctor pull off the ultimate Life Hack. They use their suffering and guilt to pull themselves back from the brink in their previous timeline. They choose to endure the pain of crushing guilt because it helps them figure out how to save everyone.
And there's this great moment, when a terrible thing is about to happen -- when you think that all of this buildup really has been to convince an old man that he must kill billions to save the universe for fairly and annoyingly light justification -- there's that old sound of the TARDIS coming in for a landing.
Of somebody knockin' at the door.
When I sang this song this morning, I used the traditional interpretation -- Jesus is always calling to us, wanting to save us, wanting to show us how to help people, wanting to help us become better people. And we sit in our little world thinking it's so important when heaven and God are banging to get in through the flimsy little barrier we've created.
I posed a lot of questions today about "The Lady or the Tiger", and I spent a lot of that time trying to get the kids to stop trying to "hack" the story -- figure out cheats around the devilish choice the character must make.
I was wrong.
There's always another way. Doctor Who already taught me that lesson once. Whenever you think you're alone, whenever you think a terrible thing must be done, listen for the knock.
I can guarantee you, Somebody's knockin' at the door with a better plan.
And the repetition of "Can't you hear him?" and "Can't you trust him?" just makes it feel all the more true. We let people tell us that we have only two choices. That is a lie told by lying liars, even if they're not doing it intentionally. You have ten thousand choices every second. Everything you do is a choice, and no one gets to tell you what those are -- or that you have no choice but to do a lesser evil.
It's okay if you can't see the way out. It's okay if you can't see the better way on your own. Even the Doctor couldn't, with all of his wisdom. All I ask is that you listen.
O sinner, why don't you answer? Somebody's knockin' at your door.
"Somebody's Knockin' at Your Door"
I feel as if this post is more deeply inspired by the 50th Anniversary of Doctor Who than the chosen hymn for today...but it's a good message.
For an Whovian fans reading this, well, spoilers!
I'll just say that Moffat pulls off Everybody Lives in epic fashion -- and the Doctor pull off the ultimate Life Hack. They use their suffering and guilt to pull themselves back from the brink in their previous timeline. They choose to endure the pain of crushing guilt because it helps them figure out how to save everyone.
And there's this great moment, when a terrible thing is about to happen -- when you think that all of this buildup really has been to convince an old man that he must kill billions to save the universe for fairly and annoyingly light justification -- there's that old sound of the TARDIS coming in for a landing.
Of somebody knockin' at the door.
When I sang this song this morning, I used the traditional interpretation -- Jesus is always calling to us, wanting to save us, wanting to show us how to help people, wanting to help us become better people. And we sit in our little world thinking it's so important when heaven and God are banging to get in through the flimsy little barrier we've created.
I posed a lot of questions today about "The Lady or the Tiger", and I spent a lot of that time trying to get the kids to stop trying to "hack" the story -- figure out cheats around the devilish choice the character must make.
I was wrong.
There's always another way. Doctor Who already taught me that lesson once. Whenever you think you're alone, whenever you think a terrible thing must be done, listen for the knock.
I can guarantee you, Somebody's knockin' at the door with a better plan.
And the repetition of "Can't you hear him?" and "Can't you trust him?" just makes it feel all the more true. We let people tell us that we have only two choices. That is a lie told by lying liars, even if they're not doing it intentionally. You have ten thousand choices every second. Everything you do is a choice, and no one gets to tell you what those are -- or that you have no choice but to do a lesser evil.
It's okay if you can't see the way out. It's okay if you can't see the better way on your own. Even the Doctor couldn't, with all of his wisdom. All I ask is that you listen.
O sinner, why don't you answer? Somebody's knockin' at your door.
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
We Three Kings
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
"We Three Kings"
The fourth verse of this songs seems sadly appropriate for today.
Myrrh is mine; it's bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Sealed in a stone cold tomb.
The father of a girl at my school died yesterday. We talked to the students about it today. We're all attending his funeral on Thursday (although I had to assert my right to do so to the administration who forgot that I spend most of my day teaching 8th grade rather than 6th and see the grieving student roughly twice as often as any other teacher).
It was poor timing with the short story we are currently studying: "The Lady or the Tiger?" by Frank L. Stockton. It's not the worst thing we could be reading, but it is a deeply and deliciously ironic piece that makes rather light of death and murder. The class after a brief discussion and announcement became all about discussing grief and death, followed by awkward attempts to bridge the gap between that conversation and the story -- in the end, not too shabby, actually. I talked about why we try to make light of death, try to make it little and even funny.
The other two classes sailed through the planned lesson with a class to buffer between the announcement/5 minute chat and "Do you think the princess totally killed her lover?" discussion. Kids are resilient.
But I wonder if it's something we all do. We all breathe a life of gathering gloom. We all know death is what waits for us at the end. Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, and finally dying, sealed in a stone cold tomb.
But not our souls. Not thanks to Jesus. And not even our bodies, on the last day.
I'll never forget seeing my sick father surrounded by his ACTS brothers as they sang that chorus to him, "And we will raise you up, and we will raise you up, and we will raise you up on the last day."
It's a corruption of the "I will raise you up" chorus where the song is speaking for God, obviously, but I love that message. Some variants to "to the Lord" rather than on the "last day" which most of the time I like even more. On the last day, Jesus will raise us all up. In the meantime, just like we create hell on earth, we are responsible for raising each other up. We are responsible for creating little patches of the sublime, slices of heaven to give each other as gifts.
You can't make a heaven for yourself, but you can give a moment of it to others. It's why a faith community is so important -- a lesson I forgot once.
I said several times today, talking about the situation to the kids, that this is when it's good to go to a Catholic school. We know each other, we can take care of each other, and we have God to help us. A faith community -- people to catch you, people who know things that will help, people who can remind you that death isn't the end.
People to raise you up, as we breathe a life of gathering gloom. We can still raise incense and myrrh up to the Lord, even sorrowing and sighing. Even when we're bleeding and dying. And when we are sealed in a stone cold tomb, others will do it for us.
"We Three Kings"
The fourth verse of this songs seems sadly appropriate for today.
Myrrh is mine; it's bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Sealed in a stone cold tomb.
The father of a girl at my school died yesterday. We talked to the students about it today. We're all attending his funeral on Thursday (although I had to assert my right to do so to the administration who forgot that I spend most of my day teaching 8th grade rather than 6th and see the grieving student roughly twice as often as any other teacher).
It was poor timing with the short story we are currently studying: "The Lady or the Tiger?" by Frank L. Stockton. It's not the worst thing we could be reading, but it is a deeply and deliciously ironic piece that makes rather light of death and murder. The class after a brief discussion and announcement became all about discussing grief and death, followed by awkward attempts to bridge the gap between that conversation and the story -- in the end, not too shabby, actually. I talked about why we try to make light of death, try to make it little and even funny.
The other two classes sailed through the planned lesson with a class to buffer between the announcement/5 minute chat and "Do you think the princess totally killed her lover?" discussion. Kids are resilient.
But I wonder if it's something we all do. We all breathe a life of gathering gloom. We all know death is what waits for us at the end. Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, and finally dying, sealed in a stone cold tomb.
But not our souls. Not thanks to Jesus. And not even our bodies, on the last day.
I'll never forget seeing my sick father surrounded by his ACTS brothers as they sang that chorus to him, "And we will raise you up, and we will raise you up, and we will raise you up on the last day."
It's a corruption of the "I will raise you up" chorus where the song is speaking for God, obviously, but I love that message. Some variants to "to the Lord" rather than on the "last day" which most of the time I like even more. On the last day, Jesus will raise us all up. In the meantime, just like we create hell on earth, we are responsible for raising each other up. We are responsible for creating little patches of the sublime, slices of heaven to give each other as gifts.
You can't make a heaven for yourself, but you can give a moment of it to others. It's why a faith community is so important -- a lesson I forgot once.
I said several times today, talking about the situation to the kids, that this is when it's good to go to a Catholic school. We know each other, we can take care of each other, and we have God to help us. A faith community -- people to catch you, people who know things that will help, people who can remind you that death isn't the end.
People to raise you up, as we breathe a life of gathering gloom. We can still raise incense and myrrh up to the Lord, even sorrowing and sighing. Even when we're bleeding and dying. And when we are sealed in a stone cold tomb, others will do it for us.
Monday, 2 December 2013
O Come, O Come Emmanuel Part 2
Monday, December 2, 2013
O Come, O Come Emmanuel
I love the tune of this hymn. It's plaintive and longing without being too obvious. Nothing hits you over the head in this hymn, like "I Will Raise You Up" or even one of my other favorites "Behold the Lamb."
But you can hear it in the melody. It forces the voice to become rougher or thinner -- weary and longing for something more.
Something better, for all.
O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
I talked about this yesterday, and I forgot about my other Lenten observance, so today's not a banner day for my Advent, but I felt it bore repeating. I believe we long so desperately for the Second Coming, for our heavenly home, because it is our heavenly home. All of us. You can't long with such a pure and simple tune for the suffering of others.
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
This is my solemn prayer for this Advent. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. We are creating hell here on Earth. Save us from ourselves. The Hells are getting smarter. They are tricking us into thinking we are defined by them, that we cannot ever truly escape them, that we must become devils ourselves in some way.
Close that path. Shut it down.
Someday, I believe You will. Someday, I believe You will heal us all. Someday, we will look grim, knowing our children will someday ask us about death and sin and all the things human beings did to each other while they were among us. We will have to tell them what it was like before Jesus returned. We will have to tell them what we did to each other.
Someday, it'll have to be explained, because it won't be part of the world any longer. That path will be closed.
O Come, O Come Emmanuel
I love the tune of this hymn. It's plaintive and longing without being too obvious. Nothing hits you over the head in this hymn, like "I Will Raise You Up" or even one of my other favorites "Behold the Lamb."
But you can hear it in the melody. It forces the voice to become rougher or thinner -- weary and longing for something more.
Something better, for all.
O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
I talked about this yesterday, and I forgot about my other Lenten observance, so today's not a banner day for my Advent, but I felt it bore repeating. I believe we long so desperately for the Second Coming, for our heavenly home, because it is our heavenly home. All of us. You can't long with such a pure and simple tune for the suffering of others.
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
This is my solemn prayer for this Advent. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. We are creating hell here on Earth. Save us from ourselves. The Hells are getting smarter. They are tricking us into thinking we are defined by them, that we cannot ever truly escape them, that we must become devils ourselves in some way.
Close that path. Shut it down.
Someday, I believe You will. Someday, I believe You will heal us all. Someday, we will look grim, knowing our children will someday ask us about death and sin and all the things human beings did to each other while they were among us. We will have to tell them what it was like before Jesus returned. We will have to tell them what we did to each other.
Someday, it'll have to be explained, because it won't be part of the world any longer. That path will be closed.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
The End of Hell
Sunday, December 1, 2013
First Sunday of Advent
I will say one thing for the very challenging music that Will Robbins picks for Mass at the Newman Center - it really makes me pay attention to the lyrics. That is the source of the inspiration for my Advent blog this time around (well, that and Clara Biesel): dissecting hymns.
All of the hymns this week (including my all-time favorite always sung on the first Sunday of Advent, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel") focus on waiting for the new Jerusalem - longing for our true home.
It put me in mind of a heretical belief I hold about hell and the afterlife.
I clarified my thinking on hell after listening to the episode "Heretic" of This American Life (it is fabulous and interesting even if you disagree strongly with his conclusions, follow the link!). In it, Carlton Pearson discusses how he came to stop believing in hell and damnation. I pulled my car over to the side of the road when I heard it and started to cry. I had gone through exactly the same thing, and it felt beyond wonderful to have confirmation that someone else felt the same way.
Basically, he was watching TV with his daughter and saw on the news the war in Sudan and demanded of God why he would let people suffer so and then suck them into Hell. The answer came - "you think that's what we're doing?" You think that's what a loving God would do?
Of course not.
Now, there's a lot in the Bible that contradicts this belief (and a lot of arguments to the effect of "that's letting us all off the hook/rewriting the difficult parts of the Bible") but I always think of this Bible verse that I simply CANNOT find tonight (and it is very late for a school night) where Jesus describes Hell - by naming a place outside Jerusalem. A miserable place -- on Earth.
I believe in Hell. I believe we create all kinds of inventive hells here on Earth.
I don't believe that there is an eternal one. I believe that God is all-powerful and all-loving, and that all the evil in the world is the result of something twisted inside a person's soul. And I believe that God can untwist them. I believe in Purgatory or if we are lucky a more gentle place of healing. I believe we are all saved.
And these songs tonight remind me of this belief. That there will be an end to suffering and hell.
O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel.
Save us from this place where we make hells for ourselves because we are broken inside. Because we do nothing when evil twists our souls into pretzels.
We speak of the Second Coming as a time of universal joy and peace -- not a time when significant chunks of the world will go to torment. I can not long for such a day. But a day when Hell ends? That I long for with all my heart.
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
We are in exile from heaven. We create hells out of the Earth He gave us. But someday we will be set free. Someday the torment will end. Over that, we should all rejoice.
If we are good and loving Christians, we cannot rejoice for the other version of Judgment Day. We cannot be loving Christians and rejoice at the idea of millions sentenced to eternal torment and exile from God.
No, we rejoice because Jesus is coming to save us all.
First Sunday of Advent
I will say one thing for the very challenging music that Will Robbins picks for Mass at the Newman Center - it really makes me pay attention to the lyrics. That is the source of the inspiration for my Advent blog this time around (well, that and Clara Biesel): dissecting hymns.
All of the hymns this week (including my all-time favorite always sung on the first Sunday of Advent, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel") focus on waiting for the new Jerusalem - longing for our true home.
It put me in mind of a heretical belief I hold about hell and the afterlife.
I clarified my thinking on hell after listening to the episode "Heretic" of This American Life (it is fabulous and interesting even if you disagree strongly with his conclusions, follow the link!). In it, Carlton Pearson discusses how he came to stop believing in hell and damnation. I pulled my car over to the side of the road when I heard it and started to cry. I had gone through exactly the same thing, and it felt beyond wonderful to have confirmation that someone else felt the same way.
Basically, he was watching TV with his daughter and saw on the news the war in Sudan and demanded of God why he would let people suffer so and then suck them into Hell. The answer came - "you think that's what we're doing?" You think that's what a loving God would do?
Of course not.
Now, there's a lot in the Bible that contradicts this belief (and a lot of arguments to the effect of "that's letting us all off the hook/rewriting the difficult parts of the Bible") but I always think of this Bible verse that I simply CANNOT find tonight (and it is very late for a school night) where Jesus describes Hell - by naming a place outside Jerusalem. A miserable place -- on Earth.
I believe in Hell. I believe we create all kinds of inventive hells here on Earth.
I don't believe that there is an eternal one. I believe that God is all-powerful and all-loving, and that all the evil in the world is the result of something twisted inside a person's soul. And I believe that God can untwist them. I believe in Purgatory or if we are lucky a more gentle place of healing. I believe we are all saved.
And these songs tonight remind me of this belief. That there will be an end to suffering and hell.
O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel.
Save us from this place where we make hells for ourselves because we are broken inside. Because we do nothing when evil twists our souls into pretzels.
We speak of the Second Coming as a time of universal joy and peace -- not a time when significant chunks of the world will go to torment. I can not long for such a day. But a day when Hell ends? That I long for with all my heart.
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
We are in exile from heaven. We create hells out of the Earth He gave us. But someday we will be set free. Someday the torment will end. Over that, we should all rejoice.
If we are good and loving Christians, we cannot rejoice for the other version of Judgment Day. We cannot be loving Christians and rejoice at the idea of millions sentenced to eternal torment and exile from God.
No, we rejoice because Jesus is coming to save us all.
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