Back to Earth...

It's always strange for me to post from someone else's computer. Like using someone else's bathroom, nothing is exactly where it is in my own space. But flexibility and innovation and making do with what you have are all admirable qualities I (sometimes possess and) always long for. So here I am once again, at someone else's keyboard.

The three of us who were at Kanuga left early yesterday to get "home", back to the waiting obligations of job, family and the funeral. Because of Adelaide's incoming grandchildren I've been relocated to another house, until I shift gears once again to meet my son and his family for the rest of the week. That will be later today, when we can hook up after the reception.

I did not travel in habit this trip. I had not expected to need it for a vacation in the mountains and later (maybe) at the beach. I packed capri pants and tee shirts, one linen dress for dinner out, (when we will celebrate Mother's Day and everyone else's birthdays,) but no habit. I had not planned for a funeral.

My sisters back home had to gather all the pieces and ship them to me FedEx. I opened the box last night to sort everything out, iron the wrinkles, and discovered one piece was missing... the one thing I had not mentioned in my email to explain where everything was in my cell. Oops.

It's not a noticeable article of attire like the cross or the scapular... it's a piece of plastic that slides into the little white cap to which the veil attaches, and it holds the top of the cap in a stiff arc at the top of my head. Without it the whole thing flops and looks stupid. This morning we got out some cardboard and I went to work. I've inserted that stiff plastic thing enough times that I knew by memory the approximate shape and size I should cut out, but the plastic bends and snaps back easily and cardboard folds and creases. Oops. After a couple of failed attempts I got it to slide in without too much crumpling. It ain't perfect, but if nobody pats me on the head, it will do.

"Make do with what you have or do without" my grandmother used to say. So in an hour we will celebrate the life of a particular grandmother, not mine, but one who was herself the epitome of frugality and making do. I hope she likes my hat.

moving right along...

The conference is interesting, inspiring, the scenery lovely and the weather perfect. The food is delicious and there's lots of it. But each day I realize I am just tired. Taking on additional spiritual and intellectual information is not easy and I'm cutting out on lots of things, losing interest in some of the ones I chose initially to do.

Last night I attended a session on "being still." It was one of those situations where Murphy's Law was running rampant and the facilitator, although outwardly calm, was juggling his presentation internally. Ceiling fans with only one setting—high—kept blowing out the candle. Originally twenty people had signed up, and the perfect circle of chairs kept expanding in uneven lumps as more and more gate-crashers arrived (me among them) on the spur of the moment. The sound system kept picking up intermittent drumming from another building and the controls had to be located and shut down. A cel phone rang. We were in the middle of a deep meditation when he had to bring us back to the room for an announcement... "is so and so in the group?" an emergency message, as the Kanuga staff tried to locate the individual.

Metaphors for life, we call these instances. A specific session on being still is bombarded with outward distractions... some of them annoying, some necessary... but not now. So it is in life. At the breakfast table this morning we were congratulating the facilitator on his equanimity when a woman mentioned that this was what had happened to Jesus. He'd take hmself off to a quiet place to pray, only to be followed, stopped on the way, interrupted. His ministry was in those interruptions. Another important concept to ponder when I am not so tired...

getting grounded... not.

Stone ground grits and eggs... sausage biscuits... bacon, all you can eat. Have I died and gone to heaven? Even the coffee here is excellent. I am finding that the word "vacation" for me always seems to equate to "food." Oh well. Simple pleasures. Our Eucharist this morning was from the service used on Iona. Beautiful. The Celts definitely know how to worship.

in the garden

I'm in Hendersonville, North Carolina... at Kanuga, an Episcopal Conference Center. I drove up with two dear friends from Jacksonville yesterday morning for a week of "Gardens and Grace". It's beautiful here, so far the weather has been delightful... slept with the window open under a lazy ceiling fan last night... awoke to birdsong early this morning.

It was an uneventful flight to Jacksonville, although I cut it pretty close at the airport. I say uneventful... that's in the general sense: no flight delays, not long waits in security lines, no lost baggage.

However, this trip has had nothing but unexpected events.

I heard music on the plane. I actually looked around to see if someone had a CD player going somewhere, but no, it was "in my head." Tintinnitus is a new development attached to my aging process. Some days I keep hearing our doorbell ring when it's not ringing, but I've never heard music before. It was amazing... a bit like electronic music in its vibratory nature, but a distinct series of four harmonic chords that repeated themselves three times and then the progression changed to a new line with five chords. Then it started over again. I tried to hum along with what I was hearing and when I did, a profound sense of peace tinged with some vague awareness suffused my body. Cool! Very cool! And then I saw them. (Music from twilight zone: doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo)

What I "saw" outside the window were little speckles of light darting about in random patterns... like fireflies only teensy weensy, much smaller, much faster. Cosmic little beings that I shouldn't have been aware of, yet was. Okee dokee, now not only do I hear things that are not there, but I see them. Nice going, Claire Joy. Maybe they were figments of my imagination, just like the music, but they were pretty wonderful. They looked... happy.

When I arrived in Jacksonville, my friend picked me up from the airport,and we headed for the beach, just long enough to have a quick lunch and for me to dunk my toes into the ocean for a moment. She understands my need for this ritual. I am saying hi to my mother, whose ashes were scattered in that very same ocean fifteen years ago. Any ocean will do, since they are all connected, but this one is where she went in, so to speak, so it is special. Memorial Day weekend is also when I found her after her final stroke, so the weekend itself is laden with memory. Next we stopped by the nursing home to see my friend's mother-in-law.

I've known Adelaide for several years. She's been in a nursing home for much of that time, and I always like to take time to visit if I can. Last year was the first year she didn't know me. Over the past year she's lost more and more of her faculties, and when I saw her Saturday afternoon I knew it was for the last time. The call came at 5:30 Sunday morning.

Would we cancel the trip to Kanuga? No, we would keep to our plans, but with some delay. The family, me and the parish priest gathered at 9:00 for prayers for the dead. A small chime had been brought and was struck gently at the conclusion of our prayers.

As we stood there in silence, I fidgeted... the note had vibrated something loose inside me and a song of praise and entreaty came to my lips: "Open the gates O God! Your daughter is returning. Come out to meet her, O Christ! Your sister has come home! Open your arms O saints and angels! One of your flock has been restored." I wanted to sing it... shout it... wail it to heaven. But of course, being a well-behaved nun (on vacation) I couldn't do any of that. So I took the little hammer and struck the chime three more times repeating the prayer in my head as I did.

Then we got on the road. I'm here. But I'm not quite grounded. I keep thinking of the music on the plane, the little quark-like fireflies, the song to heaven that shook loose in me when the chime sounded. I can't put it together, even though I understand intuitively it is all connected. Maybe in the garden I will be able to make some sense of it all.

Interesting quiz

Thanks to Jules I stumbled onto this interesting quiz. I actually met Jerry Uelsmann (I think when he taught at UF, Gainesville) And I do like much of his work, although I'm told he made his students do a lot of the compositing for him. And oddly enough, I do a whole lot of compositing in my artwork. I just use photoshop... much easier.

Which famous photographer are you? Jerry Uelsmann: Known for multiple imagery and surrealism "I think of my photographs as being obviously symbolic, but not symbolically obvious.”

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

more along those same lines...

As I've mentioned before, I've been re-thinking the concept of friendship as it relates to the virtual community I have grown into over the past couple of years of blogging. Re-thinking and re-understanding have mostly been causes for excitement and joy in my life. Some folks find those activities stressful. I don't, don't ask me why.

I also realize that my Life is in transition again. I generally experience this after the fact, rarely as I go through the process, so to realize it mid-stream is quite wonderful. But transition in and of itself is not a gentle thing. My own community of sisters is experiencing its own transitional trauma as fewer of us are capable of handling the day-in-day-out responsibilities of running a convent. There are fewer of us to cook, clean, answer the door, and attend to the various jobs that were once spread over several sisters. With weariness comes irritation and shorter tempers. We do our best to curb the tendency to take it out on each other, but at some point something has to give. We have already moved up Compline to right after supper clean-up, so sisters can retire earlier. That's been helpful for all of us, not just the elderly. What else could we do to streamline our life? I personally feel we need to re-think the Office Book... make it easier to follow. If page two came after page one, maybe more of us could keep track of what day it is and what hymn we're supposed to sing. But revising fifty years of lovely tradition is no easy task, and since nobody has the time nor the energy to tackle it, we muddle through.

I digress. I am still thinking about the Feast of the Ascension, my irreverence for that holiest of days, (in that all I could muster was a sense of resentment and abandonment). I'd pass it off as pre-Memorial Day blues... anniversary of the weekend I found my mother in a coma from which she never recovered... but I figure it's more than that. And... it's not the kind of thing you open a conversation with..."Hey, I really don't care much for Christ's ascending. What do you think?"

Yet a bloggy friend posted a beautiful vision here and through her expression I could approach the event in a new way. What are friends for? Exactly.

Another friend recently posted about cleaning house and giving things up. He said "I think this is about giving up those things of the world that you have attachment to, but really have no purpose whatsoever except to waste your time and kill your soul." You can read the whole post here. How many things am I clinging to that waste my time and kill my soul?

I guess my point is simply this: the Holy Spirit (as much as I like to give that bird bad press) is alive and well on the blogosphere. The Word I need to hear is being posted every day and I'm reading those words and re-thinking, re-understanding. I'm in transition again... Hallelujah. I think.

searching for meaning

Dream: I am at a huge party, a housewarming. At one point it seems to be for the community because a woman kneels down and asks to receive communion. I explain that we are just having a dinner party, not a Eucharist.

Then it seems to be a housewarming for my ex-husband and me. I am welcoming guests, who are looking around in disbelief... everything is spotless and all the clutter is gone. You can see the furniture and bare floors. There are lots of people milling around everywhere... out in the yard, on the porch, crowding into the kitchen. I see some new people, friends from my time in community and I ask them to stay. Supper will be ready soon, and there's plenty.

As I walk into the kitchen, one of my husband's ex-wives (he's had a few) is hacking away at a giant slab of salmon. She looks up and smiles. She is "tenderizing" it. I walk by without comment. If she wants to tenderize the salmon, I'm not going to interfere. Another woman is trying to help my husband with the lentil soup... but the bowl is too small for all the ingredients. Apparently I have prepared everything in advance and have put it in the freezer, but nobody has remembered to thaw it out. There are no large pots or bowls to serve it in. I am irritated that the soup is still frozen, irritated that there are no large bowls. Oh... I took all the large bowls when we divorced, I think. My fault.

I send my husband on a fool's errand... to find a large enough container for the gallons of frozen soup. What about a large roasting pan? Do you have one of those? He returns with a giant covered grill hot off the fire pit. Will this work? He sets it down on the table. I lift the lid and there are about twenty blackened cornished game hens inside... left over from some long ago barbecue. The pan is burned and full of dirt. I lose my temper, fly off the handle and yell at him. I wake up.

I look at the clock. 6:03. I've overslept (again). I was awake at 4:30 but the window was open and the room chilly, and my neck stiff and painful. Too lazy to get up and close the window I burrowed deeper into the covers... to dream. What? Why? In dreams concerning my ex-husband I am always angry with him for something. I try to analyze the dream as I wash and dress and brush my teeth. What does it mean, Lord?

Feast of the Ascension

I'm not sure I'm all that happy about the feast of the Ascension.

I know I'm supposed to be ecstatic, because Jesus has gone back to God, where he came from in the first place, and the Holy Spirit will come around at some point to offer whatever it was that Jesus had (although the disciples weren't that clear about when that was going to happen.) Maybe just the spectacular way that Jesus left was enough for them. They witnessed it. I didn't.

So I sit here and keep thinking... you're leaving again!?! Damn.

Maybe it's because the few brushes I've had with the Holy Spirit have not been all that pleasant. I spoke in tongues a couple of times and that was embarrassing and out of control. I spent several months compelled to write Christian folk songs every night... verse after verse after verse... so many verses nobody in their right mind would want to hear the whole song. Do you know how many words rhyme with tree? Too many.

And whenever I sense the Spirit moving through a place, I tear up. My nose turns red, I can't speak without coughing. Of course it's usually when I'm in a group of people and someone always wants to know what's wrong? I was at an ordination a couple of weeks ago and one of the ordinands was so moved she sobbed through the whole ceremony. Uh oh. I can see it coming now... and the thought terrifies me.

someone else to remind you

John 14:23-29

"I have said these things to you while I'm still with you..." John's Gospel sets these words in the middle of the last supper... a long string of "if you love me, do this... and this... and this."

Yet we are reading these words a few days before the Ascension. It makes sense. Jesus could easily be preparing his disciples for his absence once again. When he tried that before they didn't get it. Will they get it this time? Probably not.

Think of the emotional roller coaster his followers have been riding over the last month: a triumphal entry into the Holy City... hoards screaming "hosanna!" only to be replaced by hoards screaming "crucify him!" The actual crucifixion, (which most of them did not witness) followed by news of a resurrection. Too much too soon. Now what? He's leaving AGAIN?

When someone we love has to leave us, no matter what the reason, there is a sense of loss. Stay! Don't go! When someone leaves that we expect to come back, and they don't, there is a sense of guilt. If only I had known, I'd have said goodbye. I'd have told them I loved them.

Jesus is specific about that. Okay... if you love me, here's what you do: you treat each other with the dignity you'd use if it were me. You'll be willing servants to each other. And while I won't be here to remind you, I'll send someone else to remind you... and you'll remember. You'll remember what I said, what I did, and if you love me, you'll do the same.

The advocate, the comforter, the Holy Spirit can take a variety of forms. She isn't going to look like a bird every time she appears. Just as we sometimes see Christ in the eyes of another human being, we also can feel the spirit moving through us to do what Jesus commanded.

Love, forgive, heal, feed, serve. It is God you serve, no matter who it is, no matter if they drive you crazy or annoy the hell out of you. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives."

In other words, this peace, this gift, makes no common sense by the world's standards. In the midst of your daily grind, you'll easily forget. But God is sending someone else to remind you...

Assorted Musings on Mother's Day

My friend mentioned she doesn't like Mother's Day. She may post about why that is, and I'll probably agree with whatever she says. Her words always encourage me to think about things differently. For the record, I like it. (Thinking differently... and Mothers Day. Both.)

I remember when my kids were in grade school they'd come home on Friday with hand-made cards—class project. The greetings were generally as creative as the teacher involved, sometimes humorous. Drawings were big, question and answer sessions... I like my mother to cook: (fill in the blank) My mother is prettiest when: (fill in the blank) I love my mother because: (fill in the blank) I saved those cards for years... my sentimentality for them long exceeded my sentimentality for the macaroni Christmas ornaments they brought home.

I don't know who invented Mother's Day. I could have looked it up, and given you the history, but you can google it yourself. I do that (google information for my blog) sometimes... so I'll appear more intelligent than I really am. And I actually am pretty smart about some things. I have excellent reading comprehension, decent grammar, good spelling (if not typing) skills. I'm creative and productive, have most always been able to earn a living. My learning curve is suffering with old age, but I guess that's to be expected.

"Street smart" I have never been. Naive would be a better term... or gullible, perhaps. As a child, I was sheltered from violence, gang wars, drive-by shootings. I was not sheltered from child molestation, but neither was I traumatized by it. It left its scar, but one that was barely visible. I wonder about the scars (visible and otherwise) left on my children... how my neglect, insecurity, inability to set boundaries, and bad choices have affected them in ways they are still dealing with.

That is all in my past, I cannot change any of it. What I can do now, is love them with all my heart, let them know it in as many ways possible, and wish them well. Oddly enough it appears I've been given a second chance at mothering to some of our elderly sisters, who grow more child-like every day. They spill, break dishes, go out alone without telling anyone, lose their place in the Daily Office... lose their glasses, or cane. They ask a thousand questions... tell me the same story again and again... yet I take it in stride without much annoyance. I have more patience, more compassion with them than I did with my own kids. (Maybe growing old does that too.)

When I was little, everyone wore a carnation on Mother's Day. There was a code: if your mother was alive, you wore red or pink. If she was dead, you wore white. I never wore a white carnation because somewhere along the way that ritual was phased out. But flowers for Mother's Day have never phased out. I read that Mother's day actually surpasses Valentine's Day in flower deliveries, and that's a HUGE flower holiday.

I got flowers from my older son this year. Irises. Beautiful purple irises. The card read To My Mommy I loved that. Mommy. I only know one other adult who still calls her mother Mommy. And I do love flowers, too. Some folks think they are a waste of money because the shelf-life is so short. Nah. Jesus didn't think it was a waste of money when Mary cracked the jar of nard over his head. The perfume was exquisite and he loved her for it. It said "you're worth it." For me it's the same with flowers. In spite of everything, I'm worth it to my children.

I am blessed with two sons and they take turns surprising me. When I was younger (and way more cynical), I'd say "It's good to have two. You have a better chance of being remembered by at least one of them." This year it was flowers.

Imaginary Friends

I had a phone message on my machine from one of my bloggy friends. We had been in contact through her blog, (and mine) and we had exchanged a few emails, but I had never heard her voice. It somehow changed the dynamic to hear her speak. She actually sounded much as I would have imagined, only better, if that makes any sense.

She was telling me about a kindness another blog reader had extended to her, apparently through me, and wanted to thank me. I hadn't really done anything, other than mention her blog in one of my blogs and give a link to her site. That's it. Yet a connection was made and through that connection at least two more people have enriched each other's lives.

Some of my sisters (and plenty of people I imagine... maybe not you since you're actually reading this post) can't understand how virtual friends can be worth anything. The tendency is to think of them as "imaginary friends" and therefore not worthy of the same affection or effort that's involved in being a real flesh and blood friend. I bought that story for awhile because I thought I agreed. Now I'm not so sure.

If Jesus were alive today, would he blog? Would he find his disciples in the Yellow Pages or google the Web?

Today in Bible study we discussed the lesson from Luke where Jesus sends his disciples out to heal and teach. Take no money or extra clothes, and if someone welcomes you, stay awhile... how would that go over today? Not very well I bet. No, our culture and our technology require different tactics to achieve the same results... healing broken hearts, inspiring indifferent minds, converting people's everyday lives.

I have flesh and blood friends that I don't see often. They are in my heart, on my mind. I say prayers for them when I know they need them. But I do not experience them in the flesh except maybe once a month, in some cases, once a year. I have bloggy friends I have never met and probably never will. Yet because we have shared ourselves and our ideas through our writing, they are in my heart, on my mind, and I say prayers for them when I know they need them.

What's the difference?

Happy Birthday Dear One!

My younger son was born on Mother's Day. At least that's the way I remember it. (It's my story and I'm sticking to it.) Today he celebrates his thirty-sixth birthday. The fact that he was my second and I had a good idea of what to expect, that technology had improved in the three years since my first childbirth... both contributed to a much easier delivery... a much easier transition to the caring of a new baby. A nurse informed me that "the angels had kissed him on the way out." I wasn't sure how she knew this, had witnessed this, or if it was a line she gave all new mothers... but it was a comfort at the time.

And he was an angelic baby. From the beginning he was strong and independent, with a knack for entertaining himself without much supervision. That his older brother sometimes bullied him and got him into trouble didn't seem to faze him much. He liked to draw when he was small and I had occasional visions of another artist in the family.

But in addition to his innate sensitivity, he was also a macho guy... whether out of desire or self-defense I don't know. He took to body building-activities: mowing lawns in the summer. He pumped iron in high school and was a male cheerleader, lifting the (somewhat hefty) girls into the air.

He served his time in the Navy, and was determined to become a police officer. The police academy wasn't accepting new recruits, so he attended the junior college's police course. Of course the force wasn't hiring the junior college graduates either, so he took a job in Corrections, working at the county jail. That was when I knew he still valued the human element of compassion so important in positions of authority and physical power.

He told me about a young, very scared woman who had been arrested for forging an $18 check at a 7/11. She was in a holding tank with a crowd of hookers who were razzing her and scaring her to death. All he did was pull her sheet from the bottom of the stack and process her through first, to get her out of the pen. He did his job, but with mercy more than justice.

Less than a year later he was finally sworn in as an officer. He made sergeant in record time and then lieutenant. We are talking one determined and focused guy. he has told me more than once he'll be sheriff one day, and I believe him.

I am so proud of him, of his beautiful family and his willingness to persevere. I'm not sure which genes he inherited from me, (probably not the perseverance) but I love him for who he is, and who he is becoming. Happy Birthday dear John!

Aging

Dream: I have missed my grandson's birthday (again) and I am trying to write a blog to apologize, to explain that my (once razor-sharp) memory keeps failing me. I begin the post with "I have too many grandchildren." ...as if that were a valid excuse for not remembering the youngest's first birthday. No, I cannot say that. It sounds judgmental, as if I were rebuking my son for having four children. As the dream continues I keep revising the text, trying not to whine, trying to sound appropriately contrite. I feel guilty, helpless, hopeless in this. I start again.

The truth is I'm having difficulty coping with the fact that I cannot remember things any more. I am having more difficulty with my irritation with others who forget key details. I now have no grounds for complaint (as if I ever did) but now the clarity is painful.

I begin again. I talk about the aging process, things my mother used to say when she was growing forgetful... when she no longer could do things on the spur of the moment or would become agitated when asked to change her plans. It took her two hours to get dressed in the morning. She needed to know ahead of time what to wear. I am not that bad, I say to myself. But I know secretly that it takes me longer to organize my day now too. I start again. "I have too many grandchildren." No, I can't say that. Now why can't I say that? I cannot remember. So I leave it for now, and hit "save as draft."

I wake up exhausted, slowly becoming aware I've dreamed the whole thing. I pray quietly in the early morning dimness. When was his birthday? I'm afraid to look at the little book where I keep all the dates... how late am I?

Later in the day I finally look at the book. I look at March, April... his name is not there. I look at May... hope springing up.. maybe I am not late? His name is not there. My son's name is there. I knew that. I have only two sons. I can remember two. June... there he is, June 24th! I am not late. Ah... but when June comes will I forget again? I sigh. And give thanks for my forgiving sons, my forgiving sisters, my forgiving God.

Beltane/Bealtaine/Holiday/Holy Day

There's only so much research you can do into the origin of words before the stories start going in circles. That's when the thinness of knowledge mixes with the kind of understanding you can only call knowing. It is the best of times, the most frustrating of times.

In our culture of calendars and watches, appointment books and blackberrys, tomorrow will be May 1st; therefore tonight is the eve of May 1st: May Day, Beltaine. It is a time of thinness, just as there are geographical places of thinness.

In the Celtic tradition, but specifically the Gaelic, Bealtaine marks the cross-quarter mid-point between the vernal equinox and the summer solstice... significant sun days for the world that revolved around agriculture. The herds would be sent to their summer pastures, and blessings would be invoked for fruitfulness of the land. This holiday would not have always fallen so conveniently on this date... it may have been celebrated at the full moon falling closest to the sun's day.

The word Beltane may come from the Old Irish Beltene which means bright fire, or from bale fire which also means white or shining. In any event, fire and bonfires were/are a major part of the celebration. From that one fire other fires would be rekindled. The rituals for blessing and purification were done in threes, a sacred number in practically every religion. Why is that? What is it about the number three that holds so much power and significance? You can do your own research. There are plenty of theories. I gravitate to the belief that it's a combination of the number one and the number two... the mystery that embraces both unity and duality... a concept we've been struggling with since Eden.

But back to the bonfires. Think of our own Easter vigil ritual... the light of the world is rekindled and from it all the candles in the church are lit. What we call resurrection was evident in the pagan world in spring's miraculous rebirth from winter. Just as Jesus told his parables in words using the Earth's terminology, so we echo the intuitive understanding of our forebears.

Just because I can google the morning away discovering how all these things fit together, does not make me any the wiser. I have never jumped three times over the fire like my Irish ancestors. Maybe I should just drag out the hibachi and give it a go.

My sheep hear my voice.

With three sisters out of town and one sick in bed, we were a very small group this morning. And we had a new celebrant to "break in", (not that our mass is different from other settings... that's one of the beauties of a standard prayer book.) Still, a new priest likes to walk through the service beforehand, to be made aware of small nuances, and every congregation has them.

She had done her homework. Her homily covered all three readings, the psalm, and the fact that if it were not Sunday, it would be the feast day of Catherine of Siena. As I've mentioned before, one of the benefits of community that I so appreciate, is hearing new voices proclaim the Gospel on Sunday morning. Sometimes I hang on every word; sometimes a hymn will reinforce what's just been said; sometimes a turn of phrase will interrupt time and my mind will wander.

In today's Gospel (John 10: 22-30) Jesus is asked (once again) to tell plainly if he is the Messiah. And once again, he says "I have told you and you do not believe." This time he goes on to say the reason you don't believe is because you aren't my sheep. "My sheep hear my voice."

Time stopped. My mind wandered... to an old Bonnie Rait song:
All at once I hear your voice, and time just slips away.
Nothing they can say can hold me here.
Take me where I only feel the wind across my face.
Let me know there's some place left for me.
Waiting there for me...

That chorus (taken out of its song context) speaks vividly of what it means to hear HIs voice. I used to get a catch in my throat every time I heard it... I would sing along with Bonnie, tears streaming down my face. I thought I was missing a human voice, maybe my dad or an old boyfriend, lover, husband... I could never quite put my finger on who it was. But the longing was real, the tears a tangible indication I was on to something bigger than I could imagine.

The other day a friend expressed his concern/opinion about my becoming a life-professed sister. He said something to the effect: "you could be doing so much more out in the world... the convent is too confining for someone with your creativity."

I was out in the world. I did plenty with my creativity. I still do, I think. The medium for creativity may take a different form now, but that form is as valid as the other forms were. It's part of the discernment process... to understand the differences and still find the unity within all the expressions. My decision will rest more with whether I hear the voice amidst all the other voices... the one that makes time just slip away.

uses and abuses

The class I attended was advertised as "Uses and Abuses of Sacred Scripture." It was a one-night stand, so to speak, an evening session that included a panel discussion between a Muslim (Arabic scholar) a Rabbi (Sanskrit expert) and a former Jesuit/now Episcopal priest.

I'm not sure what I expected, but at the time the discussion didn't seem to fulfill the theme. Apparently I wasn't the only attendee to feel disoriented; a comment from another classmate echoed the same thought. So what was I expecting? A handbook on how to abuse scripture? Or... a handbook on how to defend myself from individuals who use scripture to abuse me?

What we got was three variations on the theme: Sacred text, whether it be Torah, Gospel or Koran is the Living Word of God. I knew that. Didn't I? Maybe yes and maybe no.

Our Rabbi opened his remarks with the statement "The Bible says." and then went on to refute this all-too-common (I would say fundamentalist) attribution with: "The Bible doesn't say anything." He explained that what we understand the Bible to mean is a far cry from the Bible says. That rings true for me. I've been in too many dead-end arguments with "The Bible says it, I believe it, and that settles it" poster children. There's no where to go in a discussion with people who quote the Bible as the last word. He also pointed out the Bible should be the first word, not the last. In other words, an invitation to dialog... yet we know some folks just can't go there.

Our priest expanded with examples of selective screening... how we pick and choose the words to follow that suit our needs or our fancy. He used the example of Jesus telling the young man to sell everything and give it to the poor (one we sidestep) as opposed to the passage where Jesus tells Nicodemus he must be born again. We latched onto that one like white on rice.

Our Muslim scholar gave us an example from Arabic, which apparently uses no punctuation: woman without her man is nothing He asked us to punctuate it. We came up with two versions: Woman, without her, man is nothing. and Woman, without her man, is nothing. For me, neither variation was satisfactory, since both were bashing one gender or the other. Where was the neutral ground? How could this quotation have meaning that doesn't polarize us?

Now... I'm thinking that was the whole point of the evening. Any interpretation of sacred scripture that polarizes is a misinterpretation. It must have meant something else, either in the context of the culture, in a faulty translation from one language to another, or in our limited human comprehension. The Word of God may very well be inerrant, but our grasp of God will never be complete, our understanding always limited to what we either already know or have been taught.

Good to keep in mind if the dialog is ever to continue...

Comfort levels

I recently attended a Solemn Evensong at one of the more Anglo-Catholic churches in New York City. Whenever I'm in a "high-church" setting, I'm always reminded of the half-year I spent at the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a Roman Catholic parochial school in Portland, Maine. I was in the third grade.

My mother's reasons for sending me to that school had nothing to do with the religious education I inadvertently received... (I probably studied my catechism with much more zeal than was warranted, since I would never be receiving First Communion in a dainty white dress and veil like the other little girls in my class.) I was a protestant, an alien in a sea of Roman Catholics. Nobody seemed to mind, or if they did, they were not obnoxious about it. Perhaps it was felt there was still time to save my immortal soul, or perhaps the nuns simply followed Jesus' teaching to welcome the stranger.

As a class, we would attend the Stations of the Cross every Friday. I was transported to a foreign world. One whiff of the incense, the sight of all those flickering votive candles in their little red containers... the beautiful (somewhat gory) statues with their hearts exposed in their chests, tears like pearls glistening on their cheeks... something hushed and holy was present there in a way I'd never experienced in my Southern Baptist/Unitarian/Congregational checkered past.

But I was not thoroughly trained in those mysteries; I got just enough to be dangerous. I, too, learned the Act of Contrition and patiently waited to say my confession, only to be recognized and gently pulled out of line. "You aren't required to say confession, my dear."
"But I want to, I want to do a penance."
"Well then, why don't you sit over here and say the rosary. That is one of the penances."
But, even as a seven-year-old Catholic wannabe, I was a maverick, and a lazy one at that. I only said half of each Hail Mary, alternating between Hail Mary full of grace and Holy Mary mother of God, and finished in half the time. I lit ten votive candles and only added a nickel to the jar. I was definitely missing something key.

Only later would I rebel at the inconsistencies, the arbitrary rules, the church's massive wealth in the midst of poverty. I would eventually take the middle road to piety... a church with solid liturgy but not so many ways to be damned. I came to grips with what was important for me in all of the bowing and scraping before crosses and sacraments. I had to feel the reverence in my heart, or it meant nothing... to me, or to God.

Now, over-the-top pageantry will pull me out of reverence faster than a speeding bullet. And so it was the other evening... At the Eucharistic Exposition my mind wandered. I watched the solemnity with which the Holy Sacrament was transferred from the tabernacle to the monstrance, displayed in an arcing circle, then put back into its dark cabinet again. I stifled a giggle with great effort. All I could think of was
"You take the fish food out, you put the fish food in,
You parade it in a circle, then you put it back again.
You do the Hokey Pokey..."

I was a seven-year-old again, still definitely missing something key. I tried focusing on the Tantum ergo, the hymn sung during the censing... Therefore we before him bending, This great Sacrament revere; types and shadows have their ending, for the newer rite is here... I couldn't make the connection. What newer rite? This rite is about as old-fashioned as it gets... parading around a communion wafer for everybody to adore! It's embarrassing. I later mentioned my discomfort to one of my sisters and she said simply "It's just not your style." No kidding.

I've wrestled with my knee-jerk reaction to the Exposition ritual, and finally realized that (for me) the Blessed Sacrament is only blessed if you eat it. It may be the very presence of Christ, but not until it mingles with my presence and nourishes me in a tangible, sensory way. However, I also realized that Jesus was most likely not embarrassed. (by me or for me, maybe), but certainly not from the adoration of a full congregation of people, some who find great comfort in these old ways of worship... comfort they no longer feel in their own Roman Catholic parishes.

It comes down to this: worship must be comforting, even if it is not always comfortable. And... what brings comfort to one part of the Body may tickle (or irritate) another. (I'm thinking ticklish feet or armpits as opposed to kneecaps or shoulders.) As my sister said so succinctly, it's not my style.

But deeper than that... while I could not reverence the ritual itself, I can reverence the intention. I will try to keep that in mind the next time my seven-year old starts singing the Hokey Pokey.

Third Sunday in Eastertide

O God, whose blessed son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, One God, now and for ever,
—Collect for Easter III:

After reading the Gospel describing the disciples' beach breakfast with the risen Christ, our celebrant began his homily with: "All resurrection experiences are to those who need them. Be in touch with your need." He spoke quietly with some special authority. Perhaps it's an Anglican thing, (he was a guest in our house from the Church of England, and kindly agreed to fill in on a Sunday I hadn't been able to schedule a local priest.) He had me hooked.

I remembered the collect for today... how that turn of phrase connecting the sight of bread with the sight of Christ's redeeming work had poked my heart the way words sometimes do; I thought of all the people Jesus had not appeared to... Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas... how his appearances were always shrouded in mystery and misunderstanding until the eyes of faith were opened to the possibility that this stranger in their midst was indeed the risen Lord.

In today's Gospel, the disciples were all eating breakfast with Jesus, yet they were afraid to ask him who he was. Were they afraid he would somehow morph into somebody else if they dared to pose the question?

Holy encounters are sometimes best left unspoken, I think. For those of us enamored with words (as I am) it's difficult to shut up about mystical experiences. Yet the telling is never quite as wonderful as the event itself. Seeing Christ's redeeming work in the midst of holocaust, natural disaster or any tragedy is hard enough... trying to convey that vision to someone focused on the evil of it, is a fool's errand. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread... the opening lines of a Mercer song often quoted. Who really knows if angels fear anything? If perfect Love casts out fear, then where does that fear go when it is cast out? I have too many questions today and very few (if any) answers.

I believe we must be fools. That is some kind of an answer I guess. And I believe we can connect the bread, whether it be Communion bread or Wonder bread or low-fat, seven-grain bread... with the recognition of Christ in each face we encounter. Why else would Jesus keep telling Peter "feed my sheep"? Why else would he ask us to "Eat it in remembrance of me"?

And the winners are:

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I had been awarded one of those by bloggers/for bloggers awards: the Thinking Blogger Award, to be exact. You can stop laughing. ("I think, therefore I am") At the time, there was way too much other stuff going on for me to give my own bestowal of this award much critical thought... but I promised I would do a subsequent post.

I have thought about it. I read (and bookmark) lots of blogs and websites, but I've found that I only read one or two consistently every day. That has more to do with my available time than with any blog's merit. Most of the ones I read I play catch up with every few days. That seems to work. My five blogs of choice, to pay this homage forward, are listed below. I actually tried to list a few you may not be familiar with, rather than keep going round and round in a mutual admiration society. If you're not listed and you know I read your blog, don't think it's because I didn't deem you worthy. (I wouldn't be reading your stupid blog if I didn't deem you worthy!) However, If you are listed, you are eligible to do the following:

1. Write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't match your blog's color scheme.)

So here they are: my top five thinking blogs... or in some cases, websites, (not necessarily in any kind of order):

• Wandering Wonderings
Currently on the offensive in her third (I think) battle with cancer, Pat Denino, woman of wonder, ponders a myriad of questions about life, love, creativity and whatever else strikes her fancy... Here's how she introduces her blog: There are a lot of questions floating around the universe, waiting for someone to ask them. One of those people would be me... Please join me in dancing the questions. Oh, she is definitely big on dancing... and I'll be one of her dance partners any day.

• grace-full thoughts
Sr. Catherine Grace writes about the sacredness of creation, life in community, work on an organic farm, and how these all interrelate with her monastic vows. She's willing to tackle questions and issues with guts and gifted eloquence... and I'm not saying that just because she's my sister...

• A Peculiar Prophet
Now who would have though a Methodist Bishop from Birmingham, Alabama would be on my list? Just goes to show you that people who make you think come in all sizes, shapes and disguises. And a Southern Baptist friend was the one who gave me the link.

• This one is not exactly a blog per say. It's more of an art exhibit called Post Secret... but it has a blogspot address and certainly makes me think. Every Sunday a new batch of postcards are downloaded. These are anonymous, hand-made postcards, each describing a secret the sender needs to get off their chest. Amazing work.

• And last, but in a category all its own, Jesus and Mo is a cartoon strip that borders on the blasphemous, (those of you who are offended by religious slurs should probably not go there) yet in their own way these cartoons make me think outside the box and challenge my own narrow views about God and His/Her prophets. Here's a sample from a couple of days ago that seems a good way to end this post.

empty

One of the perks of living in community in New York City is the diverse group of celebrants who grace our altar. Unlike most parish situations, (where the congregation hears the same voice from the pulpit week in and week out) we get to hear a variety of voices, old and young, male and female. And they seem to take our small congregation so seriously: I've heard absolutely amazing sermons and homilies preached in our tiny chapel... thoughtful, inspiring, pointed and pertinent.

Today was no different. A million sermons will probably be preached today concerning St. Thomas and the differences between faith and doubt, seeing and not seeing, but our celebrant sidestepped all that rhetoric, and went straight to the core of the crucified Christ.

We humans have expectations when we shower love on one another... that the effort, the love, be recognized and appreciated. "Love deserves and requires a response," he said, describing a conversation he had had earlier in the week.

And yet... God did not say that and does not say that. It is certainly the enigma I find most distressing when I attempt to live my life in the way that Jesus lived, to follow his example. "No," our celebrant was reminded, "love is its own reward."

The cruelest part about loving another human being is the vulnerability it produces. Nobody I know likes that feeling... it's too raw, naked, too empty. So, to protect ourselves, we qualify our love. In the worst sense love becomes a legal transaction with clauses and penalties. Not much better is a polite tit for tat arrangement... I support you, you support me; I cut you slack, you do the same for me.

I was once given some wise words in a guided meditation: "Your vulnerability is the source of your strength." After all these years, I'm still discerning how deep those words penetrate the core of who I am. Pretty words. Pretty hard to swallow. Too raw, too naked, too empty.

Yet what Jesus did, in his total and complete act of self-giving, was empty himself. Nothing left. Not only did he take the form of a servant, not only did he relinquish his God-power, but he emptied himself of the God-spark that resides in every one of us.

No wonder he cried out "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!" He gave it all away.

We follow him. Some of us even try to emulate him... this source of no power. I don't understand it, even as I'm both drawn to and repelled by it... this belief that love is its own reward.

R.I.P.

These days it seems I am rarely in touch with what's going on in the "outside world". Yet this morning I stumbled onto a web obituary and learned that Kurt Vonnegut has just died.

Next to J.D. Salinger, Vonnegut was most responsible for shaping my reading preferences when I was an impressionable college student. His work was often equated with science fiction, but it was more than that. He was vulgar in a hilarious way, and over the years I read everything I could get my hands on, (even all the works published under other names.) He was 84. Rest in peace, Kurt.

It escapes me now

There's a lot to be said for knowing you're going to live awhile longer. (There's a lot to be said about the reverse, I suppose, but I've only ever been in the limbo place between not knowing and what if.) I don't think it's the same. However, I'm out of there as of today. I don't have cancer.

Huh? Okay, so I've kept the situation pretty much under wraps, because it's what I do. Other people's concern, as well-meaning as it may be, affects me adversely. It adds exponentially to my own combination of dread/denial and in a crisis, (real or imaginary), I can't cope with anyone's hysteria but my own.

So... now that this particular crisis is over, although I admit it's a bit anticlimactic, this is the deal: The March mammogram I spoke of here showed a "suspicious density" which required a trip to a different refrigerator door, which required a sonogram, which required today a core biopsy. Finally, some good drugs before an invasive procedure. (It's a mystery to me why the medics think smashing your flesh does not require anesthetic but puncturing does.) After the biopsy I still had to have six more films taken before they let me out, and I didn't feel a thing. I suggested to the technician that maybe lydocaine (or zylocaine) should be standard before every mammogram. She thought I was kidding.

Of course the anesthetic has worn off now, and I am left with an ow-eee that I'm tending with sleep, xtra-strength tylenol, and a chocolate bunny. (I think they call it self-medicating.) I'm very much like a cat in my need to sleep when I'm bruised, so I took the afternoon off and did exactly that.

I was going to post something profoundly spiritual about this experience, but whatever I was thinking escapes me now. Another time perhaps...

He is risen...

Nobody knows exactly when Jesus rose from the dead... From the time of his entombment late Friday til close to dawn on Sunday morning, the stone covering the entrance to his grave concealed anything that might be happening within. We are told he went to hell first, but not how long he lingered.

All we know is that some time just before dawn, the women found the tomb empty. Mary was upset that the body was missing and asked the gardener if he knew anything... several varying accounts tell us of the discovery of his disappearance, but no human witnessed his actual rising.

In my own imagination, the Holy Spirit, responsible for his human conception would have been responsible for his resurrection as well... breathing the breath of new life into the collapsed lungs, obliterating all cuts and bruises, leaving only the marks of his final sacrifice: holes in his hands, feet and side. This image is called escape.



Blessings to all my family and soulmates this Eastertide.
Claire Joy

not all prayer and sweet acts of charity

In any organization, there is a corporate culture that makes up the invisible nuts and bolts of how the entity runs. A monastic community is no different from a business when it comes to that. The difference is the culture itself. My own community tries to take into account the diverse viewpoints of each of its members, so issues you might never think about discussing (in your life) must be analyzed, measured, hashed over, hammered in, and agreed upon here. It makes for lengthy meetings and some tough decision making. All opinions are counted and weighed.

For example, I can't just decide to paint my room without checking it out with the house, can't make plans to go out to dinner with out-of-town friends without asking permission. Those requests are managed on a day-to-day basis, but larger issues must be handled in our monthly meetings.

The agendas for these meetings are diverse and reflect community-wide concerns: the liturgy, dress code, family dynamics, candidate formation, budget reports. Some of the topics never go away, but some are new. Last month's topic was new: blogging... and its impact on community. Because blogging is a relatively new activity for monastics (as is email and websites and the whole cyberspace experience) it only stands to reason that it would surface as a topic at some point. And, as I am a dedicated blogger, it certainly got my attention.

To say the discussion was difficult (for me) is an understatement. I dislike meetings in general, and any discussion that gets personal is hard to participate in, without going straight to emotional response. There were comments from sisters who have never read my blog, yet have clear opinions about it; there was concern that my content and my sometimes colorful language are inappropriate for a nun, hurt feelings from posts describing life and personalities I struggle with, that never surfaced until the meeting. There was an overall question: does blogging, in and of itself, remove a sister from her environment and allow her to live in a virtual fantasy world? Some of our sisters are already addicted to online solitaire and video games, might not blogging be another way to escape?

It was not all negative. But since I am human (as I keep reminding my readers) I focused on the negative. The upshot of the discussion was that nobody was shut down, but that all of us who blog (three in our community) will continue to be self-censoring, keeping in mind the concerns that surfaced. There were a few explicit guidelines covering language and content... so... no more *'s for me.

I was unable to write for several days. What was there to say? I didn't want to give it up, but if my blog was such a bone of contention, what was the point? Then St. Patrick's Day arrived and I finally posted again. It was a miracle. I was cured.

To say that blogging has become a spiritual exercise for me is an understatement. But it is also a creative endeavor, one that fills a void I never knew was there, until I started doing it. So it was with mild amusement that I learned I had been awarded the Thinking Blogger Award, not by one, but by two people who read my posts. Thanks guys. It makes being in the hot seat at that meeting worth it.

As a recipient of this award I get to choose five blogs that I read on a regular basis and give them the award. I will do that. (After Easter. Next week some time. In the near future.) Stay tuned. Oh, and by the way, my mother thanks you... my children thank you... my sisters may not thank you...

Holy Saturday

Saturday. The day after... the day that life goes on.

Those in shock from their awful grief closed the blinds and laid low, but the rest of the world was back to business, business as usual. The markets were open, a new curtain had been installed in the temple, and the total eclipse of the sun was yesterday's news. Some soldier had a new tunic; the rest a pile of cleaning rags for polishing their weapons.

Life goes on. Nobody is indispensable, and the death of one rabble rouser had changed nothing for Rome's mighty empire. So they believed.

Jesus said: I tell you for certain that a grain of wheat that falls on the ground will never be more than one grain unless it dies. But if it dies, it will produce much wheat. If you love your life, you will lose it. If you give it up in this world, you will be given eternal life. — John 12:24-25

What beautiful words... words of encouragement and promise. Do they really stick? Do they sink into our consciousness and direct our choices and decisions? I don't think so. We point to Jesus and think: all very well and good for you, you rose from the dead. You were special. Yet none of your disciples rose from the dead when they were martyred for your sake. What about that?

What about that? Many Christians cling to Christ's resurrection as a hinge to hang their faith upon. Yes, Jesus died, but he rose from the dead! Yet the risen Jesus was not the same man who died. Nobody seemed to even recognize him until he spoke their name or did something familiar that jogged their memories. He had changed. He appeared and disappeared, walked through walls, and eventually he left them again. In a cloud of glory to be sure, but he was still gone.

So if we don't get to do all that too, then what do those words mean? In The Universe Story, the sacrificial nature of creation is heavily emphasized. Something or someone always dies so that something or someone else can live. The grass eats the sun, the cow eats the grass, I eat the cow... but it's much more complex than where we live on the food chain. Jesus spoke in riddles about holy mysteries too vast for us to understand. Perhaps his rising from the dead was simply another parable. Some believe it was his reward for being obedient, but it may have been just one more example of the mysterious grace of God.

Anniversary

My first born child, my eldest son, was born on April 6th. He wasn't born on Good Friday, he was born on a Saturday and no where near the Paschal holidays. Some years he does get to celebrate his birthday on Easter... a double helping of chocolate bunnies and jelly eggs. But Good Friday? It just seems wrong.

For one thing, I have to go deeper now into the mystery and the agony of this day. Saying "Happy Birthday" today seems out of place. Can you be happy when the Son of God is out in the scorching sun dying in pain?

In our community we often postpone a Saint's Day if it conflicts with a special Sunday or other holiday... we transfer the propers for that saint to the next available day. Maybe that's what I should do with my son's birthday. On the other hand, he is important to me. I love him to the sky (as his wife often says). Transferring the propers for a dead saint is not the same as ignoring the anniversary of your own living flesh and blood. He turns thirty-nine this year... last year before all the over-the-hill jokes set in. Next year he'll officially be old, although he's mentioned that with the medications he takes and the series of botched hernia surgeries, he already feels like he qualifies. (I certainly qualify.)

Jesus would have known what to do about this complication. He might have celebrated first, and then performed whatever rites were required for the observance of his religion's high holy day. His message always stressed relationship over rhetoric. So... taking the lead of the one I am privileged to follow... Happy Birthday dear David! I love you to the sky.

Good Friday

Loss... whether it's expected or sudden, it still upends me and leaves me reeling. Death, whether I knew it was coming or not, still overwhelms me and turns me inside out. I "function well under pressure" I've been told. What that means is I go on auto-pilot. I am an adequate doing machine, but I have submerged my being... to keep it safe.

I imagine Mary Magdalene as more authentic in her being than I. I imagine her keening at the tomb, helpless and lost. In this image I made for Holy Week she holds the crown of thorns on her knee. It is still flecked with Jesus' blood from where she had to pry it from his head. The thorns press through the material of her robe and her blood mingles with his, but she can't feel any of it. She clutches the cloth she used to wipe his face before she had to leave... leave him inside that dark place.

Maundy Thursday

When I was a kid, I thought they were saying Monday Thursday and I couldn't figure it out. Why would Thursday be on Monday? Later I thought maybe Maundy was like laundry... since it was foot-washing day. It wasn't until I took Latin in high school that I learned the term novum mandātum new mandate... the new commandment Jesus gave his disciples when he'd finished washing their feet. The Medieval English word for mandate is maunde, leading to our derivation: Maundy.

"Love one another, just as I have loved you." In other words, I've been acting as your servant, not your Lord. I've been treating you as my Lord. Get it? Of course they didn't get it. We don't either.

This afternoon we'll reenact the foot washing among ourselves. We have no Mother anymore to wash the feet of her sisters (I don't know that she ever did); now everyone chips in. The one who just got washed washes the next in line. It works pretty well and seems to be moving for both participants. It's an odd time, and peculiar to each sister. Some splash you a couple of times and are done, others scrub... or caress gently, some even wash between the toes. (It's hard not to giggle if you're feet are ticklish.)

Then the solemn Eucharist begins: The last supper of our Lord, where some believe the institution of Holy Communion was launched. I've never quite bought the fact that the words "This is my body, broken for you... whenever you eat it, do it in remembrance of me." was meant to be an institution. It sounds more like... whenever you eat bread (or anything for that matter,) remember me... and by the way, remember that new commandment I just gave you.

Wednesday in Holy Week

Not much time to post today.

Wednesday is always busy for me; I am supper cook and doorbell queen on Wednesday. Add to that, confession with my spiritual director, preparations for tonight's Tenebrae service, setting up the altar of repose (for tomorrow night's service,) some last minute printing jobs for Easter cards for my sisters, and a Lincoln Center program waiting in the wings... the evening has not even begun and already I am pooped.

As I peeled and sliced the onions for our soup tonight, I thought of the Marys shopping at the market for the Passover preparations. Were they also rushed to finish everything before tomorrow night's feast? Cleaning the room, decorating, cooking all the special foods in the proper way. I thought of my friend who used to make the best onion soup when we lived at Melrose, wondered how she's doing in her new community this year...

Choir practice is at 4:00, then Evening Prayer, supper and the mad scramble to get the chapel ready for Tenebrae. Most windows are covered in blackout curtains, those with heavy drapes are pinned together. Wax paper is laid on the altar (in case the tenebrae candles should drip) the candles are arranged. One sister is polishing the two candleabras now... I wish her luck. It took me two days to polish them the year I was stuck with that job.

The Tenebrae service is ancient. Candles are extinguished one by one until only one is left and then even it is carried away, out of the chapel. All wait in darkness (pitch black supposedly, which is why all the Exit signs are covered up, and the windows draped.) At some point there is a huge thud, and the one candle returns. Light to the world in its darkness. It is one lone flicker in the vast sea of darkness, but it has not been consumed or extinguished. Everyone leaves in silence to carefully find their way out.

Tuesday in Holy Week

As an artist, I find I cannot always keep in sync with the seasons, especially the Christian liturgical seasons. I have to draw (or in my case, composite) what the spirit leads me to... often after the season has passed.

For several years I've thought about doing a series of abstracts for Lent on the stations of the cross. I've never quite been able to get my act together to complete the project... I have one image I really love (station eleven) and have used it a couple of times when only one was required. The rest have not come as easily as that one.

This Good Friday my friend will be preaching on the dialog between Jesus and the two bandits crucified with him... part of the "Seven Last Words" liturgy. We often have conversations about the topic he is to preach on; it's part of what we do as friends. It occurred to me that dialog is from station eleven. Small world.

Our celebrant last Sunday preached about the sometimes helpless fascination we have with grisly death, whether it's brought on by the force of nature or caused by humans... any catastrophe, and we'll continue to watch the reruns on TV, over and over again.

Holy Week is a kind of rerun. We are morbidly drawn to the story of the unraveling of Palm Sunday's great beginning... of how it all went downhill, ending in Jesus' grisly death on Good Friday. But today is only Tuesday. Perhaps tonight is Bethany night, a party in full swing, when Mary anoints Jesus with the expensive perfume and Judas adds one more item to his growing list of grievances. But we've seen the video clip already... we know what's coming, and the tension is building. It's harder to breathe than it was yesterday.


Station Eleven: Jesus is nailed to the Cross
When they came to the place which is called The Skull, there they crucified him; and with him they crucified two criminals, one on the right, the other on the left, and Jesus between them. And the scripture was fulfilled which says, “He was numbered with the transgressors.”

Desert Day

On the Monday in Holy Week we observe something called Desert Day.

Monday is normally a rest day for the community... a day off, to catch up, sleep late or visit friends outside the convent. There is no schedule on Monday and, for me, that is its greatest appeal. We are still expected to recite Morning and Evening Prayer on our own, but saying it at exactly six-thirty am is not required. Ah... heaven.

I'd never heard of desert days before coming to the convent. The term isn't in wikipedia, maybe we made it up. What it implies... is although today looks like a normal rest day on the surface, nothing is normal. The galaxy poises itself for the cosmic turn of events that will be remembered and acted out this week.

God will renounce his power to rule.

Time warp

Palm Sunday... the time warp begins.

I've heard this coming week called The Great Week, Holy Week, The Week From Hell. It has been many things for me, but it has never been "great". In the years that I took the week seriously, it was profound, distressing, comforting, agonizing. But there were those years I deliberately passed it by... went straight to the jelly beans and marshmallow peeps without a single thought of crucifixion or resurrection. So what's the difference?

The difference is always what we bring to it of ourselves, where we are at the particular moment in time. Some years I could bring nothing. That's just the way it was... and God did not stop the world to get my attention. My experience has been that God is much more patient and much more subtle than that.

I once railed against the God I perceived in the image of indifferent father, as his only son was slaughtered. That image changed last year when I finally was able to translate the scenario in a new way. (Here's the post)

Years ago... a Palm Sunday service did send me into some kind of time warp. I was in a dark place that held no physical form except the palpable sense of emotion... that emotion was grief, grief caused by a great loss. Someone I knew, someone I loved was being taken from me and I was helpless to do anything to prevent it.

Where in time was I? Was I at the crucifixion? Or was it somewhere else on that blending wave of chronology? In the Scottish Highlands at the time of the uprisings? I will probably never know, but I know that mark of recognition was burned into my soul that day. I wasn't too happy about it either. I think back on the subsequent Palm Sundays when I skipped church for fear of a repeat, or something deeper, something worse.

Fear, the most insidious and devastating of emotions... it either paralyzes us or calls us to violence. The Scripture says: perfect Love has no fear. The reverse is also profound: perfect fear has no Love. Jesus exemplified that perfection of Love, and we in our perfect fear had to kill him for it.

Ecce Ancilla Domini

We are all in a dither with preparations for Saturday... cooking, cleaning, rearranging the chapel and the furniture in all the common rooms.

Yes, I really meant to say Saturday, not Sunday, Palm Sunday. This year Palm Sunday will have to take care of itself. Certainly we will celebrate it, with the Passion liturgy from Luke, (in fact I'm playing the roles of Pontius Pilate, Peter and whoever else has a cameo part... I get to be them all.) But our focus at the moment is on the momentous occasion scheduled for Saturday. One of my sister candidates will graduate from candidateland; she will make her Life Profession.

It's a new thing for our community. She will be the first to move from the status of candidate to that of fully professed sister. We used to have a First Profession: temporary vows taken for three years. At the end of those three years the sister (supposedly) had a good sense of whether she and the community could stand each other for life.

But times are changing and this new process reflects, in part, that women being called to religious communities (specifically this community) are usually older than their counterparts of decades ago. Time is running out for those who came to serve God in this manner so late in life. Why not speed up the process a bit?

Sister will receive a "girdle cord" the rope belt with the three knots symbolizing her vows of poverty, chastity and obedience; she will get a new cross with the community's insignia; and she will receive a ring. The power of the RING is a favorite joke around here... as if that ring confers some invisible status for the woman who wears it. It doesn't. If anything, a woman taking this step and wearing this ring means she willingly gives up any power she may have had as a candidate. That includes the power to walk out, throw a tantrum, be as obnoxious as was appropriate for her secular profession. Hers is now a new profession, one of slave.

You may think that last statement is a joke too, like the power of the ring... but the ring is inscribed inside with the Latin words: Ecce Ancilla Domini. Behold the Handmaid of the Lord. Behold the bond slave of the Lord. I am the Lord's servant, His maid-servant, His bond-servant... the words Mary, in all her faith and gullibility, answered God's Angel when she was asked to ruin her reputation and have God's child out of wedlock. Those words will rub against the skin of her finger every day of her life, some kind of spiritual osmosis will occur, and she will be the Lord's servant.

Our sister is in silent retreat this entire week before she takes her vows. She may be asking herself: Am I ready for this kind of service? Can God just tap me on the shoulder and say, “Do this today”? Worse yet, can God, in the face of a sister I don't much like, tap me on the shoulder?

We say of the Mary who first spoke the words: "Blessed are you among women." But we kid ourselves if we think she got the blessing for free. She paid her dues time and time again... always the stigma of that unusual conception (after all she went back to Nazareth to live after Egypt.) Her son was initially saved at the expense of other mothers' babies... the guilt of that had to have been awful. Raising a child to be "the savior of his people" probably meant something very different to her as a naive young mother than his being executed in disgrace as a common criminal. She paid for her decision in a number of consequences.

Accepting the consequences of her decision will be our sister's next step.

mystery and perception

I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? —Isaiah 43: 19

Well of course we don't perceive it. It's new.

I'm told that when the ships coming to the "New World" crested the horizon, the indigenous people of that world never saw them. Their shamans saw them, but even they did not know what they were.

We humans are so very much a species that understands through perception. And even though (intellectually) we know that perceptions are as slippery and dangerous as emotions, we still rely on them for most of our judgments and decision making. So when God says I'm doing something new... watch out. There is an expectation that we will recognize this new thing and come on board, but the reality is we will probably miss the point entirely.

God (incarnate as Jesus) was misunderstood by pretty much everybody: His mother, disciples, the church officials, the people he healed, the people he rebuked. Not many (if any) got the point. They perceived him through their own filters and so have we who come after.

In the most personal sense, Jesus has always been a big brother to me. That's big brother in the good sense, not in Orwell's. He is an advocate, example, someone to run to when life treats me roughly, to confide in when I have no clue what I'm doing or why. That is my personal perception of the man God became, but then, I am an only child... my big brother perceptions come from my imagination, not real life experience.

Others see Him as a mighty savior... Jesus Christ, the Superstar... faster than a speeding bullet, able to take down Satan with a single stroke. Others know him as the redeemer of all the chaos and confusion of the universe ( I like that image too) and still others see Him as the Great JUDGE.

Who he really is... is mystery still. A new thing. Our celebrant this morning spoke to the image of God, not only as creator and redeemer, but as liberator. Normally we think of liberation theology as a focus on justice for the poor and opressed, and it is definitely that.

But what if it is also a new thing for the affluent, the educated and the powerful? Liberation from this false perception that we know the answers, hold the keys to the kingdom, are living the lives God created us to live? I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

You love that one more than me?

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

I so love it when a sermon speaks to a new interpretation of a well-known (and beloved) parable. Our celebrant today is one of those preachers who can always find a new twist. He blew us away on Christmas Eve, and once again he has stirred my imagination with his take on the "prodigal son".

His lead in was typical and hooked me immediately: a certain sympathy for the older brother's resentment. (Any of us who fall into the judgmental category can relate... Hey! what about me? Haven't I been good enough for you? Haven't I been the one who stayed put, slaved my heart out, and what did I get? Zip, nada, zilch... not even a stupid goat to have a party with my buddies?)

While Jesus continually stresses that the lost sheep found is cause for more rejoicing than the ninety-nine who did not stray, it still rankles somehow. How come? And then the unspoken question comes to mind: is it possible that God loves his lost sheep more than his faithful sheep? What's that about? And just when do the ninety-nine get their reward?

As long as we look at things from this perspective, the answers will fail us. Because we're asking the wrong questions. As the sermon today pointed out, we're focusing on our relationship with God as if we're in some competition for His love.

When the elder son says to his father: "But when this son of yours came back... you killed the fatted calf for him!" (Translate: You love him more than me!)

But the father re-sets the reality of the situation in his own perspective when he answers: "But we had to celebrate... because this brother of yours was dead, and has come to life; he was lost and has been found."

Well of course. I knew that.
Or at least I always know it on some deep cosmic, and spiritual level. Yet I do not reside in that deep spiritual world much of the time. I am made of matter and I am dense... dense to the deeper meaning of who God is and why I am. It takes hearing it again from yet a slightly new perspective to get my attention. Thanks be to God.

Ah St. Patrick...

Ah St. Patrick, are ya rolling in yer grave?
(Everyone: repeat that last sentence with a bit of a brogue.) All those stories about you and the snakes... and now some megamammoth country in the West celebrates your feast day as the biggest drinking holiday of the year. Whadda ya gonna do? as my friend's ex-mother-in-law used to say.

Well, in my community, we were celebrating too. We sang your first vespers last night and this morning and noon extolled your bringing the faith to the Irish people.

However, since we are Americans (and Episcopalians) and not to be outdone by our secular counterparts, (or only to be outdone in the sense of no moderation) we also celebrated your feast day... with corned beef, cabbage, Irish soda bread, and wine and beer. Killian Red to be exact... none of that green goop for us.

We ate in silence and drank to your health (or at least your spiritual health) in silence, and in absolute moderation. Except... I had poured a glass of red wine for one of my sisters who really wanted white. (It was corned beef, but she is a vegetarian... white must be the preferred color for vegetables, sort of like fish or chicken. Anyway, I had to pour her a glass of white , which left an extra glass of red that nobody wanted (since we were drinking in moderation) so... not wanting to waste good wine (waste not, want not, as St. Patrick used to say... or was that my grandmother?) Never mind. I drank the aforementioned glass (actually chug-a-lugged it since sister was waiting to wash the glass.)

All that said, I should probably not be blogging... except I haven't mentioned anything outlandish or derogatory about anyone except myself. And I will certainly sleep well tonight. Sweet dreams, St. Patrick.

seasons of the soul

That's seasons with a small s... don't expect anything too profound...

It's just that I go through "phases" (as my mother used to call it), and I find that these phases or seasons are as predictable as the seasons of the year, as regular as my hormones used to be. Now that I have no hormones, there's extra energy to devote to other endeavors, and one of them is as simple as noticing.

I notice that as I age I procrastinate less. Perhaps that's because my body now assures me that my life span is not immortal. "Do it now or it may not get done" seems a good mantra these days. That is not to say I never procrastinate... case in point: a small package with Christmas gifts, never mailed, has been under my bed since December. It's now March. The Post Office is two blocks away. What's that about?

I finally asked myself that the other day as I busily attended to other things and kept skirting the box. Ah... it's about not being enough. Of course. The childhood message, reinforced over the years, comes back to haunt me at the weirdest times. Because the gifts are meager I have not sent them.

When I lay it out on the table it seems a little silly that I'm letting some chocolate go stale and a book which could be enjoyed sit under my bed because I'm feeling wanting. It's so lose-lose that I'm embarrassed, yet it is what it is.

So the season of: finish it up-unless you're afraid it's not enough-then don't do it at all, is upon me. What other projects fall into that category, I wonder... do I really want to open this can?

Cameo appearances

John 5: 1-18

Today's Bible Study was bizarre. I was in one of my "I know what you need to do" moods. (Always a dangerous thing...) I had overheard a conversation earlier where one sister was upbraiding another for something not done correctly, or sufficiently, or something... and I had heard the sister on the receiving end offering excuses, and the sister on the giving end not buying them. So of course I knew what both needed to do. One of those sisters was in my Bible study.

We sometimes take a moment of silence before we begin, and it was only by the grace of God that I asked for help to speak... not what I wanted to say, but what the Spirit wanted her to hear. (Imagine that.)

We read the lesson. It was the passage where Jesus meets the man at the pool of Bethesda. The man had been afflicted (with something) for thirty-eight years, and Jesus cured him. It just happened to be on the Sabbath. The whole controversy over healing on the sacred day of rest, and the subsequent retort by Jesus that "My father is still working and so am I" got him into even more trouble.

But that wasn't the thrust of the reading for me. I was onto something totally different. I remember one of our celebrants mentioning that the "cameo" appearances by so many of the bit players in the stories of the Bible can tell us more about ourselves than the plot line.

If Jesus was the star, then the man at the pool played a cameo role. His dialogue and actions shed light on a bitter truth about us... this guy was invested in his identity.

Jesus asked him: "Do you want to get well?" Instead of answering, the man went to great lengths to explain why he hadn't been able to get well. He had nobody to help him down to the pool; somebody always got there first. He identified with his own martyr complex. Jesus cut straight through the excuses, didn't bat an eye, said "Pick up your mat and walk."

At that point the man was immediately healed. (This was not one of the cases where someone's faith set them free, this was Jesus' work. The man had no say... one minute he was ill, the next he was well.) So off he went with his mat and was soon accosted by the Sabbath Police. "It's unlawful to carry your mat on the Sabbath," they said. So what did he do? He blamed Jesus. Except he didn't know it was Jesus at that point, just some guy who had healed him.

Later... Jesus found him in the temple. What was he doing in the temple, I wonder? Was he thanking God for his miraculous healing, or was he wondering how he was going to survive with no excuse for sitting around the pool? Jesus then said something very strange: "You are well now. Sin no more, or something worse may happen to you." That implies (to me) that Jesus knew something about this man's past that hit a nasty nerve. Because what did he do next? He ran and tattled to the Sabbath Police that it was Jesus who had healed him.

Too much too soon. The man had an identity. If not comfortable, it was at least familiar... he was a martry. Poor man, waiting at that pool all those years, nobody to help him... Along came somebody who cared enough to cut through the bullsh*t and ask a straight question. "Do you want to get well?"

I think of the identities that I'm so attached to. What are the restrictions of those identities that I'm not willing to see? Not willing to risk giving up, because what would be left is too far out of my comfort zone?

We can be the voice of Christ to each other. But it's so hard to hear. It's easy to think that if Jesus Himself spoke to us we'd listen. I don't think so. I am able to take the truth in bits and pieces, but too much too soon makes me bristle, just like the man at Bethesda.

God's will... not!

"It was God's will."

I hear that sometimes from people who think they should somehow be thankful, or if not thankful, at least resigned to some tragedy they have endured, or some calamity they are facing. Poppycock. God does not will us to suffer. Suffering happens. It seems to be an integral part of our mortal lives. Just as there is darkness and light, joy and sorrow, life and death, salt and pepper... there are variations in our physical and emotional experiences and responses that go hand in hand with the whole mystery of being.

This is, perhaps, my biggest beef with the Old Testament... that strong image of God as jealous and wrathful and punishing... that He gets mad at us and makes us pay. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." And when I die I may very well find out that parts of that are true, but for this mortal life, the idea gives me no comfort, no reason to love, and certainly no reason to worship such a small-minded, hateful deity.

We can offer thanks to God, not for being the cause of our troubles, but for being the promise beyond our troubles. Thanks be to God.

The dreaded "m" word

What are those things? some might ask, and some will know only too well. For the uninitiated, they're stickers, band aids, attractive little markers that point out to the lab technician just where the nipple is when she views the indescript area of flattened tissue on her film.

"Just remember, the more compression, the better the image" said my technician as she began the smashing process. A few minutes earlier she had yelled down the hall "I only need the small plates!" (Thank you so much for announcing my shortcomings to the entire staff of Westside Radiology.)

Most of the time I'm glad I was born a girl. One of the things that does not make me glad is my doctor's insistance on yearly mammograms. My daughter-in-law just sent me this joke... a list of exercises... any of which will prepare you for the exam:

1. Open the refrigerator door and insert one breast in door. Shut the door as hard as possible and lean on the door for good measure. Hold that position for five seconds. Repeat again in case the first time wasn't effective.

2. Visit your garage at 3 AM when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect. Take off all your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car. Ask a friend to slowly back the car up until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled. Turn over and repeat with the other breast.

3. Freeze two metal bookends overnight. Strip to the waist. Invite a stranger into the room. Press the bookends against one of your breasts. Smash the bookends together as hard as you can. Set up an appointment with the stranger to meet next year and do it again.

A couple of weeks ago was my turn to have the car backed up so I too could be "sufficiently flattened and chilled." We can put a man on the moon but we can't find a better way to check for breast cancer?