It seems to be a requirement that those who go to a Tennebrae service tonight or a Good Friday service tomorrow endure the singing of O Sacred Head, Now Wounded. It is, indeed, a beautiful and thought-provoking hymn. As I am assisting at services tonight and tomorrow, and going to another one tomorrow afternoon, no doubt I will hear it once, twice, or three times.
I don't suppose I would sing it even if I could carry a tune. Having cradled the broken and bruised head of my own child in my arms . . . it will be many decades before that music is not utterly personal. Maybe forever.
In an exchange of emails with an almost-80-year-old Jesuit this past week, I questioned the possibility of Easter. "Is Easter possible?" he responded. "Good question ~ think about all the meanings of each of those three words" -- and then added, "You've given me my Sunday sermon."
Perhaps I can steal it back from him some year.
In the meantime, the past few days have given me much to ponder with respect to how we care for one another in light of the seemingly impossible Easter that offers the most astonishing hope of anything at all. I have said some harsh and angry things in some conversations, and been a model of self-restraint in others. (Really. There should be an award.) Tears sting my eyes as I read some of the generous comments online, and sometimes my sense of humor returns. "I'm thinking about what you'll be able to offer your parishoners in light of your experiences," said one of the deans. "I don't have to worry about parishoners unless I pass this damn exam," I chuckled.
I look at this post and I think my life holds a great deal of . . . stuff. In a matter of a few minutes, it incorporates worship leadership and devastating memories of brokenness, conversations with Catholic priests and Presbyterian ministers, Passover memories and Easter plans, challenges of bureaucratic insensitivity and loving gifts of personal care, decisions about what to say and what not to say that could have lifelong ramifications . . . and floating through all of it, those words: attention, reverence, and devotion. I am not actually very good at any of those three things. No awards there.
But you know, it is a great gift to be offered the opportunity to work at them, as we all are.
One of the classes I am taking this term is on theologian Stanley Hauerwas. In his book Resident Aliens, he says, "It is an awesome thing to realize how much God intends to make of us." Personally, I wish that God would be a little less ambitious.
But it is almost Easter, and so we are reminded that, if Easter is indeed possible, God's dreams for us are far wilder than our own.
I don't suppose I would sing it even if I could carry a tune. Having cradled the broken and bruised head of my own child in my arms . . . it will be many decades before that music is not utterly personal. Maybe forever.
In an exchange of emails with an almost-80-year-old Jesuit this past week, I questioned the possibility of Easter. "Is Easter possible?" he responded. "Good question ~ think about all the meanings of each of those three words" -- and then added, "You've given me my Sunday sermon."
Perhaps I can steal it back from him some year.
In the meantime, the past few days have given me much to ponder with respect to how we care for one another in light of the seemingly impossible Easter that offers the most astonishing hope of anything at all. I have said some harsh and angry things in some conversations, and been a model of self-restraint in others. (Really. There should be an award.) Tears sting my eyes as I read some of the generous comments online, and sometimes my sense of humor returns. "I'm thinking about what you'll be able to offer your parishoners in light of your experiences," said one of the deans. "I don't have to worry about parishoners unless I pass this damn exam," I chuckled.
I look at this post and I think my life holds a great deal of . . . stuff. In a matter of a few minutes, it incorporates worship leadership and devastating memories of brokenness, conversations with Catholic priests and Presbyterian ministers, Passover memories and Easter plans, challenges of bureaucratic insensitivity and loving gifts of personal care, decisions about what to say and what not to say that could have lifelong ramifications . . . and floating through all of it, those words: attention, reverence, and devotion. I am not actually very good at any of those three things. No awards there.
But you know, it is a great gift to be offered the opportunity to work at them, as we all are.
One of the classes I am taking this term is on theologian Stanley Hauerwas. In his book Resident Aliens, he says, "It is an awesome thing to realize how much God intends to make of us." Personally, I wish that God would be a little less ambitious.
But it is almost Easter, and so we are reminded that, if Easter is indeed possible, God's dreams for us are far wilder than our own.
that's it, isn't it. the really good news. Easter is the hope we are hanging on to.
ReplyDelete(I'm pretty sure you deserve an award for all of it, btw)
You always push me into new places. I love "Is Easter possible?" I think it, too, will be my Easter sermon. And the ending, too, "if Easter is indeed possible, God's dreams for us are far wilder than our own." May I quote you on the ending (not by name, unless you'd like)?
ReplyDeleteOh, sure.
ReplyDeleteYou should be careful about whom you quote, though. ;)
Attention, reverence, devotion. So good to be recalled to those in the midst of struggle. Thank you.
ReplyDeletePrayers continue.
Exquisite. Some day I would love to hear you preach.
ReplyDeleteThis line "Personally, I wish that God would be a little less ambitious." made me laugh, think and cry. Attention, reverence, devotion.
ReplyDeleteWe sang O Sacred Head this morning, I will preach on it a bit tomorrow in fact, but was moved beyond measure this morning hearing a woman who had lost a child preach about bittersweet last meals. She stood in front of the tabernacle, and she fought tears. I wept.
hmm, this is actually perfect language for where my sermon was headed too--that it sounds like CRAZY talk (lairos in Luke = BS, though we translate it "idle tale" for the more sensitive listeners among us), but the invitation is to live as though Easter is possible and to live as though the dreams are wilder than we can imagine. Hmmm.... (I've been hmmm-ing a lot lately!)
ReplyDeleteSending you much love.
ReplyDeleteNot only is this agreat sermon topic, it is part of your book.
ReplyDeleteIt is one of the better parts. I want to read this book as soon as it is done and put it on our church library, then have you for an author signing.
Eve
Eve, I am trying without success to find your phone no. Could you email it to me -- address in sidebar.
ReplyDelete"Personally, I wish that God would be a little less ambitious." As I'm struggling to find out just what ambitions God has for me, I just had to laugh and wince at this. Another excellent entry. You really should turn your blog writings into a book. Seriously. It would be such a gift to the world.
ReplyDeleteI have significant doubts about Easter being possible. I live in doubts these days, lots of them. Perhaps, though, it is the very doubts themselves that are keeping me in relationship with God, and that I suspect is good enough. Which also means that one day it just may be Easter.
ReplyDeleteI am so pleased to have found your new blog. Meditating about God's wildest dreams will be a remarkable way to keep an Easter vigil.
ReplyDeleteThank you.
thank you for your reflections. god's wildest dreams, indeed.
ReplyDeletewildest dreams ... to heal and become whole. and it may just be beautiful if not horrific in origin ... thinking about fire, houses, lives, smoke, volunteers, neighborhoods, and glass. may not be a sermon, but just may be a blog post that percolated yesterday.
ReplyDeleteStratoz post led me to the extraordinary sharing, Robin. Your writing is gift. While I am uncertain what happened to your child, as a bereaved mother I can share your pain and hold you in my heart. Wishing you solace, comfort, and the strength to hold fast to hope even when it is hidden.
ReplyDeleteI have just read your bio and my heart lurched. My daughter was 24 when she died a violent and unresolved death. I am still working my way through that death, writing, grieving, and finding by some wondrous miracle that blessings are forged in unutterable pain.
ReplyDelete