Living and Breathing Faith: Day 40

{The is the last day of Lent 2021. And my last daily posting of sanctuary images and writings prompted by those photos. I am tempted to return to my past Lenten writings, those from previous years with themes that ranged from “wideness of God’s mercy” as seen in panoramic pics to that recent year with forty coffee mugs — to see what I had written on other Holy Saturdays. That temptation passed when I realized it was a cop-out. I need to resist re-running past material. Today’s image has been in the planning stages for several days. The writing? No clue as to where I’m going in the next hour or so!”}

Today I return to The Netherlands, and to Haarlem’s Grote Kerk, or Sint-Bavokerk, once a Roman Catholic cathedral, now a Reformed Protestant congregation. Instead of looking upward to the lofty peaked ceiling with its intricate design pointing heavenward, or up to the magnificent pipe organ chamber that sings praises even without a key being touched, I look down. To the floor. and to the tombs, or at least the graves marked by these huge heavy slabs.

For maybe 500 years someone has lain locked under those carved ledger-stones. I’m guessing that the slot in each marker is for opening up the grave for burial. Many of those stone slabs are beautifully decorated, though the designs have been worn away with centuries of worshippers walking on them. Some have dates, names, symbols, titles.

I understand that while customs vary, there may be a touch of prestige involved with placement inside the church sanctuary. The closer to the altar, the better. Or, the closer to the most important dearly departed who have earned their proximity to the holiest place in the church, the better. If the altar area is reserved for the saints (and/or the most prominent of citizenry), then being buried closer to them signaled some higher nobility. And if one hadn’t reached such notoriety by pure reputation, then one’s family might be able to buy some pricier real estate on the floor.

(I don’t remember who told me — maybe a childhood friend? — but I was advised that it was bad luck, or at least disrespectful to step on a grave in our church cemetery. One can hardly avoid such a transgression while walking cathedral aisles where nearly every step would be like stomping on a sidewalk crack and breaking your…well, you know the rest.)

I’ve read that one bit of rationale for being buried in the actual church rather than in the surrounding church yard is that if one is depending on the prayers of others to eventually spring you from purgatory, it is better that those prayers be prompted everytime someone sees your grave and is reminded to add you to their prayer list. If you were interred outside in the cemetery, visits might be very few, perhaps only annually. But with your grave right underfoot as one entered the church each Sunday, there’d be that frequent reminder that you required some prayerful attention.

At my age, I do think of death more often than I did when I was younger and somewhat carefree. (I was never totally free of cares; my Dad was a worrier and I have that gene.) My wife Joan and I have thought about what to do with our no-longer-useful bodies, and where a grave for us might be when we die (“God forbid,” as our insurance agent Barney Bass used to say — and you gotta trust an agent named Barney, right?). We’ve decided. And soon we may as well invest in the plot. It’ll be outside, in nature’s beauty, which this past year was snow-covered for months on end.

Speaking of end, my instructions for my obituary are few. But of utmost importance is mentioning my actual death. I will die. I will not “pass away.” I will not “be reunited with [anybody].” (I don’t think that’s even Biblical.) I will not “pass into the arms of Jesus” who I assume has his hands full finding parking spaces for the really, really faithful. I will not move “from this mortal coil,” which sounds like a broken Slinky. I will die. Dead. Maybe I will see those who have gone before. (“…Gone…?” There; even I did it. “Died” before.) Maybe a lot of things.

There’s no denying it, though I would prefer to. See… Jesus died. Dead. And buried. Instead of “Holy Saturday” maybe we should just call this “Tomb-day.” I mentioned in my italicized introduction that I was tempted to go back and see what I had written on my previous Day 40 of Lent posts. I’m betting that I wrote of the disciples laying low, fearful that what happened to Jesus might happen to them if they were named co-conspirators. I may have noted that I would have been with them, huddled against discovery, shaking in my sandals. But today, I’m more interested in what was going on with Jesus that Saturday.

Nothing. He was entombed. But I do have these questions. Fully human, fully God, the creed says. So, was there any secret spiritual communication going on? Did Jesus dream? No, he wasn’t asleep; he was dead. Because if he was merely asleep, then the resurrection wasn’t real. It was more a resuscitation, and that doesn’t make for Easter, more an EMT medal of some kind. My cousin Dave was headed to the ministry early in his college days, but decided on science instead, and taught college botany his whole career. Yet, he still seemed to consider God a reality. But not life after death. “I’ve taught biology all my life, and I know full well what happens when something dies. It dies. Deteriorates. End of story.” Dave now knows one way or the other. I hope he was pleasantly surprised. (But that’s tomorrow’s story, not today’s, and you will have to write it yourself. Lent will be over and so will these writings.)

As I said, I do have some questions. Death is such a mystery. Our elderly Vermont farmer friend had one question for his pastor after his wife’s death, and he posed it to me many times. “I don’t understand. Where is Marion? Where is she?” Albert had been an aircraft mechanic during WW2, and as a long-time farmer his knowledge of mechanics and agriculture and woodworking made him a man of many talents. He knew time and space and things. But he had to know where, in death, Marion was. I tried over and over to explain that beyond our physical death there was no physical place, no measure of time or acreage, that all was in the mysterious (to me) realm of pure spirituality. Albert wasn’t having it. And I wasn’t really getting it myself. As I said: mystery.

Oh, there’s a lot in the Bible about graves opening up, trumpets blowing, the dead rising up. But that was all written when even those God-inspired writers thought the heavens were a canopy with holes through which light shine penetrated, and the earth was flat, and viruses were demons, and some people were ritually unclean and untouchable. That’s why there’s no book of the Bible that is titled, “Here’s What You’ll Find in God’s Heaven.” (You’re right. I don’t take the Book of Revelation(s) as a literal map to doom and glory.)

Here’s where I must lean on God’s continual and constant message of grace. Love. Abundant life. God is good, and God is with us. As God was with Jesus even behind that rock that locked the tomb.

I keep wanting to say that when Jesus made his post-resurrection appearances, he didn’t tell… anyone anything about… but, see, that is still in tomorrow’s morning sunrise, not for discussion on Tomb-day. We have to remain here in the dark awhile longer.

And avoid stepping on ledger-stones lest we wake the dead. Or send our mothers to chiropractors.

{An italicized postscript: I know I have written lightly about a profoundly sad part of everyone’s life. We have lived through a year of loss, with headlines day after day announcing the deaths of strangers, friends, family members, and neighbors, to a deadly pandemic. Hearts have broken, tears shed, and emptiness endured, and even with vaccination protocols, there is no definite end in sight. Even on Easter Sunday, that day that explodes with promise, that lights up with new life, the newspaper obituary pages will note the sorrow of survivors, those left behind to grieve. I have lost family members, not to a pandemic, but to the natural death that ends even younger lives. And at my age, I will encounter the deaths of former classmates, neighbors, good friends, and family members more frequently until my own last breath. I know how to take it seriously. And the profound mystery of it all both haunts and encourages me. I have always considered myself a creative, imaginative person, but here’s what I cannot imagine: my own non-existence. I would rather hold to that which I know, and that is faith, living and breathing faith. Thank you, Jesus.}

 

Living and Breathing Faith: Day 10

{It’s day 10 of Lent 2021. And another visit (there’ll be 40, y’know) to a sanctuary. Since many of us are not actually present in such worship spaces, I’m revisiting some of the churches in which I’ve worshipped, toured, or otherwise occupied.}

A couple of entries ago, I mentioned the boisterous fun a group of theological grad students offered prospective seminary recruits in the school chapel. And I noted that many folks prefer their sanctuaries to be restricted to more pious, that is, worshipful purposes. A chuckle during the children’s sermon is as far as levity should go on Sunday mornings, or any other time one is pew-bound.

But look at this church pew! Good grief, there’s a mouse crawling up the woodwork! We’ve all heard references to church mice. There it is. And it’s not alone. As a docent led us on a tour of Southwell Minster Cathedral in Nottinghamshire, England, she pointed out that mouse and a couple of others. Someone had a sense of humor, I commented. Yes, and his name was Robert Thompson (1876-1955). Or, “Mouseman.” Or, “Mousey.” Yes, he became known as Robert Mousey Thompson. He was a woodcarver from the north Yorkshire village of Kilburn, and he told people that he was “poor as a church mouse.” So, mice appeared in the furniture he fashioned for family homes and houses of worship.

I photographed only a couple of his mice, but the guide claims there are 28 of those rodents scattered throughout the grand church. She also told us that the church sponsored a children’s event called “Minster Mouse Day,” and that one of the activities for about 100 children was trying to find as many of the mice as they could. Plus, there was a scavenger hunt for other interesting things in the cathedral. Fun, huh? The event (is it annual?) was designed to bring children and their families into the church, showing the church’s friendliness and hospitality, and making sure the community knew the cathedral was a vibrant and alive place, not just an imposing piece of local architectural beauty.

Mice are not the only signs of light-heartedness in such grand places. As we’ve gaped in awe at the wondrous old church buildings we’ve entered, we’ve laughed at strange faces carved in granite, and gargoyles with scary and silly countenances. Sometimes the craftspeople would include the images of family members and neighbors, or church dignitaries in less-than-dignified poses, carved into stone or wood. We can almost hear the workers laughing as they saw for the first time the images they would lift into place for ages to come.

We do tend to take church too seriously, don’t we? Sure, it is a place where we encounter the profound mystery of the Divine. Kneeling in prayer at a memorial service, being summoned to acts of justice by prophetic preaching, breaking bread on the night of Jesus’ betrayal, being moved to tears by stories of faith…not much funny there. But when we sing of “The Lord of the Dance,” or understand for the first time the humor of something Jesus said to his followers (books have been written about the Lord’s sense of humor), hearing the  laughter of 100 children running from pew to pew looking for church mice — there you go: light-heartedness. 

If God can have some fun with gigantic Leviathan (Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of Psalm 104:26 calls the huge monster God’s “pet dragon!”), surely having a small church mouse or a very big laugh in church is cause for holy delight. After all, Easter will be here soon and joy will ring forth in sanctuaries around the world.

In the meantime, it may be Lent. But I hope you’ll find something to smile about on this day 9. 

Oh, and thanks, “Mousey.”

 

Easter Windows: A Series of One!

Throughout the forty days of Lent 2020 (it may have seemed like 80 days this year…) I posted pictures of windows and wrote many, many words. It all began with this photo taken out our bedroom window.

Upstate New York weather being what it is, now that Easter has come there is still a chance that this late in April it could snow again, though its “sticking” is unlikely.

We are so very ready for spring, and the buds on our little cherry tree will soon burst to life again, and the crocuses give way to daffodils. And tulips, or as they are called here, deer food. But even spring will be different this year. Playground equipment is cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The ball park missed its opening day, and today’s newspaper reports that minor league parks may not open at all this summer. And for some teams that means, financially, never again hearing an ump shout, “Play ball!” Such is the reality of the business end of minor league ball.

Yes, this year, winter will hold on, not the season, not the climate, but the gray, cold feeling. We are more than ready to burst out with that cherry tree. But we are in the grip of severe cabin fever that goes by another, unpronouncable (here) name. Thus, I offer one more image as the Easter season begins, and yes, for the Church it is a whole season, and longer than Lent by 10 days! Here is what lies ahead, always! Always. I offer this photo taken from our previous home in Ithaca, NY. Gaze on it and pray it dispels, for now, that winter blah.

Oh, and Christ is risen! Still and always. Indeed.

 

 

 

Lenten Windows: Good Friday

Throughout Lent 2020 I have been choosing photographs of windows I have seen, looked through or looked into over the years. And each day, prompted by an image, I write some words.

Today is Good Friday. Explanations of why this day is called “good” abound. Some say it is “good” because without this day there would be no Easter. No death; ergo no resurrection or new life. Another exegesis: “good” in the context of this day simply means “holy.” In another season altogether, there is “Good Tide” which is an old way of referring to Christmas: holy season of the Nativity. One more possibility is that Good Friday is a corruption of “God’s Friday.”

The word “good” itself has root meanings that indicate the sense of gathering or bringing together, or more curiously, something “fitting.” Those meanings may miss the mark in the context of observing the dark day of Jesus’ crucifixion. Or, is there in this observance a gathering of sorts. As people gathered at the cross that day on Golgotha, we gather globally around the cross today, remembering the profound drama of an itinerant rabbi found guilty of sedition and subjected to a grisly capital punishment.

Good Friday.

The crucifixion of Jesus has been imagined and reimagined in stained glass in churches and cathedrals throughout the ages. The images are there not so much for striking decoration as light pours through, casting colors into sanctuaries of worship. The colored glass teaches and illustrates, inspires and reminds. The artists tell the stories of faith, and the stories of the life and teachings of Jesus are certainly prominent from rural chapels to massive cathedrals.

For today’s image, I did not look deeply into my files. This one just drew my attention first. We saw it in the South Quire aisle of the Southwell Minster Church, Nottinghamshire, England.

This outstanding window was designed by Nicholas Mynheer in 2014. It is a memorial to the men from Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire who lost their lives in the First World War. The design seeks to reflect the need for forgiveness and reconciliation.

When I glanced through my photos looking for an image for Good Friday, I found this window depicting the removal of Jesus from the cross. That’s the central focus. But then I looked at the detail, and realized that those removing the body from the cross are not Roman soldiers, nor broken-hearted friends of Jesus. The helmets hint at World War 1. Behind the cross is a line of soldiers, headed by a wounded man being supported by a comrade. (One thinks of the song, “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother,” but more, the teaching of Jesus: “Greater love has no one than this, but to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”)

Look at the other images here. Begin at the bottom and see the work horse pulling a plow through an English countryside, presumably in peace time. And in the background, there stands Southwell Minster Church itself, as it has stood for 900 years. At the left, a young woman reaches toward her clothesline with that clean white sheet catching the breeze. (At least, that is how I see it. We all must interpret the pictures and symbols ourselves.)

A single red Flanders poppy, symbol of dead soldiers, is just below the cross. And then there is Jesus, his uniform the same as that of the men who surround him. Is that to signify that Jesus identifies with victims of war, and by extension, any victim of violence: those suffering any human tragedy…storm, flood, pandemic, human trafficking or any exploitation, or violent conflict between nations or within households?

And now, look higher. A vision of heaven. A dove. Soldiers of different uniforms embracing. The holy communion of bread and cup, that heavenly banquet.  And music, the sound of the trumpet. Is it too early to sing of Easter? Yes. Our focus must go back to the cross for now. For it is Good Friday. We must endure the darkness before the ultimate sunrise. It is not pleasant. Warring powers vie for our very souls, and our only Savior is dying. Wood and nails have done him in, thanks to human-held hammers.

We hold out hope, though, that plowshares and white linen, green fields and sturdy poppies will once again prove that God’s peace prevails over all violence, and that all the earth will again hear a Voice that declares Creation “good.”

 

 

 

Lenten Windows: Play Ball! Or, Not

This is another in my series of photographs of windows, ways to frame some writing as a Lenten discipline for me. It’s been fun to go through the files of pictures I’ve taken near and far, being reminded of the many times my camera lens looked at, through, or into a window.

Today, we look through the window of the press box at Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox (in case you have been living in a cave). We had taken our younger grandson to Boston, and though he’s not a big fan of the former (?) “national pastime,” I wanted the grand tour. I was not disappointed. I mean, here we are in the press box! How cool is that?

Obviously this view wasn’t from this year’s 2020 season. There is no baseball. Nor March Madness. Even the gyms have been closed today by our governor. Schools are closed too and kids are missing every sport that uses a ball. My first thought was: maybe they’ll recapture something from my own youth, where neighborhood kids on the spur of the moment knocked on nearby doors and said, “Hey, Mr. Stahl and his kids are going to play softball in their backyard after supper. Let’s go! We need four more players!”

And with that, we’d play a pick-up game until dark. We didn’t need uniforms, or umpires, or a groomed diamond. Just a playable ball and one of Mr. Stahl’s old beat-up bats. Heck, a lot of us didn’t even have gloves. (And really, softballs weren’t that soft!) We had no leagues, but we did have some more serious baseball fields a few blocks away, and we could have played there, but the base paths in the Stahl backyard were well-worn, and we knew the yard would be available. As well as lemonade.

But the COVID-19 pandemic has people so committed to “social distancing” that kids are being discouraged from playing together in large groups, organized or not. And neighborhoods aren’t what they used to be. And I’m not sure today’s youth know how to do informal, non-sanctioned, “pick-up” sports.

If you are reading this within weeks of my writing, you know that just about everything of a social or community nature is shut down for our protection. We were going to a Broadway show later this week. Not anymore. And a film festival next month. Not any more. Even the local movie house (yes, we still have one of those) is closed as of today.

If you are reading this several months or even years from now, since blogs last forever, how I wish I could read your mind. Did we get through this disease within a couple of months? Did it last for a year? Longer? Is it something that still rears its very ugly head every winter? Is there a vaccine? A treatment? But talented as I am, I can’t read your future mind. (Sometimes I can’t even read my own present one.)  I’m glad you are there though. It means someone survived.

I’ve repeated this many times, and if in this series of Lenten posts I’ve said this before, forgive me. But though we are certainly disappointed to miss the next chapter of the Beethoven Project by the local symphony, as well as my grandson’s lacrosse season and even Easter services at our church, and while we are inconvenienced by the panicked hoarders attacking the Price Chopper and the countless arrangements and re-arrangements of appointments and schedules — we are learning some things.

We are learning how dependent we are on one another to play by the rules, and to act as responsible adults when experts give guidance. We are learning that people can pull together to be sure “the least of these” have various essentials, meals, check-ins by phone, and compassionate attention (even at a distance). We will see if education can effectively take place beyond a classroom, and if American ingenuity can convert social media from cat pictures and political griping to building a true sense of oneness, even community, in a time of crisis.

It seems that we have involuntarily given up church for Lent this year. Even with creative streaming of content that guides our personal nurture and worship, we will learn that we dearly miss the fellowship that we took for granted, the handshakes and hugs, the power of the human touch, and the warmth of loving face-to-face, heart-to-heart relationships that make us families of faith. The waters of baptism, the bread and wine of Holy Communion — these are the outward, physical signs of an inner spiritual life that overcomes the temporary limits of “social distancing.”

Our local church has announced that when we have gotten through this period of uncertainty, we shall have our Easter. Whenever we return to our sanctuary as a worshipping and serving community, we shall sing our Alleluias, celebrate new life, and join the Lord of the Dance in the dance that still goes on! Yes, we shall have our Easter!

And the next day, maybe someone will shout, “Play ball!” And there will finally be that first pitch.

 

 

 

 

Lenten Windows: Playful Panes

Day by day in Lent (2020) I am offering views of windows, pictures I’ve taken over the past few years. This is just a way for me to spring from the visual image into a bit of writing. Whether anyone reads these little essays is beside the point.

This building is an old hotel in Owego, NY. It houses a restaurant with an Irish pub ambiance, as well as a place to stay while touring the “entrance to the Finger Lakes” of Upstate New York.

Actually you can see something of the purpose of the building by looking “in” the windows. The proprietors have had pictures painted over some of the window glass, showing a sense of humor in the process. While people gather at tables on the main level, someone upstairs is practicing the violin, maybe preparing to stroll among the diners later in the evening. Maybe the man at the piano in the lower left window will accompany her. A woman peeks out from the window on the right, and there’s that large man in suspenders opening the window for some fresh air.

Their dress indicates the scenes were from a century ago, reminding us that the venue has some history.

The impetus for the window treatments? I imagine it was just playfulness. Not having stood on the other side of the windows, I don’t know if these images were like the advertising on city buses, those murals painted over coach windows that cover the exterior with color, yet let the riders still see outside. What counts is what the passerby sees here: imagination turning old windows into new smiles.

Turning old things to new, and the routine into something novel, even evoking a smile in the transition — that’s sometimes magical, or at least a pleasant change that refreshes as much as the breeze that big guy there in Room 305 seeks in opening his window. In our northern hemisphere, the old-to-new theme plays out as springtime gets nearer and the crocuses pop up from winter’s thawing soil. The brown grass will green up, gardens will bloom, and Easter will come following the days of Lent.

[At this time of year, I often think of my friend Christine who lives in Australia. Easter comes in the southern hemisphere of course as autumn serves as prelude to winter. They don’t make the easy connection between Easter and spring’s new life (i.e., dead seeds resurrected) that we do. New Zealand’s Peter Cottontail will be leaving the bunny trail to huddle with others elsewhere for winter warmth. (Note: rabbits do not hibernate; just thought I should add that.) I’ll bet those “down under” have other ways to celebrate Resurrection Day without its link to springtime and the lengthening of days.]

One of the ways the period of Lent nurtures our journey to Holy Week is giving us time (if we take/make it) to look for spiritual refreshment, breaking from the everyday to the re-energizing, from the typical to the unexpected. The most dramatic way to express that is to say we might be moving from near-death to new life. For some folks that might be close to their truth. For most of us, though, don’t we simply desire to move from the ho-hum to the playful, from a rut, however deep or shallow, to a creative steer beyond what we could imagine.

It happens.

As for the old hotel pictured here, it’s been recently remodeled and the windows stripped of their imaginative images. Maybe that’s exactly the refreshing change the historic place needed: clear glass for a new look.

 

 

Lenten Views: Forty Windows (#3)

This is another in a series of essays about various window views I’ve photographed. It’s Lent, and this is my 40 day writing discipline for what it’s worth.

This photo was taken in a rather unusual place. We could call this a multi-purpose room; it seems to serve as a living room, sewing room, and dining room, with a built-in bedroom, presumably for a small child.

We walked through this room while visiting The Netherlands. This is part of the living quarters of a windmill in Kinderdijk. I chose this image because it has two windows, one letting in light from outside, enough light to brightly illuminate the whole room. And the other, an interior window serving as a cupboard door, protecting the contents, but allowing one to see what is stored there: everyday items, commonly used, not special things on display, but just out of the way. (I suspect the light was added for the tours, and wouldn’t have been there for the actual residents.)

But note the large window on the left. My wife Joan has her sewing/quilting machine right by a window too. The natural light that pours through shows the fabrics in their true colors, and keeps the stitches true. The light from the outside is white, indicating that this might have been a cloudy day. But even overcast, the room is bright. That’ll preach, as they say. Even though a day seems dismal, or a season dark, the sun rises every morning and eventually breaks through. It always has and always will.

(The story goes that Mark Twain was leaving church with a friend when it began to rain heavily. His friend casually asked Twain, “Do you think it will stop?” Twain replied, “It always has.”)

So, there’s Lent. I ask church folk if they are having a miserable Lent. When they cast a puzzled look, I say that a good Lenten word is the Latin miserere. Mercy, lament. The theme of Psalm 51 which begins, “Have mercy on me, O God…” In the Presbyterian Book of Common Worship that Psalm is followed by a prayer which begins, “God of mercy, you know us better than we know ourselves, and still you love us.” (Italics added here for emphasis.)

Here’s a surprise, even for me! I looked at the windmill window image more closely and discovered a third window! Check out this detail from a picture on the wall. A bowed figure, a lamp, and a window with light either reflecting the lamp or letting light in from outside. The person there appears to be weary. Or, in prayer? Or, bereft? In need of, and dependent on, light. As are we all.

“…And still you love us.” That is the promise of Lenten light. And the Light at the end of these forty days is Easter. On the way, we strive to keep our colors and stitches true!

 

 

 

 

 

Lenten Notes: Music, Lyrics, and Action

{Lenten “notes” refer to notes of music, with music being my theme for an almost daily discipline of writing during this forty day season. We continue…}

A couple of Sundays ago, our pastor Rev. Pat Raube mentioned an experience she had with conferees at the Presbyterian Mecca: Montreat (NC) Conference Center. The gathering was in one of the larger meeting spaces there, appropriately called “The Barn.” The story of the Prodigal was being shared via the reading of scripture. When the verses reached the point of the Prodigal being welcomed home by his father, something startling happened. Here’s Luke’s description and the surprise:

 ‘Quick! Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on him. Get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet.  And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast,  for this son of mine was dead and has now returned to life. He was lost, but now he is found.’ So the party began.

Pat said that as soon as the words “So the party began” were spoken, almost half the people gathered there suddenly stood up, a blue grass band started playing, and the room was filled with dancing, and not only dancing, but clogging. After all, Montreat is in the Smokey Mountains of Western North Carolina, and clogging is a thing there! So, bluegrass music, the rhythmic and loud clunking of clogging shoes on the wooden floor, and the whoop-de-dos of celebration made sure everyone knew a party was in full swing. The scripture’s classic story of grace, forgiveness, and restoration came alive. The Word made fresh through music, lyric, and action.

Since I’d been in the presence of Montreat’s square dance Caller-in-Chief Glen Bannerman, and had experienced first-hand the creativity of the school* where Glen taught recreational ministry and I taught media courses, that account of the Party for the Prodigal brought a broad smile of recognition.

And a reminder of another time when music, Word, and action combined to enrich the biblical story. Richard Avery and Donald Marsh were the ministry team at the Presbyterian Church in Port Jervis, NY for many years. Avery was the pastor and Marsh the church musician. Together they wrote music for worship in a contemporary vein, decades before so-called praise music or “contemporary Christian music” became popular. Many churches still sing their songs, such as “We Are the Church,” “Every Morning Is Easter Morning,” and “Love Them Now (Don’t Wait ’til They’ve Gone Away).” One collection of their songs was called “Hymns Hot and Carols Cool.” They even had a calypso version of the Doxology.

Our school invited them to lead a continuing education event, and during one service of worship at a local church, Avery and Marsh used not a hymn of their own, but the somber Holy Week hymn based on Hassler’s “Passion Chorale,” “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.”

Sadly, some of those powerful hymns of old are so familiar to worshippers that we sing them almost matter-of-factly, as if they are just another piece of business we need to accomplish before moving on to the next bit of ritual. But this hymn is so profound in lyric and music we do ourselves a disservice if we treat it as routine.

O sacred head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down;

Now scornfully surrounded With thorns thine only crown…

The words of the hymn are attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux, and if not actually written by him, the text surely reflects his theological thought. The harmonization of Hans Leo Hassler’s tune is by Bach, a far cry from the lighter musical fare of the Port Jervis team. But what we witnessed that day in the chapel of a Richmond church was so profound the image has remained with me decades later.

The first thing was to sing the hymn slowly. With depth of feeling and sensitivity to the text. Ponderous? Why not, if one is actually pondering the meaning of the words as they are sung. The four part harmony helps.

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered Was all for sinners’ gain:

Mine, mine was the transgression , But Thine the deadly pain.

Avery and Marsh had recruited four or five volunteers to enter the chapel as we sang. One pantomimed carrying a heavy cross, while the others pretended to bear whips, violently lashing at the stumbling, suffering cross-bearer. Marsh was into drama as well as music in his life in theater and television prior to his church work. So the pantomime was no quick trick; the volunteers took their roles seriously and were no doubt deeply  affected by the hymn as it was sung. The physical movements of the actors brought tears to us singers, so powerful was the union of music, text, and actions. Lashes, nails, cross planted, Jesus crucified.

When the last verse was completed, the tableaux remained in place, the worshippers remained silent.

O make me Thine forever; and should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never, Outlive my love to Thee.

(I’m trying to remember if Marsh had added an actual hammer and wood to this scene. The wordless, prop-less actions might have had the addition of that one disturbing sound of a hammer slamming into a board just before the actors lifted their Jesus from the ground to stand with arms out-stretched before the singing congregation. One would think I’d remember that more clearly.)

Through the ages the Church has communicated its stories through drama. Mystery plays, morality and miracle plays, passion plays — in village squares and church sanctuaries the drama of faith has been enacted and re-enacted, with lessons embodied, and new meaning made clear.

Sometimes, it is enough to sing. Sometimes, enough to read. But sometimes adding some movement, some theater to our stories and hymns would remind us that the Word is most alive when it is put into action.

• The Presbyterian School of Christian Education was a graduate center for educational ministry in Richmond, Virginia. It was absorbed into Union Presbyterian Seminary a few years ago.

 

 

Wideness in God’s Mercy: Persistent Hope

United Nations, NYC, USA

{Today marks the last day of the 40 day Lenten season. Each day I have posted panoramic photos and written some reflections on those images. Joan will be glad to have me back in the mornings. It usually takes a couple of hours to write these things. I know that may surprise you, but choosing the photo and waiting for inspiration and looking for words…well, I write (and type) slowly. So, I too will be glad to have my mornings back. I am grateful for you who have read the daily meditation/essays and shared comments. Frankly, I have written mostly for myself, and have sometimes been a bit too “self-revealing,” but as a friend says, “It is what it is.” So, we have reached the day after which is also the day before.}

Nobody knows how long Saturday will last or if it will never end. Saturday is that in-between day of stillness and doubt and despair when time stands still in lethal flatness. The old Saturday was about abandonment and disappointment at the far edge of the crucifixion. And then came all the Saturdays of fear and abusiveness, of the Crusades and the ovens and genocides in too many places.

Walter Brueggemann, A Way Other than Our Own: Devotions for Lent.

Yesterday, I wrote of loss. Today, on this day between the days, I write of hope. Persistent hope. The kind of hope that is not mere wishful thinking, or keeping fingers crossed or the “where one door closes God will open another” kind of hope. It is not even the light at the end of the tunnel, that hope I call persistent.

I’m thinking of the hope that remains in that 5% of people in the most rural areas of Puerto Rico who still do not have power restored after Hurricane Maria. I’m thinking of the kind of hope that remains after a devastating personal defeat. Or, that flickers in the heart after a deep, deep loss. It is the hope that will not be extinguished, or, expressed more positively, that will persist no matter what.

I have never quoted a Bengali polymath before (have you?), but this quotation speaks to me.

Within us we have a hope which always walks in front of our present narrow experience; it is the undying faith in the infinite in us.

Rabindranath Tagore, (1861-1941), Sadhana

For many who read these words of mine, the infinite in us is the God both within and beyond us. It is God who will not let hope fade or die. But, God knows, hope is hard work. And we must persist in it.

Have you figured out why I chose that photo? To me that monolithic slab of New York City skyline is a symbol of hope. Since the League of Nations was founded in 1920, at the end of the First World War, a global  yearning for peace has at least had a forum. With the founding of the United Nations in 1945 (optimistically in Lake Success, NY), that forum has continued to struggle with political and social upheaval, military skirmishes and all-out wars, emerging nations, tyrants and dictators, border violations, shoe-pounding tantrums and verbose threats, and untold barriers to the peace for which the world yearns.

Yet, there it stands, that building along the river. And if it weren’t for some persistent, deep-seated hope that we can keep from blowing the world to hell, the whole grand idea, the 72 year-old scheme, might whiffle away. As our leaders falter, as words fail, as visions are vetoed, and negotiations are negated, no wonder it all seems futile. And yet…

A few years ago, I met Robert Smylie at a Presbyterian Peacemaking Conference. At that time, Smylie headed our denomination’s Presbyterian Mission at the United Nations. I learned that since the UN’s founding, our church had a stake there in working for peace and justice, and interpreting UN programs to our congregations. On line, I found this statement:

Amid the restless spirits and often-tough diplomacy of the United Nations, the Presbyterian Ministry at the United Nations helps inspire, equip and connect Presbyterians for ministry as faithful disciples of Jesus in the global community. We educate with the hope of helping individuals live out God’s call in Christ to live with compassion, seek peace, and pursue justice wherever they go.

We do that because our hope will not die. Nineteenth Century minister and abolitionist Theodore Parker offered this prayer: “We look to Thee; Thy truth is still the Light which guides the nations, groping on their way. Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, yet hoping ever for the perfect day.”

Today, this Saturday, this last day of Lent, leads us to consider the shadow of emptiness and fear that gripped stunned disciples hours after the crucifixion of Jesus. Was all hope lost? I wouldn’t be surprised. He had told them to believe otherwise. He had whispered, preached, promised them concerning that third day, that perfect day. But they weren’t the brightest candles against the darkness. So who knows?

But there is something in us that hopes against hope, that prays earnestly for peace in the  world and in the heart. It is a hope that persists. That lives. It is the very breath of life. Somehow, amid the diplomats and  bureaucrats and ambassadors and interpreters and worker bees of that monolithic hive, that which has been elusive through almost a century of striving continues to plod toward peace. We hope. For the world depends on it.

And the world depends on this too: that hope will ultimately win. And the sun will rise, and the wideness in God’s mercy will shine through the whole of creation, bringing at the last our peace to the world God so loves.

Expect Easter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wideness in God’s Mercy: Seasons

 

A Trio Sitting Out the Season

 

{Lent…40 days…40 panoramic photos, and some reflections on the images}

I quote myself here:

Seasons Smile
Winter’s smile was icily sinister.
Spring’s will be warmly sympathetic.
Summer’s smile brightly inviting.
Autumn’s gently reflective.
Mine is always seasonally appropriate…
except when the climate is laughable.

Above is another “drive-by” photo. All winter we’ve passed those three hay wagons (or whatever the official name for them is), and I’ve thought about taking a picture of them. On the way to church one Sunday, we stopped, I pulled out the camera, and took the shot. I’m thinking that today’s theme could be “seasons.”

Here are pieces of farm equipment standing idle for the winter months. Do I see a small plow there, too? And maybe a rake? Not much use for them on a frigid Upstate New York farm from fall harvest to spring planting. So there they are parked.

I’ve previously written in these “pages” that I like living in a part of the world with four distinct seasons. Every season has its blessings. Every season has something less than a blessing to endure. But the rich variety of weather events, of colors and temps, of light shows and seasonal activities — I’d be bored if I lived anywhere else. This is not to judge my Florida friends or south Texas relatives. I’ll admit that our northern winter lasts a little too long here, but I can take it. We lived through 27 hot, humid Virginia summers, so some slush or black ice is tolerable.

As the ancient philosopher of Ecclesiastes sang, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” And so sang the pop version by the Byrds:

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven

We lived in Vermont for ten years. Though winters were long and harsh, spring would come gloriously. And seemingly suddenly. Once the snows had melted and the ground had thawed, the khaki colored lawn “greened up” almost within a day or three. And citizens of the Northeast Kingdom made up for winter’s drear with flowers lining walks, colorful gardens, window boxes…as if to say to the world, “Look! We’re alive! And we can match your southern blossoms and blooms with our rosy floral resurrections.”

Spring here in New York State is just as appreciated and celebrated as in Vermont. We might join New Englanders in shivering through an Easter Sunrise Service, but when April arrives, we are ready for our migrant birds to resume their posts at the feeders, for jonquils and daffodils to push through thawed soils, for opening day at the ball park, and for pumping up bike tires.

Summer will come, and there will be those Florida days when the AC saves our sanity. But for the most part, we’ll enjoy every meal on the back porch, when I take over some of the cooking on the grill. (I rarely order salmon in a restaurant because no one does a better job than I at delivering a truly succulent salmon steak.) We’ll take longer bike rides, hike in the cool glens and forests, take in the longer hours of daylight while listening to the peepers and chirping insects in the not-quite wetland beyond the backyard.

And then autumn in New York. Not quite as garish as the Vermont maples, our leaves will turn brilliant reds, yellows, and golds on the hillsides, and cooler breezes will mean a light jacket as we ride the bikes in a nearby park. Here’s the bonus pic of the day: that nearby park in autumn.

Hickories Park

I can identify with that Sinatra signature song “The September of My Years,” by Jimmy Van Heusen and Sammy Cahn.

 

One day you turn around, and it’s summer
Next day you turn around, and it’s fall
And the springs and the winters of a lifetime
Whatever happened to them all

I have been blessed with all the seasons of life, with a few more calendar pages to turn, season-wise. (Please…not actual months; we’re talking figuratively here…I hope.) The “September Song” sings of days dwindling down to a precious few. Again, figurative! But, yes, seasons. Our childhood, then adolescence, the young adult years, and before you know it, you have children who speed into adolescence while you haven’t finished growing up yourself! Then grandchildren. The seasons of life. “Whatever happened to them all?”

Again to the image at the top — a time to plant, a time to reap, and there in that photo, a  time to be idle for awhile. To await. Rest. Prepare. And then, engage again. Hook ’em up to the tractors and put them to work in summer’s heat and fall’s harvest.

I write in Lent. Where, while not exactly stationary, the Church and its people of faith slow down to await, to rest, to prepare. We breathe more deeply in Lent, I think. Meditate more mindfully and reflect more intentionally. The season of lengthening days will culminate in an Easter sunrise hard to believe, a surprising burst of daylight difficult to take in with eyes so used to winter’s subdued rays.

For everything there is a season. A time to die, and a time to be born again.

Turn, turn, turn.