Easter 35 Bright

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
   the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
   mortals  that you care for them? [Psalm 8:3-4]

I grew up on a farm, about 10 miles from Giddings, Texas. Our address said Paige. Austin was the nearest city to us, just under 60 miles away. We had porch lights but not much else in the way of outdoor lighting.

The nights could be very dark.

On clear nights, it could be glorious.

As a teenager and into my twenties, when I'd come home late from work, dancing, theater, whatever, I'd sometimes park my car in our gravel driveway and lay down on the hood of my car and look at the stars. It was, again, glorious. 

I was aware of other light around us. On cloudy nights, you could see the light of Giddings reflected on low clouds. There were times we could see lights from the Alcoa plant in Rockdale, about 40 miles away, but not always. (I don't know why, maybe there were times they had more lights on?) Our house was a half-mile from the highway and we could see cars, hear them too (particularly the large semis), passing.

I often wondered what the night looked like for Native Americans, before the Europeans (we) came. I was aware that even the little light pollution we had on that farm was still affecting the sight above me.

I was also aware that on nights of thick cloud cover, how very, very dark a night could get.

Our Scriptures were written in a desert land, without electricity. I wondered, too, how many more stars those people saw. Living in a modern city, as I do now, I am aware of the convenience of having lighted sidewalks nearly everywhere I want to walk at night----and I'm aware of the cost of them.

We pay in awe.

These ancient writers looked at the lights in the sky and praised God. They looked to the east and were relieved when the dark night was over and the sky began to turn light.

Knowing my face is illuminated by the computer screen on which I write, knowing that even in the day, I have lights on in my apartment, knowing that I will likely never experience the darkness of the ancients, I am thankful for the light we are given, both the literal light and the Light of Christ (thanks be to God).

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. [John 1:1-5]

Easter 34 Spark

"It only takes a spark . . . "

If you are of a certain age and grew up in the church, I probably just gave you an earworm for the day. For the rest of you, it's a youth group golden oldie, laced with just enough treacle to make you wish it weren't so memorable.

This week of my discipline of celebration has found me thinking about light images and in free-associating words, "spark" came to mind and immediately this song ("Pass It On," by the way, is it's title) started playing. Such is the power of the music of our youth.

Whatever one thinks of the merits of this song, I am fascinated by how Christianity caught on and grew and still catches people's attention, converting them to some version of discipleship. Something caught fire.

Then I think about how, about 15 years ago, I made my feeble attempt to leave the church. I was a complete failure as an apostate. I'd find myself in a theological argument and step back and say, well, I guess I still believe that. I didn't even really miss more than a few Sundays at a church. As I made my way back towards a more solid commitment to the church, I recall lamenting, "my baptism just really took hold!"

So, over a few decades of church-going and study, the fire can vary in intensity, but the spark remains. It's a life full of things seen, heard, experienced that can't be unseen, unheard, unexperienced.

Yeah, I'm afraid I have to end this post this way:

" . . . That's how it is with God's love. Once you've experienced it . . . "

Easter 33 Burn

I'm not going to pretend I get every line or word of this poem from St John of the Cross. I'm only going to say that when I found it three years ago (also used in the performance of Wringing Out Light), I felt it. Darkness, light, grace, savor, burn away . . .

Without a place and with a place
to rest -- living darkly with no ray
of light -- I burn my self away.

My soul -- no longer bound -- is free
from the creations of the world;
above itself it rises hurled
into a life of ecstasy,
leaning only on God. The world
will therefore clarify at last
what I esteem of highest grace:
my soul revealing it can rest
without a place and with a place.

Although I suffer a dark night
in mortal life, I also know
my agony is slight, for though
I am in darkness without light,
a clear heavenly life I know;
for love gives power to my life,
however black and blind my day,
to yield my soul, and free of strife
to rest -- living darkly with no ray.

Love can perform a wondrous labor
which I have learned internally,
and all the good or bad in me
takes on a penetrating savor,
changing my soul so it can be
consumed in a delicious flame.
I feel it in me as a ray;
and quickly killing every trace
of light -- I burn my self away.

[John of the Cross]

Easter 32 Luminous

"Wring Out My Clothes"

Such love does
the sky now pour,
that whenever I stand in a field, 

 I have to wring out the light
when I get
home. 

[Francis of Assisi]

Three years ago, when I was cut open from the bottom of my sternum to just below my navel to remove a large cyst on my pancreas, it was one of those dividing lines in life. That event will always be the fixed point with a before and (quite luckily) an after to it. Though about the size of a baseball, the cyst was completely free of cancer.

There were also a few months after it that I felt such relief that everything was luminous. Grace and gratitude met in those few months and I think I can say I felt the the lightest I maybe ever have. In response, I made a short performance called Wringing Out Light: Poems and Prayers, which drew on writings of various Christian mystics and visionaries. The above brief verse from Francis became the thread that embroidered the whole performance.

I don't always feel it. I think I've made that clear. But having felt it, I know it's possible and I keep this short verse tacked to my work cubicle wall as a reminder.

Such love! Such love! Such love!

Easter 31 Shine

"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lamp stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven." [Matthew 5:14-16]

This particular teaching of Jesus appears to be a little at odds with some of his other teachings, for example the first verse of the next chapter. ("Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.")

Of course, Jesus talking about slightly different things in each passage. In the first I quoted, I believe Jesus is making sure that we are in the world, shining so as to give light to others. The previous verses are the "you are the salt of the earth" portion of the sermon, which I've always understood to be about giving savor to the wider world. In short, it's a warning to not hole up with people just like us, but to mix it up, spreading our light and savor to a world that can sometimes lack illumination and flavor.

To be the light of the world is not to show people how pious we are.

We who claim to follow Jesus are the lamp he has put on the lamp stand. Living in the resurrection, we may hope to illuminate without showing off. We might bring light without being obnoxious about it. I believe practicing a piety has merit, but it's for us to practice, not to project or force upon other people.

Living in the light of Christ, we can quietly illuminate some dark places. How much better to remember with much humility that if we do this, it the light of Christ and not our own holiness.

The light of Christ!
Thanks be to God!

Easter 30 Buoy

As I said at the beginning of this 50 Day Discipline of Celebration, joy is not always easy for me.

Sunday afternoon, after a good morning liturgy with some great hymns to sing (I still contend singing---breathing----together is one of my greatest joys), I got home and took a nap.

For whatever reason, I woke up with the familiar feeling of uselessness. Overwhelm. It's the familiar demon, acedia. Perhaps because I'd talked about it the night before it came for a visit.

Acedia does not facilitate keeping a discipline of celebration.

But here, reader, is the reason one reads and studies. I know from my my ancient guides, the abbas and ammas of the desert, that the way you deal with acedia is with scripture, particularly psalms.

I found online recordings of old albums that, 30 years ago, made a difference to me. Musical settings of scripture----psalms, Isaiah, some other sources---that spoke of the steadfastness of God's love, redemption, presence. While the demon tried to remind me how the composer and singer of these settings probably disagreed with me on any number of theological issues, some quite personal, I also remembered, as with the sacraments, the one who distributes the sacrament is less important than the sacrament itself. The words and the music were the important thing in this moment, and so I continued to listen, sing along in the places I remembered.

In this way, I found my buoy, my flotation device as well as my navigation marker. I felt better by bedtime.

It's not always so easy. I'm thankful, for this instance, that it was relatively so.

Easter 29 Light

At the Easter Vigil, after we light the new fire and carry it into the church building, we chant:

Leader: The Light of Christ.
Congregation: Thanks be to God.

And this morning, I'm thinking of "light," it's various meanings.

Noun: The light of a new day.
Verb: Light the fire.
Adjective: Light as a feather.

I like how the adjective form does not immediately refer to being able to see or this mysterious thing that travels in particles and waves---and still we can say that dark days are heavy days, so not completely divorced from the idea.

I've had a weekend of thought provoking performances. Friday night was at The Alley Theatre and Lucas Hnath's The Christians. Saturday night was the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. Both shed light on dark subjects, both had fire, both had lightness in the middle of heavy subjects. This morning, as I get ready to head to church, I'm feeling light with these reminders of the way live performance will lift me, illuminate my way, carry me forward on particles and waves.

The light of Christ!
Thanks be to God!