By the mystery of thy holy Incarnation; by thy holy Nativity
and submission to the Law; by thy Baptism, Fasting, and
Temptation,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Well, it’s all mystery to me.
You know, there’s nothing in there Jesus did, we haven’t done ourselves.
We are incarnate beings.
We were born.
We (as best we can, some days better than others) submit to God’s law.
We are bound by the waters of baptism.
We have fasted—not everyone always in the physical sense, but this can be emotionally or spiritual fasting.
We are faced with temptation every day.
These are not just “mysteries of Christ,” they are mysteries about us, too.
Maybe these are all ways that we connect to “the Christ in us.”
You know, one of the odd paradoxes in all this is, that in order for me to feel more connected to Christ, Jesus has had to become “more human” to me. I mean, go clear back to Sunday School days. It’s that whole business of Jesus being more of an “iconic figure” than a real person. I remember as a kid thinking, “How can I even feel close to this guy, when he seems so ‘not real’, like Santa or the Easter Bunny?” I would be told how he loves us...especially little kids...but then in the next breath it was all about how he’s perfect and we’re not, and even worse, laying on the guilt trip that Jesus is unhappy with you when you are bad.
Then, as I grew up, and began to cultivate a sense of “unworthiness.” He was a goal to which I could never attain. How can a person like that bring me closer to God? It just didn’t seem possible. My affinities are based on similarities, not differences.
In the two decades of being unchurched, I struggled with “historical Jesus.” I decided the way to get closer to Jesus was to figure out as much real historical fact I could find on him. In other words, in my usual scientific way, dissect him like a bug. What I found when I dissected him like a bug is that all those things like transfiguration and resurrection could not possibly be proved. So I just gave up on those things and decided that I could see him as a great teacher and a person who probably had a better connection to God than me and pretty much everyone else, but any of the things I could not “prove”, I would simply “refuse to believe.”
This was also during a time of the resurgence of fundamentalism, and I found myself even more disdainful and resentful of people who seemed to believe in Jesus like he was a fairy story, suspending any shred of scientific and historical fact, to believe it. I let them get in my way, because my natural inclination to that mindset was to “push against them.” I could believe in “Jesus the human” as a way for me to understand my own connection with God, but found his divinity hard to handle, because that put him in a different category than me. So I worked really hard at being a believer without a single shred of “faith-based belief.” Oddly enough, in some ways it was good, because it freed me from the yoke of needing to believe the Bible as a “perfect document” But in some ways it was bad because it closed my mind to think outside of my own five senses. But in retrospect, I think I had to go to that place in order for the next step to matter.
Then somewhere, along the way, I decided to “try one more time” with that church thing. It took me about six years of “thinking about trying” before I actually decided to do it. I had decided that if I was going to try it, it would be full bore; not half hearted. I am an “all or nothing” person, and I knew “halfway” would turn into nothing in about 18 months if I went halfway. It takes me about 12-18 months to burn out on anything I get infatuated or obsessed with that doesn’t “stick”.
Then, something really strange happened. I started seeing and noticing and feeling a whole lot of things that seemed “bigger than me.” It probably started the summer I worked on refinishing the church pews—just the sensations of holiness and things “bigger than me”--shekinah. I could sense “spiritual movement” in the architecture of the church. I could feel a “wind” coming off the altar. In some ways this had moments of awe, but in other ways, it was scary...because these were things that are not at all “real” in the scientific sense, but I was perceiving them with my five senses.
The last two years have been literally a cascade of sensory overload...so much so, I can get in fits of irritability, insecurity, and outright fear. But then they are followed by heightened awareness. The things I’ve looked at for years and enjoyed for their own sake have taken on deeper meanings...things like sunsets, and owls, and looking at “the best spot in the campground.” I always tell myself I can always quit and go back to the way it used to be, but that is a lie. I don’t think I can.
But in the middle of this, something weird happened. Somewhere in this, all of a sudden, the “facts” of things like transfiguration and resurrection no longer mattered. Somewhere in that mess, both the humanness and the divinity of Jesus became "real" to me. I could believe in the Resurrection because I could feel my own resurrection. Things like “virgin birth” did not matter to me anymore in terms of the reproductive dynamics of it, because I started realizing it’s all about outcome, not origin. Inside of me, something strange started growing...a tempest with a center of calm. I probably still do not reach the calm as much as I ought to. I still tend to “live in the tempest” just as I am attracted to powerful storms. But this calm in the center feels “new” to me. Once in a while, I can touch it.
I am absolutely sure my definition of “quiet” comes nowhere close to any real devotee of the standardized version of contemplative prayer. But it’s my quiet, and I can feel it. My quiet probably still looks like a 25 mph wind with 35 mph gusts to my vicar, who would probably hide under the bed in the presence of "my quiet." But it is quiet to me, and it wasn’t there before.
I have had to face another truth. If I don't listen to, and take ownership of, "my quiet," and accept it for that, I will fall into another trap. I will fall into the trap of living up to the expectations of other people's definition of "quiet." Jesus, I believe, will be okay with that. After all, he had "anal-retentive Matthew", and "gently descriptive Luke," and a bunch of his posse who didn't seem to say much of anything--and he had James and John, the "sons of thunder", and "always in your face" Peter...and they all "fit in."
I am sure over time, my quiet will morph into a more expansive quiet. But I am also convinced it will never morph into turning me into a model of silence, any more than my closet full of jeans will miraculously turn into a rack of prom dresses. "Mine" will never be like anyone else's, and I have to, once again, accept "being different."
From all oppression, conspiracy, and rebellion; from
violence, battle, and murder; and from dying suddenly and
unprepared,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Well, if you get right down to it, the whole stanza is about “dying before your time,” whatever the reason. It’s about those situations where the people you’ve left behind feel you’ve been “taken from them.”
I thought about that eleven months that my cousin J.B. was in Iraq. I bet at least two dozen people would try to comfort my unease by saying, “Oh, you know, the odds of him coming back fine are SO much in his favor.” Even the Vietnam vets would try to assure me “That they have far less casualties over there than in Nam, and hey, you had a cousin in Nam, and he came back to you.” But it was no comfort at all, in fact it was a bit of an irritation to me. I know as well as anyone that “things just happen because they happen, and statistics mean nothing when N=1.”
I worried when he was over there, not just that he might be killed, but that he might NOT be killed, and come home missing multiple limbs. The thought of my lively, masculine firefighter/paramedic motorcycle owning cousin being able to do none of those things distressed me worse than him possibly coming home in a steel casket draped with a flag. Knowing my relatives, they would have handled that much better. They could handle a dead hero better than a live profoundly disabled person. That side of the family (me included) places so much stock in our “physical survival skills”. We like fixing and making and doing and like to brag that others are weenies. That would have been so much harder.
I am living this one all over again. JML’s son J.A. is now over there for four months with the Marines. J.A. has wanted to be a Marine since at least junior high. I am sure a lot of it is pure testosterone overload from having an absent, distant, mentally ill father and being reared by “peaceful people.” I am sure some of it is his sense to strike out own his own, to do, to be, with a sense of duty to something bigger than himself. But I can’t fight with his need to be a part of something bigger, because I know what that need feels like, and we all have to find our way through that somehow, and it means taking risks for the thing that is bigger than you, in order to find yourself in the middle of it. I’ve lived that need, and continue to do so, just over time, in different ways.
I have often worried in a personal sense about that “dying suddenly and unprepared” thing. Growing up in the shadow of my uncle R. being killed in a hunting accident taught me “children die.” Our neighbor’s nephew dying in Vietnam taught me “People die in conflict; sometimes it is for something; sometimes it seems it is for nothing.” My grandfather dropped dead fixing a sandwich when no one but the dog was home. It taught me, “People drop dead, and die alone, without the comfort of those they love.” People have car wrecks and are immediately decapitated; the thought of one’s last conscious moment being possibly looking at your own severed body as the brain lights flicker out seems so overwhelmingly macabre to me. Recently, another friend's cousin killed himself. It reminded me, “People check themselves out of this world b/c they become so overwhelmed with a sad form of despair that feels so selfish to those who are left behind, but it is really just this huge despair.” Last week, BT’s son BTIII called and told him his 28 year old office manager was found dead in her home, the victim of a brutal murder. People die as victims, their last moments being filled with fear, and the love of God must seem so far away for those people.
We probably all have this vision of what constitutes “a good death for ourselves.” For some, it is being surrounded by loving family. For some, this includes clergy. For some, it IS to be alone.
I know for me, mine would be in my home, and “semi-alone.” There is that part of me that is so incredibly private, and I think it would kick in. I would want people around me but not terribly near me; like being “in the house” but “not right up next to me.” I would not want my mom anywhere near me, nor any other of my more “dramatic relatives”. Too much drama. I would not want the last thing on my mind to be dealing with someone else’s drama. There are people I would want near, “for a little bit.” I would let my clergy near me; oddly enough it is not so much because of the "clergy hat". It's just that I think the "clergy hat part" is more sensitive to the private inner psychological parts of me, so I could handle the "human part" that close to me at such a private time.
But the fact remains, we don’t choose our own death scene for the most part. Even those who take themselves out of this world, even though they choose the place and method, don’t always “really choose” if you get my drift. Things in their life gravitated to that place, and they “choices” they made are pretty piddly, compared to the torrent that swept them to those choices.
Somehow, God has to be in all of it, but it is really hard for me to see HOW. I can only take everything else that I know God is in, that I take strictly on faith, and assume it works for this, too. But that is still not horribly comforting.
From lightning and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and
flood; from plague, pestilence, and famine,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Finally, one I can chew!
I am thinking about how “big weather” awes me. So much so, that I tend to want to be “a little too close to it.” It makes me feel really really alive. I am so hooked on the power of tornadoes, big waves, storms...and definitely more than a little hooked on fire. My grandpa, back in the days when we still burned our trash in the barrel, used to joke that I was the only person he ever saw who liked to burn the trash one piece at a time, and liked to sit and watch every single thing burn!
I hate to admit it, but sometimes I crave a little too much lightning and tempest and fire. When I am feeling psychologically “blunted”, I crave it to the degree it’s destructive...like it will “wake me up and make me feel alive again.” It can manifest itself in me by “looking for molehills” or “barking at things that are not there.”
Sometimes I can’t leave things that are “not quite perfect but good enough” well enough alone. I have to get all obsessive-compulsive about them, and the end result for me spiritually is “plague, pestilence, and famine.” I will go form being irritated to being morose, with the little black cloud over my head.
I am not afraid of storms. But I need to learn not to think I need to stand in the middle of every one of them!
Bo returned from the veterinary hospital last Tuesday. They decided to give him a rest from the remaining two chemo treatments for a week. He is weak, but rallying b/c his "hoomans" are feeding him small meals of chicken and rice. This will be the week that he will return for chemo treatment #3. They did not see an increase in the size of his tumors, but they did not decrease, either.
At this point, Bo's mom and dad realize this week will tell the tale in whether or not the chemo makes him sick. It has been kind of a "toss-up" whether his taking sick earlier is the chemo, or the effects of the tumor pressing on his digestive tract. I was "practicing veterinary medicine without a license" a little by asking them "How digested is the stuff he was throwing up?" My concern was that much of the food was undigested, which tells me he is having problems simply physically getting it to his stomach.
If this treatment causes him to get sick again, Bo's folks have a decision to make. In this last episode, they were quite worried he was not even going to make it to Columbia. They may have to make a decision on whether or not to even finish the last treatment.
This has been tough on everyone. These days, there are far more options in treating sick pets. The problem, of course, is with beloved pets, there is always a certain amount of anthropomorphism that happens when we interact with our pets. Also, it is not always easy to see if our pets are in pain or not (they tend to be more stoic as they can't always express how they feel), or they may react differently. Some pets carry different burdens on our heart, as they represent the survival of more desperate times in our life, or their lives and our lives were entwined in "more unique than usual" ways. "Farm people" tend to behave differently about pets than "town people." Some of the decisions may be based on "how much money one has to spend." Some of the decisions are based on our own pure fear of losing our pet. Every situation is unique. These are not easy decisions in Bo's family.
When I think about all these decisions that Bo's folks are going through, I think back to a day when I had no options--the last day of my beloved retriever cross Sam. I was 14 years old. Sam had been riding on the farm wagon, as many farm dogs do. We hit a bump and Sam fell out of the wagon and the wagon wheels went over him and broke his back. When we got out of the truck, it was obvious Sam was paralyzed. We were miles from town; if we went into town to put Sam down, our woodcutting would not be finished. We lived in a house with a wood stove for our main source of heat. If we didn't cut wood, we didn't have wood to heat the house later on. My dad did not have many weekends off that time of year, being in the building trades. Every weekend he could get out to cut wood, we cut wood. There wasn't much anyone could have done anyway.
My dad looked at me, got the .22 rifle out of the truck, handed it to me, and said, "He's YOUR dog. If I do this, you will never forgive me. But you know what has to be done. Put it behind his head so he can't see you." Then he walked away to leave me alone with the situation. So I petted Sam a while and talked to him; it was obvious he was in pain and a long goodbye would only make it worse for him. Then I quietly stepped behind him, scared to death I had so many tears in my eyes I would embarrassingly miss at point blank range. I was an excellent shot at age 14, and was absolutely afraid I would miss. But I did not, and the end came very quickly.
"He's YOUR dog." The same words I had heard a year prior when my rat terrier Peetee, who was "my dog" before I was even born, got congestive heart failure and we had to decide to take him in to the vet to be euthanized. That time it was my grandfather and me. Peetee could no longer hardly walk 25 yards before having to sit and rest, his tongue popsicle purple from lack of circulation, despite giving him digitalis every day. My grandfather looked at me and said, "He's not enjoying being a dog anymore."
"Do you think it's time to have him put down?"
"It's not what I think; it's what YOU think. He's YOUR dog. The day you were born, he was your dog. We bought him for you. He trusts you above all of us. It's up to you."
I knew in my heart it was time, and we loaded Peetee up to go to the vet.
Both of these are hard lessons--hard adult lessons--when you are 13-14 years old. I have never forgotten those hard lessons, and sometimes, as I am a peripheral player in the life of "someone else's dog", I think to myself that somehow, all the decisions like this I had to make on subsequent dogs in my life are easier than watching others sort their way through their decisions about their dog. I would have to sort through the same decision tree as Bo's parents, but for some odd reason it feels like it would be easier for me to sort through them if Bo were my dog. I'm sure it is because when you are someone's friend, you realize it is so incredibly important not to just say "what you'd do if it were you." They're NOT you...and he's not YOUR dog. It seems more taxing, somehow, when intuitively it would seem easier that you get to sit on the sidelines to some extent.
I have also felt badly for Bo's buddy, Miss Zera Ruth. She does not understand why her buddy Bo no longer wants to play, or why he gets grumpy and snarly with her these days. It does not register with her that there is a possibility that Bo could get to feeling better for a while if his tumor shrinks. She lives in the now, and tomorrow is not even a feature of the dog planet. She just knows her world has changed a lot.
She did not understand fully a week ago Sunday when I showed up to take her outside and her folks and Bo were not with me. I stayed with her for a while afterwards and she was very "clingy." I knew it was important for me to just let her cling for a bit.
I keep thinking about something that happened the day before Bo really took sick. I was over at his folks' house, and he was very adamant that I pay attention to him and pet him, was almost annoying about it. When I was petting him, I looked at him, and it was suddenly evident. It's funny. I am much better at reading dogs than people. But I realized in his own way, Bo was telling me goodbye. It took me a little by surprise, as he did not look sick at the time. I can't describe it, but it was the same look my dogs have given me when their face says, "I'm not having a good time of it right now but I am sure glad you're here." It is a different look than the usual "loving dog look." But the next day was when he took sick and almost died.
Even though he is a little on the mend now, I realize that whether Bo is able to tolerate the rest of the chemo, or not able to tolerate the chemo, whether he has a week, a month, or a year, that he and I have already said our goodbyes and he and I are okay with the time he has left, whether it is long or short, whether he can tolerate more treatment or not.
I realize at this point, Bo is "in the game for his people." it is his loyalty to his pack that is keeping him here on this earth; to treat or not to treat is almost a moot point at this junction, and in that sense, maybe it will make whatever decisions come on the decision tree easier on his folks. He will stay as long as he can stay, because he's glad to be with his people. He will take what comes. It's all us people who have the issues.
From all false doctrine, heresy, and schism; from hardness
of heart, and contempt of thy Word and commandment,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Oooo. This one might be the part of the litany which connects me the least...at least all but the “hardness of heart.” So I’ll stick to the “hardness of heart” part and see if I can’t work my way into the rest.
Well, I always think about in Exodus, when Pharaoh’s heart was hardened. What did that mean?
Mostly, I think it meant “He wasn’t listening to the little voice inside of him that tells us what’s right.”
I am a fairly stubborn creature. Sometimes my stubbornness is used for good, but sometimes it is also a barrier to that little voice. When I am not listening to my own small still voice, I am not absorbing well what God is trying to tell me in my disciplines of study and prayer. I rush to “get them over” and don’t think about them. I am not following the doctrine of my own heart. I am participating in “schism between me and God”, which some days, is a tenuous enough connection as it is. I am being a heretic to myself.
All because I smother my inner voice sometimes.
Well, after I finished my "Journey backwards through the Psalms" that started last summer, my next "assignment" was the last third of the book of Isaiah. Many of you know last Lent I worked my way through "The suffering servant" portions of Isaiah. This week I am on chapter 62 and today, verse 8 stuck out for me..."The Lord has sworn by his right hand and by his mighty arm: I will not again give your grain to be food for your enemies, and foreigners shall not drink the wine for which you have labored;"
I am figuring this verse speaks to when the Jews were slaves in Egypt. So the promise seems to be to me that God will not take away from us that which we need to “eat.”
It begs the question, “What still keeps us in bondage?”
One of the things I miss when my retired pathologist friend M.J., in the days before his dementia started, was he would always have a Passover seder at his house. It would be mostly medical students and residents who were stuck in Columbia to work over Passover and could not go home, and a few of us “goyim” who he thought would understand the meaning of Passover. Of course, I always got stuck being the cook, b/c M.J. couldn’t cook worth a damn. So it was this "barely kosher" passover, cooked by a shiksa. I also liked to have one item on the menu that was "Missouri wild game," so I had to figure out things like if venison was kosher. (It is, and I figured since I always slit the throat when I field dressed it, it was "close enough" for this crowd for a "barely legal Passover.")
But there is a part of the seder where the narrative talked about the Jews being in bondage in the Exodus days. After that reading is supposed to be a time of reflection. Rather than do a silent reflection, M.J., in his usual "I'm a high level liberal and I want you all to think about social justice" mode, made everyone go around the table and talk about “someplace in the world today where people are in bondage.” He would get a lot of very thoughtful answers from his guests. You would get the usual places in the world where there was genocide or other forms of oppression, but you would get some interesting answers sometimes like “homeless people,” or “battered spouses” or whatnot, too. Of course, I could be counted on for the one funny, flip answer before my serious answer, like "I'm in bondage b/c I have to cook for your friggin' seder every year!"
One year, right around Passover, my longtime friend JML left her crazy husband in SC with the kids under cover of darkness, taking literally nothing except all the clothes and stuff that she could jam in the car and her relatives could stick in a horse trailer. There had literally been weeks of planning by her family of the wheres, whens, hows, and whys. Those of us in the know felt like we were on a spy mission. There were things to say, things not to say, appearances to keep.
But when I think back of those days when we would have the Passover seders at MJ's, I can’t help but think of the time that JML called me at M.J.'s, in the middle of his seder, to tell me they had made it safely to her parents' house with the kids. It was truly “a Passover miracle.” I remember at the time I had pulled M.J. away from the table to tell him. He came back to the table, literally BEAMING, and we both sat down and he said, “You know, a little while ago, we did the Four Questions, and the first one translates as “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Well, tonight, right here at this table it is different from all other nights because a family has been brought out of bondage. A friend of ours and her children fled her abusive husband and just now—JUST NOW—arrived safely home in Missouri. I’m not sure I really believe in miracles, but I believe in this one.”
You also have to remember this was in my “lone wolf Christian” days, and God still seemed pretty darn unapproachable and distant to me in a lot of ways. But I definitely believed this was no accident that we got that phone call in the middle of the seder. Sometimes I still think about that night and think, "Why this night...over all other nights."
When I think about the things in my heart that keep me in “bondage” sometimes...my attitudes, my anger, my frustration, my despair...I sometimes think of that night that truly was “different than all other nights” and remind myself that I have seen an Exodus miracle in my own life, and no Exodus is too big for God.
From all inordinate and sinful affections; and from all the
deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil,
Good Lord, deliver us.
It would be easy to make this stanza totally about sexual morality, but I think it’s bigger than that. To me, this stanza is more about being pure of heart and not giving in to impulsive and self-gratifying behavior, and not falling prey to the illusions of happiness that these impulses create.
You know, the problem with impulsive behavior is figuring out between “good” impulses and “bad” impulses. Although in so many things, I am meticulous to the border of obsessive-compulsive, I was once described by a good friend as “predictably unpredictable.” Impulses can be my greatest moments...and they can be my worst nightmares. I have acted on impulses that warmed the hearts of others. I have acted on impulses that have ended up with my driving a wedge through good friendships. I have acted on impulses that led me down paths of joy, and others the primrose path to Hell.
The problem, in the case of “bad” impulses, is the illusions these impulses create. They create illusions of perfection in our lives, that we’d be happier if (fill in the blank.) The problem is most of these have a component of exploitation to them. For you to have what you want, someone else will be exploited. That, to me, is how to tell the “good” impulses from the “bad” ones. The good ones are non-exploitative.
The bad ones turn us away from God, not because we’re “bad”, but because we are too engrossed in our self-gratification, we can’t see anyone else...not even God. Running off with the ilicit lover makes spouse and family suffer. Seeing toilet paper on sale causes us to buy and hoard 24 rolls, rather than the six we need. Going to the casino boat and spending too much in an attempt to be a “high roller” may cause you to miss paying the bills. The more we ponder our impulses, the more we want to give in to them. I literally have to distract myself from my own impulses.
Prayer can be a wonderful distraction that has inward positive benefits. It becomes more than a “distraction babysitter.” It can lead to growth.
