This weekend is Halloween in Boulder, which means the Naked Pumpkin Run, a modified "mall-crawl," and the CU game with Missouri here. The officials are gearing up for a wild weekend--as well they should. My "wild" weekend will be the celebration of All Saints day on Sunday and All Souls on Monday. On Sunday, I will give the sermon at three services.--the same sermon, really, although somewhat modified for the 5 pm Canterbury.
As usual, I have read the lectionary readings and am in a period of reflection about:
What can I say about saints that we don't say every year at this time?
What do I know about "saints," actually? What do I bellieve? Our catechism begins, "A saint is anyone, living or dead, who..." Is that where I begin?
Who are the saints in my life, both living and dead?
The Gospel reading is on Jesus' raising Lazarus from the dead. I believe, really, that the most significant sentence in this passage is "Jesus wept" (King James, not NRSV). It brings me back to the subject of grief, and the special anguish that sisters and brothers, parents and friends endure with loss. Mary admonishes Jesus, "he wouldn't have died if you would have been here."
But Jesus does not bring Lazarus back from the dead to assuage grief--to make everything all right. I say time after time that, really, Lazarus had to die sometime, didn't he? Jesus brought Lazarus back because of disbelief. The sight must have been terrifying as it is described in our passage.
How do we endure loss? When do we give up hope? How are these two questions related to "A saint is someone, living or dead..."?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Lull Before the Storm, Literally
We walk on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at about 6:45, not incredibly early, really, but in this week before DST ends, it feels that way. This morning when we started out, it was 51 degrees, That's in contrast to this time yesterday morning when it was 22, and I decided NOT to ride my bike to yoga. Tomorrow's high will be in the 30s, and we have a storm coming that will measure the snow in a few inches. Rocky Mountain fall isn't usually this unstable.
This morning, with heavy clouds patchworking the sky, the sunrise both to the east and the west was spectacularly orange-shaded--brilliantly lighting up the east and reflecting off the Flatirons to the west as well as one tall building made of glass--can't figure out where that building is actually.
I'm really a kind of begrudging morning walker, but we only do about a mile and a half, and once I'm out, I'm filled with a spirit of well-being, energy.
Now the sky is a dull grey, leaves almost gone from the trees (thanks to the winds of week), the Flatirons having receded into the shadows.
This morning, with heavy clouds patchworking the sky, the sunrise both to the east and the west was spectacularly orange-shaded--brilliantly lighting up the east and reflecting off the Flatirons to the west as well as one tall building made of glass--can't figure out where that building is actually.
I'm really a kind of begrudging morning walker, but we only do about a mile and a half, and once I'm out, I'm filled with a spirit of well-being, energy.
Now the sky is a dull grey, leaves almost gone from the trees (thanks to the winds of week), the Flatirons having receded into the shadows.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Grief, Unspeakable Grief
The death of Jesse, age 30, has filled my waking and sleeping hours since I have returned. This young man, as his father wrote to me, "lived as long as he could, and then he couldn't." As a child and friend to my own son, we knew his troubled, intelligent soul early. We rejoiced when his life took shape with relationships and work that had meaning for him.
Here is what I know in my priesthood. There are no words of comfort here for his parents. There is nothing, right now, to be said. I imagine that the only way to see out of this all-consuming grief is to know that there are so many parents who have lost children. I look at these people with awe. They are actually living in this world, buying groceries, going to jobs, telling jokes.
I believe in the "peace that passes understanding." I believe that Jesse soul is in repose, and, as we say in our Prayers of the People, I believe that "light perpetual shines upon him." I know that his parents, my friends, are inconsolable.
We who have young sons speak of Jesse, then become silent, because we know only too well that he could be our son--that he is our son. I speak to my friend Mary in the need to tell someone--to make real this fact that I'm living with--Jesse's death. I explain to her that I've known him since he was about 8, the circumstances of his death as I understand them, how I know his parents. Then we become very quiet; we have each folded in upon ourselves. We each think of our own sons, sip coffee, and then one of us says, "What a beautiful fall day." Or, "Would you like a slice of pumpkin bread?"
We can tell stories that we know:
My cat Miranda belonged to Jesse at one time--when he was a teenager, he along with a group of his friends, found her and began to raise her as a kitten. When his parents said that Jesse could not bring a new cat into a household that already had one, his mother, remembering the death of our cat Smokey, asked me if I would take her. "Yes," I said. And when she arrived, she was the very image of our tortoise shell, Smokey. But she jumped on tables, on the stove, on kitchen counters, always grazing for food, knowing no boundaries. We liked to say that Miranda was raised by teenage boys.
Jesse never really forgave me for taking Miranda, but I'm deeply grateful to him for finding her.
Here is what I know in my priesthood. There are no words of comfort here for his parents. There is nothing, right now, to be said. I imagine that the only way to see out of this all-consuming grief is to know that there are so many parents who have lost children. I look at these people with awe. They are actually living in this world, buying groceries, going to jobs, telling jokes.
I believe in the "peace that passes understanding." I believe that Jesse soul is in repose, and, as we say in our Prayers of the People, I believe that "light perpetual shines upon him." I know that his parents, my friends, are inconsolable.
We who have young sons speak of Jesse, then become silent, because we know only too well that he could be our son--that he is our son. I speak to my friend Mary in the need to tell someone--to make real this fact that I'm living with--Jesse's death. I explain to her that I've known him since he was about 8, the circumstances of his death as I understand them, how I know his parents. Then we become very quiet; we have each folded in upon ourselves. We each think of our own sons, sip coffee, and then one of us says, "What a beautiful fall day." Or, "Would you like a slice of pumpkin bread?"
We can tell stories that we know:
My cat Miranda belonged to Jesse at one time--when he was a teenager, he along with a group of his friends, found her and began to raise her as a kitten. When his parents said that Jesse could not bring a new cat into a household that already had one, his mother, remembering the death of our cat Smokey, asked me if I would take her. "Yes," I said. And when she arrived, she was the very image of our tortoise shell, Smokey. But she jumped on tables, on the stove, on kitchen counters, always grazing for food, knowing no boundaries. We liked to say that Miranda was raised by teenage boys.
Jesse never really forgave me for taking Miranda, but I'm deeply grateful to him for finding her.
What is it about Paris?
What is it that draws us there? Why did it just pop out of my mouth when D. asked me what I wanted to do for my 70th--"Go to Paris," I said--out of my mouth before I could even think. We've been there several times. My heart seems lighter when I'm there--and I have more energy. I want to be out--like the parisiens--drinking coffee and wine, walking for hours, tucking into little squares and big churches.
Is it the river? London--also a city that feels like home--has that. The architecture? The ancient history? The language? Or, really, the food--the boulangeries, patisseries, cafes, the coffee and chocolate chaud ancienne? (See Ellen and Helen, after an afternoon of walking and plunging into Galeries Lafayette, above) What is it about Paris? Can we define the energy? I live in a city known as a "vortex," a city located at a site of mystic power--known for its so-called new age ethos. Is Paris an ancient vortex, laughing at these newer places--these babies, really, laying claim to some spiritual power? That ancient vortex called Paris is actually less about mystical energy spots (Dan Brown knows this) and more about eating well (Julia Child knew this), enjoying every last morsel.
Paris and Back: Age 70 for Two Weeks
If I'm going to keep an account of my 70th year, it clearly is not going to be a daily one. Setting up a blog space was the first step, and here I find it beckoning to me, waiting patiently in some form, out of sight, but there nonetheless--like a memory in a small corner of my mind begging to emerge.
It's remarkable to me that I am 70. And I am seeking to live into that age--really not aged, but, frankly, old--with some kind of notation, documentation, that yes, I was here; I made a note of it, unlike the other "0" years that slipped away--unlike the decades now behind me.
I celebrated age 70 by going to Paris. The actual day of my birthday was a Sunday; I am an Episcopal priest, and it just so happened that that very Sunday marked the Bishop's visitation. So I began my 70th year with a blessing. And left the next day for Paris, for a week in an apartment on Rue de Montorgueil. And now I'm back. It's early morning, with only the cat Miranda astir. Perhaps now I can begin.
It's remarkable to me that I am 70. And I am seeking to live into that age--really not aged, but, frankly, old--with some kind of notation, documentation, that yes, I was here; I made a note of it, unlike the other "0" years that slipped away--unlike the decades now behind me.
I celebrated age 70 by going to Paris. The actual day of my birthday was a Sunday; I am an Episcopal priest, and it just so happened that that very Sunday marked the Bishop's visitation. So I began my 70th year with a blessing. And left the next day for Paris, for a week in an apartment on Rue de Montorgueil. And now I'm back. It's early morning, with only the cat Miranda astir. Perhaps now I can begin.
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