Monday, March 31, 2008

The Ground So Dirty

This past weekend, I was at Awakening, a retreat led by Duke's Catholic Student Center. I went last semester as a first-time participant and was on staff for this retreat; for the next one, I'll be on leadership. There are some funny reflections on how a hardcore Methodist wound up in a leadership position for a Catholic retreat, but that's not what this entry is about. This past weekend, I saw the body of Christ in full force. One moment in particular was nothing short of miraculous and summed up what I think a visualization of a truly Christocentric ecclesiology might look like.

On the Awakening retreat, there are a series of talks. The topics are always the same, and they include Faith, Love, Prayer, etc. They are given by students whose lives have been changed by Awakening, and they are always incredible.

This year, a friend of mine delivered the talk on the Mystical Body of Christ (MBOC). We hadn't met long before this weekend, but we both went on the monastery trip this spring break. Naturally, both of us having a strong connection to Awakening, we talked at length about the body of Christ, the Eucharist and ecumenism while we were at the monastery. The MBOC is central to her faith, and I could tell not only in her preparation but also in the talk itself that she poured every ounce of her being into telling us what it meant to be the body of Christ.

Her talk was real, raw and challenging, but the miracle came at the end. Exhorting us to recognize Christ in each other, not in a warm-fuzzy sort of way but in a way that calls us into the suffering of our neighbor, she declared to us that we were Christ to her, and she knelt before us all. Later she told us that she was planning to kneel for about 10 seconds and then go sit down for the reflection song that is played after each talk. But that isn't what happened. She knelt for a few moments, and then there was the sound of chairs being pushed back and shoes scuffling on the floor. All of a sudden, every one of the roughly 100 people in the room was kneeling. It was not a domino effect; it wasn't as if someone thought it was a cool idea and then everyone else followed suit. Everyone just knelt. We all stayed there on our knees throughout the reflection song, "Jesus" by Page France. We knelt, smiling and crying and knowing that we could never look at each other, or anyone else, the same ever again.


I will sing a song to you
And you will shake the ground for me
And the birds and the bees and the old fruit trees
Will spit out songs like gushing streams

And Jesus will come through the ground so dirty
With worms in his hair and a hand so sturdy
To call us his magic, we call him worthy
Jesus came up through the ground so dirty

I will sing a song for you
And you will stomp your feet for me
And the bears and the bees and banana trees
Will play kazoos and tambourines

And Jesus will dance while we drink his wine
With soldiers and thieves and a sword in his side
And we will be joy and we will be right
Jesus will dance while we drink his wine

And Jesus will come through the ground so dirty
With worms in his hair and a hand so sturdy
To call us his magic, we call him worthy
Jesus came up through the ground so dirty

— "Jesus" by Page France

A Prayer from Susannah Wesley

Help me, Lord, to remember that religion is not to be confined to the church, or closet, nor exercised only in prayer and meditation, but that everywhere I am in thy presence. So may my every word and action have a moral content. May all the happenings of my life prove useful to me. May all things instruct me and afford me an opportunity of exercising some virtue and daily learning and growing toward thy likeness. Amen.

Monday, March 24, 2008

The Place of the Skull

"So they took Jesus; and carrying the cross by himself, he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha." — John 19:16b-17

Golgotha is one of the few locations I remember clearly from my visit to the Holy Land as an 8-year-old. For one thing, to see the hill, you stand in a beautiful garden, which itself leaves an impression. For another, in the midst of the flowers, the rock of Golgotha really does look an awful lot like a skull (see the picture below). I recall being simultaneously repulsed by and attracted to the strangeness of the place.

Perhaps this post is a bit late, since we're into Easter now, but my dad's Good Friday sermon taught me something about Golgotha that I didn't know, something that I found fascinating and meaningful. He began by talking about the story of David and Goliath. We all know how the narrative goes, but there's a small detail that we often miss at the end: "David took the head of the Philistine and brought it to Jerusalem" (1 Samuel 17:54a). This is odd in and of itself because Jerusalem was not an Israelite city at the time. I won't get into that, since I'm not an Old Testament scholar, but there's something else at work here.

What my dad pointed out that I had never thought of is that it is no accident that the beginning of the Hebrew name for "place of the skull" is an abbreviated version of Goliath's name. Golgotha. Goliath's head had been brought to Jerusalem. Jesus was crucified at the place of the skull. Goliath's skull.

Now that revelation is enough fun as an interesting play on words, but there are a million directions you could take that. I've already got a sermon formulating in my head for whenever I may be called upon to preach on 1 Samuel 17 or John 19. When my dad drew the connection between Christ's crucifixion and young David's victory over Goliath, I immediately thought of 2 Corinthians 12:9: "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." God turns the world's paradigms of strength and weakness on end. "God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong" (1 Corinthians 1:27b). This theme can be seen throughout Scripture. An inarticulate Hebrew leads the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt. Barren women conceive and bear the rulers of the people (just take Sarah and Hannah as two examples, though there are plenty more). A shepherd boy fells a giant with a slingshot. A young girl is visited by an angel and told that she is to bear the Son of God. A carpenter's son from Nazareth is not simply used by God—he is God.

How wonderful, then, that at the moment of Christ's crucifixion, as he is led to Calvary, when all seems to be hopelessness and darkness, there is a subtle reminder of God's promise that what the world sees as weakness may in fact be strength beyond all imagining. Golgotha, which invoked fear in me as a child, carries in it a reminder of David's victory over Goliath—perhaps a hint of what is to come, a gentle rebuke for those of us who may see the cross and despair. It was precisely Christ's seeming weakness that allowed him to save us. God meets us in our weakness in Christ and transforms us by the power of his Holy Spirit so that we might be strengthened in him and him alone.

Golgotha, "The Place of the Skull"

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Christ the Lord Is Risen Today (Hymn)

Made like him, like him we rise; Alleluia!
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies; Alleluia!

— Charles Wesley

Saturday, March 22, 2008

He Descended Into Hell

In my United Methodist Church, our version of the Apostle's Creed leaves out the line "he descended into Hell." I've always lamented this (or at least wondered about, since I doubt I was too concerned about it as an 8-year-old), because the descent into Hell is fascinating, redemptive and gives meaning to Holy Saturday.

One of the best reflections I've ever had to do on the descent to hell involved studying a Russian icon of the Harrowing of Hades:

It may be hard to see at this resolution, but there are really neat aspects that can be picked out. Jesus is in the center, and he's standing on the gates of Hell, which have been broken and now form the shape of a cross. On his left and right are Adam and Eve, whom he raises from Hell, and ranked behind them are the Old Testament kings and prophets, including Abraham and Sarah, David, Samuel and so on. Below, in the depths of Hell, two angels bind Satan, whose power has been broken, with chains.

There are plenty more minute details that make this icon not only aesthetically pleasing but also illustrative and instructive of the events of Holy Saturday, but I'll spare you. I just love the thought that even in the silence of the in-between time of Holy Saturday, even on that Sabbath day, Jesus was hard at work rescuing damned souls. Perhaps this should give us a hint that in these in-between times, here and now, with the Kingdom being already-but-not-yet, Christ is striving to save our souls so that we can be raised with him in glory at the last trumpet.

The Saints Who Had Fallen Asleep

"At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split. The tombs were also opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised. After his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many." — Matthew 27:51-53

I have always thought that this passage was just so, so cool. The first time I heard this after having learned about the general resurrection, I was shocked. It's eschatologically problematic to have dead people walking around before the end times. I've never read a commentary on this passage, and I know that this particular part is unique to Matthew's Gospel, but what else could this possibly be than a graphic foretaste of the coming resurrection of the body? Jesus' own resurrection was in and of itself a prefiguration of the general resurrection—"for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ" (1 Corinthians 15:22)—but, as if the point needed to be driven home further still, here we have regular people getting up out of the grave. So all will be made alive.

Friday, March 21, 2008

O Sacred Head Now Wounded (Hymn)

What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest friend,
For this, thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord let me never, never
Outlive my love for me.

Anonymous

The Monastery

There are always surprises waiting at Christ in the Desert Monastery. There is, of course, a degree of asceticism to the monastic life, but these monks are not afraid to use modern innovations within the reason and limits of the Benedictine Rule; their website, maintained by the monks, makes that clear. Even more surprising, the first time I went, I was there for the last week of the filming of a reality TV show. TLC's series The Monastery chronicled the lives of 5 men as they spent 40 days living and working with the monks of Christ in the Desert. Certainly some of the brothers had reservations, not only about having television cameras in their cloisters but also about the guests themselves—there was at least one incident where some of the men removed a skylight to pilfer beer from the monks' pantry. Then, too, they may have started with 5 men, but by the time I got there, there were only four. You can see the show's website here.

A place like Christ in the Desert, both in terms of its location and its rhythm of life, can seem at first to have been dropped down from heaven. One of the blessings I've experienced in being able to return there multiple times is that I've become somewhat familiar with a few of the brothers and have learned that they really are human—something they insist upon frequently, but which really must be witnessed first-hand. There's something of a surprising joy in observing the discipline of these men who wake up every day for 4 a.m. Vigils alongside the seemingly more "normal" aspects of their life. They play soccer, watch movies and, we're told, sometimes go into town together to sing karaoke. Their days are spent largely in quiet or even silence, but even they need the company and friendship not only of their fellow brothers but also of the guests and visitors who come to the monastery. Our last night there this year, we were told that they were having anticipated Vigils at 8 p.m. that evening in place of the usual 4 a.m. prayer, and we later learned that the reason for this was that they were having a going away party for a visiting priest, who was returning to Mexico the next day.

There's something comforting in seeing the human side of the seemingly divine monastic life. To me, it says that it doesn't take supernatural powers to be a devoted Christian. I saw a monk fall asleep during Vigils one morning; and I beat myself up for dozing off before my evening prayer is finished? One of the other students on the trip this year remarked that monastic life seems so radical, but, in the context of the Christian faith, it really isn't all that crazy—it's just, she said, a bunch of guys living together. Even Protestants living in intentional community, as with several hospitality houses with which I am familiar in my area, are not so different from these Catholic monks. Their vocation may look ostensibly disparate to what I perceive my calling to be, but the truth is that we as Christians are all called to community, with the understanding that any earthly community will be imperfect—it just has to be faithful.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Broken for You

This spring break, I traveled to Christ in the Desert Monastery in New Mexico with a group of 5 other college students and our fearless leader. We enjoyed a week of prayer, contemplation, conversation, reading, and hiking. On our last day, we all gathered to reflect on the week. Our leader asked what had been one of the most important moments for us, and I, a thoroughbred Protestant, immediately thought of attending Mass.

I may never be able to explain in words what I experience in the Eucharist. I have an unusually high sacramental understanding for a Protestant, I realize, but the importance cannot be lost on anyone, particularly when the question of ecumenism is raised. During the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, back in January, the mainline Protestant campus ministry groups and our Catholic Student Center held an ecumenical vespers service each night. During discussion one evening, we were asked where we saw unity in the church and where we saw disunity. My answer was one and the same: at Catholic Mass. That conversation started a longer reflection for me that reached a mental climax at Christ in the Desert.

Mass exposes both unity and disunity in the church. As I participated in the liturgy of the Mass, my senses were heightened by the spoken word, the incense and the bells. I was fully alert, even after having attended 4:00 a.m. Vigils and 5:45 a.m. Lauds. I was very much a part of the sacrament—I felt like I could almost reach out and touch the body of Christ, not just on the altar but in the gathering of people in that sanctuary. However, when it came time to receive the elements, I was obliged to cross my arms over my chest to be given a blessing by the priest. Moving towards the altar, I wanted to laugh with joy at the beauty of the moment, and at the same time I wanted to weep for the divisions that keep us apart at table.

No matter what the theological interpretation of what exactly happens at Eucharist may be, the communion table is (or should be) a central point of Christian worship and life together. Christ institutes the Lord’s Supper himself with a command: "Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19). Then, too, it was in the breaking of bread on the walk to Emmaus that the disciples recognized Jesus (Luke 24). In his book Torture and Eucharist (which I read at the monastery), William Cavanaugh makes this observation: "It was not uncommon…for the ancient church to connect failure to recognize Christ in the consecrated bread and wine with failure to treat others as brothers and sisters in Christ." Understood seriously, the communion table is a place not only of communion with God but also of communion with each other. Whatever the future holds for the ecumenical movement, it seems to me that the question of unity relies greatly on table manners, on where we recognize and honor Christ in the sacraments and how we recognize Christ in others.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Too Tightly Tangled Together (quote)

"Christ did not descend from the cross except into the grave. And why not otherwise? Wouldn't it have put fine comical expressions on the faces of the scribes and the chief priests and the soldiers if at that moment He had come down in power and glory? Why didn't He do it? Why hasn't He done it at any one of a thousand good times between then and now?

I knew the answer. I knew it a long time before I could admit it, for all the suffering of the world is in it. He didn't, He hasn't, because from the moment He did, He would be the absolute tyrant of the world and we would be His slaves. Even those who hated Him and hated one another and hated their own souls would have to believe in Him then. From that moment the possibility that we might be bound to Him and He to us and us to one another by love forever would be ended.

And so, I thought, He must forbear to reveal His power and glory by presenting Himself as Himself, and must be present only in the ordinary miracle of the existence of His creatures. Those who wish to see Him must see Him in the poor, the hungry, the hurt, the wordless creatures, the groaning and travailing beautiful world.

I would sometimes be horrified in every moment I was alone. I could see no escape. We are too tightly tangled together to be able to separate ourselves from one another either by good or by evil. We all are involved in all and any good, and in all and any evil. For any sin, we all suffer. That is why our suffering is endless. It is why God grieves and Christ's wounds still are bleeding."

— Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Dulce lignum, dulces clavos

Vere languores nostros ipse tulit
et doloros nostros ipse portavit
cujus livore sanati sumus
Dulce lignum, dulces clavos
Dulcia ferens pondera
Quae sola fuistis digna sustinere
Regem coelorum et Dominum


Truly, our failings he has taken upon himself
And our sorrows he has borne
By his wounds we have been healed
O sweet wood, O sweet nails
That bore his sweet burden
Which alone were worthy to support
The King of Heaven and Lord

Vere languores nostros, Tomas Luis de Victoria

Come, O Thou Traveler Unknown (Hymn)

Come, O thou Traveler unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,
And I am left alone with thee.

With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day;
With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell thee who I am,
My misery and sin declare;
Thyself hast called me by me name,
Look on thy hands and read it there.

But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.
But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

Yield to me now, for I am weak,
But confident in self-despair!
Speak to my heart, in blessing speak,
Bo conquered by my instant prayer.

Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name is Love.
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name is Love.

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me,
I hear thy whisper in my heart.
The morning breaks, the shadows flee,
Pure, Universal Love thou art.

To me, to all, thy mercies move;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
To me, to all, thy mercies move;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.

— Charles Wesley

Monday, March 31, 2008

The Ground So Dirty

This past weekend, I was at Awakening, a retreat led by Duke's Catholic Student Center. I went last semester as a first-time participant and was on staff for this retreat; for the next one, I'll be on leadership. There are some funny reflections on how a hardcore Methodist wound up in a leadership position for a Catholic retreat, but that's not what this entry is about. This past weekend, I saw the body of Christ in full force. One moment in particular was nothing short of miraculous and summed up what I think a visualization of a truly Christocentric ecclesiology might look like.

On the Awakening retreat, there are a series of talks. The topics are always the same, and they include Faith, Love, Prayer, etc. They are given by students whose lives have been changed by Awakening, and they are always incredible.

This year, a friend of mine delivered the talk on the Mystical Body of Christ (MBOC). We hadn't met long before this weekend, but we both went on the monastery trip this spring break. Naturally, both of us having a strong connection to Awakening, we talked at length about the body of Christ, the Eucharist and ecumenism while we were at the monastery. The MBOC is central to her faith, and I could tell not only in her preparation but also in the talk itself that she poured every ounce of her being into telling us what it meant to be the body of Christ.

Her talk was real, raw and challenging, but the miracle came at the end. Exhorting us to recognize Christ in each other, not in a warm-fuzzy sort of way but in a way that calls us into the suffering of our neighbor, she declared to us that we were Christ to her, and she knelt before us all. Later she told us that she was planning to kneel for about 10 seconds and then go sit down for the reflection song that is played after each talk. But that isn't what happened. She knelt for a few moments, and then there was the sound of chairs being pushed back and shoes scuffling on the floor. All of a sudden, every one of the roughly 100 people in the room was kneeling. It was not a domino effect; it wasn't as if someone thought it was a cool idea and then everyone else followed suit. Everyone just knelt. We all stayed there on our knees throughout the reflection song, "Jesus" by Page France. We knelt, smiling and crying and knowing that we could never look at each other, or anyone else, the same ever again.


I will sing a song to you
And you will shake the ground for me
And the birds and the bees and the old fruit trees
Will spit out songs like gushing streams

And Jesus will come through the ground so dirty
With worms in his hair and a hand so sturdy
To call us his magic, we call him worthy
Jesus came up through the ground so dirty

I will sing a song for you
And you will stomp your feet for me
And the bears and the bees and banana trees
Will play kazoos and tambourines

And Jesus will dance while we drink his wine
With soldiers and thieves and a sword in his side
And we will be joy and we will be right
Jesus will dance while we drink his wine

And Jesus will come through the ground so dirty
With worms in his hair and a hand so sturdy
To call us his magic, we call him worthy
Jesus came up through the ground so dirty

— "Jesus" by Page France

A Prayer from Susannah Wesley

Help me, Lord, to remember that religion is not to be confined to the church, or closet, nor exercised only in prayer and meditation, but that everywhere I am in thy presence. So may my every word and action have a moral content. May all the happenings of my life prove useful to me. May all things instruct me and afford me an opportunity of exercising some virtue and daily learning and growing toward thy likeness. Amen.

Monday, March 24, 2008

The Place of the Skull

"So they took Jesus; and carrying the cross by himself, he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha." — John 19:16b-17

Golgotha is one of the few locations I remember clearly from my visit to the Holy Land as an 8-year-old. For one thing, to see the hill, you stand in a beautiful garden, which itself leaves an impression. For another, in the midst of the flowers, the rock of Golgotha really does look an awful lot like a skull (see the picture below). I recall being simultaneously repulsed by and attracted to the strangeness of the place.

Perhaps this post is a bit late, since we're into Easter now, but my dad's Good Friday sermon taught me something about Golgotha that I didn't know, something that I found fascinating and meaningful. He began by talking about the story of David and Goliath. We all know how the narrative goes, but there's a small detail that we often miss at the end: "David took the head of the Philistine and brought it to Jerusalem" (1 Samuel 17:54a). This is odd in and of itself because Jerusalem was not an Israelite city at the time. I won't get into that, since I'm not an Old Testament scholar, but there's something else at work here.

What my dad pointed out that I had never thought of is that it is no accident that the beginning of the Hebrew name for "place of the skull" is an abbreviated version of Goliath's name. Golgotha. Goliath's head had been brought to Jerusalem. Jesus was crucified at the place of the skull. Goliath's skull.

Now that revelation is enough fun as an interesting play on words, but there are a million directions you could take that. I've already got a sermon formulating in my head for whenever I may be called upon to preach on 1 Samuel 17 or John 19. When my dad drew the connection between Christ's crucifixion and young David's victory over Goliath, I immediately thought of 2 Corinthians 12:9: "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." God turns the world's paradigms of strength and weakness on end. "God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong" (1 Corinthians 1:27b). This theme can be seen throughout Scripture. An inarticulate Hebrew leads the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt. Barren women conceive and bear the rulers of the people (just take Sarah and Hannah as two examples, though there are plenty more). A shepherd boy fells a giant with a slingshot. A young girl is visited by an angel and told that she is to bear the Son of God. A carpenter's son from Nazareth is not simply used by God—he is God.

How wonderful, then, that at the moment of Christ's crucifixion, as he is led to Calvary, when all seems to be hopelessness and darkness, there is a subtle reminder of God's promise that what the world sees as weakness may in fact be strength beyond all imagining. Golgotha, which invoked fear in me as a child, carries in it a reminder of David's victory over Goliath—perhaps a hint of what is to come, a gentle rebuke for those of us who may see the cross and despair. It was precisely Christ's seeming weakness that allowed him to save us. God meets us in our weakness in Christ and transforms us by the power of his Holy Spirit so that we might be strengthened in him and him alone.

Golgotha, "The Place of the Skull"

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Christ the Lord Is Risen Today (Hymn)

Made like him, like him we rise; Alleluia!
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies; Alleluia!

— Charles Wesley

Saturday, March 22, 2008

He Descended Into Hell

In my United Methodist Church, our version of the Apostle's Creed leaves out the line "he descended into Hell." I've always lamented this (or at least wondered about, since I doubt I was too concerned about it as an 8-year-old), because the descent into Hell is fascinating, redemptive and gives meaning to Holy Saturday.

One of the best reflections I've ever had to do on the descent to hell involved studying a Russian icon of the Harrowing of Hades:

It may be hard to see at this resolution, but there are really neat aspects that can be picked out. Jesus is in the center, and he's standing on the gates of Hell, which have been broken and now form the shape of a cross. On his left and right are Adam and Eve, whom he raises from Hell, and ranked behind them are the Old Testament kings and prophets, including Abraham and Sarah, David, Samuel and so on. Below, in the depths of Hell, two angels bind Satan, whose power has been broken, with chains.

There are plenty more minute details that make this icon not only aesthetically pleasing but also illustrative and instructive of the events of Holy Saturday, but I'll spare you. I just love the thought that even in the silence of the in-between time of Holy Saturday, even on that Sabbath day, Jesus was hard at work rescuing damned souls. Perhaps this should give us a hint that in these in-between times, here and now, with the Kingdom being already-but-not-yet, Christ is striving to save our souls so that we can be raised with him in glory at the last trumpet.

The Saints Who Had Fallen Asleep

"At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split. The tombs were also opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised. After his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many." — Matthew 27:51-53

I have always thought that this passage was just so, so cool. The first time I heard this after having learned about the general resurrection, I was shocked. It's eschatologically problematic to have dead people walking around before the end times. I've never read a commentary on this passage, and I know that this particular part is unique to Matthew's Gospel, but what else could this possibly be than a graphic foretaste of the coming resurrection of the body? Jesus' own resurrection was in and of itself a prefiguration of the general resurrection—"for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ" (1 Corinthians 15:22)—but, as if the point needed to be driven home further still, here we have regular people getting up out of the grave. So all will be made alive.

Friday, March 21, 2008

O Sacred Head Now Wounded (Hymn)

What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest friend,
For this, thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord let me never, never
Outlive my love for me.

Anonymous

The Monastery

There are always surprises waiting at Christ in the Desert Monastery. There is, of course, a degree of asceticism to the monastic life, but these monks are not afraid to use modern innovations within the reason and limits of the Benedictine Rule; their website, maintained by the monks, makes that clear. Even more surprising, the first time I went, I was there for the last week of the filming of a reality TV show. TLC's series The Monastery chronicled the lives of 5 men as they spent 40 days living and working with the monks of Christ in the Desert. Certainly some of the brothers had reservations, not only about having television cameras in their cloisters but also about the guests themselves—there was at least one incident where some of the men removed a skylight to pilfer beer from the monks' pantry. Then, too, they may have started with 5 men, but by the time I got there, there were only four. You can see the show's website here.

A place like Christ in the Desert, both in terms of its location and its rhythm of life, can seem at first to have been dropped down from heaven. One of the blessings I've experienced in being able to return there multiple times is that I've become somewhat familiar with a few of the brothers and have learned that they really are human—something they insist upon frequently, but which really must be witnessed first-hand. There's something of a surprising joy in observing the discipline of these men who wake up every day for 4 a.m. Vigils alongside the seemingly more "normal" aspects of their life. They play soccer, watch movies and, we're told, sometimes go into town together to sing karaoke. Their days are spent largely in quiet or even silence, but even they need the company and friendship not only of their fellow brothers but also of the guests and visitors who come to the monastery. Our last night there this year, we were told that they were having anticipated Vigils at 8 p.m. that evening in place of the usual 4 a.m. prayer, and we later learned that the reason for this was that they were having a going away party for a visiting priest, who was returning to Mexico the next day.

There's something comforting in seeing the human side of the seemingly divine monastic life. To me, it says that it doesn't take supernatural powers to be a devoted Christian. I saw a monk fall asleep during Vigils one morning; and I beat myself up for dozing off before my evening prayer is finished? One of the other students on the trip this year remarked that monastic life seems so radical, but, in the context of the Christian faith, it really isn't all that crazy—it's just, she said, a bunch of guys living together. Even Protestants living in intentional community, as with several hospitality houses with which I am familiar in my area, are not so different from these Catholic monks. Their vocation may look ostensibly disparate to what I perceive my calling to be, but the truth is that we as Christians are all called to community, with the understanding that any earthly community will be imperfect—it just has to be faithful.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Broken for You

This spring break, I traveled to Christ in the Desert Monastery in New Mexico with a group of 5 other college students and our fearless leader. We enjoyed a week of prayer, contemplation, conversation, reading, and hiking. On our last day, we all gathered to reflect on the week. Our leader asked what had been one of the most important moments for us, and I, a thoroughbred Protestant, immediately thought of attending Mass.

I may never be able to explain in words what I experience in the Eucharist. I have an unusually high sacramental understanding for a Protestant, I realize, but the importance cannot be lost on anyone, particularly when the question of ecumenism is raised. During the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, back in January, the mainline Protestant campus ministry groups and our Catholic Student Center held an ecumenical vespers service each night. During discussion one evening, we were asked where we saw unity in the church and where we saw disunity. My answer was one and the same: at Catholic Mass. That conversation started a longer reflection for me that reached a mental climax at Christ in the Desert.

Mass exposes both unity and disunity in the church. As I participated in the liturgy of the Mass, my senses were heightened by the spoken word, the incense and the bells. I was fully alert, even after having attended 4:00 a.m. Vigils and 5:45 a.m. Lauds. I was very much a part of the sacrament—I felt like I could almost reach out and touch the body of Christ, not just on the altar but in the gathering of people in that sanctuary. However, when it came time to receive the elements, I was obliged to cross my arms over my chest to be given a blessing by the priest. Moving towards the altar, I wanted to laugh with joy at the beauty of the moment, and at the same time I wanted to weep for the divisions that keep us apart at table.

No matter what the theological interpretation of what exactly happens at Eucharist may be, the communion table is (or should be) a central point of Christian worship and life together. Christ institutes the Lord’s Supper himself with a command: "Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19). Then, too, it was in the breaking of bread on the walk to Emmaus that the disciples recognized Jesus (Luke 24). In his book Torture and Eucharist (which I read at the monastery), William Cavanaugh makes this observation: "It was not uncommon…for the ancient church to connect failure to recognize Christ in the consecrated bread and wine with failure to treat others as brothers and sisters in Christ." Understood seriously, the communion table is a place not only of communion with God but also of communion with each other. Whatever the future holds for the ecumenical movement, it seems to me that the question of unity relies greatly on table manners, on where we recognize and honor Christ in the sacraments and how we recognize Christ in others.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Too Tightly Tangled Together (quote)

"Christ did not descend from the cross except into the grave. And why not otherwise? Wouldn't it have put fine comical expressions on the faces of the scribes and the chief priests and the soldiers if at that moment He had come down in power and glory? Why didn't He do it? Why hasn't He done it at any one of a thousand good times between then and now?

I knew the answer. I knew it a long time before I could admit it, for all the suffering of the world is in it. He didn't, He hasn't, because from the moment He did, He would be the absolute tyrant of the world and we would be His slaves. Even those who hated Him and hated one another and hated their own souls would have to believe in Him then. From that moment the possibility that we might be bound to Him and He to us and us to one another by love forever would be ended.

And so, I thought, He must forbear to reveal His power and glory by presenting Himself as Himself, and must be present only in the ordinary miracle of the existence of His creatures. Those who wish to see Him must see Him in the poor, the hungry, the hurt, the wordless creatures, the groaning and travailing beautiful world.

I would sometimes be horrified in every moment I was alone. I could see no escape. We are too tightly tangled together to be able to separate ourselves from one another either by good or by evil. We all are involved in all and any good, and in all and any evil. For any sin, we all suffer. That is why our suffering is endless. It is why God grieves and Christ's wounds still are bleeding."

— Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Dulce lignum, dulces clavos

Vere languores nostros ipse tulit
et doloros nostros ipse portavit
cujus livore sanati sumus
Dulce lignum, dulces clavos
Dulcia ferens pondera
Quae sola fuistis digna sustinere
Regem coelorum et Dominum


Truly, our failings he has taken upon himself
And our sorrows he has borne
By his wounds we have been healed
O sweet wood, O sweet nails
That bore his sweet burden
Which alone were worthy to support
The King of Heaven and Lord

Vere languores nostros, Tomas Luis de Victoria

Come, O Thou Traveler Unknown (Hymn)

Come, O thou Traveler unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,
And I am left alone with thee.

With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day;
With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell thee who I am,
My misery and sin declare;
Thyself hast called me by me name,
Look on thy hands and read it there.

But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.
But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

Yield to me now, for I am weak,
But confident in self-despair!
Speak to my heart, in blessing speak,
Bo conquered by my instant prayer.

Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name is Love.
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name is Love.

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me,
I hear thy whisper in my heart.
The morning breaks, the shadows flee,
Pure, Universal Love thou art.

To me, to all, thy mercies move;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
To me, to all, thy mercies move;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.

— Charles Wesley

 

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