My Life as The Ambassadors
This being Holy Week, every morning there is Holy Eucharist at church at 7:00. So I went this morning and took Communion and prayed with the few others who were there. I'm beginning to not need the Prayer Book open before me in order to remember the responses, even the long ones. I've done it enough times now that I am less caught up in the newness of the thing; but for some reason there was a difference about this morning.
It certainly wasn't the rite. Or the sermon, though Father Ken made use of a powerful quote from The Cloud of Unknowing ("By love God may be grasped and held; by thought, never"). Nor was it myself; in fact, I felt bodily even more numb with interrupted sleep than usual. The Eucharistic Prayer, which is of necessity quite long, was just as long as ever, and my attention strayed occasionally as it often does. (I have resolved not to feel guilty for occasionally thinking of my fic or my novel during church; nor do I plan to shut such thoughts out, as simple repression seldom works with me.) No, there was nothing around me or within me to make this morning different.
Except it was. For eternally-split seconds at a time, I knew the grief of the Passion, the grief of my own passion, and the celebration of the bread and wine. And after taking them at the altar, I knelt in my pew and gave silent heartfelt thanks (Almighty God, we most heartily thank thee for that thou dost feed us with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ...).
I've never understood the urge of some to dwell with a sort of morbid relish on the pains of Jesus' flogging and crucifixion, as if repeating loudly and at length the medical dissections of his pain would make us feel more devout and thankful for his sufferings. For one thing, it doesn't work. I find myself much more shocked and horrified by last night's episode of Buffy than I ever would at another catalogue of the pains of the Crucifixion. The first time this thought occurred to me this morning, I felt a bit guilty, much as I did when many years ago I read someone's (I forget who) lament that we as a society give credence to people who paint their faces and scream at sports events but are suspicious of religious fervor of even less intensity. But should I feel guilty?
I begin to think not. Was the Passion and Crucifixion a great event -- the great event, as Christians believe? Yes. Did it affect the entire world, both causally and teleologically? Yes.
Did it look like it? Probably not.
Oh yes, odd things happened. The sky went dark, and there was an earthquake, and the curtain in the temple tore itself in two. But who except the disciples knew to connect all that with the Roman execution of a troublemaking blue-collar rabbi? Such things happened every day, and would continue to happen in this brutal world. It needed no consciousness of a great war between all good and all evil to understand the picture of that execution. I'm content to believe the odd things really happened, but I'd also be content if I discovered for certain that they were all narrative filigree: the important thing that afternoon was happening on a cross outside the boundaries of the city. Something quite literal was happening there: God was bearing the cost of -- another word for forgiving -- everything that had ever been done to him. He was letting us, beings renowned for both cruelty and impotence, kill him. It was literal, and so it was quite commonplace.
Our sporting events, our stories about battles between good and evil, are epic, tragic. Their mythos tugs at our hearts and gives us the chance to feel things deeply that would otherwise pass us by. The Crucifixion is no such event. The Gospel as a whole, of course, does marry with our collective mythic consciousness -- and yes, I believe God arranged for that to be the case -- but that moment, in itself -- the silent beat in the midst of the torrent of music, the eye of the hurricane -- is not meant to arouse our vicarious mythic emotions. It was meant precisely to make possible the equilibrium that is the human race's peace with God -- something plain and particular -- like -- like --
Like someone getting numbly out of bed in the morning to kneel and be thankful for a split second at a time.
This being Holy Week, every morning there is Holy Eucharist at church at 7:00. So I went this morning and took Communion and prayed with the few others who were there. I'm beginning to not need the Prayer Book open before me in order to remember the responses, even the long ones. I've done it enough times now that I am less caught up in the newness of the thing; but for some reason there was a difference about this morning.
It certainly wasn't the rite. Or the sermon, though Father Ken made use of a powerful quote from The Cloud of Unknowing ("By love God may be grasped and held; by thought, never"). Nor was it myself; in fact, I felt bodily even more numb with interrupted sleep than usual. The Eucharistic Prayer, which is of necessity quite long, was just as long as ever, and my attention strayed occasionally as it often does. (I have resolved not to feel guilty for occasionally thinking of my fic or my novel during church; nor do I plan to shut such thoughts out, as simple repression seldom works with me.) No, there was nothing around me or within me to make this morning different.
Except it was. For eternally-split seconds at a time, I knew the grief of the Passion, the grief of my own passion, and the celebration of the bread and wine. And after taking them at the altar, I knelt in my pew and gave silent heartfelt thanks (Almighty God, we most heartily thank thee for that thou dost feed us with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ...).
I've never understood the urge of some to dwell with a sort of morbid relish on the pains of Jesus' flogging and crucifixion, as if repeating loudly and at length the medical dissections of his pain would make us feel more devout and thankful for his sufferings. For one thing, it doesn't work. I find myself much more shocked and horrified by last night's episode of Buffy than I ever would at another catalogue of the pains of the Crucifixion. The first time this thought occurred to me this morning, I felt a bit guilty, much as I did when many years ago I read someone's (I forget who) lament that we as a society give credence to people who paint their faces and scream at sports events but are suspicious of religious fervor of even less intensity. But should I feel guilty?
I begin to think not. Was the Passion and Crucifixion a great event -- the great event, as Christians believe? Yes. Did it affect the entire world, both causally and teleologically? Yes.
Did it look like it? Probably not.
Oh yes, odd things happened. The sky went dark, and there was an earthquake, and the curtain in the temple tore itself in two. But who except the disciples knew to connect all that with the Roman execution of a troublemaking blue-collar rabbi? Such things happened every day, and would continue to happen in this brutal world. It needed no consciousness of a great war between all good and all evil to understand the picture of that execution. I'm content to believe the odd things really happened, but I'd also be content if I discovered for certain that they were all narrative filigree: the important thing that afternoon was happening on a cross outside the boundaries of the city. Something quite literal was happening there: God was bearing the cost of -- another word for forgiving -- everything that had ever been done to him. He was letting us, beings renowned for both cruelty and impotence, kill him. It was literal, and so it was quite commonplace.
Our sporting events, our stories about battles between good and evil, are epic, tragic. Their mythos tugs at our hearts and gives us the chance to feel things deeply that would otherwise pass us by. The Crucifixion is no such event. The Gospel as a whole, of course, does marry with our collective mythic consciousness -- and yes, I believe God arranged for that to be the case -- but that moment, in itself -- the silent beat in the midst of the torrent of music, the eye of the hurricane -- is not meant to arouse our vicarious mythic emotions. It was meant precisely to make possible the equilibrium that is the human race's peace with God -- something plain and particular -- like -- like --
Like someone getting numbly out of bed in the morning to kneel and be thankful for a split second at a time.
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