After prayers comes time for the imposition. I turn to our pastor and thumb ashes onto his forehead, the sign of the cross: Jack, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. He places the mark on me, says the words. Then we turn to the people, lined up and waiting.
The year wanes in darkness, at least here in Michigan. Much snow and ice this year. It’s hard not to brood, especially after a year that brought so much sorrow and loss in my circle of acquaintance. A dear colleague, dying suddenly and too young this past summer. My mother’s friends, gone one by one in the last few years, this past week another one. And now another colleague’s wife, also too young, also from cancer, also in a matter of a few weeks. The angels bring good news of great joy, but it’s hard to sing along. Go on, shepherds, magi—run along and visit the child. We need a little time yet here on the hill, under the cold stars.
Thomas, therefore, is like all of them and all of us. His second name, Didymus (the twin), perhaps signals that he is of two minds. He is both doubter and believer at once. The two states of mind wrestle inside him, and in that sense he represents us all.
Low Sunday, Doubting Thomas, and Story as Sign Read More »
liturgical year, spirituality
Let’s admit it: Palm Sunday is a problem. I know I shouldn’t be questioning a moment in the church calendar that goes all the way back to the third or fourth century, but why do I always vaguely dread this day?
The Problem with Palms Read More »
liturgical year
If for some reason you wish to study that peculiar state of human existence called “the blahs,” I suggest you begin in the third week of February in Michigan. It’s been winter for as long as we can remember here, and we still have a long way to go. Coats and boots are routine, slippery roads a fact of life. We face another snow-dump with a resigned shrug. Today the sky is a shade of gray that doesn’t even count as a color. The filthy slush on the roads does not rise to the dignity of brown.
The Transfiguration story speaks to that part of us that longs for the mountain-top experience—for the epiphanic moment when, even for an instant, we perceive through the veil of clay to the numinous glory beyond. If only we could find a thin place, maybe we could eradicate those quiet suspicions that faith amounts merely to wishful religious thinking. If only God, the overshadowing mystery, would appear in blazing light, maybe our doubts would scatter forever.
As I listened last night, I thought back over the week and reflected gratefully on the ordinary saints among whom I live. These are the saints who feel as if they are still feebly struggling, as if the darkness is still pretty drear. And yet, I witnessed many small glimpses this week of the faithful, true, and bold among us.
Maybe we are kidding ourselves. That outburst of Spirit-energy we managed to whump up on Pentecost is tough to maintain, especially for your average, mild-mannered Reformed congregation. Maybe we should admit that what we’re really facing starting the Monday after Pentecost is ordinary time, the long slog of the liturgical year.
ln the section on the Holy Spirit, we profess our faith in “the resurrection of the body.” Familiar, precious words. A couple weeks ago it occurred to me, though: do we believe in the resurrection of the mind?
The Resurrection of the Mind Read More »
liturgical year, memoir, spirituality
But then what? In most of our worship contexts today, the church gives us nothing particular to do until Sunday morning, when it’s all trumpets and lilies and pastel Easter frocks. Between Friday at 3 and Sunday at 10 (or 7 if you’re unlucky enough to face a sunrise service), you’re on your own.
Holy Saturday: the Liturgical Blank Read More »
liturgical year, spirituality