Showing posts with label Beauty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beauty. Show all posts
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, March 30, 2009
LVB, CSL and GKC
I am spending the afternoon reading some C. S. Lewis: The Abolition of Man. I had a discussion this morning at my quintet rehearsal about what I believe is the universality of Beethoven's Ninth symphony. My argument is that Beethoven was able to create, in some mysterious manner, a work of art that fundamentally resonates with the human spirit. I was immediately rebuked by one of my colleagues who said, "speaking of universality is tricky business. You have to be really careful there."
This then led into a ten minute discussion about art. My position, and firm belief, is that good art, whether it's music, drama, poetry, sculpture, or anything else, is good because it connects us with our humanity, and that some artists have the ability to do this more than others. My colleague stated to me that Beethoven's Ninth is recognized as "good" because our society and culture has decided that it is, so thus it is. I find that absurd. She's of the rather liberal streak of academia that is critical of western culture, of dead white men and much that they taught, created or espoused. I find it all unfortunate, and as I listened to her this morning, I thought back to my reading of Chesterton, and it made me want to come home and read The Abolition of Man.
I am of the belief that many in academic circles suffer from an insidious creeping cynicism that masquerades as enlightenment in their minds. The simple pleasures of life, or what has generally been lauded by most people in most places are seen, through the lens of academia, to be merely sentimental drivel, so out of a desire to leave aside "childish things," the academe often excises from his or her life the simplest of pleasures that the common man seems to think is delightful. She informed me that when she performs Beethoven Nine, she never has overwhelming feelings of emotion, which never fails to happen in my case. She then told me about a book that she felt I needed to read, with a title like "Deconstructing Beethoven," which apparently has convinced her that Beethoven's place in history is more an accident which resulted from western society deciding that he should be lauded, rather than the fact that his music is intrinsically and objectively good music. I think that many college professors are very easily be swayed by a new book that espouses a theory that says something like that, and then embrace the theory so as to themselves feel enlightened and educated, which results in this maxim: to love Beethoven Nine is to be a fool.
I think this happens all the time, and it's one of the reasons I love Chesterton and Lewis so much, and the rest of their company. The older I get, the more clearly I see the side that I desire to align myself with: those who love story, beauty, wonder and awe as gifts to be embraced and encouraged, and within these gifts can be found be reflections of our very humanity. I think what Lewis writes in The Abolition can easily apply to the way some professors I know view the world: "They see the world around them swayed by emotional propaganda--they have learned from tradition that youth is sentimental--and they conclude that the best thing they can do is to fortify the minds of young people against emotion. My own experience as a teacher tells an opposite tale. For every one pupil who needs to be guarded from a weak excess of sensibility there are three who need to be awakened from the slumber of cold vulgarity. The task of the modern educator is not to cut down the jungles but to irrigate deserts. The right defence (sic) against false sentiments is to inculcate just sentiments. By starving the sensibility of our pupils we only make them easier prey to the propagandist when he comes. For famished nature will be avenged and a hard heart is no infallible protection against a soft head."
I love that! And as I read that last line, I saw a direct corollary to a line that I had underlined in Chesterton's Orthodoxy just last week: "Every man who will not have softening of the heart must at last have softening of the brain." The context is different: GKC is talking about madness, but I wonder if Lewis inadvertently used this idea of GKC's.
Back to my reading now, to think more about the universality of humanity's love and appreciation for beauty and that which is sublime. I knew this morning that Lewis would give me insights into what I find to be an incredibly silly position to hold.
This then led into a ten minute discussion about art. My position, and firm belief, is that good art, whether it's music, drama, poetry, sculpture, or anything else, is good because it connects us with our humanity, and that some artists have the ability to do this more than others. My colleague stated to me that Beethoven's Ninth is recognized as "good" because our society and culture has decided that it is, so thus it is. I find that absurd. She's of the rather liberal streak of academia that is critical of western culture, of dead white men and much that they taught, created or espoused. I find it all unfortunate, and as I listened to her this morning, I thought back to my reading of Chesterton, and it made me want to come home and read The Abolition of Man.
I am of the belief that many in academic circles suffer from an insidious creeping cynicism that masquerades as enlightenment in their minds. The simple pleasures of life, or what has generally been lauded by most people in most places are seen, through the lens of academia, to be merely sentimental drivel, so out of a desire to leave aside "childish things," the academe often excises from his or her life the simplest of pleasures that the common man seems to think is delightful. She informed me that when she performs Beethoven Nine, she never has overwhelming feelings of emotion, which never fails to happen in my case. She then told me about a book that she felt I needed to read, with a title like "Deconstructing Beethoven," which apparently has convinced her that Beethoven's place in history is more an accident which resulted from western society deciding that he should be lauded, rather than the fact that his music is intrinsically and objectively good music. I think that many college professors are very easily be swayed by a new book that espouses a theory that says something like that, and then embrace the theory so as to themselves feel enlightened and educated, which results in this maxim: to love Beethoven Nine is to be a fool.
I think this happens all the time, and it's one of the reasons I love Chesterton and Lewis so much, and the rest of their company. The older I get, the more clearly I see the side that I desire to align myself with: those who love story, beauty, wonder and awe as gifts to be embraced and encouraged, and within these gifts can be found be reflections of our very humanity. I think what Lewis writes in The Abolition can easily apply to the way some professors I know view the world: "They see the world around them swayed by emotional propaganda--they have learned from tradition that youth is sentimental--and they conclude that the best thing they can do is to fortify the minds of young people against emotion. My own experience as a teacher tells an opposite tale. For every one pupil who needs to be guarded from a weak excess of sensibility there are three who need to be awakened from the slumber of cold vulgarity. The task of the modern educator is not to cut down the jungles but to irrigate deserts. The right defence (sic) against false sentiments is to inculcate just sentiments. By starving the sensibility of our pupils we only make them easier prey to the propagandist when he comes. For famished nature will be avenged and a hard heart is no infallible protection against a soft head."
I love that! And as I read that last line, I saw a direct corollary to a line that I had underlined in Chesterton's Orthodoxy just last week: "Every man who will not have softening of the heart must at last have softening of the brain." The context is different: GKC is talking about madness, but I wonder if Lewis inadvertently used this idea of GKC's.
Back to my reading now, to think more about the universality of humanity's love and appreciation for beauty and that which is sublime. I knew this morning that Lewis would give me insights into what I find to be an incredibly silly position to hold.
Monday, March 02, 2009
The Star of Bethlehem
OK...if you're a Netflix user, you should put something into your queue right away. I just finished watching something that I approached rather skeptically, as is my wont, but now I'm blown away. I mean, really blown away.
You should put this in your queue.
A lawyer decided to decipher all he could about the Star of Bethlehem, and concludes, convincingly so, that from the very foundations of the universe, God knew when He would redeem mankind, the exact moment when His Son would enter earth as a man, and the exact moment when He would die, for all of it was written in the skies. The lawyer calls it celestial poetry, and it's goose bump producing stuff that he uncovers.
You should put this in your queue.
A lawyer decided to decipher all he could about the Star of Bethlehem, and concludes, convincingly so, that from the very foundations of the universe, God knew when He would redeem mankind, the exact moment when His Son would enter earth as a man, and the exact moment when He would die, for all of it was written in the skies. The lawyer calls it celestial poetry, and it's goose bump producing stuff that he uncovers.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Thoughts on Christmas Eve
Our lives are beautiful. We lurch forward, day to day, sometimes stumbling, sometimes standing, often bowed down by grief and trouble, occasionally filled with the lightness of boundless joy. Dreams are dashed, or sometimes granted beyond our wildest imaginings, and yet often we realize that our dreams, if fulfilled, would have fallen far short of what we imagined would bring us happiness. We are scarred by wounds that befall us, marked by the battles we wage in our lives each and every day. But in it all is the constant beauty of God's loving hand, always guiding us, always lifting us up, always binding our wounds and drawing us to His loving arms. All that befalls us is transformed into our good, and when we reach that far shore, we will be welcomed with open arms, and our scars will be testament to God's healing grace. We will wear them as a badge of honor, and say to anyone who will listen to us, "See this! This is where my Heavenly Father healed me! I was afflicted, and he tenderly cared for me. This wound here? I brought it upon myself, but Our Savior took it upon Himself, and bled for me in my stead. How glorious is His love for us, He who binds our wounds, wipes away our tears and brings joy out of sadness."
Our lives are far richer for the sorrows that befall us, because of God's inestimable grace and lovingkindness. Praise be to God, for His compassions fail not, and they are new every morning.
May we never be healed of the wound of living.
Our lives are far richer for the sorrows that befall us, because of God's inestimable grace and lovingkindness. Praise be to God, for His compassions fail not, and they are new every morning.
May we never be healed of the wound of living.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
A Pandora Recommendation
If you're ever in the mood for some reflective, contemplative and completely ethereal, earth-transcendent, heavenly minded and holy music, then I suggest you listen to this Pandora music station, centered around the music of Palestrina. It's all acapella choral music that I've been listening to for the last hour or so. It's good for the soul, like stepping out into a warm rain shower in July, while the sun is shining.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Ultimate End of Suffering
By his salvific work, the only-begotten Son liberates man from sin and death. First off he blots out from human history the dominion of sin, which took root under the influence of the evil Spirit, beginning with Original Sin, and then he gives man the possibility of living in Sanctifying Grace. In the wake of his victory over sin, he also takes away the dominion of death, by his Resurrection beginning the process of the future resurrection of the body. Both are essential conditions of "eternal life," that is of man's definitive happiness in union with God; this means, for the saved, that in the eschatological perspective suffering is totally blotted out.
--Salvicifi Doloris, John Paul II
--Salvicifi Doloris, John Paul II
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Weight of Glory
I've been spending some time this afternoon, surfing around the blogosphere, seeing where it will lead. I've come across a lot of people who are interesting, honest and real Christians.
Sometimes I become keenly aware of how beautiful we all are. We don't reflect often enough on who we are, that we are made in the image of Christ. I think our job is to work with Christ to recapture our image.
I think we view our sin in the wrong light, or rather God's adamant refusal to allow it to live within us. I was laying in bed this morning thinking through this, and it dawned on me that I think why he's so adamant about removing sin from our lives is because it detracts from our beauty. He of course sees Christ when he sees us, but life is a purifying process to bring us into alignment with that image.
I have begun to see sin like a mosquito, circling around us, and God is continually shooing it away. The battle has already been won--sin has been conquered, yet we keep returning to it, and when God convicts us, it's Him swatting away a gnat. Of course, for us it often feels elephantine, but to God, it's an amoeba.
God isn't trying to keep us from having fun--he's attempting to restore us into our true selves. We are beautiful because he made us. There is no greater creation in the heavens. The wonders of the stars in the sky are wan and drab in comparison to the glory that exists in us because of who we truly are.
I love Lewis's Weight of Glory sermon, and for me it's become central as to how I view the world.
The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour's glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal...Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbor, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat--the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.
I recently read something that Gregory the Great wrote about glory, and it's worth adding here.
Yes the angel proclaims the birth of a king, and choirs of angels accompany his voice. Rejoicing together they cry: Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will. Now, before our Redeemer was born in the flesh, we were at variance with the angels, from whose light and purity we were far distanced as a result of the first sin, and of daily sinning. For because, through sinning, we became strangers to God, God's citizens, the angels, regarded us as strangers to their company. Yet seeing that we recognized our king, his fellow citizens, the angels, recognized us again. Now that the king of heaven has taken the earth of our flesh, this angelic aristocracy no longer looks down on our weakness. They have returned to peace with us, and put behind them the reason for the earlier disagreement. They now respect as their colleagues those on whom, at one time, they had looked down as weak and degraded. This is why Lot and Joshua venerated angels and were not forbidden to do so. Yet, when John in his Apocalypse would have bowed down before an angel, that same angel restrained him from any need to do so, saying: You must not do that. I am a fellow servant with you and your brethren. Before our Redeemer came, angels were venerated by human beings and the angels held their peace. Why should this be if the reason is not that our nature, which they once despised, is later taken above them, so that they tremble to see it lying prostrate at their feet? Nor dare they despise what is beneath them as weak, when they venerate it above them in the king of heaven. They do not feel contempt for a human being as a colleague when they adore, above them, a man who is God.
So then, beloved brothers and sisters, let us be careful that no unseemliness degrades us--seeing that, in the eternal foresight, we are both citizens of God and equals of his angels. Let us lay claim to our honor by the way we live. Let no immorality stain us, no shameful thought accuse us, no evil intent plague our minds, none of the rust of envy eat into us, no conceit puff us up, no ambition weaken us with earthly beckonings, no anger set us on fire. For human beings are called gods. Be answerable for yourself, then, against the vices for the honor of God since, for your sake, God became man.
Today, I see the glorious image of God all around me, and for that I am grateful.
Sometimes I become keenly aware of how beautiful we all are. We don't reflect often enough on who we are, that we are made in the image of Christ. I think our job is to work with Christ to recapture our image.
I think we view our sin in the wrong light, or rather God's adamant refusal to allow it to live within us. I was laying in bed this morning thinking through this, and it dawned on me that I think why he's so adamant about removing sin from our lives is because it detracts from our beauty. He of course sees Christ when he sees us, but life is a purifying process to bring us into alignment with that image.
I have begun to see sin like a mosquito, circling around us, and God is continually shooing it away. The battle has already been won--sin has been conquered, yet we keep returning to it, and when God convicts us, it's Him swatting away a gnat. Of course, for us it often feels elephantine, but to God, it's an amoeba.
God isn't trying to keep us from having fun--he's attempting to restore us into our true selves. We are beautiful because he made us. There is no greater creation in the heavens. The wonders of the stars in the sky are wan and drab in comparison to the glory that exists in us because of who we truly are.
I love Lewis's Weight of Glory sermon, and for me it's become central as to how I view the world.
The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour's glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal...Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbor, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat--the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.
I recently read something that Gregory the Great wrote about glory, and it's worth adding here.
Yes the angel proclaims the birth of a king, and choirs of angels accompany his voice. Rejoicing together they cry: Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will. Now, before our Redeemer was born in the flesh, we were at variance with the angels, from whose light and purity we were far distanced as a result of the first sin, and of daily sinning. For because, through sinning, we became strangers to God, God's citizens, the angels, regarded us as strangers to their company. Yet seeing that we recognized our king, his fellow citizens, the angels, recognized us again. Now that the king of heaven has taken the earth of our flesh, this angelic aristocracy no longer looks down on our weakness. They have returned to peace with us, and put behind them the reason for the earlier disagreement. They now respect as their colleagues those on whom, at one time, they had looked down as weak and degraded. This is why Lot and Joshua venerated angels and were not forbidden to do so. Yet, when John in his Apocalypse would have bowed down before an angel, that same angel restrained him from any need to do so, saying: You must not do that. I am a fellow servant with you and your brethren. Before our Redeemer came, angels were venerated by human beings and the angels held their peace. Why should this be if the reason is not that our nature, which they once despised, is later taken above them, so that they tremble to see it lying prostrate at their feet? Nor dare they despise what is beneath them as weak, when they venerate it above them in the king of heaven. They do not feel contempt for a human being as a colleague when they adore, above them, a man who is God.
So then, beloved brothers and sisters, let us be careful that no unseemliness degrades us--seeing that, in the eternal foresight, we are both citizens of God and equals of his angels. Let us lay claim to our honor by the way we live. Let no immorality stain us, no shameful thought accuse us, no evil intent plague our minds, none of the rust of envy eat into us, no conceit puff us up, no ambition weaken us with earthly beckonings, no anger set us on fire. For human beings are called gods. Be answerable for yourself, then, against the vices for the honor of God since, for your sake, God became man.
Today, I see the glorious image of God all around me, and for that I am grateful.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
I suppose one advantage to insomnia (or perhaps the only advantage) is that you have plenty of time to think. That's a curse and a blessing. The whirling away of my brain that began as soon as I turned off the light at midnight turned into a blessing.
I feel like I had an epiphany tonight about God's love for us. I was thinking about Meg, and wishing that there was some way that I could relate to her and communicate the love that God has for her. (I think it's often easier to desire things of that nature for other people as opposed to ourselves). As I reflected on the concept of God's love, I envisioned Christ's sacrifice on the Cross for us. And suddenly it hit me: I've always viewed the Cross completely wrong. Tonight it seemed like the verse that we all know by heart, John 3:16, came to life for me, surprisingly in my thinking about Meg. The thought came to me that I'd do anything to know that Meg could know the love of God. And that thought brought the love of God for me to life in new ways.
Since I'm not a father, it's hard to know what it must be like to have such love for your child that you would do anything for them, so the impact of imagining what Our Father's love for us must be like doesn't resonate with me as strongly as does my love for Meg. Tonight I realized that I've always viewed Christ's death and sacrifice on the Cross as something that "just had to be done," as if Christ was duty bound to die for us, and God the Father was duty bound to offer his only begotten Son on our behalf because it was what the rules required. Sure, it was motivated by love, but it was really done regretfully, to fix the screw up that Adam arranged for all of us. Basically I think I've just seen the situation as one where God's been batting clean up ever since with a constant tsk, tsk and a roll of the eyes.
Tonight, a glimmer of God's overwhelming love wedged it's way into my thinking. I realize that I have absolutely no concept of how much God loves me. None. I know rationally that He does, I accept the truth that He does, and indeed I see evidence of His love in my friends, family and life but it all feels rather intellectual. The magnitude of His love for me, a love that exists as more than an academic reality, is something I don't believe I have ever come remotely close to grasping. Tonight, I saw clearly that God WANTED to offer His Son on behalf of us, because of His love. I know it's something I should have learned back in Vacation Bible School, but apparently it didn't stick. Here's what I saw tonight: He offered Himself up for me because He delights in me, and everyone else who's ever walked the face of the planet. His love for one person is more immense than the purest love of all of humanity. And here's the most remarkable part for me: it's not a love that's motivated out of obligation from the Maker to the made, but rather it's motivated out of love that stems from a God who genuinely LIKES us.
I guess tonight was a good night not to sleep, since I began to see a glimmer of the fact that indeed God happens to like me.
And really, that's more profound than knowing He loves me.
I feel like I had an epiphany tonight about God's love for us. I was thinking about Meg, and wishing that there was some way that I could relate to her and communicate the love that God has for her. (I think it's often easier to desire things of that nature for other people as opposed to ourselves). As I reflected on the concept of God's love, I envisioned Christ's sacrifice on the Cross for us. And suddenly it hit me: I've always viewed the Cross completely wrong. Tonight it seemed like the verse that we all know by heart, John 3:16, came to life for me, surprisingly in my thinking about Meg. The thought came to me that I'd do anything to know that Meg could know the love of God. And that thought brought the love of God for me to life in new ways.
Since I'm not a father, it's hard to know what it must be like to have such love for your child that you would do anything for them, so the impact of imagining what Our Father's love for us must be like doesn't resonate with me as strongly as does my love for Meg. Tonight I realized that I've always viewed Christ's death and sacrifice on the Cross as something that "just had to be done," as if Christ was duty bound to die for us, and God the Father was duty bound to offer his only begotten Son on our behalf because it was what the rules required. Sure, it was motivated by love, but it was really done regretfully, to fix the screw up that Adam arranged for all of us. Basically I think I've just seen the situation as one where God's been batting clean up ever since with a constant tsk, tsk and a roll of the eyes.
Tonight, a glimmer of God's overwhelming love wedged it's way into my thinking. I realize that I have absolutely no concept of how much God loves me. None. I know rationally that He does, I accept the truth that He does, and indeed I see evidence of His love in my friends, family and life but it all feels rather intellectual. The magnitude of His love for me, a love that exists as more than an academic reality, is something I don't believe I have ever come remotely close to grasping. Tonight, I saw clearly that God WANTED to offer His Son on behalf of us, because of His love. I know it's something I should have learned back in Vacation Bible School, but apparently it didn't stick. Here's what I saw tonight: He offered Himself up for me because He delights in me, and everyone else who's ever walked the face of the planet. His love for one person is more immense than the purest love of all of humanity. And here's the most remarkable part for me: it's not a love that's motivated out of obligation from the Maker to the made, but rather it's motivated out of love that stems from a God who genuinely LIKES us.
I guess tonight was a good night not to sleep, since I began to see a glimmer of the fact that indeed God happens to like me.
And really, that's more profound than knowing He loves me.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thoughts After a Wedding
I went to a wedding of a student of mine today. I don't say this very often, or lightly, but it was a beautiful ceremony. It's clear that this young man and woman desire to honor God in their lives and to follow Him. Everything in the ceremony pointed to Christ, genuinely and honestly.
The readings were beautiful, and one, from John 15, stirred quite a bit of contemplation within me.
1 I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.
This passage about the vine and the branches, and the cup that we shared, brought to mind the passage I read in Thomas Merton a week or so ago, where he says that our suffering "is the Passion of Christ, stretching out its tendrils into my life in order to bear rich clusters of grapes, making my soul dizzy with the wine of Christ's love, and pouring that wine as strong as fire upon the whole world."
We are so familiar with the richness in the symbolism of the vine and the branches, of grapes needing to be crushed, to die and ferment into new life. We've all heard the sermons about the need for the Master Gardener to prune us so that we will bear more fruit. But what I've never thought about was something that flashed into mind this afternoon at this wedding, something that I had read about wine a few weeks ago that didn't resonate with me at all until today.
A friend of mine at work has been praising the wines from Spain, and specifically some wines that are coming from 100 year old vines that were abandoned long ago. I decided to research them some more and began reading about the wines that were being produced. The writer of the article I read reported that the new vintners recognized the wisdom of the vintners who had planted the vines near the turn of the last century, because they instinctively knew that the terribly poor soil and arid conditions were ideally suited towards making the best of wines.
Grapes need terrible soil to work their magic. When the soil is awful, the vines have to work harder--they create smaller grapes that are more concentrated with sugars, which when crushed, produce amazing and remarkable wines. I find this mind blowing.
It is no accident that Christ uses the metaphor of vines and branches, and speaks of wine so often, or that his first miracle dealt with transforming water into wine. Wine is about suffering--we are pruned in our suffering, we are crushed as he was crushed, poured out, as Merton says, as "wine as strong as fire upon the world." What dawned on me today was the fact that in order to be "wine as strong as fire," we've got to be planted in pretty awful soil.
Suffering, I'm coming to believe, is the soil God uses to make us into the sons and daughters that He desires us to become. It's clear that whatever ailments we might have, or what weaknesses may exhibit themselves in our lives, or whatever tragedies occur, as they inevitably do, all are being used by God to allow us to become wine as strong as fire, to then be poured out upon the world. And indeed, wherever God plants us, no matter what the quality of the soil might be, He recognizes that for us, for the particular wine He desires to produce within us, the soil we find ourselves in is exactly the right soil that we need to become the man or woman He willed for us to be from before the dawning of this world.
The readings were beautiful, and one, from John 15, stirred quite a bit of contemplation within me.
1 I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.
2 He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.
3 You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you.
4 Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.
5 I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.
6 If anyone does not remain in me, he is like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned.
We took communion today, and this verse came to mind as I thought about the wine we drank as the blood of Christ. I began thinking about the power of story and how Christ used stories, parables and metaphors so often to convey fundamental truths about our life. I relish the fact that our Creator is a creator, a God of Story, a God of art and music, and believe that the depths of the stories He told can always be plumbed for hidden truths.This passage about the vine and the branches, and the cup that we shared, brought to mind the passage I read in Thomas Merton a week or so ago, where he says that our suffering "is the Passion of Christ, stretching out its tendrils into my life in order to bear rich clusters of grapes, making my soul dizzy with the wine of Christ's love, and pouring that wine as strong as fire upon the whole world."
We are so familiar with the richness in the symbolism of the vine and the branches, of grapes needing to be crushed, to die and ferment into new life. We've all heard the sermons about the need for the Master Gardener to prune us so that we will bear more fruit. But what I've never thought about was something that flashed into mind this afternoon at this wedding, something that I had read about wine a few weeks ago that didn't resonate with me at all until today.
A friend of mine at work has been praising the wines from Spain, and specifically some wines that are coming from 100 year old vines that were abandoned long ago. I decided to research them some more and began reading about the wines that were being produced. The writer of the article I read reported that the new vintners recognized the wisdom of the vintners who had planted the vines near the turn of the last century, because they instinctively knew that the terribly poor soil and arid conditions were ideally suited towards making the best of wines.
Grapes need terrible soil to work their magic. When the soil is awful, the vines have to work harder--they create smaller grapes that are more concentrated with sugars, which when crushed, produce amazing and remarkable wines. I find this mind blowing.
It is no accident that Christ uses the metaphor of vines and branches, and speaks of wine so often, or that his first miracle dealt with transforming water into wine. Wine is about suffering--we are pruned in our suffering, we are crushed as he was crushed, poured out, as Merton says, as "wine as strong as fire upon the world." What dawned on me today was the fact that in order to be "wine as strong as fire," we've got to be planted in pretty awful soil.
Suffering, I'm coming to believe, is the soil God uses to make us into the sons and daughters that He desires us to become. It's clear that whatever ailments we might have, or what weaknesses may exhibit themselves in our lives, or whatever tragedies occur, as they inevitably do, all are being used by God to allow us to become wine as strong as fire, to then be poured out upon the world. And indeed, wherever God plants us, no matter what the quality of the soil might be, He recognizes that for us, for the particular wine He desires to produce within us, the soil we find ourselves in is exactly the right soil that we need to become the man or woman He willed for us to be from before the dawning of this world.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Nouwen On Loneliness
I'm sitting in a coffee shop down in K'zoo, after having lunch with a delightful horn player. I realize quite clearly that there's no future there, but it was fun regardless. I'm too much of a dreamer, I think. I had hopes for this, and already had played out the summer in my mind. It makes me sad, but I suppose it just confirms that God wants me single right now.
Sitting alone in this coffee shop makes me think of some things I've been reading lately, namely an excerpt from Henri Nouwen's book, The Wounded Healer.
But the more I think about loneliness, the more I think that the wound of loneliness is like the Grand Canyon--a deep incision in the surface of our existence which has become an inexhaustible source of beauty and self-understanding.
Therefore I would like to voice loudly and clearly what might seem unpopular and maybe even disturbing: The Christian way of life does not take away our loneliness; it protects and cherishes it as a precious gift. Sometimes it seems as if we do everything possible to avoid the painful confrontation with our basic human loneliness, and allow ourselves to be trapped by false gods promising immediate satisfaction and quick relief. But perhaps the painful awareness of loneliness is an invitation to transcend our limitations and look beyond the boundaries of our existence. The awareness of loneliness might be a gift we must protect and guard, because our loneliness reveals to us an inner emptiness that can be destructive when misunderstood, but filled with promise for him who can tolerate its sweet pain.
When we are impatient, when we want to give up our loneliness and try to overcome the separation and incompleteness we feel, too soon, we easily relate to our human world with devastating expectations. We ignore what we already know with a deep-seated, intuitive knowledge--that no love or friendship, no intimate embrace or tender kiss, no community, commune or collective, no man or woman, will ever be able to satisfy our desire to be released from our lonely condition. This truth is so disconcerting and painful that we are more prone to play games with our fantasies than to face the truth of our existence. Thus we keep hoping that one day we will find the man who really understands our experiences, the woman who will bring peace to our restless life, the job where we can fulfill our potentials, the book which will explain everything, and the place where we can feel at home. Such false hope leads us to make exhausting demands and prepares us for bitterness and dangerous hostility when we start discovering that nobody, and nothing, can live up to our absolutistic expectations.
Many marriages are ruined because neither partner was able to fulfill the often hidden hope that the other would take his or her loneliness away. And many celibates live with naive dream that in the intimacy of marriage their loneliness will be taken away.
Sitting alone in this coffee shop makes me think of some things I've been reading lately, namely an excerpt from Henri Nouwen's book, The Wounded Healer.
But the more I think about loneliness, the more I think that the wound of loneliness is like the Grand Canyon--a deep incision in the surface of our existence which has become an inexhaustible source of beauty and self-understanding.
Therefore I would like to voice loudly and clearly what might seem unpopular and maybe even disturbing: The Christian way of life does not take away our loneliness; it protects and cherishes it as a precious gift. Sometimes it seems as if we do everything possible to avoid the painful confrontation with our basic human loneliness, and allow ourselves to be trapped by false gods promising immediate satisfaction and quick relief. But perhaps the painful awareness of loneliness is an invitation to transcend our limitations and look beyond the boundaries of our existence. The awareness of loneliness might be a gift we must protect and guard, because our loneliness reveals to us an inner emptiness that can be destructive when misunderstood, but filled with promise for him who can tolerate its sweet pain.
When we are impatient, when we want to give up our loneliness and try to overcome the separation and incompleteness we feel, too soon, we easily relate to our human world with devastating expectations. We ignore what we already know with a deep-seated, intuitive knowledge--that no love or friendship, no intimate embrace or tender kiss, no community, commune or collective, no man or woman, will ever be able to satisfy our desire to be released from our lonely condition. This truth is so disconcerting and painful that we are more prone to play games with our fantasies than to face the truth of our existence. Thus we keep hoping that one day we will find the man who really understands our experiences, the woman who will bring peace to our restless life, the job where we can fulfill our potentials, the book which will explain everything, and the place where we can feel at home. Such false hope leads us to make exhausting demands and prepares us for bitterness and dangerous hostility when we start discovering that nobody, and nothing, can live up to our absolutistic expectations.
Many marriages are ruined because neither partner was able to fulfill the often hidden hope that the other would take his or her loneliness away. And many celibates live with naive dream that in the intimacy of marriage their loneliness will be taken away.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A Blessing
I meant to post this at the beginning of the New Year, sort of as my wish to all of my friends and family, and whoever might stop by my blog. This is the tail end of a song by Denison Witmer called Finding Your Feet Again. I think it's beautiful and view it as a benediction and blessing.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Eucatastrophe
It's safe to say that in my 37 years on this earth, these past few weeks have been the most painful moments I've experienced. I'm certain that I will have greater pain in my life than this--I still haven't lost anyone from my immediate family, nor any of my closest friends. But for now, this is the apex, or perhaps more accurately the nadir, and it's been difficult. I suppose some could try to dismiss the intensity of the pain I feel since it's "just a break-up," but it's so much more than that for me, since it's a death of a vision and hope I had that I had found my soul mate after at least 20 years of yearning to find her. Being rejected by a woman who tells you that she doesn't believe she'll find anyone else who will love her more than you compounds the pain even more, accompanied as it is by the unavoidable and relentless, yet unanswerable, "why?" Through this intense pain however, I feel that I am learning lessons about life, and I have seen the hand of God working in my life.
Last Sunday, as I was driving home from my encounter with Meg, I was distraught and in bad shape. As I drove, at one point I said aloud, "man...I'm a real wreck right now." A minute later my brother called, which is certainly no coincidence. In my conversation with my brother, the magnitude of what was going on in my life hit me, along with deep wounds related to dating that stem as far back as my teen age years--all of this came flooding to the surface and I completely lost it. Weeping and wailing like I've never done before, nor knew possible. At that moment, while I was about to hang up with my brother because I was in such bad straits, another phone call came in, which I obviously couldn't answer. On the arc of my life, that moment, the moment when that second call came is without a doubt the most intense moment of pain I have ever felt. I was at rock bottom, and I felt gut wrenching, near puke inducing pain.
I came home, and went straight to bed, even though it was only around 9:30. I slept for about an hour and a half, and awoke at 11:00 or so. I decided to call back on the call that came in which I couldn't answer earlier that night. My friend Bob answered the phone, and I sensed a strain in his usually lighthearted voice. It didn't take long for me to understand why. His wife was going in the next day for an emergency hysterectomy. He wanted to know if I could sit with him while she was in surgery. He explained that he did not handle such things well, and he felt that my presence there would be a calming influence on him and that it would help the time go by. As I sat there, very much still deep in the pain of losing Meg, it was clear what I needed to do, and that God was showing me what we must do with our pain and suffering, and how it helps us enter into the suffering of others. There were connections between our pain, his and mine. That night, I lost the person who I had hoped more than anything would become my soul mate. His pain was linked to a fear that he would lose his soul mate of over 40 years. The timing of his call to me, exactly coinciding with the darkest moment of my life was no coincidence to me either. It was as if God was saying, "I know your pain--live in it, feel it, embrace it fully, and minister to your fellow man through it." It was a powerful moment for me, and perhaps the only way I could ever see this lesson so clearly revealed to me.
I did sit with him the next day, and thankfully his wife is going to be fine. It was good for both of us to be together and he was very grateful. I was still quite raw, but it seemed the only thing to do. Sitting with him, while he was suffering and I was suffering helped me tolerate the sorrow I was feeling myself. I definitely subscribe to the Catholic view of redemptive suffering, suffering willingly embraced and offered up as a sacrifice on behalf of someone else. It's an intriguing proposition that Paul lays out in the following passage: "I find joy in the sufferings I endure for you. In my own flesh I fill up what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ for the sake of His Body, the Church" (Col. 1:24). I believe that Christ invites us to participate in the redemption of the world through our suffering, and in some small way I saw this sitting with my friend Bob.
As I move forward, the ache in my heart ebbs and flows. I still feel very raw, and I'm still very confused and hurt and there is little joy to be found of late. Clearly through the grace of God, I made a decision that every time I feel a stab of pain, or grieve the loss of a future I had hoped for with all my heart, that I would embrace that pain and sorrow, and offer it up on behalf of Megan. I can't necessarily share Paul's noble words and say that I find joy in the pain, but when I consciously offer that pain up for Meg, I find myself saying, "Bring it on!" I willingly endure it, and find that indeed I can embrace it, and in so doing, I find it is much more tolerable for me, since now it has a purpose. Anytime I think of her, I pray for her, that she would be wooed by the savior of the world, that the Hound of Heaven would doggedly pursue her, and that she would be filled with the love of Christ. I pray for healing for her, and that she would have a life filled with joy. In my more noble moments, I strive to pray that the man she ends up with will cherish and treasure her as much as I had hoped to do. It seems at those moments, I always tend to whisper a desperate prayer that that man be me.
This morning, I awoke with a profound sense of loss and loneliness, coupled with a palpable longing for companionship. I realize this is the season that I am living in right now, and I'm sure I'll feel this again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I feel as if I've begun a hard journey, climbing into the unknown, since I don't know where the road will take me, or how far I need to journey. I feel like Sam and Frodo traveling in a desolate and barren land. But this is our lot in life often, is it not? I feel that for the first time in my life, I truly know what my cross is, and I will take it up each day and bear it on behalf of Megan. I think that's the only way that I will find my way out of this morass, and the only way I can make sense of the pain I feel, on a nearly constant basis. But oh, dear God! I pray that you heed the deepest desire of my heart, that you would call Megan to yourself. Please may it be so! I pray that you would answer the cry of my heart, and answer it speedily and quickly! Draw her to you, dear God, and heal the wounds of her heart, just as I ask you to do the same for me.
Last Sunday, as I was driving home from my encounter with Meg, I was distraught and in bad shape. As I drove, at one point I said aloud, "man...I'm a real wreck right now." A minute later my brother called, which is certainly no coincidence. In my conversation with my brother, the magnitude of what was going on in my life hit me, along with deep wounds related to dating that stem as far back as my teen age years--all of this came flooding to the surface and I completely lost it. Weeping and wailing like I've never done before, nor knew possible. At that moment, while I was about to hang up with my brother because I was in such bad straits, another phone call came in, which I obviously couldn't answer. On the arc of my life, that moment, the moment when that second call came is without a doubt the most intense moment of pain I have ever felt. I was at rock bottom, and I felt gut wrenching, near puke inducing pain.
I came home, and went straight to bed, even though it was only around 9:30. I slept for about an hour and a half, and awoke at 11:00 or so. I decided to call back on the call that came in which I couldn't answer earlier that night. My friend Bob answered the phone, and I sensed a strain in his usually lighthearted voice. It didn't take long for me to understand why. His wife was going in the next day for an emergency hysterectomy. He wanted to know if I could sit with him while she was in surgery. He explained that he did not handle such things well, and he felt that my presence there would be a calming influence on him and that it would help the time go by. As I sat there, very much still deep in the pain of losing Meg, it was clear what I needed to do, and that God was showing me what we must do with our pain and suffering, and how it helps us enter into the suffering of others. There were connections between our pain, his and mine. That night, I lost the person who I had hoped more than anything would become my soul mate. His pain was linked to a fear that he would lose his soul mate of over 40 years. The timing of his call to me, exactly coinciding with the darkest moment of my life was no coincidence to me either. It was as if God was saying, "I know your pain--live in it, feel it, embrace it fully, and minister to your fellow man through it." It was a powerful moment for me, and perhaps the only way I could ever see this lesson so clearly revealed to me.
I did sit with him the next day, and thankfully his wife is going to be fine. It was good for both of us to be together and he was very grateful. I was still quite raw, but it seemed the only thing to do. Sitting with him, while he was suffering and I was suffering helped me tolerate the sorrow I was feeling myself. I definitely subscribe to the Catholic view of redemptive suffering, suffering willingly embraced and offered up as a sacrifice on behalf of someone else. It's an intriguing proposition that Paul lays out in the following passage: "I find joy in the sufferings I endure for you. In my own flesh I fill up what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ for the sake of His Body, the Church" (Col. 1:24). I believe that Christ invites us to participate in the redemption of the world through our suffering, and in some small way I saw this sitting with my friend Bob.
As I move forward, the ache in my heart ebbs and flows. I still feel very raw, and I'm still very confused and hurt and there is little joy to be found of late. Clearly through the grace of God, I made a decision that every time I feel a stab of pain, or grieve the loss of a future I had hoped for with all my heart, that I would embrace that pain and sorrow, and offer it up on behalf of Megan. I can't necessarily share Paul's noble words and say that I find joy in the pain, but when I consciously offer that pain up for Meg, I find myself saying, "Bring it on!" I willingly endure it, and find that indeed I can embrace it, and in so doing, I find it is much more tolerable for me, since now it has a purpose. Anytime I think of her, I pray for her, that she would be wooed by the savior of the world, that the Hound of Heaven would doggedly pursue her, and that she would be filled with the love of Christ. I pray for healing for her, and that she would have a life filled with joy. In my more noble moments, I strive to pray that the man she ends up with will cherish and treasure her as much as I had hoped to do. It seems at those moments, I always tend to whisper a desperate prayer that that man be me.
This morning, I awoke with a profound sense of loss and loneliness, coupled with a palpable longing for companionship. I realize this is the season that I am living in right now, and I'm sure I'll feel this again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I feel as if I've begun a hard journey, climbing into the unknown, since I don't know where the road will take me, or how far I need to journey. I feel like Sam and Frodo traveling in a desolate and barren land. But this is our lot in life often, is it not? I feel that for the first time in my life, I truly know what my cross is, and I will take it up each day and bear it on behalf of Megan. I think that's the only way that I will find my way out of this morass, and the only way I can make sense of the pain I feel, on a nearly constant basis. But oh, dear God! I pray that you heed the deepest desire of my heart, that you would call Megan to yourself. Please may it be so! I pray that you would answer the cry of my heart, and answer it speedily and quickly! Draw her to you, dear God, and heal the wounds of her heart, just as I ask you to do the same for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
