Stasis

stasis: (1)  a period or state of inactivity or equilibrium

(2) a stoppage of flow of a body fluid*

A little boy lies in bed, suspended between wakefulness and sleep.  He lifts his head from the pillow for a moment, seeming to emerge from the suspension between two worlds, only to flop back down, shut his eyes in surrender and enter into the dreams of 4-year olds, where lions, tigers and bears are held at bay by the saving love of Daddy and Mommy.

Thousands of years ago, a grown man lay in the tomb prepared for him by others, others who believed that he too had succumbed to the sleep of the eternal rest, unaware that he was in a state of perfect equilibrium, the delicate balance between the already and the not yet . . . the time and the place where time and space . . . finite and infinite . . . had their perfect balance . . . the time and the place when all the cosmos held its collective inhaled breath of anticipation . . . where . . . when . . . everything hung in the balance . . .

Would it work?  Could it?

I wonder that they asked . . . he was, after all, God . . .

But surely they asked . . .

I would have . . .

I do . . . even now . . .

How is all action perfected in the full stop of all everything?  How is life assured by its ending?

How is sleep necessary to wakefulness?  How does a little boy win the battle only when he stops fighting?

How is it that the most profane of acts . . . the murder of an innocent . . . is the most holy?

How . . .

how . . .

how?


____________
*Google dictionary

We Dare to Call This Friday Good

T. S. Eliot wrote about this day:

The dripping blood our only drink,

The bloody flesh our only food:

In spite of which we like to think

That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood –

Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

A body . . . . . never treated so lovingly in life . . . save in a mother’s arms . . . 

A body alive subjected to torture and such contempt . . . 

gently, even delicately taken down . . .  

A body gentled in death

That was so cruelly treated in life.

A man . . . . . feared to be known in life . . . shunned . . . met only in secret . . . 

Openly, even proudly claimed in death.

A life of poverty

A death of extravagence . . .

 new tomb . . . 

Lavish, excessive burial spices . . . 

How anxious they were . . . we are . . . I am . . . 

to do . . . something 

when there is nothing to be done

There is a time to weep and a time to laugh

a time to mourn and a time to dance

Temptation is ever before us 

to duck the choice

Busy . . . busy we must be . . . 

busy with the business, the busy-ness

of tending dead

He is past caring

but we cannot care . . . we do not dare –

grief large enough to split the earth in two

is too large for this human vessel

But busy . . . that I can do . . . 

I can be

busy getting the tomb 

the best – only the best will do

Busy tending to the body

busy is not too big for me

And there is no room for grief in this

busy-ness of the business of death

The grief, you see, is just too big for me

So on with the busy-ness of the business of it all . . . 

Busyness of thought and mind 

even when the body dares cry out for rest . . . 

Even then I am busy . . . busy remembering . . . a day

was it only yesterday?

A meal with friends . . . 

conversation laden with meaning . . . 

The matzah . . . my body, he said . . . 

Broken

Wine

like blood

poured out

He said

Symbols within symbols 

confusions

time not yet passed

events not yet happened

Remembering

and trying to make sense

of the senseless

But if understanding . . . then what?

No grief?

No grief!  It is too big for me!

Groping for words . . . 

I rest in the poets and greater beings

and

I grieve

It is too big for me . . . this grief

But it must be done

And so . . . sigh and surrender . . . 

It is a time to mourn . . . 

The tomb will wait

Sabbath is coming

Poets be damned!

I am not the child of a lesser god!

My God is as big as the pain in my heart

and it . . . is . . . endless . . . 

And so, Mr. Eliot, yes, thank you very much, 

we do dare call this Friday Good.

And so it is

not ice cream and cotton candy good

not falling in love for the first time good

not last-minute governor’s reprieve and presidential pardon good

but suffering fit to the occasion good

12 step bull shit but true feel-the-feeling, 

knowing I won’t die from the pain good

clinging to a whispered half-heard hardly understood promise good

Good-day-for-a-funeral good

Yes, Mr. Eliot, when friends die

it is right . . .

no . . . 

It is good . . . to cry

Going to the Tomb

Today at LOGOS*, the teens did a modified Stations of the Cross. . . holding crosses they had picked from my stash (ask any pastor - when it comes to crosses, we’ve all definitely got stashes of them) . . . each leading the rest to a place in the sanctuary of their own choosing . . . sharing the reading and prayer . . . assuming some interesting body positions, like lying face up at the foot of the cross, itself lying across the front steps at Word of Faith . . . and entering our own tombs by lying face down under the chairs, side by side . . .

We talked about lots of stuff today . . . but it was in the psedo-tombs, lying down like kids hiding their heads and believing they can’t be seen, that we each most revealed ourselves . . . and what surprised me most – we all, even me, imagined not Jesus in his tomb, but ourselves in our own tombs – some felt comfortable, peaceful even, while others felt anxiety, sadness, and even joy.

We emerged from our tombs a little bit quieter, a little bit wiser . . . and we all agreed that when we’ve got something serious to discuss, we’re going back to the tombs – our safe space in a world often gone mad – just a few chairs aligned in a sanctuary in the middle of a small town somewhere in America.

Was it the chairs?  Or the people beside us?

__________________________
LOGOS is a ministry geared towards children of all ages that meets once a week after school.

7 Ways to Avoid Being Depressed About Your Age

This started out to be a list of 5 good things about being 57.  I really don’t know five good things about being 57.  I’m 56.  But I sure am hoping there are at least five – good things – about this impending age that careens beyond my control towards 60.

But if you want to avoid being depressed about your age, especially at 56, here goes:

(1) don’t let a friend take you out to celebrate your birthday four months early;

(2) don’t look in the mirror too closely – ever! 

(3) don’t stay up until 4 a.m. thinking you can bounce back the next morning like you’re still in your 20's . . . or 30's . . . or 40's . . . ;

(4) don’t round up - ever (as in “I’m going to be 57 – wow, that’s almost 60!);

(5) don’t hang out with much younger people – their shock at your age is flattering, but it is still shock;

(6) don’t start cello lessons at 56 – the sound of the 12 year olds racing across the strings with their spry bows will only depress you, for you will never have that agility again;

(7) never – and I do mean never – read or watch Mrs. Dalloway – there is literally nowhere to run from the musings of the ever genteel title woman’s ruminations on the things she will never do again.

So there it is – my list of how to avoid being depressed about the ticking clock.  Most days, I’m glad to be who I am, where I am, and the age I am.  But every now and then, that blasted ticking clock reminds me that the alligator waits*.

And I hate alligators!

_________________________
*Check out Peter Pan if you don’t get the reference.

I Know a Place*

I’ve come to know a place I can call home
It’s work and love and dust and green growing things
It is the smell of loam and clean air, skunks and eye-burning turkey poop
It is trembling gnarled hands and late-night crisis telephone rings
It is a bone-jolting place of hair-pin horseshoe twists and turns and veers
It is a place so bird-filled, it sings
It is a place where grandeur and quiet and wonder fill the sky at night
It is a place where the breeze blows so strong the laundry on the line has wings
It is the smell of casseroles, the stiff feel of hung dry linen, a still place
A place where God takes the orange and red flame of fall and just flings
I’ve come to know a home, a sacred space.


_______________________
Modeled on Rosie Miles’ Blessing for a Home, an exercise out of Joy Mead’s Making Peace in Practice and Poetry.  The 1st, 2nd & last lines are from Miles’ Blessing.

Wholly Weak

Feet

awash

with 

hair

Hair?

hair

Cloaks

walked

upon

Crosses

carried

the living

dead

the dead

living

tomb

empty

earth

full

Temple

tables

turned

oh my

Sermon Cliff Note: Only a Boy*

I was there that day . . . I’m an old man now, but I was only a boy then . . .living with and working for my uncle and his family . . . 

I’m sure you’ve heard how, When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, [Jesus] sent two of his disciples and said to them, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter the village. . . my uncle’s village - you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. . . I’ve often wondered how Jesus knew about that colt – none of his followers were from my village. . . untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, “Why are you doing this?” just say this, “The Lord needs it . . . actually what they said was that The Messiah needs it – do you have any idea how many Messiahs were running around in those days?  Everyone was looking for saving from the Romans and every other guy had someone tagging behind yelling ‘Mesihee’ over his head . . . and will send it back here immediately.”

So they went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street.  As they were untying it . . . It’s a bit of a stretch to say that they untied the colt . . . these guys are fishermen, don’t you know . . . they really don’t know anything about donkey colts – it was pretty comical really – they kept trying to get near her and she kept heeing and hawing and dancing around so they couldn’t  get close. . . then they noticed me standing there, watching and laughing – that was my mistake - laughing - in my defense, we were all laughing that day. . . I never was sure which one it was came over and grabbed me by the arm and said “You - farm boy!  Untie this son of a donkey and bring it - you’re coming with us!”  What was I going to do?  Yell for a Roman  soldier to save me?

Some of the bystanders said to them, ‘What are you doing, untying the colt?’ You’d think my friends would have asked what they were doing dragging the boy away . . . but be realistic – boys are a dime a dozen in my country, but donkey colts are pretty valuable . . . They told them what Jesus had said and they allowed them to take it. . . it wasn’t ever going to be much of a fight anyhow – the fishermen were big and strong and determined and nobody was going to ask too many questions, either – in my world, questions get you killed quicker than answers . . . 

 Then they brought the colt to Jesus . . . I always laugh at that part . . . even when we got her untied and headed down the road, those fisherguys gave the colt a pretty wide berth . . . every sound she made made them jump – especially the big one – he was the scaredest of all . . . I didn’t dare let him see me, but every time he jumped, I snickered a little into her ear and whispered to her . . . good job . . .

I don’t know what I expected, but their Jesus wasn’t anything special to look at, that’s for sure . . . usually Messiahs coming through the village are big, strong, handsome fellows - you know the kind - the ones any fool will follow – but this Jesus guy was different – he wasn’t much to look at – not memorable at all – I can hardly call his face to mind, even now . . . and he was quiet . . . and he was more like me than the guys he sent to the village – at least he knew his way around a donkey, although I don’t think he ever sat on one . . . 

The people there threw their cloaks on the colt’s back.  He looked pretty awkward sitting there, like he wasn’t used to it . . . but when he sat, it was like something fell into place for the people there with him . . . like they knew their parts now. . . 

Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. . . and slowly, we started walking toward my village . . . me, holding the bridle and keeping the colt from running home. . . my uncle just shook his head when he saw us – and pointed his finger at me just to make it clear whose fault it would be if that colt didn’t come back the same way she left . . .

We kept on walking like that, to Jerusalem and clear up to the Temple . . . what a sight!  Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, ‘Hosanna! . . . save now!  Really, they were pleading, ‘save me now’ . . . we were all in need of some saving in those days of new Roman rules to follow . . . new ways of getting in trouble with those sons of dogs . . .

As we walked, more people fell in behind us, shouting their hosannas and waving their branches . . . not everybody followed - some just came out of their hovels and watched in silence as we passed by . . . some laughed and pointed – he did look pretty silly, sitting on the colt, his feet practically dragging the ground – 


I wondered the ones following didn’t notice – how did they think the one riding on a baby animal could save them?  Where was his war horse?  Where were his following troops?  

I reckoned, he was a pretty sneaky feller – if he had come into Jerusalem . . . Jerusalem!  riding on a great horse, that would have gotten Rome’s attention!  But all the centurions did that day was watch from their doors and windows and laugh . . . they thought we were great entertainment – and I expect to them, we were . . . poor villagers from the far corner of their ‘Empire’ processing into town like it was a parade . . . like we didn’t know our lot, our fate . . . like we didn’t know they were watching . . . but we knew . . . He knew, I can tell you that much . . . whenever he saw them, though, he just seemed sad . . . like he pitied them . . . lucky they couldn’t see his face . . . I don’t like to think what they would have done to him . . . of course, they did do it to him, didn’t they?  Only not then . . . 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t catch the spirit and get all excited too . . . everybody loves a parade and this day was definitely different than any other day of my life . . . I still can’t believe the guys didn’t mention me when they told about getting the colt . . . but that doesn’t matter . . . not really . . . I was only a boy . . . 

Hosanna, they kept shouting . . . and I started shouting it too . . . then others responded . . .   Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! . . . Hosanna, we’d shout . . .  Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! they shouted back . . . Hosanna in the highest heaven!’

Finally, we entered Jerusalem . . . As we got closer to the temple, it got quieter . . . even the hosannas seemed to be whispered . . . 


The sky started to turn that weird color it gets just before a storm . . . sort of greenish black . . . the air was alive around us, crackling with import . . . and then the wind came . . . sand storm . . . the closer we got to the temple, the more the wind blew until you couldn’t see or hear anything . . . I put my hands over the colts eyes to protect them from the grit of the sand and we crept forward, one slow step at a time . . .when we came to the first step of the temple . . . ran into it, really, he just got off and walked up and in . . . 

I stayed with the colt . . . it seemed like he was gone forever but really, he wasn’t gone long enough to do much besides look around at everything . . .

When he came out, we headed back the way we came, all of us, even him,  walking this time . . . back through my village where I tied up the colt at my uncle’s door . . . 


He kept going . . . he went out to Bethany with the twelve. . . and a few others, like me, tagging along . . . 
When the insiders tell the story, they don’t mention the dust storm, do they?  And they don’t mention me . . . why would they?  I was only a boy . . . 


They tell the important bits – about the parade and the hosannas and the colt and the temple – and I get it . . . those are the things everybody looks for – the signs – that make a messiah – it’s kind of a prophet’s check list with my people – and if this guy was the messiah, his followers needed all the check-list proof they could muster – cos he sure didn’t look or act like who or what  we were waiting for – he came from the wrong people, wrong birthplace, wrong status, wrong looks, wrong horse, wrong message . . . wrong, wrong, wrong!


How could we have been so wrong?  My excuse?  I was only a boy!


I wonder how it would have been if I’d stayed with them, with him?  Of course I know what happened to him . . . and I know the stories . . . but I didn’t stay . . . I went back to my uncle, back to my life, back to everything the same . . . I went back . . . but I was only a boy!!!!! 

____________________
*Palm Sunday sermon, imagining the procession from the point of view of a village boy conscripted to hold the bridle of the donkey colt upon which Jesus rode, weaving his narrative into the account as told in the gospel of Mark.  'Colt' is referred to as a female 'she' - forgive my ignorance of equine gender.