Sunday. It's always Sunday, according to Charles Wright. But today, Charles, is decidedly different. Today is the day after the great hush of Holy Saturday. Today, according to the witness of an initially fearful band of First Century Palestinian Jews, is the day when creation's renewal was begun. Today is the day when the crucified Jesus broke death's strong bands.
Something is certainly different in the order of things, and today is the day we Christians look to this origin for sustenance and renewal.
Yet, in some sense today confronted me with disapointment. In years past, I've always chalked up my faltering spirits at Christmas & Easter to the nature of expectation's meeting of reality; things can't always be as great as one expects. And once the parade is over, all that's left is ticker-tape and the smell of stale beer littering the gutters. An emptiness pervades.
But this isn't quite it-- the merely psychological seems pretty ill-equipped to give substance to what's really going on. My disappointment is a difficulty I feel in coming to grips with what's really happening, and a disconnect with those around me. Are we on the same page? Is this really happening for you, too?
After the intensity & intended discipline of Lent, today's worship at the congregation I attend (and serve as a second-year seminarian) seemed purple. As in purple prose, overly lush, ostentatious; too much braggadacio after the fast.
Most disconcerting of all is that this show was supposedly centered around the resurrection account in the lectionary for today, Mark's, which is downright scary. An empty tomb. A strange figure. Fear & desertion. "They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." What to make of that? Certainly not the carnival set before us today.
Does hope always boast such showy feathers? Is there not a more harrowing word to be said? Isn't Mark setting before us the ultimate fearsomeness of resurrection? I think that there is something deeper to be gotten at in the resurrection than acres of lillies, brass band accompaniments to Easter hymns, and the sea of unfamiliar faces decked out in their finery for the show. To truly hear the Easter message-- Mark's anyway-- is to look into the face, at last, of the terrifying beauty which is shaking the foundations of the universe as we know it and making things anew.
Mark's aesthetic, if the synoptics can be said to engage in "aesthetics" as such, is grim and terse. Mark is a minimalist and Jesus' acts speak volumes louder than his words. His disciples never really understand his words anyway, even when Jesus indulges in explanation. Yet, finally, the word he was imparting all along-- shown clearest in this gospel in chapter 8-- has come painfully clear. What he commanded his disciples to remain silent about before is now present, in the open, before everyone.
Some argue that Mark intended to end right here, with the fear of the disciples as the last word. This would be a sort of sly comment to his hearers. And what about you, witness of the resurrection?
For me, the clearest place to begin to hear the resurrection faithfully is with the Great Easter Vigil, on Saturday night. George Steiner, as my good friend Joe reminded me, has a wonderful passage on the Sabbatarian impulses of all great art-- it lies in waiting and tastes of ash; it draws its strength from the spiritual reservoir of Holy Saturday and the bearing with death. Here, in the darkness outside the sanctuary, we cry out for God to act. We gather crestfallen but with a glimmer of expectancy.
In darkness last night, my fellow members of my seminary community gathered outside the chapel, and processed into the crypt-dark chapel behind the fiery pillar of the vigil candle.
Our tiny candles were lit from its flame, and we moved further into the sanctuary, past the icon of Jesus descending into hell, his feet trampling down the doors that once held the captives there.
We gathered around the font listening to the song of salvation. All of us who hear the Exultet plunge deep into the waters of Christian mystery; we hear the narrative of God's deliverance, beginning all the way back at Creation, taking shape with Noah, the Exodus, all the mighty acts of God on our behalf, finally bearing fruit in the ultimate deliverance of Jesus-- Emmanu-el-- God with us as man.
It is here, in memory of God's saving acts, in the darkness of our lives, gathered around the sole light of Christ, around the font's birthing womb, that we are prepared for the resurrection, for the mystery of life eternal. It is here that our fears encounter the story that has been the ground beneath our feet all along, contrary to our own assurances.
One must endure waiting and darkness before the blinding light of Christ's new flesh. That promise is comforting to these eyes-- even as we suffer we are being made ready for what will not pass away. It's not always Sunday, master Charles, we have to pass through Saturday's darkness before we get there. Thanks be to God.
Something is certainly different in the order of things, and today is the day we Christians look to this origin for sustenance and renewal.
Yet, in some sense today confronted me with disapointment. In years past, I've always chalked up my faltering spirits at Christmas & Easter to the nature of expectation's meeting of reality; things can't always be as great as one expects. And once the parade is over, all that's left is ticker-tape and the smell of stale beer littering the gutters. An emptiness pervades.
But this isn't quite it-- the merely psychological seems pretty ill-equipped to give substance to what's really going on. My disappointment is a difficulty I feel in coming to grips with what's really happening, and a disconnect with those around me. Are we on the same page? Is this really happening for you, too?
After the intensity & intended discipline of Lent, today's worship at the congregation I attend (and serve as a second-year seminarian) seemed purple. As in purple prose, overly lush, ostentatious; too much braggadacio after the fast.
Most disconcerting of all is that this show was supposedly centered around the resurrection account in the lectionary for today, Mark's, which is downright scary. An empty tomb. A strange figure. Fear & desertion. "They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." What to make of that? Certainly not the carnival set before us today.
Does hope always boast such showy feathers? Is there not a more harrowing word to be said? Isn't Mark setting before us the ultimate fearsomeness of resurrection? I think that there is something deeper to be gotten at in the resurrection than acres of lillies, brass band accompaniments to Easter hymns, and the sea of unfamiliar faces decked out in their finery for the show. To truly hear the Easter message-- Mark's anyway-- is to look into the face, at last, of the terrifying beauty which is shaking the foundations of the universe as we know it and making things anew.
Mark's aesthetic, if the synoptics can be said to engage in "aesthetics" as such, is grim and terse. Mark is a minimalist and Jesus' acts speak volumes louder than his words. His disciples never really understand his words anyway, even when Jesus indulges in explanation. Yet, finally, the word he was imparting all along-- shown clearest in this gospel in chapter 8-- has come painfully clear. What he commanded his disciples to remain silent about before is now present, in the open, before everyone.
Some argue that Mark intended to end right here, with the fear of the disciples as the last word. This would be a sort of sly comment to his hearers. And what about you, witness of the resurrection?
For me, the clearest place to begin to hear the resurrection faithfully is with the Great Easter Vigil, on Saturday night. George Steiner, as my good friend Joe reminded me, has a wonderful passage on the Sabbatarian impulses of all great art-- it lies in waiting and tastes of ash; it draws its strength from the spiritual reservoir of Holy Saturday and the bearing with death. Here, in the darkness outside the sanctuary, we cry out for God to act. We gather crestfallen but with a glimmer of expectancy.
In darkness last night, my fellow members of my seminary community gathered outside the chapel, and processed into the crypt-dark chapel behind the fiery pillar of the vigil candle.
Our tiny candles were lit from its flame, and we moved further into the sanctuary, past the icon of Jesus descending into hell, his feet trampling down the doors that once held the captives there.
We gathered around the font listening to the song of salvation. All of us who hear the Exultet plunge deep into the waters of Christian mystery; we hear the narrative of God's deliverance, beginning all the way back at Creation, taking shape with Noah, the Exodus, all the mighty acts of God on our behalf, finally bearing fruit in the ultimate deliverance of Jesus-- Emmanu-el-- God with us as man.
It is here, in memory of God's saving acts, in the darkness of our lives, gathered around the sole light of Christ, around the font's birthing womb, that we are prepared for the resurrection, for the mystery of life eternal. It is here that our fears encounter the story that has been the ground beneath our feet all along, contrary to our own assurances.
One must endure waiting and darkness before the blinding light of Christ's new flesh. That promise is comforting to these eyes-- even as we suffer we are being made ready for what will not pass away. It's not always Sunday, master Charles, we have to pass through Saturday's darkness before we get there. Thanks be to God.
posted by Vicar Lisa at 4/16/2006 03:00:00 PM
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