Crib Goch, and other melodramatic metaphors

On a knife edge, the threat of falling
shrouded in a misty pall,
each step a battle of will over fear.
Others stride across a broad thoroughfare;
I snarl at their sunny backs;
gravity has grappled me to the rock.

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Year A Epiphany 6: Choose life

Jesus said, “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.” Gruesome stuff. What does he mean by it?

I remember when our eldest child was newborn, and sleeping in my arms in the living room in front of the television, asking my husband to change the channel. Whatever movie was playing was too violent, or graphic, or somehow unsuitable for viewing with a baby in tow. My husband quite sensibly pointed out that, a) she was asleep, and that b) at a couple of weeks old she was unlikely to understand what was happening on the screen if she did happen to wake up. I don’t suppose that it was completely rational (I was a brand-new mother, and rationality was not top of my list of priorities at the time), but my gut feeling was that a) it was nevertheless bad for her to absorb such influences, even subliminally, and that b) I was at risk of passing the ill effects of such viewing on to her through my milk. I know it sounds a little crazy, but still I think that there is something to the idea that whatever we choose to take in and absorb, we will in some way pay out and feed to those around us, especially those closest to us.

Jesus said, “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.”

How many times have you heard someone say, “I am literally dying for a cup of coffee!” or, “These boots are murder”, or, “It’s literally freezing out there!”?

We usually recognize hyperbole when we hear it. That last one was not, in fact, great example. But when Jesus says, “Anyone who says, ‘You fool,’ commits murder,” we know that he is employing a verbal strategy to make a point and command the attention of his audience. When he says, “Cut off your right hand,” I sincerely hope that we recognize the recklessly ramped-up rhetoric. Perhaps we miss the ironic effect because Jesus didn’t add the word, “literally,” when he said that looking at another person lustfully, or getting divorced and remarried, are each and both equally identical to adultery, making him “literally” less emphatic and hyperbolic than most millennials, but these statements, too, are in the same context and category as the others. So let’s try to move beyond the shock value of the rhetorical device and try to find out just what it is that Jesus is advising in what could be his very own commentary on the Deuteronomic instruction to “choose life.”

To back up just a little bit, the Deuteronomy passage comes at the end of the giving of the law of the covenant via Moses to the people of Israel. Moses is summing up, in his final farewell to the people he has led through the wilderness under the guidance of God for forty years, and admonishing, exhorting and encouraging them to continue to follow the one who gives them life, who fed them in the famine, gave them water from the rock, and has brought them to the borders of the promised land. “Choose life,” he says. Choose God.

These are people with a poor track record for getting discouraged and distracted; they responded to the first law by creating a golden calf idol before Moses even got down from the mountain. Now, they are entering a whole new dimension of different denominations of pagan worship, and they are more than likely to get sidetracked into magic and mayhem, spiritualism and false sacrifices. Moses knows, too, that he will not be going with them into the promised land, yet the sight of the land itself is sufficient to assure him that God’s promises have been fulfilled, will be fulfilled, that there is life abundant available to his people and their descendants, forever.

Moses knows that God is the one, true God, who has stuck by them through thick and thin and without whom they would have died many times over in the desert. “Choose life,” he urges.

Jesus is addressing a different set of idols, shared among the descendants of the self-same people and subject to the same temptations to turn away from the truth to worship lies and distractions. Adultery, murder, theft, covetousness, and false witness, all concerns of the ten commandments that Moses read to the people, are presenting the same risks to the same people here and now. Lust, envy, betrayal, anger and avarice all fall under the list that Jesus offers.

He might say, “You have heard that it was said, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,’ but I say to you that words have power. The one who hurls words as weapons might as well be considered a violent offender.” Martin Luther, in his Small Catechism, surmised that, “Murder starts in the heart. Even the thought of killing someone, or the wish that he might get hurt or harmed is a sin…Anger that is nursed develops into hatred, which is not a momentary outburst of temper, but a settled intense dislike and enmity. Hatred is the opposite of love, it is murder of the heart.” So Luther decides, “We should be kind in our words and dealings with others, patient, gentle, not easily provoked and angered, even though they be gruff and insulting.” He concludes, “Alas, how guilty are we all under this Commandment!”

Guard your tongue, Jesus is telling us, and guard your temper. It is not our place to judge; we are not to usurp the judgement of God but to be patient with our brothers and sisters, knowing that there are times when we sorely try their patience in return. Society all too often encourages us to be fearful of one another; to judge first and ask questions later. We have heard too many news stories of needless death not to know where that leads us. Jesus tells us to look through the lens of faith to see our sisters and brothers in Christ, and to seek reconciliation and relationship as a primary strategy, asking questions first in order to avoid shooting later.

He says, “Do not look on one another with lust.” From Miley Cyrus twerking to internet addiction, we are what we consume in the name of entertainment. The ancient Catholic concept of “custody of the eyes” is a response to that truism. “Custody of the eyes” says that if looking with lust will lead us astray, then we should guard our eyes in the same way that we guard our tongue and our temper, once again seeing one another through the lens of faith, as sisters and brothers in Christ, worthy of dignity and respect, as recipients of love rather than as objects of lust. Otherwise, we make idols of one another, and fools of ourselves.

My guess is that Jesus knew from his own experiences as a man the temptations that we willingly allow ourselves to entertain, to the danger of our own wellbeing and the health of our relationships.

We are bombarded every day and in every context with temptations to lust, avarice, envy. We have so many choices available to us. Advertisements and commercials assure us that we need more of this and much more of that, that we are less than we should be until we get it. They tell us over and over that we by ourselves are not strong enough, not sexy enough, not smart enough, do not have enough to win at life. True enough: we can’t do it all by ourselves. But these false promises of wholeness and satisfaction are our idols, our golden calves, our occasions of sin. Choosing them will not lead us into life.

The promise of God is that what we truly need for life has already been given freely in Jesus Christ, the promise of God revealed to us, life abundant for ourselves and those we love, forever. We do not need to fight for it, to beat anyone else down for it. We don’t need to swear by it, or to lust after it. We need only to say yes to it, to choose this life, the life of Christ, and it is ours.

And if we let it feed us, this life, this promise, then that is what we will pass on to those around us, too: love, light, and life abundant; a legacy truly worth leaving; a life worth living.

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Custody of the eyes

Jesus said, “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.” Gruesome stuff. And what on earth does he mean by it?

I remember when our youngest child was newborn, and sleeping in my arms in the living room in front of the television, asking my husband to change the channel. Whatever movie was playing was too violent, or graphic, or somehow unsuitable for viewing with a baby in tow. My husband quite sensibly pointed out that, a) she was asleep, and that b) at a couple of weeks old she was unlikely to understand what was happening on the screen if she did happen to wake up. I don’t suppose that it was completely rational (I was a brand-new mother, and rationality was not top of my list of priorities at the time), but my gut feeling was that a) it was nevertheless bad for her to absorb such influences, even subliminally, and that b) I was at risk of passing the ill effects of such viewing on to her through my milk. I know it sounds a little crazy, but still I think that there is something to the idea that whatever we choose to take in and absorb, we will in some way pay out and feed to those around us, especially those closest to us.

to be continued…

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Happy valentine

A heart labyrinth design for Valentine’s Day (I’ve also used them as prayer aids for cardiac patients and others). Although I didn’t consciously plan it that way, I like the way that the two sides can be read either as separate chambers of the heart or as hands embracing the smaller central heart.
Happy Valentine’s Day, lovely ones!

20140214-165330.jpg

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It’s still cold

Water pipes slamming,
cranking out icy fury:
I know how they feel.

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Year A Epiphany 5: salt

If rock salt comes from rocks (hence the salt mines), and sea salt comes from the sea, where does table salt come from?

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.” But salt without saltiness is good for nothing, and a light hidden under a bushel sheds no illumination.

There’s an old folk tale about a princess, the youngest of three, as it goes, whose father wanted to test the love of his daughters. He asked each of them how much they loved him. The eldest daughter said, I don’t know, more than gold and silver, and the king was pleased. The second child said something about ponies and rainbows and unicorns – I really don’t remember this part too well – and the king was well satisfied. The youngest daughter, the smart one, said, “I love you more than salt,” and the king was outraged. Salt? The peasants had sufficient salt, the deers licked in from the rocks in the forest, they used it to kill slugs in the royal lettuce garden: salt? It was an insult! So the king banished his daughter from his sight, and what’s more, he outlawed the use of salt throughout all his lands.

It wasn’t long before the king found the need to haul up the castle cook to complain about the food. Everything tasted the same, he complained, nothing popped, nothing sparkled on his tongue any more, everything was bland and blah. The cook, rather fearfully, since he was essentially telling the king how dumb he had been, explained the role of salt in food preparation. It is not, he said, so much that it speaks for itself – sometimes you want salty, for sure – but much more often, it is the salt that brings out the flavours of the other ingredients, and binds them together, and makes them pop and fizzle on your tongue. Without salt, explained the cook, the rainbow had gone out of his flavour palette and everything had turned sepia and insipid. Without salt, the food was sad.

The king realized that his youngest daughter had been telling him of the depth, the breadth, the essence and embrace of her love for him, and he was very sorry that he had rejected her, and that he had banned salt from the kingdom because now he was going to have to pay a lot of money to restock their supplies.

Of course, salt does more than flavour our foods. Salt is a preservative, and a stain remover. It can be used to set the colour of a dyed cloth. It helps ice cream to set. It is used in skin creams and lotions – that Dead Sea mud is full of the stuff. Salt has been used as a disinfectant and even an antibiotic agent for millennia. What parent here hasn’t bathed a child’s scraped knee with salt water, or prescribed a salt water gargle for a sore throat?

You are the salt of the earth: the healers, the soothers, the cleansers, the purifiers. You have the capacity to bring health and wholeness to those around you.

You are the salt of the earth: you are everywhere, you get into everything. You don’t have to be especially strong or dominant, or overwhelming. Sometimes, to be sure, you are the centre of attention, but always you have a vital role in lifting the colours, the flavours, the essence of those around you; you spice up their lives. You make them pop and sparkle.

The letter to the Colossians advises, “Conduct yourselves wisely toward outsiders, making the most of the time. Let your speech be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer everyone.”

Let your speech be seasoned with salt, that is, let it bring out the best in the those to whom you speak. Look for ways to enhance the lives of those around you, not by overwhelming them but by lifting up into the light that which is already good and sound and flavourful in them.

Of course, this time of year, we can’t help noticing that salt can be used to help us on our way, wherever it is we may be going – it lowers the freezing point of water to prevent it from becoming solid ice, so we use it to keep our arterial pathways clear, our highways and our sidewalks.

You are the salt of the earth. You have what it takes to melt a frigid heart.

The prophet says, “Remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil; offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted” – be the salt that the world needs – “then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.”

Light, like salt, points beyond itself. Light, like salt, is good in itself, but we notice it the most when it illuminates other things, when it allows us to see the way before us, or chases away the shadows that frighten us; the light shines and something as scruffy as a spider’s web glistens. The light shines, and the very walls around us become beautiful.

“You are the light of the world,” says Jesus. Elsewhere, Jesus said, “I am the light of the world.” He shone in the darkness of a fallen creation and showed us the beauty all around us, of God’s love for us. He illuminated a pathway for us, into the kingdom of God. He brought us out of the shadows to stand in sunlight and see for ourselves, all around us, the city of God. We are to shine, not to glory in our own light, but to show others the glory, the mercy and grace of God; to illuminate their lives.

“You are the salt of the earth,” says Jesus. We season the earth, not so that our saltiness can be admired, but to help others to taste the goodness of creation. How are we affirming the essence of others, letting them know that they are made in the image of God, every one of them; healing their hurts and melting their hearts?

To claim the titles of light, of salt, is not to boast in our own properties, but to own our call to bring out the best in those around us, to show them wholeness, health and warmth, and the beauty that lies in the love of God. It is one more way in which Jesus tells us, not only that we are loved, but that we are to love God and our neighbour, with all of our hearts, more than silver and gold, more than rainbows, puppies and ponies, more than salt.

Jesus tells us that we are to season our relationships with respect for the variety of flavours that people come in, with encouragement, to draw out the best in them. We are to season our lives with helpfulness, healthfulness, warmth, comfort, perseverance, not only for our own sakes, but to lead others to the glory of God, to illuminate their pathways, to guide them home.

I suppose if you were to really stretch and twist the metaphor, you could make Peter into rock salt (because his name means Rock). James and John the fishermen might be sea salts. So what does that make us?

altarWhere does table salt come from?

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the light of the world

When you hide your face, the sky falls.
Stars burn cold; the sun slumps,
refusing to rise to the occasion;
the moon gapes like a dumb rock.
When you look away, ashen shadows
coat everything with their fingerless touch.
Turn back.
My life is in your eyes.

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Seasonal

Dislocated daydreams:
salt spray from a city street;
unkept promises.

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Year A Epiphany 3: walking in the light

There was a fascinating piece on yesterday’s NPR program, Weekend Edition, about a man named Pedro Reyes who is working on a huge collection of guns.[1] In fact, he has access to thousands in the city of Culiacan, Mexico, where he lives. But this is not the man you might imagine. He is an artist, using weapons collected by the city in an effort to reduce gun violence to sculpt musical instruments. Imagine playing a flute made from the barrel of a long gun, or a steel guitar collaged together out of handguns. Imagine, if you can, repurposing metal made for killing, putting your lips, your hands, your heart into it and instead producing music.

“There will be no gloom for those who were in anguish…those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined; and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

The story about transforming weapons of destruction into instruments of art and music came at the end of yet one more week in which we heard about students shooting other students, schools which should be havens of hopeful learning teaching instead the ominous lessons of mortality.

Just a few hours after the segment about Mr Reyes aired, the news reporters were telling us about another shooting in a shopping mall in Baltimore.[2] Three more people died.

“There will be no gloom for those who were in anguish. For those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

“Reyes believes art should address social issues like gun violence, even when they’re difficult and controversial,” said the NPR presenter.[3] I think that our theology should do no less.

It is our job, together as Christian disciples, called by Jesus to leave our tangled nets and consider how to catch our neighbours up into his kingdom; it is our job to consider how we might shine a light on those who are in anguish, who sit in the region and shadow of death. It is our job to consider which ways of working things out we are called to leave behind, and what is the nature of the work into which we are being called by Jesus instead.

I don’t know Mr Reyes’ religious beliefs or affiliations; they were not discussed in the interview. But I do believe that he is on the side of creation, life, light, over the gloom and shadow of death.

Last spring, the House of Bishops of the Episcopal Church had this to say on the subject:

 As bishops of The Episcopal Church we embody a wide variety of experiences and perspectives with respect to firearms.  Many among us are hunters and sport-shooters, former members of the military and law-enforcement officers.  We respect and honor that we are not of one mind regarding matters related to gun legislation.  Yet we are convinced that there needs to be a new conversation in the United States that challenges gun violence.  Because of the wide variety of contexts in which we live and our commitment to reasoned and respectful discourse that holds together significant differences in creative tension, we believe that The Episcopal Church can and must lead in this effort.  … We call all Episcopalians to pray and work for the end of gun violence.[4]

Just in the past ten days in this country, there were two school campus shootings, one shopping mall with multiple casualties, a man shot to death by a retired police officer for texting in a movie theatre, and those are just the incidents I remember reading about off the top of my head. Closer to home, since last Sunday night a five year old died and her mother was shot in the head because their car looked like that of someone the gunman’s girlfriend had argued with. A couple died at MetroHealthHospital after a double shooting in the parking lot. A man was shot to death in the early hours of yesterday morning breaking up a fight outside a Cleveland bar.[5]

We are the people living in anguish and gloom. Of the children I knew in Sunday School over the past ten years, four have been in schools when one of their fellow students wielded a gun with the intent to end a life. Two of them were there when lives were lost. Most of them have heard threats of gun violence in their schools. All of them, all of our children have received instruction in what to do if an active shooter comes into their school to hurt or kill them; it’s become like running a fire drill or a tornado practice. We are the ones living in the region and shadow of death.

Whatever your views on gun ownership, licensing or control, it is not hard to see that we have a real and abiding problem with gun violence. It is all around us, and it is time we shone a light on the subject.

Because we are the ones called to pray and work for the lifting of the gloom that envelops too many; the relief of the anguish of bereaved mothers, sons, and lovers; we are called to shine a light into the dark corners of our own souls and sweep out the webs, the networks of vengeance and violence that we harbour there. We are called to bring our creativity, our liveliness, our hope to transform our region from one under the shadow of death to one that shines with new light; the light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. We may not always see it shining so brightly, but the light itself will not fail; the shadows of death cannot overcome it. It is, as Teresa of Avila explained, “as if a person were to enter a place where the sun is shining but be hardly able to open his eyes because of the mud in them.”[6]

It is time for us to wash the mud from our eyes and see the light. It is time for us to leave our tangled and tainted nets, the violence that ensnares us, and follow Jesus, for the good of all the people we know and those that we only read about in the papers; for the good of our children, who grow up learning to expect an outbreak of violence at any moment in time.

Only when we have washed that mud from our eyes, only when we have seen the light and answered the call to leave our nets and follow Jesus will we be able to proclaim with a clear conscience,

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

Amen. Let there be light.

[1] http://www.npr.org/2014/01/25/265794611/artist-transforms-guns-to-make-music-literally

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Failing Grace

The dark wood, its grain barely illuminated by
the stained-glass shafts, invites introspection,
the fear of failing, flailing: “Wait!
I am not ready,” but
it consumed me anyway,
half-baked.

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