vitalwholeness

When I was a child and was exposed to the requisite Christian education, the ten commandments, of course, were included in the mix. And as far as a rule-based approach to religion it made sense. Conduct yourself in these ways, toward God and toward your neighbor. To not is to violate and harm relationships divine and human. And most of the commandments made rather immediate sense. Don’t murder. Don’t worship things other than God. If you borrow your neighbor’s lawn mower, give it back.

But there was one of them with which I never really connected: “Do not bear false witness against your neighbor.” The cliff notes interpretation from parents was almost, “Don’t lie about your neighbor.” I thought, alright, this is about honesty. Well it was about honesty, but it is about much more than that.

Only in adulthood did I discover the importance of the stricture against bearing false witness. I discovered it through experience, by witnessing people bearing false witness. It was after those encounters that I understood that bearing false witness is a form of violence against another. The implicit deceit harms the neighbor in multitudes of ways, including matters of life and death.

I discovered that false witness could send an innocent person to the gallows. I discovered that false witness could ruin a person’s career, and therefore the ability to earn a living. I discovered that false witness could break the bonds of trust where they were needed most – in families, friendships and even in the church. Especially in the church.

One of my favorite film series has been The Tutors, and I just finished the last episode. I’m chasing the film series with Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, a historical fiction of the same period of time. Bearing false witness was one of the favorite pastimes in Henry VIII’s court. It inevitably sent people to the Tower of London, and from there to beheading, burning, and one of the real favorites of sadists, drawing and quartering. The interesting thing is that most of the time the accusations, sentencing and executions had only the slightest relationship to truth, innocence or guilt. It had to do with who held power and who used it to get what they wanted. Bearing false witness was a way of life. People could literally lose their heads as a result.

At the heart of false witness is a willingness to lie in order to harm someone and benefit yourself. It is the essence of selfcenteredness.

We see it today in the political realm. People lie. They don’t mind it a bit. And lies are often distortions of the truth and the purveying of half-truths. When directed at people or groups it becomes bearing false witness. Human rights violations are justified with false witness. Innocent people are hacked to death with false witness. Countries are invaded as the result of bearing false witness. People are lynched in the town square after false witness. Some innocent people sit on death row on account of false witness. Individuals  lie and institutions lie with intent to protect themselves at the expense of others. They are all bearing false witness.

So now I know what it means. I also know why it made the big ten. It’s a form of murder, of character assassination. I just discovered another example today. Some people who are guilty as sin have painted an innocent person as a villain. They tell lies to do so.

One of the sad parts, pathetic parts, is that though their deceit may not injure their target as they wish it would,  it is nevertheless corroding their own hearts like battery acid poured on tin. It disfigures the soul of the one doing it, regardless of who is hurt or how much.

Jesus was the object of false witness, of course, as his opposition attempted to discredit him. The Easter story reminds us that though someone may be harmed in the short haul it never seems to stick in the long run because the truth has a way of having the last say. And that’s hopeful, really hopeful, considering our track record and the exceedingly weird creatures that we are.

It could have been holy communion, consumed by the largest assembly of Cardinals I’ve ever seen in one place. The untimely snow prompted the gathering, red against white, the bird feeder a chapel, the troughs altar rails.

The seed of Christ.

Tonight I attended our CORE worship, our Sunday evening alternative service that meets at the Orr St. Galleries. We began a Lenten-long theme on doubt, and the focal piece in the center of the room was a tree – made of gathered branches. At one point in the service we were encouraged to write our doubts on paper leaves and hang them on the tree.

During our time of prayer, the doubts were read aloud and offered to God. It was a remarkable moment. With permission given by and to the whole community, a most honest offering of doubt was surfaced and shared, with no fear. And hearing them, the roots of every doubt, provided a kind of freedom that was refreshing.

So often religious communities are so preoccupied with what they believe, what they suppose themselves to know, that they don’t carve out time to recognize the obvious, that each soul is carrying unresolved questions of faith. And if we do not provide space for them to be named, known and shared, we will find more things to cover them and pretend that they don’t exist.

In Paul Tillich’s little classic book, Dynamics of Faith, he spoke of doubt not as the opposite of faith, but rather as a part of faith, as the confirmation that which is being taken ultimately. Only such seriousness will bring forth the experience of doubt, because we do not doubt that about which we care little.

This is faithful doubting, the doubt that speaks, clarifies, and draws us ever nearer to the center of the matter.

Happy doubting.

Ash Wednesday

Act the First

Christians who observe Ash Wednesday are an even tinier sliver of the population than rank and file Sunday church goers are. So when when a practicing Christians who just left an Ash Wednesday service waltz into a grocery store with black stuff on their foreheads, the majority of people think they forgot to wash their faces. Nothing a good washcloth and some soap and water couldn’t take care of.

This is the day when the historic church snatches away the lace covering that has been concealing our brokenness and mortality. We’re supposed to look them straight in the eye, these two: We haven’t loved God or neighbor and our shelf life is limited. When it comes to a staring contest with these twins we’re the ones who avert our eyes every time.

Act the Second

On this Ash Wednesday one soul ended his life’s journey just as another began. Kenny passed the baton to Stella. While we are in life, we are in death. While we are in death, we are in life.

Act the Third

I’ve received my share of ashes and worn them as the sign they are. As I leaned forward a smudgy finger moved across my forehead in the shape of the cross. X marks the spot I often think to myself. And I have to admit, beyond all my rationalizations, how I really am and how life is. And when I am capable of  surrendering I’m driven to the mercy of God.

But then there is the imposing of them on someone else. That’s what pastors get to do year after year. And it’s an entirely different story.

Here is the thing: In this power-laden ritual, you are saying, through the tradition of the church, that none of us are going to make out of this world alive. And we’re also saying that there are times when we’ve missed the mark by a mile. And you place this sign on each face that comes before you.

There are the old, wrinkled faces, whose time for this world  is really not that long. There are those who are wanting to find a faith that matters. Your loved ones show up, your children and spouses and family, and you mark them the same. Here is the nervous teenager who is concerned about appearance, and then come the smooth faces of the very young. What could a child possibly know about corruption or death? Not much, not yet. But they will. And that’s the reason the church teaches about it now and not later.

When this moment comes, of imposing the ashes, and my fingers mark the sign on these foreheads, it is impossible for me to be tender enough. If I could use a feather, I would. There is no way I can say the words, from dust you have come, and to dust you will return, with  enough compassion.

If I could, I would hold each person’s life as one does a newborn baby, rocking them gently in protective arms.  But all I have are the ashes, the sign, the words, and a love that never seems deep enough for the task.

Make it enough, O God.

So I’m watching the evening news. Of course there is a special on Mardi Gras, one that includes some interviews with revelers.

Announcer: “So what do you love about Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, most?”

Reveler: “I just love the way we can have a big party before tomorrow, which is Ash Wednesday, when we observe the birth of our Lord.”

I see.

As we all know, the day before Wednesday is Tuesday. And the day before Ash Wednesday is Shrove Tuesday, or from the French, Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday. In our culture people get fat on this day in lots of ways.

I guess you could also call it Excess Tuesday. Or Overdoing it Tuesday. Or (Thank you Sigmund) Id Tuesday. If the Id, our primal instinctual self, is about to be repressed for the Lenten fast, then we ought to let it out to play in the yard before it has to come inside and do homework.

When the children of Israel made their mad dash out of Egypt under the cover of night they only grabbed what was unleavened, the bread and ingredients that lacked the long-working yeast. They didn’t cut carbs or fat, but yeast. So today, as the observant Jewish family prepares to keep Passover, they clean out the house of yeast. By the time Passover begins the yeast is history. That involves, in many cases, not disposing of yeast-laden food stuff but rather consuming it.  There is some feasting that goes on before the day comes, a feasting meant to eliminate the presence of yeast.

In a not-so-mysterious historical leap, Christians, as they prepared to enter the 40 day Lenten fast on the way to Holy Week, started a similar practice. On the day before Ash Wednesday they cleaned out the cabinets and fridge, took the odds and ends and when possible consumed them. Often this meant stirring them into a batter and baking it. Pancakes were easy enough so they became the traditional Shrove Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, batter of choice. You can fry up lots of odds and ends in a pancake and it normally works out. Normally.

This early religious practice made its way into the culture when Christendom was still Christendom, and Lent still meant something and Ash Wednesday still meant something. The Tuesday before Ash Wednesday became the day of cleaning out the leftovers. But then, especially as the culture became more and more secular, Shrove Tuesday was joined to other celebrations of excess, most of which have little to do with the Jewish or Christian practices.

What to do. I suppose we need to keep the Fat in Fat Tuesday. There are the non-Christian carnivals of excess on this day, and we will leave their explanation to the anthropologists. But for Christians it remains a good time to clean out the cupboard as we prepare to spiritually clean ourselves  out in Lent. I just need to pour some of that old stuff into the batter and cook it up and consume it. I need to clean out to make room for what is yet to be revealed.

So have a pancake. Or two. Empty the house of yeast because we’re going to have to make a quick exit into wilderness. Travel light. Just take what you can carry. Enjoy the cavernous spaces of your empty fridge. And then tomorrow, as the remnant of the faithful who still think of such things come forward, receive a smudge on their foreheads and listen to the words, “From dust you have come and to dust you shall return,” it will all make sense. For a few.

Please pass the syrup.

I’m cruising in and out of the local coffee house and I recognize the server from the Rag Tag, an artsy theater where the young alternative crowd hangs out. Since the True/False Film Festival is commencing, and I had seen her there in one of the prime venues, I asked if she was attending any of the festival.

She said no, that work and school prohibited it. I thought of the expense, too, a luxury for a college student. But then she dropped the bomb, the last comment that might rank as one of the real reasons she was not attending even one film. After filling my cup she said, “I also don’t want to subject myself to documentary depression.”

Too much reality can be a depressing thing. And documentaries are about shining a bright light on life, the good, bad and ugly.  Tell me the truth, even if it hurts.

But I wonder about this young woman. She is bright, motivated and thoughtful. Is she simply stating her limits? How many of the rest of us are aware of the impact of 24/7 news on our psyches (it’s only getting worse, by quality and polarization) and the way we are constantly barraged with dissent and tragedy, much of which we either cannot grasp or respond to in meaningful ways? How much of this digital barrage can we take? For her, a chain of excellent documentaries has the same effect. Too much reality.

I think we need to grasp reality, as we can, and live in this world and not another. Being informed is better than not being informed. Knowing the problem is always the precursor to finding solutions. But what are our limits? How can we filter the data stream aimed at our foreheads?

Was this young woman simply recognizing her limits, practicing a kind of modern fast, and limiting what comes in so there is enough left of her to move in the world?

You have to feel for them. Every year, it’s the same thing, back and forth, north to south and south to north. And it’s not by choice, of course. It’s been this way for generations.

The path back north this year was just like every other spring trek, every journey after the long winter. They followed the same landmarks and rested in the same places along the way.  Imagine making a trip like that based on hope and hope alone. They actually believe that they will be able to survive once they get there. Maybe they have no choice. Maybe hope has become instinctual.

The first of them came into town today, kind of loitering around the public places. The locals didn’t pay them much mind, but neither did they offer some warm welcome. Just another competitor for scarce resources. They shouldn’t worry so much; they make their living differently than the others.

I looked out the window and watched a couple of them this morning. I wondered if I should try to strike up a conversation, offer some kind of help. But they were indifferent to me as they  walked the ground, looking for the next chance for a good meal.

Their orange breasts broadcast the return:

A worm here, a worm there, Robby’s back in town.

Dumbing Down

So I have a friend who just called me on his cell phone. I picked up my Iphone, its screen alight with all manner of colorful apps,  and heard his voice say, “Well, today I exchanged my smart phone for a dumb phone. All I have is phone and text. And I think it’s going to be just fine.”

Somehow how he seemed liberated.

Dumb? Oh, maybe not.

Oscar Pics … let’s see, let’s see.  I know they like to pass around the spoils of war, take into consideration whether this or that actor/actress has already received their due before or … if this is the first time out for them. Nevertheless, here are my choices. What are yours?

Best Picture – The King’s Speech

Best Actor – Colin Firth for The King’s Speech

Best Supporting Actor – Geoffrey Rush for The King’s Speech

Best Actress – Natalie Portman for Black Swan

Best Supporting Actress – Hallie Steinfield for True Grit

Notes:  I think one of the most daring and haunting films of the lot was Winter’s Bone, shattering in its realistic portrayal of the Ozarks sub-culture and the meth trade. We have not seen the last of the intense Jennifer Lawrence. Jeff Bridges has reinvented himself and True Grit is the latest example. But because people went crazy with Crazy Heart he didn’t have a chance for two in a row. Social Network had its plot as the most compelling aspect of the film, but neither its cinematography nor acting could match it. Black Swan could have easily taken best film if it were for the competition – The King’s Speech. Ever seen anything so bright and dark at the same time? Hip-Hip-Hooray for the pscyho-fantasy thriller, Inception, that should be recognized not only for its sophisticated plot but remarkable visuals.
Sound off friends! What are your pics?