Today's issue of The Writer's Almanac, Garrison Keillor's daily review of poetry, includes a nice poem by William Stafford. Since today is also Mr. Stafford's birthday, Garrison reflects on his life and work, and concludes with this:
"About his own works, Stafford once commented, "I have woven a parachute out of everything broken.""
I wish I had thought of that. Seems like there's a lot of broken stuff in and around my life. Maybe one way to look at it is Stafford's way: If we can salvage the flotsam and jetsam of our lives, and somehow put it back together, we can make parachutes. Otherwise, as time goes by, broken things start to pile up all around us. It starts with a Camaro out back, then it's the dishwasher, somebody breaks a window in our basement, then it's a relationship, next it's our pancreas, and then the foundation of our house - and before we know it, it looks like "Everything is Broken":
Broken lines, broken strings,
Broken threads, broken springs,
Broken idols, broken heads,
People sleeping in broken beds.
Ain't no use jiving
Ain't no use joking
Everything is broken.
Broken bottles, broken plates,
Broken switches, broken gates,
Broken dishes, broken parts,
Streets are filled with broken hearts.
Broken words never meant to be spoken,
Everything is broken.
Seem like every time you stop and turn around
Something else just hit the ground
Broken cutters, broken saws,
Broken buckles, broken laws,
Broken bodies, broken bones,
Broken voices on broken phones.
Take a deep breath, feel like you're chokin',
Everything is broken.
Every time you leave and go off someplace
Things fall to pieces in my face
Broken hands on broken ploughs,
Broken treaties, broken vows,
Broken pipes, broken tools,
People bending broken rules.
Hound dog howling, bull frog croaking,
Everything is broken.
(Copyright © 1989 Special Rider Music - Bob Dylan)
My pal M. keeps saying that she gives thanks for all the broken stuff in her life - all the hardships, all the disappointments, all the crap. I guess what she's saying is that when the time comes, she's going to have the coolest parachute...
(P.S. You can visit The Writer's Almanac by clicking on the links on this page. Stafford's entry is from the Wednesday, January 17th edition)
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Agnus Dei
I've heard several lessons, sermons, and stories about the great Old Testament story of Abraham and Isaac; how God told Abraham to take Isaac to Mount Moriah and offer him as a sacrifice. Gruesome as it may seem, Abraham did what God told him to do - he gathered some wood for the burnt offering, packed a knife, and off he went. The trip was 50 or 60 miles to Mount Moriah; Abraham and Isaac took along two helpers for most of the way. On the third day of the journey, however, Abraham told the two helpers to hold up, took the wood and gave it to Isaac to carry, and the two of them went the rest of the way by themselves. Isaac, wondering, asked about the obvious omission: We've got wood for a burnt offering, but where is the lamb? Abraham answered, "God will provide for himself a lamb..."
It's a bit of a cliffhanger from there - Abraham and Isaac arrive at Mount Moriah, Abraham builds an altar, stacks the wood on top, and binds Isaac on top of the wood. Then he takes the knife, and just as he is about to plunge it into his son's body, an angel calls out to Abraham to stop. Looking up, Abraham spots a ram caught in a thicket, and untying Isaac, replaces him with the ram for the sacrifice.
Fr. William Wilson made a wonderful point about this story that I had never thought of before. Abraham told Isaac that "God will provide for himself a lamb...", however, it wasn't a lamb that was sacrificed - it was a ram. Fr. Wilson asks, "So, when does God provide a lamb for sacrifice?" The answer: way over in the New Testament, just after John the Baptist is introduced as the voice of one crying in the wilderness. John sees Jesus coming toward him and announces: "Behold, The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!"
And so, because of this, everything changed, in such a profound way that I still don't get it half the time. Prior to John's announcement about Jesus being the lamb of God, rabbis must have told their flock that they, too, had to be prepared to make sacrifices just like Abraham - he had set the example of willingness and submission by offering his most precious possession to God as a sacrifice. After the true Lamb was sacrificed, there was no more reason to think that way. All our missteps, our falling short, our stubbornness, our intransigence (Sinatra - "I did it my way"), our addiction, our hatred, our anger, lust, greed, and pride, our selfishness, our envy - every single sin - all this was taken into account, paid for, worked through, understood, and taken away from us. No more sacrifices are required by you and me - as a matter of fact, (and this is important) it would be presumptuous of us to think that we could offer some sacrifice in addition to the one offered for us, on the cross, on Good Friday.
I have learned that this is old hat to a lot of my friends, who get pretty bored with my amazement, and marvel that I took so long to "get it". Looking around, however, I don't think that I'm in the minority - Christians are still trying every which way to do something that will impress God, to make some sacrifice, to bear their own pitiful cross like a martyr, as so forth. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Truth be known, I still wear that t-shirt underneath my shirt, where none of my friends can see it.
There is a Derek Webb song which speaks to this - Derek is a singer/songwriter, and has written a powerful song entitled "I Repent", which contains these lines:
"I repent,
I repent,
Of paying for what I get for free."
It's a great song, by a compelling artist. But it's not as good as this little song, called Agnus Dei, which is part of the liturgy:
"O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, grant us thy peace."
Perhaps if it's peace that I want, I'm going to have to give up some things I've been carrying around - like the wood for the burnt offering - and quit paying for what was given to me - and you - for free.
It's a bit of a cliffhanger from there - Abraham and Isaac arrive at Mount Moriah, Abraham builds an altar, stacks the wood on top, and binds Isaac on top of the wood. Then he takes the knife, and just as he is about to plunge it into his son's body, an angel calls out to Abraham to stop. Looking up, Abraham spots a ram caught in a thicket, and untying Isaac, replaces him with the ram for the sacrifice.
Fr. William Wilson made a wonderful point about this story that I had never thought of before. Abraham told Isaac that "God will provide for himself a lamb...", however, it wasn't a lamb that was sacrificed - it was a ram. Fr. Wilson asks, "So, when does God provide a lamb for sacrifice?" The answer: way over in the New Testament, just after John the Baptist is introduced as the voice of one crying in the wilderness. John sees Jesus coming toward him and announces: "Behold, The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!"
And so, because of this, everything changed, in such a profound way that I still don't get it half the time. Prior to John's announcement about Jesus being the lamb of God, rabbis must have told their flock that they, too, had to be prepared to make sacrifices just like Abraham - he had set the example of willingness and submission by offering his most precious possession to God as a sacrifice. After the true Lamb was sacrificed, there was no more reason to think that way. All our missteps, our falling short, our stubbornness, our intransigence (Sinatra - "I did it my way"), our addiction, our hatred, our anger, lust, greed, and pride, our selfishness, our envy - every single sin - all this was taken into account, paid for, worked through, understood, and taken away from us. No more sacrifices are required by you and me - as a matter of fact, (and this is important) it would be presumptuous of us to think that we could offer some sacrifice in addition to the one offered for us, on the cross, on Good Friday.
I have learned that this is old hat to a lot of my friends, who get pretty bored with my amazement, and marvel that I took so long to "get it". Looking around, however, I don't think that I'm in the minority - Christians are still trying every which way to do something that will impress God, to make some sacrifice, to bear their own pitiful cross like a martyr, as so forth. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Truth be known, I still wear that t-shirt underneath my shirt, where none of my friends can see it.
There is a Derek Webb song which speaks to this - Derek is a singer/songwriter, and has written a powerful song entitled "I Repent", which contains these lines:
"I repent,
I repent,
Of paying for what I get for free."
It's a great song, by a compelling artist. But it's not as good as this little song, called Agnus Dei, which is part of the liturgy:
"O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, grant us thy peace."
Perhaps if it's peace that I want, I'm going to have to give up some things I've been carrying around - like the wood for the burnt offering - and quit paying for what was given to me - and you - for free.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Certainty
I met a young man about to go off to college the other day; very bright, articulate, lots of potential. Somehow, we got on the subject of religion. He was at that place where a lot of us are, or have been - he was worried about his faith. He said so - in classic style, after sharing a few disappointments that piled up over the past year, he sighed and said "I think I've lost my faith". His struggle was familiar: After a childhood and youth during which he was brought up in a church setting, expected to believe like his parents, he is now at that stage where he has to make up his own mind and blaze his own trail, so to speak. He was looking for some evidence, some bricks and mortar, so that he could get back on track.
It got me to thinking about "faith": Can you lose it, misplace it, drop it under your car seat never to be seen again, or put it in a basement closet and forget about it? Can you shed your faith like you shed your skin, or lose it like you lose your hair?
And, now that my friend has "lost his faith", I wonder: What takes the place of the faith he once had?
My pal M. says, when faced with such issues, "You gotta get in the Word" - so if you look it up, Heb. 11:1 defines faith as "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen". More than "belief", this is a word implying something deep, abiding, palpable, and provocative.
Along those lines, I share one of the most meaningful things I've ever heard anybody say about faith. I was in the audience at one of those Cursillo weekend retreats when I heard a very wise man, J.M., say: "The opposite of Faith is not Doubt. The opposite of Faith is Certainty."
It got me to thinking about "faith": Can you lose it, misplace it, drop it under your car seat never to be seen again, or put it in a basement closet and forget about it? Can you shed your faith like you shed your skin, or lose it like you lose your hair?
And, now that my friend has "lost his faith", I wonder: What takes the place of the faith he once had?
My pal M. says, when faced with such issues, "You gotta get in the Word" - so if you look it up, Heb. 11:1 defines faith as "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen". More than "belief", this is a word implying something deep, abiding, palpable, and provocative.
Along those lines, I share one of the most meaningful things I've ever heard anybody say about faith. I was in the audience at one of those Cursillo weekend retreats when I heard a very wise man, J.M., say: "The opposite of Faith is not Doubt. The opposite of Faith is Certainty."
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