Thursday, April 20, 2017

Xristos Anesti



I’m going to be upfront. I literally cannot hear the scripture of the Betrayal of Christ without U2 playing in my head. I am not a big U2 fan. Occasionally in the right mood, I’ll leave a classic on the radio, but that isn’t the source of the association.

There was a time during my elementary school career when “Pride (In the Name of Love)” came on in the car. My mom knew how much I loved the inside scoop on rock music--as a preschooler I had once shouted, probably embarrassingly, “Mom, did you know Jimi Hendrix was black?” as I listened to “Foxy Lady.” So of course when the U2 song began and she was presented with the opportunity to share some wisdom, my mother leaned over conspiratorially and said, “Betrayed by a kiss--did you know that part’s about Jesus?” I was riveted. Being a moderately attending Methodist child, it was not my first time hearing this story, but hearing it from Bono by way of my mother? That was the version I would remember.

So, please bear in mind that the person writing today is someone who literally sat through the entire last third of the Tenebrae (including at least one gospel for which I was the reader) barely containing my urge to scream, “What more in the name of love?” while furiously playing the air guitar. And I think that’s ok. Anyone with a spiritual or meditative practice--or anyone with a semi decent sex life--can tell you that there are moments of transcendence. Sometimes everything is really hitting and bam, you’re briefly there, grasping at the ephemeral tendrils of enlightenment. Most of the time, however, you’re paying attention with one part of your brain while another is compiling a list of groceries, wondering if the thing you said at dinner was as annoying as you felt like it was, or blaring some song from thirty years ago.

Our church allows for that. When you practice mindfulness, you know that your goal is not to create an impenetrable barrier to stray thoughts; it’s to know that they are stray thoughts and allow them to pass through without taking your attention from the moment. It’s leaving the lyrics at the Judas part and focusing back in on the candles instead of allowing the song to carry you to a contemplation about the assassination of Martin Luther King during your Easter vigil.

At St. Eve’s, we acknowledge the passing thoughts. It’s nearly impossible not to when your service is being held at someone’s home with dogs, cats, and small children running about, when the service may be briefly interrupted by a change in the weather or the slightly off response of a lapsed Catholic who hasn’t had many opportunities to practice the Johannite liturgy.

During our Easter service, toward the end of the calling of the corners, a large gust of wind blew through. Father Joey stopped a moment to relight a candle. “Nice of you to show up, Raphael. We get it. You’re here,” he joked. “Where were you a minute ago?” The seven of us in attendance (excluding the pets) stepped back to laugh for a moment. One might be impelled to read these comments as irreverent, breaking the solemnity of the mass. To us, it was a moment to truly interact with the spirit of the service, to go deeper than the words. If Raphael, Ruler of Air, is going to ride in through the wind chimes and blow a couple candles out, we’re going to acknowledge that and spend a moment with him before returning our attention to the mass. If Bono brings some passionate urgency to your mental image of Gethsemane, let him.

This is the thing about Easter. Our primary attention is on Christ’s resurrection, the rebirth of Spring, the merciful opportunity to shed old skins and sins, but there are also bunnies, baskets, egg hunts, and family dinners. There’s cleaning for guests or traveling to visit others. There are possibly traditional Easter services, but that means getting the family dressed, photographed, loaded into a car, and kept reasonably quiet for an hour or more. When I set out to write my first blog for St. Eve’s, I thought despite all of those distractions, I would manage to say something deep and thought-provoking about Christ and Gnosis. I thought I might write about the homily because it maintained a holy focus beautifully and poignantly. But I can’t describe that which was already written or the deep personal effect it had on me, neither the scripture nor the sermon. It would be far better for the priest to post his words for you to read or hear and for you to find your own meaning in it. I thought I might tell you about the beautiful experience of sharing a meal and spending time in communion with others, but that is another ineffable quality of presence better left to firsthand experience. Instead, I’ve written to you about U2 and Raphael, about Monkey Mind. Go figure.

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