Good, Existential Spookiness

There is so much I want to say. So why don't I just say it? 

Time, thank God, is plentiful. There are plenty of days when I can sit, as now, listening to the rain fall, resting one elbow on a pillow and the other on a sleepy dog, and just reflect. But when I have those opportunities, more often than not, I consume the minutes one by one -- an article, a video, a recipe, or two of each in quick pell-mell succession -- constantly absorbing information without allowing it to sink in, let alone formulating a response. There is so much I would like to respond to. Things that provoke and incense me, that paint my hours and days with sunshine, that grip my heart with sadness and won't let go.

Right now, reflecting on all that the last few months have encompassed, I keep coming back to a truly life-changing moment, when I sat at the feet of this holy man as he "told me everything I ever did:" 

If you live only for the now, and temporary life that the world preaches today, how are you going to resolve the inner conflict in the very depth of your being? Because it’s wrong to run away from the mystery you can’t find. . . Sometimes you stay up at night and you wonder what that mystery means. Sometimes you look at your husband and say, “I love him, but I really don’t know him,” after 22 years of marriage. (And now I’m spooking you – in a good, existential, way.) And that’s because there’s something in you that wants to remain true to the mystery you haven’t found, about who you are. You have to remain true to that mysterious center of primary value, which, even though anyone else can’t see it, you know it. And without the Resurrection, you won’t find it. 

Take the time to listen to the whole talk, and you may have your own woman at the well moment. Maybe, like me, you'll even struggle with putting more words into the world, when there are so many to think about already.

Lent, Anew

This is my seventeenth Lent as an Orthodox Christian -- which means I have now been Orthodox for longer than I was not Orthodox. But this is the first year I have really looked forward to Lent. I know I need it. My life feels out of balance, drifting, directionless, turned inward. I crave the peace that comes from humility, that only the most focused, demanding spirituality can provide. I think of Saydeh's words: "Lent is a joy." Yes.

Last week I rediscovered the Audio Bible I bought for Rob years ago. I decided to start it from the beginning. At first I found Jon Sherberg's voice uncannily dramatic, distracting. But after the first handful of chapters, I didn't hear his voice at all -- just the stories. Wow. It's been decades since I heard some of them, and it's as if I'm hearing them for the first time. They floated back to me in clumps as we sang the Canon of St. Andrew last week:

• I have rivaled in transgression Adam the first-formed man, and I have found myself stripped naked of God, of the eternal Kingdom and its joy, because of my sins.
• The Lord once rained down fire from heaven and consumed the land of Sodom. O my soul, flee like Lot to the mountain, and take refuge in Zoar before it is too late.
• Leah is action, for she had many children; and Rachel is knowledge, for she endured great toil.  For without toil, O my soul, neither action nor contemplation will succeed.
• Once Joseph was cast into a pit, O Lord and Master, as a figure of Thy Burial and Resurrection.  But what offering such as this shall I ever make to Thee?
• David, the forefather of God, once sinned doubly, pierced with the arrow of adultery and the spear of murder. But thou, my soul, art more gravely sick than he, for worse than any acts are the impulses of thy will.
• I have put before thee, my soul, Moses' account of the creation of the world, and after that all the recognized Scriptures that tell thee the story of the righteous and the wicked.  But thou, my soul, hast followed the second of these, not the first, and hast sinned against God.

About halfway through the 90-minute service on Tuesday, I finally started to pray, really pray. And just then, I caught the eye of a tiny baby who was nestled in a blanket on the floor, on the other side of the wooden lectern where my music rested. As I bowed and reached for the floor with my fingertips, she gave me the full-body smile only a baby can deliver, and I had to smile back. There is joy, too, even in the midst of repentance. Maybe the repentance is what brings the joy in the first place.

What Abraham Meant

And besides all this –

Besides wars and floods,

Besides illness and death,

Besides storms and earthquakes,

Besides random and orchestrated violence,

Besides the sinister, rippling presence of evil,

Between us and you –

Between east and west,

Between young and old,

Between shunned and shunning,

Between fruitful and barren,

Between colored and colorless,

A great chasm has been fixed.

In the passive voice:

We don't know who fixed it,

or why,

or how.

Just that it’s been fixed.

In order that those who would pass –

Would transcend difference,

Would accept a new perspective,

Would warm stone and soften iron,

Would build ladders and weave bridges,

Would step outside of their other-ness,

From here to you –

From then to now,

From imprisoned to free,

From stuck to inspired,

From rocky to smooth,

From one to two to ten,

May not be able –

Able to embrace,

Able to understand,

Able to smile bravely,

Able to foster renewal,

Able to see through the fog,

And none may cross –

None of the lonely,

None of the trapped,

None of the repentant,

None of the ordinary,

None of the suffering,

From there to us.

Habits and Holiness

Eight posts in the last six months. My, how the wordy have fallen!​

​Sometime during these months of silence, I started thinking about my life, which is incredibly blessed in many ways and kind of a mess in others. Since it's much more depressing to think about the messy parts, that's what I've been doing -- and coming to some odd conclusions.

For instance: I don't have any habits.​

Really. None. I don't get up at the same time every morning. I don't always brush my teeth before I go to bed. I don't eat regular meals, walk the dog, play with the cat or clean the house or read books on any kind of a regular basis. I do each of these things as the moment strikes me, ​or when they absolutely need to be done to avoid disease or debt or embarrassment or all three.

Now you know the sad truth.​ I laid it bare, along with many other sad and true facts about myself, in confession just before Christmas. I told my spiritual father that I wanted to have a more ordered life, and that I knew the first step in ordering my life was ordering my soul. I asked him to help me to really, actually start living like a Christian.

​"Well," he said. "Do you want to get a pen and paper?"

These words thrilled my organizational heart of hearts, and eagerly I took notes as he reviewed the three main supports of a holy life. Prayer: morning, evening, intercessions, reading Scripture. Fasting: more time with God, which means less indulgence in food and television and, hopefully, sinful behavior. Almsgiving: donating money, but also time, energy and resources, to those in need.​ We talked about visiting monasteries, praying before and after Communion, taking time for silence. 

Of course I know I need to do these things. Christ speaks clearly about each one in the Gospels, and from my youth I have, not obeyed them, but fumbled in their direction. So what is stopping me from going deeper, from attaining what God Himself commands -- that I be perfect, as He is?

And so the last directive, though the simplest of all, was the most revelatory. My spiritual father encouraged me to return to confession soon, but also to confess often on a much smaller scale: examine each day's failings, ask forgiveness where necessary, and try again tomorrow. Examine each week as a whole before going, with a penitent heart, to Communion. Confronting my sins on a relentlessly regular basis, he explained, ensures they will return with less frequency.

In thinking ​about it later, I realized that to get better at anything (French, singing, throwing a Frisbee, making curry sauce) I need both practice and coaching. And so, to accomplish theosis -- to become like God -- I need to practice shedding my baser instincts and embracing the cross. So that, instead of two steps forward and one step back (or, as is more common, the other way around,) I can start to see real change in my soul, and in my life.

Why am I telling you all this? I guess so that you know I haven't really been silent all these months. I just haven't been ready to say this until now. So thank you, for waiting for me.

Forgiveness Among the Ashes

The bell rings, and I deliver my standard line: “Anything to pray for this morning?” There are sisters, friends, neighbors, and the ubiquitous “this weekend,” even though it’s only Wednesday.

When they have spoken and the air is empty of hands, I take a deep breath. “I have something to say.  Today you begin Lent.  In my church it begins this Sunday, and on that day it’s traditional to ask forgiveness of everyone in the community.  So I want to ask your forgiveness.  It’s my job, first, to love you with the love of Christ, and second, to support and educate you.  I know I have fallen short, and I am sorry if I have neglected you, hurt your feelings or failed you in any way.  And if there is something specific I have done to offend you, please let me know so that I can apologize for that, too.  I want to begin the Fast with a clean slate.  Please forgive me.”

It is eerily quiet, and I am surprised to feel my own heart pounding.  A few shy smiles from the back of the room. A lot of shocked expressions.  Before awkwardness descends, I bow my head and stretch out my hands: “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name … “

The next class is after Mass, and their foreheads bear the ashy crosses of the day.  I repeat my speech, a little less nervously.  There is a quiet chorus of muffled, sympathetic whimpers, and one student cannot keep silent, whispering “That is SO sweet!”  I am a little taken aback by these expressions of emotion, and I repeat an adamant summary: “I really mean it.  Please let me know if I need to apologize to you.”  My cheeks burn through the prayer: “Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

My last group is after lunch and a little wild: their teenage brains are finally awake and alert, and their questions reflect it.  As the bell rings, they’re wanting to know whether Shakespeare told his friends about the plays he was writing.  “Like, did he give them sneak previews or anything?”  

I settle them and hear their requests for prayer: traveling, tryouts and one very sweet “for anyone who needs a prayer.”  That includes me, I realize: she is praying for me.

Again, I ask forgiveness, and this time their surprise is much more vocal. Squeals, murmurs of assent.  “Mrs. Lowe, I have a problem: you are WAY too nice.”  Another is moved to agree with me: “Me too — forgive me if I did anything to you.”  She extends her arms out.  “To any of you guys!”

The chatter ends as we say the Lord’s prayer again, and finally it occurs to me that the framework for this moment has been laid at every single class of the year, when we pray together: “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who tresspass against us.”  Together, we take a step toward unity, toward true understanding of each other.  Toward the Cross and eternity.

Two Sides of Social Justice

Yesterday I read an action research project by an inner-city Chicago teacher.  In a unit about social justice, she encouraged her class of twenty-five first and second-graders to think about fairness and compassion, and they responded accordingly:

If I were President I would tell the builders who build houses for rich people to build the homeless houses and I would give them food and a car.

If I were President I would take care of lots of people. People would have 3 day weekends. There would be no school for a week.

If I were President I would give money to school and help all the people in the world improve their schools.

If I were President I would make things good.  I would love the world and I would buy anything for kids and I would get people homes.

Part of me read these sentiments with a great deal of cynicism.  How sad that these children view government as a benevolent, even indulgent caretaker – that rather than giving people freedom to live their lives, they wanted the President to bestow material comfort upon them. 

The Occupy Wall Street seems, at its core, to have a similar idea: they want to stop the most successful people in society from continuing to be successful by spending their money on the foolish and hapless masses who have financially gotten in over their heads.  This (besides the pretentions of activism and the lack of hygiene and decorum) keeps me from being too enthusiastic about their mission and the press that’s glued to it.

So I was pretty shocked, later that evening, to read the following in the Psalms:

Why dost thou stand afar off, O Lord?
Why dost thou hide Thyself in times of trouble?
In arrogance the wicked hotly pursue the poor;
let them be caught in the schemes which they have devised.
For the wicked boasts of the desires of his heart,
and the man greedy for gain curses and renounces the Lord.
In the pride of his countenance the wicked does not seek him;
all his thoughts are, “There is no God.”
His ways prosper at all times;
thy judgments are on high, out of his sight;
as for all his foes, he puffs at them.
He thinks in his heart, “I shall not be moved;
throughout all generations I shall not meet adversity.”
His mouth is filled with cursing and deceit and oppression;
under his tongue are mischief and iniquity.
He sits in ambush in the villages;
in hiding places he murders the innocent.
His eyes stealthily watch for the hapless,
he lurks in secret like a lion in his covert;
he lurks that he may seize the poor,
he seizes the poor when he draws him into his net.
The hapless is crushed, sinks down,
and falls by his might.
He thinks in his heart, “God has forgotten,
he has hidden his face, he will never see it.”
Arise, O Lord; O God, lift up Thy hand;
forget not the afflicted.

If God’s not too good to care for the poor, maybe we should think about doing the same.

Clay Stealing Clay

My favorite Synaxarion of the church year was yesterday, when we celebrated the raising of Lazarus.  I actually missed it because I was late (!) but my dear friend Jeanine read it to me today as I was filing music at church:

Lazarus and his sisters Martha and Mary, the friends of the Lord Jesus, had given Him hospitality and served Him many times (Luke 10:38-42; John 12:2-3). They were from Bethany, a village of Judea. This village is situated in the eastern parts by the foothills of the Mount of Olives, about two Roman miles from Jerusalem.

When Lazarus -- whose name is a Hellenized form of "Eleazar," which means "God has helped" -- became ill some days before the saving Passion, his sisters had this report taken to our Savior, Who was then in Galilee. Nonetheless, He tarried yet two more days until Lazarus died; then He said to His disciples, "Let us go into Judea that I might awake My friend who sleepeth." By this, of course, He meant the deep sleep of death.

On arriving at Bethany, He consoled the sisters of Lazarus, who was already four days dead. Jesus groaned in spirit and was troubled at the death of His beloved friend. He asked, "Where have ye laid his body?" and He wept over him. When He drew nigh to the tomb, He commanded that they remove the stone, and He lifted up His eyes, and giving thanks to God the Father, He cried out with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come forth." And he that had been dead four days came forth immediately, bound hand and foot with the grave clothes, and Jesus said to those standing there, "Loose him, and let him go." This is the supernatural wonder wrought by the Saviour that we celebrate on this day.

According to an ancient tradition, it is said that Lazarus was thirty years old when the Lord raised him; then he lived another thirty years on Cyprus and there reposed in the Lord. It is furthermore related that after he was raised from the dead, he never laughed till the end of his life, but that once only, when he saw someone stealing a clay vessel, he smiled and said, "Clay stealing clay." His grave is situated in the city of Kition, having the inscription: "Lazarus the four days dead and friend of Christ."

Each year during this last week of the Lenten journey, I marvel even more deeply at the Church's wisdom in placing these stepping stones in front of us, one after the other: miracles, signs, wonders and always the deepest and most pure love.

A-Plus (Hold the A)

Four and a half days into Lent, and it already feels like it's been two weeks.  Not the food thing; I have plenty of ideas and am actually worried I won't have time to try them all before the fast ends.  It's the routine that feels settled.  I think it helps that it's been raining a lot; yesterday it was so delightfully gloomy and drizzly that I put off getting out of bed until the last possible moment, and then ten minutes beyond that.  It just feels natural, when it's wet and gray outside, to eat simply and less, and concentrate on reading and sewing and praying. Especially praying: the prayers from Great Compline follow me throughout the day, and long sections of the Psalter comfort me at night.  I am surrounded, wrapped in the language of the Saints.

So I haven't written here. I've been thinking, from general to specific, about my purpose on Earth; my vocations as wife, teacher and musician; and my humble spot here on the Internet.  What am I doing?  What would I like to be doing?

When I think about blogs I admire, it's not the ones that are laugh-out-loud funny, although I do enjoy those occasionally; it's blogs like Tartine Gourmande and Pleasant View Schoolhouse.  I don't have a lot in common with a French food stylist or a Southern mom of five, but their posts just exude beauty, calm, life and especially gratitude -- a sense of contentedness with place and time, whether it's on a blissful tropical vacation or in a child's sickroom.

I know I can't imitate what these bloggers (and many more like them, I'm sure) have done, but I can try to add more of it to the world we all share.  So, for Lent, I am giving up griping, even humorous and good-natured griping, in this space.  Grammatical errors, bureaucratic squabbles and harried helicopter parents are off-limits; instead, I'm going to try to show you why it is that when I can sit still long enough to think about it, I know that I lead a life that is more blessed than I could possibly have imagined.

For instance, a few days ago, I was reminded of a wonderful technique for encouraging students to respond to literature.  Instead of saying, "Which parts did you like / dislike / not understand?" simply have students highlight those parts.  Then read the piece out loud, instructing them to join you for whatever words or phrases they have selected.  The effect is very powerful, since they begin to see that many of their favorite parts are shared by their classmates; they worry less about "getting it" and start to enjoy the words themselves.

So, when we read "How it Feels to be Colored Me," an essay by the author whose seminal work will be the focus of the next few weeks, it gave me chills to hear so many young voices read with me:

I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all.

No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost.

Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us.

I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

"What do you think that means?" I asked afterwards.  Lots of shrugs.  "I just liked it."  A confident lady with a pretty necklace: the image hooked them, and we could puzzle about semantics later.

For this, I will gladly endure comma splices.  But I won't mention them again.  Not until Pascha, at least.

Find and Replace

Anything worth doing is equal parts passion and paperwork.  Cooking dinner: balancing flavors and improvising with ingredients; also chopping, sifting and washing.  Leading singers: discovering hidden talents, being blessed by the prayerful outpouring of song; also lugging binders of music to and fro and poring over rubrics and service outlines.  It was in the thick of the latter that I found myself for most of yesterday.

When I'm on top of things, I try to do a month's worth of services at a time; this enables me to get an overview of what's coming up, prepare and rehearse music with my chanters, and generally be more efficient than I would be week by isolated week.  I'm especially grateful for Microsoft Word's "Find . . . Replace" command.  I can put in "Tone 1 . . . Tone 2" or "Publican and Pharisee . . . Prodigal Son" and suddenly the outline is transformed; a few more tweaks and it's ready to go.

Lent begins in a little over an hour, and the services of the Church have been anticipating this for many weeks: commemorations like the aforementioned parables help bring to mind our feebleness and need for Christ's healing mercies.  These last two weekends have been the most intense of all.  Last week was Judgment Sunday, when we heard the Gospel of the Sheep and the Goats: "Inasmuch as you have done it to one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it to Me."  That was the day we gave up meat; and today, when we give up all other animal products (and wine and oil, except on weekends) we heard the Gospel of Forgiveness: "If ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you."  Today is Forgiveness Sunday.

So as I made up the bulletin, and the dialog box prompted me to enter text, the irony was not lost on me.  Find Judgment; replace with Forgiveness.  It's a good motto to live by, during Lent or any other season.

Brothers and sisters of the Internet, I repent of all my hasty and self-centered speech.  Kindness and consideration are not my strong points, as you well know.  I pray you have not been offended by anything I have said here, but if you have, the fault is mine, so please, forgive me.  May this season be a blessing to you, and please, pray for me.