On Ashes to Go

Pliny had the impression that Christianity was just a cult. It seemed some of our fellow citizens felt the same, as I stood by Fr. Richard with a packet of Lenten services offering a blessing for Ash Wednesday.

            Those on the ascent from Parliament Station often declined. The stream of climbers looked sad, anxious, distracted, burdened, heavy laden. Literally so, carrying backpacks, bags, and parcels up steep stairs (one man had two bicycle wheels) while running in desperation to catch a tram. Women ran in absurdly high shoes; the more disabled struggled up and up.

            Others were grateful. Two women called it a ‘miracle.’ A red-haired courier brought his bike onto the footpath and raised his helmet. Young girls lifted their faces like flowers smiling gently although they’d been ashed the day before at school.

            Refusal was usually polite, an evasion of eyes, plugged into devices, huddling against walls. All types and conditions; young men most rare to accept. ‘It’s not my thing,’ said one. Most common was a smile and wave, ‘No, I’m all right.’

            But you don’t look all right. In fact, you’re not all right. You’re dust, and will return to dust.

            ‘How wonderful,’ said some. ‘We don’t come to church, so church comes to us!’ The church in the world. I was glad to be there.

On News

I’ve decided to give up reading the news for Lent. What better way to cease cogitating upon the world, the flesh and the devil? The news is soaked in worldly waters, from changing climates to political precipitations to wars and rumours of war. The flesh, both sensuality and mortality, swims through it carrying naked celebrities, vigorously sporting vulgarities, morbidities, cruelties and corpses. Such devils play in it as freakish financials, household horrors, and spoiled, unsanctified, sinister and savage speech.

            But I want to know. Sometimes I need to know, though maybe a lot less than I think, much of what happens directly consequent on what came before, with nations, persons, places.

            The liturgical year gives signs to separate the furious churning of events, so hard to distinguish, so easily forgetting, so careless of history, so tender to illusions of all kinds. What would it mean to attend to news of divine events?

            The birth of a King; sorrows of a Mother; gift of friendship (loyal or disloyal), pangs of salvation? Corruption of authorities, hostilities of mobs, reign of disease, transformations, transfiguration? Healing power of peace? Grace on earth?

            Divine news gives signs to interpret worldly news. Go there.

On Calling

The choir was photographed today; every musician turned up. Result: richness, depth and resonance in every part. Every voice, every singer pure and precious. Every listener, every pair of ears beyond price.

            The sanctuary: half clergy, half laity. A congregation often includes clergy, participating from the pews, taking the responsive role in the sacred call and response.

            Paul, today, calling the Gospel free of charge. What would the charge otherwise be? Paul doesn’t think receiving payment would be honourable for him.The Gospel is free. You have to give it away.

            It thence becomes a gift.

            In all cultures, a gift requires a response. A gift seeks, cements, provokes friendship. The liturgy is call and response. Rather than thinking of a calling as a means of separation between clergy and laity, we could think of it as music. How can there be call and response with no response?

            The calling of the laity is to return the gift. I am one of this responsive choir. The liturgy — call and response — should be seamless. Furthermore, this gift of the Gospel seeks its return through being passed on. You have to give it away. Free of any kind of charge.

On Aftermaths: Purification

Sometimes it all comes back to you. Scenarios from the past, when I battled and suffered, unroll before me like an old newsreel. Sometimes the mind quiets, then somehow they again arise.

            Actions — or activities— have consequences. Financial mistakes, disability crises, professional exploitations, sudden deaths. Actions or inactions of others might bring a sense of guilt as may our own acts. Plunged back into explications, discussions, confessions, emotions. What life fails to confront at least some of these? And their aftermaths. You receive a letter, see a news report; relations contact you, opponents resurface. Everything unjust, unresolved, unsatisfied, unforgiven comes to light.

            Limitations exposed, recounted, reconfronted: inability to help, or help enough; lack of charm, affability, tact or just restraint; failure to persuade. The things undone that we ought to have done. It comes back: you must tread again these paths.

            The word ‘karma’ means action, and the aftermath of action, taken or not taken.

            Since the slate must be cleansed free of writing, this clearing away is best done with the waters of Baptism. Regrets, discursions, recriminations only prolong our helplessness. Salvation comes through Christ our Lord. (No, you don’t have to face it all alone.)