Saturday, December 30, 2006

The Gospel According to Doxy

“What, in one word, is the Gospel According to You?”

This was the question that my priest posed on Advent 4 (known to most of the rest of the world this year as Christmas Eve morning).

He had talked about what he termed the Gospel According to Mary, where he read the Magnificat and interpreted it as being about humility. The humility of a young woman who heard the will of God and actively accepted the chance she was offered to play a role in the salvation of humanity.

No meek little miss, this one. She knew the danger of acceptance. Knew that she would be vilified, shamed---and quite possibly stoned to death---if she agreed. And yet, she said:

“Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

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I doubt that she could see far enough ahead to know what she was really getting into. In particular, the painful end her firstborn son would meet---she was very young, after all. While death would have been a regular occurrence in her world, I suspect that the teenage belief that death happens to “other people” is not really a modern one.

I often wonder how many young women God went to before He found one that said “Yes!” Would Mary have agreed if she could have seen ahead?

I’m not sure.

Not sure that *I* would have agreed under those circumstances...you don’t have to have children to imagine the immensity of pain and loss that would come with watching them die.

In some ways, it is a brave thing we do, having children. We convince ourselves that our lives will be the happy ones---untouched by tragedy and loss. Teenagers are not the only ones who believe that nothing will harm them.

But, in spite of what she did know, and despite what she couldn’t know yet, Mary said “Yes!”

Everything that 2,000 years of Christian dogma teaches says that God could not have acted without her consent, and I believe this. Mary said “Yes!” and history, and the relationship between God and the world, have never been the same since.

My priest believes that Mary’s Gospel is one of humility---but I’m not sure he’s completely right about that. I see her Gospel as one that reveals the neediness of God.

Palestine labored under the yoke of the Romans in Mary’s time. Mary would have undoubtedly heard her father, brothers, uncles, and assorted other related males complaining bitterly about the taxes they were expected to pay---and about the desecration of God’s holy land brought about by the presence of the Romans. She would have known that people were waiting in hope for the Messiah---would have believed that she was delivering her people by saying “Yes!”

I feel confident in saying that she would not have understood that her son would bring a very different message than the one the rabbis predicted from the Hebrew scriptures. Based on the expectations of her people at the time, Mary would have expected the Messiah to be some kind of military hero. A knight on a white horse, sweeping in to drive the Romans out, once and for all. Ushering in the New Jerusalem and the unending reign of the great I AM.

Did she ever wonder what it meant that God would send His son to us as a baby---in all that naked vulnerability? Sleepy sweet and smelling of milk. Did it ever occur to her to ask “Why this way? Why not some other?”

I have my own thoughts on that subject.

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It is an old heresy to say that God came because He needed us---needed the contact and the love that come with relationship. Christian dogma insists that God is whole within the Trinity---that God does not need anything or anyone, because need, in and of itself, is evidence of imperfection.

So count me a heretic.

I can think of no other reason that God would have created humans---other than that She was lonely, in “that vast expanse of interstellar space.” (BCP, Eucharistic Prayer C).

Why come as a baby, rather than descend from the clouds on high, unless you want to know the deep love of mother and father---lullabies in the night and shoulder rides through town?

Why endure the agonies of adolescence, unless you want to know the rush of hormones and the passion for life that only those on the cusp of it can feel?

Why put yourself in the position of facing loss, unless you need to experience the sorrow that every human being on the earth knows when someone they love dies? The Bible tells us that Jesus knew Lazarus was ill---but he waited until he knew Lazarus had died before he went to Bethany. And even though Jesus presumably knew he had the power to raise the dead, he wept anyway for the loss.

What is it about humanity that made God need to experience the same things we do? To know what it felt like to wear skin---and to feel the touch of human fingers on it? To know the ache of weariness and the fulfillment of rest? To laugh, and cry, and love---to understand the pull of greed and lust and the power of pain and shame?

One simply cannot be human without feeling those things---and according to the deepest beliefs of my doubting heart, God poured Herself into human form in order to feel.

Count me a heretic when I say that God needs us as much as we need God.

And that is my Gospel. It is not one word (probably because I am incapable of limiting myself to a single word...), but this is the Gospel According to Doxy.

God needs us.

This is an unimaginably vast universe---and it continues to expand, according to my physicist friends. It is full of the most beautiful things you can imagine---hugely, massively beautiful things that defy your ability to conceive them. Power, and majesty, and glory in abundance.

And yet...if you are a Christian, you believe that God came to earth in human form. Experienced all the joys and sorrows that humans experienced. Forsook the majesty and the grandeur of heaven for the mundane and simple pleasures---and the heart-rending sorrows and pain---of earth.

And this is what I believe.

Because I believe that the universe is too vast and beautiful and intricate to have happened by chance---and that the siren song of love and joy and...yes...sorrow were too strong for even the Creator of all that vastness and beauty to ignore. That the ability to feel is the ultimate gift of creation. That God Herself wanted to know what it felt like to be loved in human terms---not the adoration of legions of mindless angels, but the tender love of a mother, the camaraderie of friends, and the warmth of human touch.

Mary could not have known any of this when she bowed to Gabriel and agreed to take on the task she was asked to do. She thought she knew what the penalties could be---and she was lucky that she was not required to pay the price of her life for her acquiescence. But she could not have foreseen that she was giving the great God of the Universe an opportunity to feel.

Bless her for having the reckless courage to say “Yes!”

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani

Do I dare appropriate the words of Jesus for myself? As this official Lenten season begins to draw to a close, do I admit that God is absent and I am alone in the darkness? That I do not believe that Easter is going to come for me, and that I am no longer sure that I can bear the burden of my belief because hope and grace seem so unattainable?

Did Jesus feel that way? As he knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane, praying until he sweated blood, did he hold any hope that the trajectory of his life could change? That the weight of his commitment to God would be lifted and he could choose another path that didn’t involve so much pain and sacrifice? Was he even sure what that pain and sacrifice were for?

And as he hung on the cross---beaten, broken, and bleeding---did he regret signing on? Would he have made a different choice if he had known that he would see his own agony reflected in the faces of his mother, Mary Magdalene, and his beloved John as they bore witness to his suffering? Could he believe, in that moment, that what he had done, and his choice to submit to what he perceived to be the will of God, would make a difference in the world?

Even if he didn’t know, he kept the faith. He drank the cup. No matter what it cost. Obedient even unto death.

But he was Jesus, and I am not.

Domine Jesu Christi, miserere mei peccatore...

Friday, February 24, 2006

"Lazarus, come out!"

The Gospel reading for Morning Prayer today (John 12:9-19) pulled me up short. The reading begins with the plot by the chief priests to put Jesus to death because he had raised Lazarus from the dead.

You would think they might have been grateful---or at least impressed. But the amazing deed had so caught people’s imaginations that they were turning their backs on the priests to follow this new holy man. And a group whose power is threatened can get ugly pretty fast.

That part I knew about.

The thing that surprised me was their plan to put Lazarus to death too.

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I have long felt as if I know Mary and Martha, the two sisters from Bethany who were friends and disciples of Jesus. They bicker like my sister and I did---Martha complaining that Mary doesn’t do her share of the housework, and Mary telling Martha "For God’s sake! There are more important things than cooking and cleaning!"

For the record, Jesus sided with Mary---a fact that Christian feminists everywhere cling to as a sign that he considered women to be equals.

But what about their brother, Lazarus?

The name "Lazarus" is iconic, of course. Almost anyone who has a passing acquaintance with Christianity knows the story of Jesus’ raising Lazarus from the dead. For children who are forced to memorize scripture, this story is a favorite because it contains the shortest verse in the Bible---"Jesus wept." (John 11:35)

Lazarus doesn’t get a voice in this story. He’s already dead---and stinking up the place---when Jesus arrives. Jesus had known Lazarus was sick, and had waited before coming because he apparently understood that he was to resurrect his friend...but he still wept when he reached Lazarus’ tomb. Maybe in that brief moment, he doubted his abilities. Or maybe, confronted with what appeared to be the awful finality of death, he was reminded of his own impending fate and was overwhelmed by the stench of it. Or maybe there was some other, darker reason...

Once Jesus gets control of himself, he engages in a rather amusing conversation with God before he gets down to business:

John 11 (NRSV)
41 So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, "Father, I thank you for having heard me. 42 I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me."


I can almost see Jesus, his hand covering the side of his mouth, saying sotto voce "Hey Dad, I know you’re listening, but I have to put on a show for these people because they are as dumb as a box of hammers---couldn’t find their behinds with both hands and a lantern. So it’s time to show them what we can do."

And boy, does he.

43 When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" 44 The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, "Unbind him, and let him go." 45 Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.


What I want to know is...what was going through Lazarus’ mind as they unwrapped him from his burial clothes?

And what price did he pay for being the miracle du jour?

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There is a wide variety of Christian belief about what happens when you die. Many Christians believe you go straight to a literal heaven or hell the minute you breathe your last. I suspect that most of them have images of heaven that mirror the movies---lots of clouds, angels...that sort of thing. (Very few, I imagine, see themselves as going to The Other Place.)

Others believe that everyone "sleeps" until the return of the Lord, and that only the righteous are resurrected---everyone else simply stays dead, which is a much kinder punishment for the wicked than being consigned to the flames of Hell forever. The resurrected are given perfect bodies that will never die and they inhabit the "new Earth" in a very literal way. There is no "heaven" in this vision---just a beautiful planet free of pain and violence.

Me, I have no idea what happens when you die. I take it on faith that there is something more than this life, and that it will be good. But I do wonder where Lazarus was for the four days he wasn’t breathing.

Did Jesus snatch him out of the bosom of Abraham (Luke 16:19-31)? And if so, was he upset or annoyed by the unexpected callback?

Or was he simply out like a light? When Jesus woke him up again, did Lazarus feel as if he was just coming off a bender? Did he wonder what the hell he had done while he was drunk---especially since he was wrapped up like a mummy?

The Bible doesn’t tell us the answers to those questions.

All it tells us is that Lazarus was dead and decaying, he walked out of his tomb on his own steam, and the chief priests decided he needed to go back to wherever it was from whence Jesus had called him.

Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?...to get that second chance, only to discover that others are determined to take it away from you.

But I presume that Lazarus was destined to die again...one way or another. I haven’t heard anything that would make me believe he’s still walking around out there somewhere. And I wouldn’t be surprised if his second death was a violent one. Tradition (and some scripture) tells us that many of Jesus’ closest associates did not die in their beds of old age. They were tortured, beaten, stoned, crucified, and beheaded.

(As an aside, those folks could tell the current whiners in the American Religious Wrong a thing or two about being persecuted---and I don’t think Target’s refusal to wish them a "Merry Christmas" would count.)

But what did Lazarus do with his second life while he had it? Was he resurrected to the possibility of love? Did he see the world in a new way? Was he grateful for colors and music and the poetry of everyday life?

I hope so. I hope that he knew joy, laughter, and love before his time on Earth was finally through. That he was thankful for his second chance and took full advantage of it.

But I wonder...I wonder why Jesus wept when he knew he had the power to defeat death. Did he know that he was calling Lazarus back into the pain of life? Did he see Lazarus’ second end and cry guilty tears for his part in it?

Edwin Arlington Robinson’s poem "Lazarus" chronicles that Lazarus---the one resurrected to the pain and the danger:

...For my part,
I am again with you, here among shadows
That will not always be so dark as this;
Though now I see there’s yet an evil in me
That made me let you be afraid of me.
No, I was not afraid—not even of life.
I thought I was…I must have time for this;
And all the time there is will not be long.
I cannot tell you what the Master saw
This morning in my eyes. I do not know.
I cannot yet say how far I have gone,
Or why it is that I am here again,
Or where the old road leads. I do not know.
I know that when I did come back, I saw
His eyes again among the trees and faces—
Only his eyes; and they looked into mine—
Long into mine—long, long, as if he knew.


We tend to think of resurrection as an unmitigated good. But we do not hear Lazarus’ voice in the biblical story. We know only that, for love of him, God himself broke down and wept, and that he entered into his second life with a price on his head.

I suppose that’s true for all of us. Most of us get second (and third, and fourth...) chances in life, thank God. Life would be very short and/or miserable if we did not.

But there is a price to be paid for those chances. There is risk, and pain, and loss in the living. It can be easier to bury ourselves in graves of our own choosing---easier to refuse to come out to the call of that life and to remain wrapped up in the bindings we think will keep us safe---than to open ourselves to the possibilities of pain...or joy.

If it is true that we have free will, I have to believe that Lazarus had the choice to respond to Jesus’ summons. He might have refused the call to life. He might have remained in whatever version of heaven he found himself in, or chosen to sleep the dreamless sleep of the dead---but he came back to life and out of the darkness of the cave. Came out to love, to pain, to danger---to life in all its messy glory. May God grant us the courage to do likewise.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

It is Valentine Season

I wrote this essay 4 years ago, and I even submitted it to Literary Mama once. The editor there said that she liked it---but that it was too short. Would I consider expanding it? But I had said everything I wanted to say, so I just filed it away.

But I've always loved it...and now I have a place to put it.


It is Valentine season, and my office is covered in construction paper and glitter glue. My 5-year-old son is making valentines for his 18 classmates, and each one must get just the “right” valentine.

At 5, he hasn’t reached the stage where he understands that some valentines send the wrong message. At this point, it’s all about decoration. “Mom, I’m a great artist AND a great decorator, aren’t I?” “You bet,” I tell him.

He’s still so innocent, my little one. I’m ashamed to admit that I told him he might want to reconsider sending pink valentines to the boys. It seemed such a denial of my feminism. But there are boys in his class who have older brothers and sisters, and who know—for a fact—that boys don’t like pink. I feel shaky when I think of his hard work being shunned because it isn’t the right color.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, humming and talking quietly to himself—an artist dedicated to his craft. He cuts fancy shapes with the scrapbooking scissors and punches holes with the heart- and star-shaped cutters I bought especially for this project. He dabs glitter glue with the precision of a surgeon—and then squeezes huge puddles of it with reckless abandon. His head is filled with visions of the party to come, and of all the valentines that he will receive from his friends. He is one happy camper.

Valentine’s parties at school hold very few happy memories for me. I don’t remember all the valentines I got, or all the candy I ate. My head is filled with memories of all those agonizing decisions I had to make about which valentines to give to which kids.

My mother was not a crafty person, and our valentines always came from a box at the grocery store. I can remember going through the entire box to find ones that said the least about love and all that other mushy stuff. Those went to the boys. It was not cool to have any boy think you might like him—and special care must be taken to ensure that the fat or geeky boys didn’t get any ideas.

My own heedless cruelty saddens me now.

And there were all the years where I gave secret valentines to boys I loved—shoved them through locker doors, hoping no one would see me. Or sent them anonymously and then felt disappointed that no one could thank me or be glad that I wanted them.

My best Valentine’s day was the year my boyfriend and I gave each other the exact same Valentine’s Day card. “What are the odds?,” I thought to myself. Out of the thousands of potential cards, we had each chosen the same one. I took it as a sign from heaven that I had found my soulmate. On the following Valentine’s Day, he proposed to me, and we were married that summer.

Three years later, he came out of the closet, and our marriage was over. Now Valentine’s Day is always tinged with regret for me. It serves as a reminder that, even when you care enough to send the very best, the best may not be good enough.

But my son knows nothing of this. He is nestled in a pile of construction paper, his clothes smeared with sparkly stuff, and he says to me “These are GREAT, aren’t they Mom?!” His happy voice holds only the tiniest question, for he knows they are great—his messy, beautiful valentines. I have a brief respite before he will learn that not everyone is loved on Valentines Day, and not everyone will or can accept a gift from the heart. “Yes, sweetie," I tell him. " These are the greatest valentines ever!”

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Demon 1, Doxy 0

I've injured my knee, so the running is on hiatus for a while.

But if he thinks he's beaten me, he's sorely mistaken.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Racing the Noonday Demon

I never understood runners.

I never believed them when they tried to tell me about the highs that running offers. I thought they were a group of closeted masochists, able to indulge their particular perversion because they had somehow convinced people that running was “healthy.”

I know this will reflect poorly on me, but…I experienced some real schadenfreude back in 1984, when running guru Jim Fixx, author of The Complete Book of Running, dropped dead of a heart attack. He was only 52, and he died while running. I actually said “Now I never have to do that. If it couldn’t save him, whom could it save?”

Apparently, there is more to being saved than living until you are 80.

I always hated to exercise—I am uncoordinated and I hate to sweat with the white-hot passion of a thousand burning suns. I could find 10,000 excuses to avoid anything remotely physical.

But last winter, I started walking 3 miles three days a week, mostly in a desperate attempt to stave off the 40s “spread” I was experiencing. I quickly realized how much better I felt on the mornings I walked. Over the summer, I moved up to 5 days a week. And recently, I added another mile. I’m pretty religious about doing it.

Now I’ve started to run.

Just short stretches--I’m 42, not 22. I doubt I’ll ever be marathon material…but someone I admire told me that running was one of the things that helped to cure his depression.

I figured it was worth a try.

You would laugh if you could see me pounding the pavement in those last few moments before dawn arrives. I’m sure I look ludicrous—-a middle-aged woman in baggy sweatpants, lurching gracelessly forward, panting and gasping for air.

But I am racing the noonday demon, and in the morning I have a head-start on him.

I have come to relish the pain of running—-the struggle to breathe, the knife-edge of indrawn air ripping into my lungs, the pounding of my heart against the wall of my chest. These things hurt less than the things the demon whispers in my ears—-that life is pointless, faith is ludicrous, love is a mirage.

This pain is clean and sharp—-a good and holy pain that cleanses and heals. Running does not leave the jagged wounds that the demon inflicts—-does not leave me full of doubt and despair, a void into which every dark thought ever whispered pours in like the tide.

The demon is slow, and I can outrun him in the mornings. But he is relentless. I do not yet have the stamina to stay ahead of him all day. By the time dusk comes, he has drained the color out of the world and unleashed a cacophony of laments that drowns out music, the call of birds, and children’s laughter.

But I can sense that he is vulnerable. He is not happy that I run. He tries very hard to tempt me into giving up, but—-perverse woman that I am-—I have become more determined.

I will keep running. I will race him. And one day I will win.

Because there is grace in that kind of pain, and hope, and salvation. I can feel it, rising up through the pavement as my shoes hit the ground. I will keep running, one foot in front of the other, until I can look behind me and see nothing but the empty road.