Thursday, April 23, 2009
Ireland, I hope
So, I have this flight to Ireland--Belfast via London--for Sunday, that I hope to be on. I checked the weather there--about 20 degrees cooler than Connecticut over the next week. Glad I did that, add a sweater to the suitcase...or wear it, sweating at Kennedy while taking off my shoes, explaining my c-path machine and mask I sleep with and hoping the walk through doesn't react to the two titanium rods in my arm where I shattered both bones in a car accident back in December of 2007.
But, before I go, I have a stress test tomorrow.
Some symptoms and the death of my wife's 50 something cousin from a heart attack caused me to go to my Doctor. I always go to the doctor when someone has a close call or dies. My visit--though my EKG, whatever that is--was fine caused my Dr to schedule the test before I left and give me a prescription for nitroglycerin which he told me "never to use". When I asked him why he gave me that if I should never use it, he said, "in case never arrives". I'm not real confident right now.
Have I told you before how "extroverted", in the Jungian meaning of the word, I am? I actually don't know 'what I think' about things until I say them outloud and hear them or write them down and read them. I drive introverts crazy. They, it seems, actually 'think' about things without having to say them out loud or write them down and read them. God bless them and their ability to do that. An introvert would never 'blog' about their stress test, though I suspect that from time to time even introverts need such an examination. (I don't know, I just imagine....)
So, just before departing for Ireland to lead a workshop I've been leading for years and have outlasted most of the other leaders to become something like a senior leader who's going to Ireland to lead it and train people to lead it so they won't need me and I'll have no excuse to go to Ireland (what sense does that make?) I'm face to face with my mortality.
I had a stress test several years ago because some people I knew had to have heart stuff done and I worried, since my whole world is 'outside' myself, that I might need heart stuff done too. It was fine, but since I had no symtoms other than friends who had heart stuff, there's no reason it shouldn't have been.
As a priest, by the way, I am always face to face with mortality. Priests and funeral directors (which is what morticians want to be called) come face to face with mortality all the time. I like almost all funeral directors, I really do. They share with me the constant face to face with mortality thing.
But Ireland is so green, so lush and the people are so much like me. I want to go this time and another and another again. I'd like to find a place in Ireland where I could go, not only with my wife, but with my children and just stay awhile. When I hear Celtic music, my foot starts going up and down and I hear a tune only my soul could know. My family never talked about 'where we came from' but I know, just from hearing the music and seeing the lushness and drinking the beer that my roots are there. It's in the DNA.
So, pray with me that the stress test won't send me to some hospital to have some heart thing done and I can go to Ireland on Sunday.
(I'm thinking nitroglycerin might be a handy thing to have around. I'll research it on the WEB, but maybe it will be a cheap high....That's my 1968 self talking, pay no attention....I won't be dropping it into Irish beer....Chill out....)
If I can I'll write on this silly blog from Ireland. I'm not taking a computer but I bet they have some there....
But, before I go, I have a stress test tomorrow.
Some symptoms and the death of my wife's 50 something cousin from a heart attack caused me to go to my Doctor. I always go to the doctor when someone has a close call or dies. My visit--though my EKG, whatever that is--was fine caused my Dr to schedule the test before I left and give me a prescription for nitroglycerin which he told me "never to use". When I asked him why he gave me that if I should never use it, he said, "in case never arrives". I'm not real confident right now.
Have I told you before how "extroverted", in the Jungian meaning of the word, I am? I actually don't know 'what I think' about things until I say them outloud and hear them or write them down and read them. I drive introverts crazy. They, it seems, actually 'think' about things without having to say them out loud or write them down and read them. God bless them and their ability to do that. An introvert would never 'blog' about their stress test, though I suspect that from time to time even introverts need such an examination. (I don't know, I just imagine....)
So, just before departing for Ireland to lead a workshop I've been leading for years and have outlasted most of the other leaders to become something like a senior leader who's going to Ireland to lead it and train people to lead it so they won't need me and I'll have no excuse to go to Ireland (what sense does that make?) I'm face to face with my mortality.
I had a stress test several years ago because some people I knew had to have heart stuff done and I worried, since my whole world is 'outside' myself, that I might need heart stuff done too. It was fine, but since I had no symtoms other than friends who had heart stuff, there's no reason it shouldn't have been.
As a priest, by the way, I am always face to face with mortality. Priests and funeral directors (which is what morticians want to be called) come face to face with mortality all the time. I like almost all funeral directors, I really do. They share with me the constant face to face with mortality thing.
But Ireland is so green, so lush and the people are so much like me. I want to go this time and another and another again. I'd like to find a place in Ireland where I could go, not only with my wife, but with my children and just stay awhile. When I hear Celtic music, my foot starts going up and down and I hear a tune only my soul could know. My family never talked about 'where we came from' but I know, just from hearing the music and seeing the lushness and drinking the beer that my roots are there. It's in the DNA.
So, pray with me that the stress test won't send me to some hospital to have some heart thing done and I can go to Ireland on Sunday.
(I'm thinking nitroglycerin might be a handy thing to have around. I'll research it on the WEB, but maybe it will be a cheap high....That's my 1968 self talking, pay no attention....I won't be dropping it into Irish beer....Chill out....)
If I can I'll write on this silly blog from Ireland. I'm not taking a computer but I bet they have some there....
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Spring's teasing
There have been two wonderful days in a row--maybe we could count Thursday and make that 'three'. The crocus and bluebells and jonquils are out in force, along with other flowers whose names I do not know. But there is this, when I checked the weather forcast on the web it seems things will turn cooler soon. Today it hit 70, but not for the next week, my personal weather people tell me. Alas, spring is not yet here.
Here's what I remember from growing up in southern West Virginia, in the mountains there--Spring lasted 4 months, as did Autumn and Wineter and Summer divided up the other 4. Far as I can tell, that is the year most people would love. So move to Welch or Kimball or Keystone or Gary or War or Anawalt, where I grew up. Jenkinjones as well, if you want to live somewhere with a longer name. That area of the nation could stand an influx of new citizens and their money, believe you me.
New England is a tease. I've been here for almost half my life, with a break between the first two years and the other 25. Winter is unrelenting and Spring never comes--I expect in mid-May we'll arrive at 89 degrees and 87 percent humitity having had a week or so of Spring. Fall lasts long enough to get the idiots from New York to drive up to see the colors (which are nothing compared to the two months of color in Anawalt, WV, by the way) and then collapses into sleet, snow, freezing rain and general unpleasantness.
I love the blue-state politics of New England and the progressive attitudes of the people north of NYC. But the weather, quite frankly, sucks. I've been going to Ireland every year for a while to lead a workshop and stick around for a few days. We were at this wondrous retreat Center in County Sligo, right on the north-west coast last year. In the course of an hour, it snowed, sleeted, rained and had glorious sunshine in April. Just like Connecticut except that Ireland is green most of the year and the weather truly passes.
I know that CT is nothing like our northern New England neighbors. I shouldn't complain. Winter is the dominant season up there, but at least they know how to deal with it. I actually don't hate winter as much as I did years ago. Something about building up a resistance to depression and vitamin D deficiency.
A friend of mine told me my blog was 'scarey' and my own daughter told me she thought it was 'near the edge'. So, today, I'm just talking about the weather. No harm in that, eh?
Here's what I remember from growing up in southern West Virginia, in the mountains there--Spring lasted 4 months, as did Autumn and Wineter and Summer divided up the other 4. Far as I can tell, that is the year most people would love. So move to Welch or Kimball or Keystone or Gary or War or Anawalt, where I grew up. Jenkinjones as well, if you want to live somewhere with a longer name. That area of the nation could stand an influx of new citizens and their money, believe you me.
New England is a tease. I've been here for almost half my life, with a break between the first two years and the other 25. Winter is unrelenting and Spring never comes--I expect in mid-May we'll arrive at 89 degrees and 87 percent humitity having had a week or so of Spring. Fall lasts long enough to get the idiots from New York to drive up to see the colors (which are nothing compared to the two months of color in Anawalt, WV, by the way) and then collapses into sleet, snow, freezing rain and general unpleasantness.
I love the blue-state politics of New England and the progressive attitudes of the people north of NYC. But the weather, quite frankly, sucks. I've been going to Ireland every year for a while to lead a workshop and stick around for a few days. We were at this wondrous retreat Center in County Sligo, right on the north-west coast last year. In the course of an hour, it snowed, sleeted, rained and had glorious sunshine in April. Just like Connecticut except that Ireland is green most of the year and the weather truly passes.
I know that CT is nothing like our northern New England neighbors. I shouldn't complain. Winter is the dominant season up there, but at least they know how to deal with it. I actually don't hate winter as much as I did years ago. Something about building up a resistance to depression and vitamin D deficiency.
A friend of mine told me my blog was 'scarey' and my own daughter told me she thought it was 'near the edge'. So, today, I'm just talking about the weather. No harm in that, eh?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Mountain folk
A successful corporate lawyer from D.C. decided he had enough money and had had enough of high-powered law, so he found a cabin in the mountains of WV about two and a half hours from Washington. For six months he went into the nearest two once or twice a month for supplies, cut wood, read all the books he'd been meaning to read, slept deeply and well, and discovered what a joy it was to be alone.
One day, there was the first knock at his door since he'd been ensconced in the mountains. It was a huge mountain man--6' 6" at least, about 300 pounds, with bib overalls, sturdy boots and a plaid shirt large enough for a sheet in the city guy's bed.
"Howdy," he said, "I'm your neighbor. I live 'bout three ridges over but there's a path through the woods to my house. My name is Jeb."
The lawyer introduced himself and shook the huge man's hand.
"I come over to invite you to a party at my house next Friday," Jeb said.
The lawyer was a little lonely after his idyllic months in the mountains so he said he'd appreciate coming to Jeb's party.
Jeb smiled widely, then grew serious, "I have to warn you, there's likely to be sum drinkin' at my party...."
The lawyer nodded. He had limited himself to one glass of wine at dusk and was ready for some drinking.
"'Sides that," Jeb said, "there mite be some fightin' and there'll almost certain be some sex...."
Even in Georgetown, strong drink had led to disagreements and senusal relationships, so the lawyer said he understood.
"Good," Jeb said, "I'll be watchin' for ya...."
As the large man turned to go, the lawyer said, "By the way, what should I wear?"
"Don't matter none," Jeb replied, "It'll jest be me and you....."
****
I'm mountain folk. I grew up for 18 years in the southern most county of West Virginia--MacDowell County, aka "the Free State of McDowell". I'm a hill-Billie, a mountaineer, an Appalachian (pronounce the penultimate syllable to sound like "latch"--it was the war against poverty and Walter Cronkite who decided it was pronounced with a long 'a'. We never said that.)
MacDowell County is about the size of Rhode Island and had, when I grew up there, about 60,000 citizens. Now it's below 30,000 and nature is taking it back, thank God.
People often think of me as Southern--about like referring to an Irishman as "British"--that bad. I've never understood the South anymore than, after most of my life, I understand New England. I am a stranger in a strange land.
My people were all, one way or another, from those wondrous two islands that make up the British Isles. Quite a bit of Irish, some English, Welsh and Scots blood as well. Family names give it away: "Bradley"--Irish or English, meaning 'broad lee' or 'wide valley'; Jones (adopted by my maternal great-grand father at Ellis Island to replace O'Connor because he and his two brothers had such a falling out on the boat they all changed their names so they could never find each other again), McCormick (pronounced Ma-Comik by my family for reasons I'll never know), Sadler, names like that. Scots-Irish mountain trash. So I am.
Have I mentioned yet in these musings that when I was at Harvard Divinity School I discovered the more I accented my mountain accent the more brilliant people thought I was? Anyone who talks like the Clampets on the BEVERLY HILL-BILLIES must be smart if he/she can say anything half-way intelligent.
People still acknowledge my accent though I've lived in New England for the last twenty five years and don't think I have an accent anymore. OK, I can not distinguish in spoken language between a writing implement and a small, sharp thing made from metal. "Pen" and "pin" are the same word to me. And I do say "in-SURE-ance", which is how it should be pronounced. A funny moment in Appalachian pronunciation: Once at a wedding here in god-less New England, I told the couple in my homily that "commitment" is what would 'cement' their relationship. Of course, I pronounce that quickly hardening mixture of material "SEE-ment". I noticed the couple was staring at me strangely and my assistant at the time had buried her head in her hands. So, since they hadn't understood, I kept saying it: "SEE-ment, SEE-ment, SEE-ment...." If you can't imagine what most people thought I was saying, leave me a note and I'll get back to you.
Mountain people are different from people who can see more than a hundred yards in every direction. There is an almost DNA 'narrowness' to us. We live in hollers and have to look straight up to see the sky. The world crowds in on us, even in the wilderness. We are surrounded, always, and can't imagine the vistas of other parts of the world. Driving across Indiana, I become, inexplicably claustrophobic...there is too much space to function in. We develop a remarkably wry sense of humor. Since life is so 'close' we are used to it. I can sit at the ocean and stare out for hours. Nothing like that horizon is familiar to me. I love it but it both frightens and delights me. Such space, such openness, such distances....
Jimbob and Bubba were out hunting, not far from where the DC lawyer's cabin was. Jimbob grabbed his chest, turned purple and fell over. Bubba took out his cell phone and, wonder of wonders in those hills, had bars. He called 911.
"My friend Jimbob just fell over," he said. "I think he's dead."
The 911 operator said, "the first thing to do is make sure he's dead...."
"OK," Bubba said, carefully putting his cell phone on a tree stump.
The 911 operator heard a rifle shot and them Bubba picked up the phone and said, "OK, what's the second thing?"
Mountain folk--they're my people.
One day, there was the first knock at his door since he'd been ensconced in the mountains. It was a huge mountain man--6' 6" at least, about 300 pounds, with bib overalls, sturdy boots and a plaid shirt large enough for a sheet in the city guy's bed.
"Howdy," he said, "I'm your neighbor. I live 'bout three ridges over but there's a path through the woods to my house. My name is Jeb."
The lawyer introduced himself and shook the huge man's hand.
"I come over to invite you to a party at my house next Friday," Jeb said.
The lawyer was a little lonely after his idyllic months in the mountains so he said he'd appreciate coming to Jeb's party.
Jeb smiled widely, then grew serious, "I have to warn you, there's likely to be sum drinkin' at my party...."
The lawyer nodded. He had limited himself to one glass of wine at dusk and was ready for some drinking.
"'Sides that," Jeb said, "there mite be some fightin' and there'll almost certain be some sex...."
Even in Georgetown, strong drink had led to disagreements and senusal relationships, so the lawyer said he understood.
"Good," Jeb said, "I'll be watchin' for ya...."
As the large man turned to go, the lawyer said, "By the way, what should I wear?"
"Don't matter none," Jeb replied, "It'll jest be me and you....."
****
I'm mountain folk. I grew up for 18 years in the southern most county of West Virginia--MacDowell County, aka "the Free State of McDowell". I'm a hill-Billie, a mountaineer, an Appalachian (pronounce the penultimate syllable to sound like "latch"--it was the war against poverty and Walter Cronkite who decided it was pronounced with a long 'a'. We never said that.)
MacDowell County is about the size of Rhode Island and had, when I grew up there, about 60,000 citizens. Now it's below 30,000 and nature is taking it back, thank God.
People often think of me as Southern--about like referring to an Irishman as "British"--that bad. I've never understood the South anymore than, after most of my life, I understand New England. I am a stranger in a strange land.
My people were all, one way or another, from those wondrous two islands that make up the British Isles. Quite a bit of Irish, some English, Welsh and Scots blood as well. Family names give it away: "Bradley"--Irish or English, meaning 'broad lee' or 'wide valley'; Jones (adopted by my maternal great-grand father at Ellis Island to replace O'Connor because he and his two brothers had such a falling out on the boat they all changed their names so they could never find each other again), McCormick (pronounced Ma-Comik by my family for reasons I'll never know), Sadler, names like that. Scots-Irish mountain trash. So I am.
Have I mentioned yet in these musings that when I was at Harvard Divinity School I discovered the more I accented my mountain accent the more brilliant people thought I was? Anyone who talks like the Clampets on the BEVERLY HILL-BILLIES must be smart if he/she can say anything half-way intelligent.
People still acknowledge my accent though I've lived in New England for the last twenty five years and don't think I have an accent anymore. OK, I can not distinguish in spoken language between a writing implement and a small, sharp thing made from metal. "Pen" and "pin" are the same word to me. And I do say "in-SURE-ance", which is how it should be pronounced. A funny moment in Appalachian pronunciation: Once at a wedding here in god-less New England, I told the couple in my homily that "commitment" is what would 'cement' their relationship. Of course, I pronounce that quickly hardening mixture of material "SEE-ment". I noticed the couple was staring at me strangely and my assistant at the time had buried her head in her hands. So, since they hadn't understood, I kept saying it: "SEE-ment, SEE-ment, SEE-ment...." If you can't imagine what most people thought I was saying, leave me a note and I'll get back to you.
Mountain people are different from people who can see more than a hundred yards in every direction. There is an almost DNA 'narrowness' to us. We live in hollers and have to look straight up to see the sky. The world crowds in on us, even in the wilderness. We are surrounded, always, and can't imagine the vistas of other parts of the world. Driving across Indiana, I become, inexplicably claustrophobic...there is too much space to function in. We develop a remarkably wry sense of humor. Since life is so 'close' we are used to it. I can sit at the ocean and stare out for hours. Nothing like that horizon is familiar to me. I love it but it both frightens and delights me. Such space, such openness, such distances....
Jimbob and Bubba were out hunting, not far from where the DC lawyer's cabin was. Jimbob grabbed his chest, turned purple and fell over. Bubba took out his cell phone and, wonder of wonders in those hills, had bars. He called 911.
"My friend Jimbob just fell over," he said. "I think he's dead."
The 911 operator said, "the first thing to do is make sure he's dead...."
"OK," Bubba said, carefully putting his cell phone on a tree stump.
The 911 operator heard a rifle shot and them Bubba picked up the phone and said, "OK, what's the second thing?"
Mountain folk--they're my people.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Final Belief
Ok, I'm trying to recreate what I lost because I'm an idiot the other day.
I'm starting at the end of that lost blog with a quote from the American writer Wallace Stevens that goes like this:
"The final belief is to believe in a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction, and that you believe in it willingly."
Go to your Bible and read the four stories of the Resurrection in each of the four gospels that made the 'cut' and got into the canonical scriptures. Remember this, Mark actually ends after verse 8 of chapter 16--the rest, every reputable scholar agrees, is a later gloss added to the gospel.
Read them all yet? If not, let me tell you this--they are like four different stories. The only constant between them is that it was women who showed up at the tomb on Easter morning. And why not? It is women who are always there when things are tough. But even the cast of women differs from gospel to gospel.
Matthew 28:1--Mary Magdalene and the other Mary
Mark 16.1--Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus and Salome
Luke 24.10--Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother James and the others with them
John 20.1 Mary of Magdala
So, go figure. Ponder that under your own Castor Oil Tree for a bit.
Always and only Mary Magdalene (of Magdala) who the Roman church besmirched for nearly 16 centuries before--a few years ago--admitting she wasn't a prostitute. Mary has her own gospel, well worth reading, and was considered to be 'the Apostle to the Apostles' by the earliest church. There are wondrous legends and stories about her after the resurrection that are well worth knowing about. One of which (via not only the DI VINCE CODE) is that she was carrying Jesus' baby when Joseph of Arimathea sailed off with her to France. Let that bit of esoteric stuff go, just remember that besides her, there is no consistency in the accounts of who first showed up to find the tomb empty.
Stop right there--that is the only consistent report of the four gospels...that it was women who discovered the resurrection...and even that constant is inconstant in the texts. There are lots of inconsistancies--guards or not, how many angels or 'young man in white' from Mark, 'don't touch me' vs. 'touching his feet', how the disciples figure in, etc. I'll leave them to you to make a list of--how many differences there are in the four Easter narratives.
Given that, I must admit I have no idea whatsoever about what really occurred on that long ago morning. All we are left with is 'story'--'fiction', if you will--about the most important moment in all Christian theology and devotion. We--you and I--conflate the stories into one and couldn't, unless you just read them (you did, didn't you, when I asked you to?) distinguish out the four stories that make up our 'fiction' about the resurrection.
Let me be clear at this point, lest I be thought to be heretical or worse: I BELIEVE IN THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS ON EASTER MORNING. Got that?
And my 'belief' is in a fiction, 'there being nothing else'.
Everything is a 'fiction', by my definition. Stuff happens and then we talk about it. The 'talking' we do about 'what happened' ISN'T 'what happened', it is the fiction we invent about it. Talk to your lover about your first kiss and I guarantee you that you that you'll end up with two 'stories' about what happened. Both are 'fictions', there being nothing else, about 'what happened' in that lovely, truly holy meeting of your lips.
Everything is like that. What we experience is NOT what we say about it to describe it to another. The domain of 'presence', the domain of 'experience' and 'happening' cannot be reproduced in language. Yet all we have to try to pass on that experience IS 'language'. And all language, I contend, is, by definition, "fiction". Language is a story we tell about what happened. I cannot 'give you' the experience of holding my newborn child for the first time. All I can do is tell you a story about that experience. "Telling the story" makes it a FICTION. That's what I say about it. If you disagree and think 'the telling' IS 'the happening' then stop reading now...please....
"The final belief is to believe in a fiction".
Easter is a fiction to me. I hope you can comprehend what I mean. "Something happened", but the four stories I have about it are all remarkably different. In one of them the dead are walking the streets of Jerusalem. In another, the Risen Christ looks like a gardener (he's been depicted in Western art many times with a farmer's hat and a hoe when he meets Magdalene!) In another story, he doesn't show up at all and the women fled from the tomb full of tromos kai ekstasis-- fear and wonder, terror and joy--however you translate it.
So, what we're left with is a 'fiction'--or four 'fictions' if you wish. If the folks who put together what we call the New Testament back in the 4th century didn't notice how disparate the four stories were, they weren't the greatest theologians and thinkers of the church we give them credit for being. I think they realized they were dealing with 'fiction' and left the stories out there for us to grapple with and wrestle with and wonder about and ponder.
So, when I say the Resurrection is a "fiction"--or, at least four "fictions"--I don't mean it isn't True. Fiction, as an old English major, is more True that 'fact' from the get-go. I'm just saying that for me--a Christian of the Anglican (more accurately these days, 'the Episcopalian' persuasion) I have finally come to 'the final belief'--the belief in a fiction, there being nothing else.
I don't even long for a video of Resurrection Sunday. I'd rather wrestle with the multiple fictions that have been handed to me as 'stories'. I don't want FACT, I enjoy fiction too much. Fiction gives me room to roam in my imagination and my ponderings and my wonderings and my faith. Faith, to me, is present in metaphor and simile and paradigms much more powerfully than it could ever reveal itself in substance and reality and 'don't question me' dogma.
The Resurrection is, in Wallace Stevens' words, "the exquiste truth" of knowing it is all a fiction and believing in it willingly. Just as poetry is more engaging than prose, for me, fiction is more the "stuff" of believing than fact could ever be.
"Alleluia, He is Risen! He is Risen indeed, Alleluia!"
What a life-giving fiction. Something to build a faith upon--and the final faith is to not get too attached to FACT. Let us celebrate the exquisite truth of the Fiction of our faith.....
I'm starting at the end of that lost blog with a quote from the American writer Wallace Stevens that goes like this:
"The final belief is to believe in a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction, and that you believe in it willingly."
Go to your Bible and read the four stories of the Resurrection in each of the four gospels that made the 'cut' and got into the canonical scriptures. Remember this, Mark actually ends after verse 8 of chapter 16--the rest, every reputable scholar agrees, is a later gloss added to the gospel.
Read them all yet? If not, let me tell you this--they are like four different stories. The only constant between them is that it was women who showed up at the tomb on Easter morning. And why not? It is women who are always there when things are tough. But even the cast of women differs from gospel to gospel.
Matthew 28:1--Mary Magdalene and the other Mary
Mark 16.1--Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus and Salome
Luke 24.10--Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother James and the others with them
John 20.1 Mary of Magdala
So, go figure. Ponder that under your own Castor Oil Tree for a bit.
Always and only Mary Magdalene (of Magdala) who the Roman church besmirched for nearly 16 centuries before--a few years ago--admitting she wasn't a prostitute. Mary has her own gospel, well worth reading, and was considered to be 'the Apostle to the Apostles' by the earliest church. There are wondrous legends and stories about her after the resurrection that are well worth knowing about. One of which (via not only the DI VINCE CODE) is that she was carrying Jesus' baby when Joseph of Arimathea sailed off with her to France. Let that bit of esoteric stuff go, just remember that besides her, there is no consistency in the accounts of who first showed up to find the tomb empty.
Stop right there--that is the only consistent report of the four gospels...that it was women who discovered the resurrection...and even that constant is inconstant in the texts. There are lots of inconsistancies--guards or not, how many angels or 'young man in white' from Mark, 'don't touch me' vs. 'touching his feet', how the disciples figure in, etc. I'll leave them to you to make a list of--how many differences there are in the four Easter narratives.
Given that, I must admit I have no idea whatsoever about what really occurred on that long ago morning. All we are left with is 'story'--'fiction', if you will--about the most important moment in all Christian theology and devotion. We--you and I--conflate the stories into one and couldn't, unless you just read them (you did, didn't you, when I asked you to?) distinguish out the four stories that make up our 'fiction' about the resurrection.
Let me be clear at this point, lest I be thought to be heretical or worse: I BELIEVE IN THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS ON EASTER MORNING. Got that?
And my 'belief' is in a fiction, 'there being nothing else'.
Everything is a 'fiction', by my definition. Stuff happens and then we talk about it. The 'talking' we do about 'what happened' ISN'T 'what happened', it is the fiction we invent about it. Talk to your lover about your first kiss and I guarantee you that you that you'll end up with two 'stories' about what happened. Both are 'fictions', there being nothing else, about 'what happened' in that lovely, truly holy meeting of your lips.
Everything is like that. What we experience is NOT what we say about it to describe it to another. The domain of 'presence', the domain of 'experience' and 'happening' cannot be reproduced in language. Yet all we have to try to pass on that experience IS 'language'. And all language, I contend, is, by definition, "fiction". Language is a story we tell about what happened. I cannot 'give you' the experience of holding my newborn child for the first time. All I can do is tell you a story about that experience. "Telling the story" makes it a FICTION. That's what I say about it. If you disagree and think 'the telling' IS 'the happening' then stop reading now...please....
"The final belief is to believe in a fiction".
Easter is a fiction to me. I hope you can comprehend what I mean. "Something happened", but the four stories I have about it are all remarkably different. In one of them the dead are walking the streets of Jerusalem. In another, the Risen Christ looks like a gardener (he's been depicted in Western art many times with a farmer's hat and a hoe when he meets Magdalene!) In another story, he doesn't show up at all and the women fled from the tomb full of tromos kai ekstasis-- fear and wonder, terror and joy--however you translate it.
So, what we're left with is a 'fiction'--or four 'fictions' if you wish. If the folks who put together what we call the New Testament back in the 4th century didn't notice how disparate the four stories were, they weren't the greatest theologians and thinkers of the church we give them credit for being. I think they realized they were dealing with 'fiction' and left the stories out there for us to grapple with and wrestle with and wonder about and ponder.
So, when I say the Resurrection is a "fiction"--or, at least four "fictions"--I don't mean it isn't True. Fiction, as an old English major, is more True that 'fact' from the get-go. I'm just saying that for me--a Christian of the Anglican (more accurately these days, 'the Episcopalian' persuasion) I have finally come to 'the final belief'--the belief in a fiction, there being nothing else.
I don't even long for a video of Resurrection Sunday. I'd rather wrestle with the multiple fictions that have been handed to me as 'stories'. I don't want FACT, I enjoy fiction too much. Fiction gives me room to roam in my imagination and my ponderings and my wonderings and my faith. Faith, to me, is present in metaphor and simile and paradigms much more powerfully than it could ever reveal itself in substance and reality and 'don't question me' dogma.
The Resurrection is, in Wallace Stevens' words, "the exquiste truth" of knowing it is all a fiction and believing in it willingly. Just as poetry is more engaging than prose, for me, fiction is more the "stuff" of believing than fact could ever be.
"Alleluia, He is Risen! He is Risen indeed, Alleluia!"
What a life-giving fiction. Something to build a faith upon--and the final faith is to not get too attached to FACT. Let us celebrate the exquisite truth of the Fiction of our faith.....
Monday, April 13, 2009
Holy Week and Easter Stuff (I)
ok, I wrote for almost an hour--breathless prose (I think) and lost it somehow. Will try again later. Just a teaser for the whole thing, something from Wallace Stevens--
"The final belief is to believe in a fiction, there being nothing else.
The exquisite truth is to know that is is a fiction and that you belive it willingly."
(I'll never reproduce what I wrote before and it is lost--woe is me...I hate computers....)
"The final belief is to believe in a fiction, there being nothing else.
The exquisite truth is to know that is is a fiction and that you belive it willingly."
(I'll never reproduce what I wrote before and it is lost--woe is me...I hate computers....)
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