It may surprise my readers to know that I am a sensualist - in the broadest sense of the word (i.e., I'd use 'sensuousist' if it existed). I'm pretty well known for being sensible, wearing t-shirts and trousers, making pragmatic purchases - quick, utilitarian meals; towels that do the job; anything I need, rather than things I might want. I've only ever had one manicure, and I get my hair done whenever I remember - about once a year, to my stylist's deep chagrin. I usually wait for birthdays and Christmas to get those little luxuries from Lush or for Rachel to drag me out to a Monsoon sale and force me to buy something pretty, fitted or in silk.
Trinny and Susannah would LOVE to get their hands on my wardrobe.
Nor am I one for having a man in my life just because, which means I've spent most of my adult life as a singleton - so much so that one of my friends once admitted to considering me 'asexual' (when I reported the conversation to a male friend, he bent over double and laughed hysterically for about five minutes, much to my gratification). I love sex and the feeling of being coupled up (perceptively noted by a university friend who said, "You're one of those people made to go through life two by two"), but it's only worth it if he's someone I can talk to into the night about my hopes, dreams and fears and if I fancy the pants off him - what Cosmo rightfully calls a 'love and lust partner'. Love is meant to be lush, ever growing and, to borrow a phrase from Gill Edwards, "wild and sacred". If it's not that, I'll pass - I quite like my own company and that of my good friends, and I'm not here to trap or tame myself or anyone else.
So, at a quick glance, I can seem very practical, analytical, even spiritual to some - someone who would happily bypass her senses and live out of body, if she could.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
That's why I was delighted to discover this blog, which made me feel like I'd met a kindred spirit. Having grown up in a Muslim family, then converting to Catholicism, my sensuality was first underdeveloped and then placed firmly under wraps in order to survive, then to fit a particular mould. No more. We're done here.
Perhaps I was ready anyway, but reading Sensuous Wife's blog felt like having permission to let my sensualist out of the closet permanently: Confiteor Deo, that I too love burying my hands in soft towels at the store and the feel of coconut oil on my skin. And yes, I've been known to wear pretty lingerie under my mundane t-shirts. In addition, I love burying my face in a bunch of red roses and inhaling; savouring the taste of a murgh korai; the feel of my hair as it tumbles down my back when I let it down; the sound of Handel drifting through the church; looking at a Vermeer.
But above all, I love the feel of a lover pulling my naked body towards his as he drifts off to sleep.
Thank you, Sensuous wife, and to answer your question "Sex as worship?"
Abso - bloody - lutely.
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
Sunday, 17 June 2007
The Cardinal vs Amnesty International
I owe His Eminence a huge "thank you".
Thursday, I saw this story in the Guardian, and put my head in my hands over the Vatican. Again.
"A senior Vatican cardinal said yesterday that Catholics should stop donating to human rights group Amnesty International because of its new policy advocating abortion rights for women if they had been raped, were a victim of incest or faced health risks."
This isn't a pro-choice move. It's about what happens to women in the areas that Amnesty International works. What if it had been his mother, his sister, his niece who had been raped? Certainly the Church would support it in the LAST instance, if only because of 'double jeopardy' (*cringe*), and most priests would understand and forgive it in the first two instances.
One of the things that fascinated me about this was the Catholic journalism. Time and again, the Church whinges on about how the secular media 'misrepresents' them. To save you the trouble of trolling through it, with the exception of The Tablet, most Catholic journalism is rich in hysterical hand-wringing and tabloid reporting and poor on real facts and genuine, thoughtful analysis. Catholic News printed this about the Amnesty International debate:
"With its new stance supporting the legalization of abortion around the world, Amnesty International "has betrayed its mission," said Cardinal Renato Martino, president of the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, in an e-mail interview with the National Catholic Register."
Go on, tell it like it is, Catholic journalists. Be that beacon of shining journalism the BBC, Washington Post and New York Times aren't, just telling us the facts and not sensationalising it at all, won't you? In fact, Martino himself can help you along...
Cardinal Martino said that by its new policy Amnesty International "has betrayed all of its faithful supporters throughout the years, both individuals and organizations, who have trusted AI for its integral mission of promoting and protecting human rights."
Let me get this straight: supporting abortion as an option for a woman who has been raped, the victim of incest or whose health is in danger qualifies as decriminalising abortion and *betraying* the Catholic Church and men like Daniel Berrigan who SUPPORTED Roe v Wade? If we want to discuss the meaning of betrayal, I have a few words for you, Cardinal Martino: paedophile priests, cover up, Bernard Law.
Something is rotten in the Vatican city-state. This smells like an excuse for something else, and I think Mick Arran has put his finger on it:
This is payback for all the grief AI has given the Church over its either outright support of dictatorial regimes as long as they left Catholics alone, or its quiescence in the face of massive human rights violations in Catholic countries, especially in the Americas.
Ah. Yes. That may be speculation, but it fits the rabid reaction of Cardinal Martino far better than a simple, explainable shift of AI towards allowing abortions for women in those few cases. Having watched the Vatican's behaviour with some interest over the last decade or so, it's plausible. The drive against communism, the chirping up against human right violations have only happened when the Church was unable to function in those countries. It never had anything to do with global human rights or human suffering, except through exceptional individuals like Denis Hurley or Oscar Romero. Not once.
No one has done more for human rights around the world regardless of colour, religion, nationality than AI. That means it has done more of Christ's work than our esteemed Cardinal, who spends his life living opulently and sitting on his ass bullying people to fall into line.
A little time in Darfur might not hurt him any.
""The inevitable consequence of this decision," according to the cardinal, "will be the suspension of any financing to Amnesty on the part of Catholic organisations and also individual Catholics,""
That is what I need to thank him for, because I had to decide what I really believe. Finally, after years of twisting my integrity to try to assimilate ridiculous pronouncements from the Vatican, my integrity snapped back. It was time to take a stand.
I joined Amnesty International.
Thursday, I saw this story in the Guardian, and put my head in my hands over the Vatican. Again.
"A senior Vatican cardinal said yesterday that Catholics should stop donating to human rights group Amnesty International because of its new policy advocating abortion rights for women if they had been raped, were a victim of incest or faced health risks."
This isn't a pro-choice move. It's about what happens to women in the areas that Amnesty International works. What if it had been his mother, his sister, his niece who had been raped? Certainly the Church would support it in the LAST instance, if only because of 'double jeopardy' (*cringe*), and most priests would understand and forgive it in the first two instances.
One of the things that fascinated me about this was the Catholic journalism. Time and again, the Church whinges on about how the secular media 'misrepresents' them. To save you the trouble of trolling through it, with the exception of The Tablet, most Catholic journalism is rich in hysterical hand-wringing and tabloid reporting and poor on real facts and genuine, thoughtful analysis. Catholic News printed this about the Amnesty International debate:
"With its new stance supporting the legalization of abortion around the world, Amnesty International "has betrayed its mission," said Cardinal Renato Martino, president of the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, in an e-mail interview with the National Catholic Register."
Go on, tell it like it is, Catholic journalists. Be that beacon of shining journalism the BBC, Washington Post and New York Times aren't, just telling us the facts and not sensationalising it at all, won't you? In fact, Martino himself can help you along...
Cardinal Martino said that by its new policy Amnesty International "has betrayed all of its faithful supporters throughout the years, both individuals and organizations, who have trusted AI for its integral mission of promoting and protecting human rights."
Let me get this straight: supporting abortion as an option for a woman who has been raped, the victim of incest or whose health is in danger qualifies as decriminalising abortion and *betraying* the Catholic Church and men like Daniel Berrigan who SUPPORTED Roe v Wade? If we want to discuss the meaning of betrayal, I have a few words for you, Cardinal Martino: paedophile priests, cover up, Bernard Law.
Something is rotten in the Vatican city-state. This smells like an excuse for something else, and I think Mick Arran has put his finger on it:
This is payback for all the grief AI has given the Church over its either outright support of dictatorial regimes as long as they left Catholics alone, or its quiescence in the face of massive human rights violations in Catholic countries, especially in the Americas.
Ah. Yes. That may be speculation, but it fits the rabid reaction of Cardinal Martino far better than a simple, explainable shift of AI towards allowing abortions for women in those few cases. Having watched the Vatican's behaviour with some interest over the last decade or so, it's plausible. The drive against communism, the chirping up against human right violations have only happened when the Church was unable to function in those countries. It never had anything to do with global human rights or human suffering, except through exceptional individuals like Denis Hurley or Oscar Romero. Not once.
No one has done more for human rights around the world regardless of colour, religion, nationality than AI. That means it has done more of Christ's work than our esteemed Cardinal, who spends his life living opulently and sitting on his ass bullying people to fall into line.
A little time in Darfur might not hurt him any.
""The inevitable consequence of this decision," according to the cardinal, "will be the suspension of any financing to Amnesty on the part of Catholic organisations and also individual Catholics,""
That is what I need to thank him for, because I had to decide what I really believe. Finally, after years of twisting my integrity to try to assimilate ridiculous pronouncements from the Vatican, my integrity snapped back. It was time to take a stand.
I joined Amnesty International.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
The eternal female question
Mac's romance with Peyton Driscoll on CSI: NY touches on a topic that my friend Ruth and I discuss regularly: what IS it with men?
Peyton Driscoll (played by Clare Forlani) is the new ME and Mac's new bed partner. She is the most high maintenance woman on the show, her voice with a permanent mosquito whine, always in a panic and in need of reassurance. Perpetually needy and incapable of problem-solving when something goes wrong, you wonder how the hell she made it through medical school without dissolving into a puddle of girly tears when grilled by her professors.
Example: this week, someone she pronounced dead turned out to be alive. Whilst Mac held her hand and asked her - gently, it might be added - how it could have happened, you'd be forgiven for thinking that a swarm of mosquitos had arrived in New York a bit early when she replied, "I don't KNOW." When he asked how she checked someone was dead, she snapped, "Eight years of training and eight years on the job," before elaborating that she checked the pulse and pupils of said victim. She was so "distressed", how could she be so *wrong*?? "I began to question myself..." she hyperventilated as Mac held her hand and tried to comfort her.
Far from eliciting my sympathy, I wanted to slap her. Yes, of course, you're worried by the fact that you got it wrong, and you're doubting yourself. BUT SHUT THE F*** UP AND GET ON WITH IT. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, woman, you're a medical examiner who has supposedly dealt with some very difficult situations. Buck up and show some backbone. Sheesh.
And Mac, use the brain not in your trousers and realise that she has 'psychic vampire' stamped on her forehead. Walk away now.
Stella Bonasera, Mac's second-in-command, is an independent, warm, generous, tough woman who would have sat down with Mac over a cup of coffee and analysed what had gone wrong. Secure enough in herself not to let a mistake topple her, she works out what went wrong and how to fix it. On top of that, she takes care of everyone on the team, including Mac - they're close enough for her to fix his tie. When her ex-boyfriend turned out to be a psycho who tried to kill her in her apartment, she kept her head and ended up killing him in self-defence. When she's afraid she might have AIDS, she keeps on doing what she does best. No mosquitos in hearing distance.
She's a real woman.
And so the question is this: since the friendship between Mac and Stella really sizzles and is one of equals, WHY does he end up in bed with whiny Peyton, and why is this a pattern amongst men?
Everywhere you look, men end up with women who treat them like crap. One young man has been chasing a pseudo-intellectual Catholic climber for most of a decade. She won't let him sit next to her when she's praying; she hands him her coat whilst she goes off to talk with people she perceives as powerful or she feels she can manipulate; she talks to him like he was a disobedient pet dog. And he laps it up, despite the obvious pain on his face. Last time I saw him, I nearly put my hand on his shoulder after mass and said, "Darlin', walk away. She's an irredeemable narcissist. She wouldn't know real love if it hit her over the head with a processional cross."
And this story repeats itself over and over. And yes, it goes for women too.
Whatever the answer is - and it's different for every man - somewhere along the line, they realise they've made a mistake. Whether they're 25 or 75, they suddenly understand that what they had perceived as love was really need and had strings attached, and that they've been tamed, instead of becoming the person they were meant to be.
Love is meant to be wild and sacred. It gives freedom and nurtures growth; it doesn't restrict and force a certain shape. And it can only happen between equals.
One day, they turn around and realise that the Stellas of the world are where it's at, and suddenly, they want one. Problem is, they've married a Peyton.
That's ok, they say. We can still...you know.
Sorry, mate. Either you realise her worth when you see her, take her in your arms, cherish her and make her yours whilst you still can...
or get an inflatable doll.
Peyton Driscoll (played by Clare Forlani) is the new ME and Mac's new bed partner. She is the most high maintenance woman on the show, her voice with a permanent mosquito whine, always in a panic and in need of reassurance. Perpetually needy and incapable of problem-solving when something goes wrong, you wonder how the hell she made it through medical school without dissolving into a puddle of girly tears when grilled by her professors.
Example: this week, someone she pronounced dead turned out to be alive. Whilst Mac held her hand and asked her - gently, it might be added - how it could have happened, you'd be forgiven for thinking that a swarm of mosquitos had arrived in New York a bit early when she replied, "I don't KNOW." When he asked how she checked someone was dead, she snapped, "Eight years of training and eight years on the job," before elaborating that she checked the pulse and pupils of said victim. She was so "distressed", how could she be so *wrong*?? "I began to question myself..." she hyperventilated as Mac held her hand and tried to comfort her.
Far from eliciting my sympathy, I wanted to slap her. Yes, of course, you're worried by the fact that you got it wrong, and you're doubting yourself. BUT SHUT THE F*** UP AND GET ON WITH IT. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, woman, you're a medical examiner who has supposedly dealt with some very difficult situations. Buck up and show some backbone. Sheesh.
And Mac, use the brain not in your trousers and realise that she has 'psychic vampire' stamped on her forehead. Walk away now.
Stella Bonasera, Mac's second-in-command, is an independent, warm, generous, tough woman who would have sat down with Mac over a cup of coffee and analysed what had gone wrong. Secure enough in herself not to let a mistake topple her, she works out what went wrong and how to fix it. On top of that, she takes care of everyone on the team, including Mac - they're close enough for her to fix his tie. When her ex-boyfriend turned out to be a psycho who tried to kill her in her apartment, she kept her head and ended up killing him in self-defence. When she's afraid she might have AIDS, she keeps on doing what she does best. No mosquitos in hearing distance.
She's a real woman.
And so the question is this: since the friendship between Mac and Stella really sizzles and is one of equals, WHY does he end up in bed with whiny Peyton, and why is this a pattern amongst men?
Everywhere you look, men end up with women who treat them like crap. One young man has been chasing a pseudo-intellectual Catholic climber for most of a decade. She won't let him sit next to her when she's praying; she hands him her coat whilst she goes off to talk with people she perceives as powerful or she feels she can manipulate; she talks to him like he was a disobedient pet dog. And he laps it up, despite the obvious pain on his face. Last time I saw him, I nearly put my hand on his shoulder after mass and said, "Darlin', walk away. She's an irredeemable narcissist. She wouldn't know real love if it hit her over the head with a processional cross."
And this story repeats itself over and over. And yes, it goes for women too.
Whatever the answer is - and it's different for every man - somewhere along the line, they realise they've made a mistake. Whether they're 25 or 75, they suddenly understand that what they had perceived as love was really need and had strings attached, and that they've been tamed, instead of becoming the person they were meant to be.
Love is meant to be wild and sacred. It gives freedom and nurtures growth; it doesn't restrict and force a certain shape. And it can only happen between equals.
One day, they turn around and realise that the Stellas of the world are where it's at, and suddenly, they want one. Problem is, they've married a Peyton.
That's ok, they say. We can still...you know.
Sorry, mate. Either you realise her worth when you see her, take her in your arms, cherish her and make her yours whilst you still can...
or get an inflatable doll.
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
You know you've been watching CSI, CSI: Miami and CSI: NY too long...
...when you look at your socks after brushing your teeth and think:
"Hmm. Perfectly spherical drops of water.
Gravitational."
"Hmm. Perfectly spherical drops of water.
Gravitational."
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Finding meaning
There are moments when, after what seems like an eternity of being stuck, you begin to feel the flow. Pay attention to the earthquake, wind and fire, but don't be taken in by them. Remember to cover your face and step to the cave's entrance when you hear the "qol dmamah daqah" or the "still, small voice".
Today, the still, small voice came to me after lunch, when I brought up a box of books to catalogue, and to my great joy, discovered the Judaica jackpot, starting with the Artscroll Tanach series. I flipped open the third book I pulled out (Shir Hashirim, or the "Song of Songs") and my eyes fell on these words:
"This, then, is the deepest, truest meaning of the Torah's concept of 'Song'. There is a profound harmony in creation. Every part of God's handiwork plays its role in His design. Only one ingredient impedes it completion - man's lack of insight. When man fails to see the truth, the interaction, the harmony, then the song of creation remains unheard; because it is man's function to give it voice, it remains mute.
...
This song is constantly in man's soul. But there are only instants where he hears its notes - and then only when he brings belief in God to his everyday life on earth. If he can attain the height where faith is never-ending and he is always guided by its light, he will always hear the song in his heart.
...
This is the prerequisite of song: man's perception is that everything plays its role and so he must give expression to the song of creation through his own deeds and the song that flows from his soul." --(Shir Hashirim: an allegorical translation based upon Rashi with a commentary anthologized from Talmudic, Rabbinic and Midrashic sources, Brooklyn: Mesorah, 1979, pp. xli-xlii.)
Amen. After weeks of silence, I could hear and feel the music again.
Excuse me whilst I cover my face and go to the entrance of the cave.
Today, the still, small voice came to me after lunch, when I brought up a box of books to catalogue, and to my great joy, discovered the Judaica jackpot, starting with the Artscroll Tanach series. I flipped open the third book I pulled out (Shir Hashirim, or the "Song of Songs") and my eyes fell on these words:
"This, then, is the deepest, truest meaning of the Torah's concept of 'Song'. There is a profound harmony in creation. Every part of God's handiwork plays its role in His design. Only one ingredient impedes it completion - man's lack of insight. When man fails to see the truth, the interaction, the harmony, then the song of creation remains unheard; because it is man's function to give it voice, it remains mute.
...
This song is constantly in man's soul. But there are only instants where he hears its notes - and then only when he brings belief in God to his everyday life on earth. If he can attain the height where faith is never-ending and he is always guided by its light, he will always hear the song in his heart.
...
This is the prerequisite of song: man's perception is that everything plays its role and so he must give expression to the song of creation through his own deeds and the song that flows from his soul." --(Shir Hashirim: an allegorical translation based upon Rashi with a commentary anthologized from Talmudic, Rabbinic and Midrashic sources, Brooklyn: Mesorah, 1979, pp. xli-xlii.)
Amen. After weeks of silence, I could hear and feel the music again.
Excuse me whilst I cover my face and go to the entrance of the cave.
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
*Grin*
A friend on Facebook (not named Tim) has this as his profile picture, and I laughed so hard, people must have thought I needed the men in white coats.
Most of you will know the reference, though that wasn't what made me laugh. I immediately thought of my quite controlled, rather authoritative (occasionally -arian) friend Tim, who would never have a discipline problem in the classroom. Almost ever. He is capable of that kind of presence.
For those of us who count him as a friend, his wicked sense of humour prevails over the surface dignity...most of the time.
And when we need to remind him to slow down and take himself just that wee bit less seriously, there are pictures like this.
As Tim would say: "Fan-tastic."
Monday, 28 May 2007
You know you're kindred spirits when...
...you can exchange texts like this.
Background: I was eating chicken with chickpeas ("Murgh chana") at Masala in Dorchester last night when I noticed a perfect little ring of onion (as opposed to a battered 'onion ring') fitting snugly over a chickpea.
I texted: "Is thinking that a tiny ring of onion fitting over a chickpea makes it look like the tip of a circumcised penis normal, or am I just hopelessly naughty?"
46 minutes later, he replied, "Surely an UNcircumcised penis? The chickpea presumably is the glans...Happy birthday, btw!"
Background: I was eating chicken with chickpeas ("Murgh chana") at Masala in Dorchester last night when I noticed a perfect little ring of onion (as opposed to a battered 'onion ring') fitting snugly over a chickpea.
I texted: "Is thinking that a tiny ring of onion fitting over a chickpea makes it look like the tip of a circumcised penis normal, or am I just hopelessly naughty?"
46 minutes later, he replied, "Surely an UNcircumcised penis? The chickpea presumably is the glans...Happy birthday, btw!"
Monday, 21 May 2007
Finding Judas
Thursday night's "House" episode packed a kidney punch for anyone who is the friend, lover or relative of an addict. Our favourite television doctor, brilliantly portrayed by Hugh Laurie, a Brit who can do an American accent without sounding like he has a wasp in his mouth, is rapidly approaching the bottom of his downward spiral of (prescription) drug addiction. The sharp jabs we've forgiven because he was trying to save lives, the cynicism that amused, the crustiness that we suspected was an overlay for real humanity - all crashed over the line into irredeemable nastiness in the last episode.
Dr. Gregory House was an asshole, and I wanted nothing more than to pull him through the television and beat him up to within an inch of his life to make him see what he was doing to the people around him, especially those who cared about him. I'd have been equally happy if Lisa Cuddy, to whom House utters the unforgivable, "Good thing you failed to become a mom because you suck at it," had done it for me.
Someone on that writing team knows what they're talking about.
Nowhere is that clearer than in the depiction of how House's addiction affects everyone around him - from the pharmacist who dispenses his prescription to his best friend, James Wilson. House's unpredictable bursts of anger; his life revolving around obtaining the object of his addiction at the expense of everything else; the waning of his gifts; his inability to apologise when he realises he's gone too far will be eerily familiar to many. So will the portrayal of others walking on eggshells; involuntarily flinching away at his approach; their impotent rage; their loyalty, even when the person they became friends with or looked up to has disappeared down the black hole of addiction.
People who have never been close to an addict offer sweeping, facile advice: "Well, just stop spending time with him/her." "TELL THEM what they've become." "Why are you still friends with them?" Of course they need to hear the truth, but what good will destroying an already fragile ego do? And are you telling the truth out of love or to vent your anger and eliminate your own guilt? If they're not ready to hear it, will it do more damage than good?
However, staying with an addict shouldn't bring automatic applause. There are times when walking away and letting them fall is the best thing to do. The reasons for staying with your child, lover or friend aren't always noble. Sometimes you're afraid to leave because you don't know what else to do; sometimes you need to save someone; sometimes you feel guilty. Often, it fills a need to avoid your own pain. There are reasons some people are addicted to taking care of addicts.
That's not to say that one shouldn't stay for love or friendship: if you can keep your sense of self and firm boundaries, enter their darkness without being sucked in, and if you can still find the person you care for, then don't move an inch. Be searingly honest with yourself: motives are rarely pure, and this is no exception. Knowing that, if you honestly want to stay and can do so without losing yourself and becoming a martyr, you deserve that applause.
But remember: *if* they ever come out of the addiction - and it is only ever an *if* - you'll be building a new relationship. Your friend will either choose another addiction or will grapple with the underlying pain and be transformed. The shift in interpersonal dynamics will register a 10 on the Richter scale. No matter how patient, how caring, how understanding you've been, it will all matter: every lie; every broken promise; every time they were too self-absorbed to be there for you; every time they went for the jugular and never apologised because they couldn't remember what they'd said. Whether you admit it or not, you're hurt and angry. That can become a permanent barrier in the relationship if it isn't resolved with honesty and love.
But before that day comes, it's likely that even the strongest camel's back will break.
It is here that the scriptwriters' brilliance came through twofold: first, in the title, "Finding Judas". Aside from the obvious allusion to betrayal, it throws up real questions about Judas' motives: did he feel that Jesus was getting addicted to the power given him? That the attention they were drawing would bring about the extinction of their race? That he didn't go to the high priest out of greed, but because he felt he was acting for the greater good? Did he feel he was being faithless to be trustworthy?
" You've started to believe
The things they say of you
You really do believe
This talk of God is true.
And all the good you've done
Will soon get swept away.
You've begun to matter more
Than the things you say...
Listen, Jesus, do you care for your race?
Don't you see we must keep in our place?
We are occupied; have you forgotten how put down we are?
I am frightened by the crowd.
For we are getting much too loud...
And they'll crush us if we go too far.
If we go too far...
Listen, Jesus, to the warning I give.
Please remember that I want us to live." -Jesus Christ Superstar
This interpretation of Judas' motives makes it particularly appropriate that the person who goes to the detective investigating House isn't Chase, whom he punched; or Cuddy, whom he ripped into. It's his best friend, Wilson - the nice guy, the empathetic, caring one who didn't turn when his assets were frozen and his practice shut down by his refusal to incriminate House, but who had finally had enough when other people were really getting hurt.
We see him step into Detective Tritter's office, take a deep breath and say, "I'm gonna need thirty pieces of silver."
And one day, so will most of us.
Dr. Gregory House was an asshole, and I wanted nothing more than to pull him through the television and beat him up to within an inch of his life to make him see what he was doing to the people around him, especially those who cared about him. I'd have been equally happy if Lisa Cuddy, to whom House utters the unforgivable, "Good thing you failed to become a mom because you suck at it," had done it for me.
Someone on that writing team knows what they're talking about.
Nowhere is that clearer than in the depiction of how House's addiction affects everyone around him - from the pharmacist who dispenses his prescription to his best friend, James Wilson. House's unpredictable bursts of anger; his life revolving around obtaining the object of his addiction at the expense of everything else; the waning of his gifts; his inability to apologise when he realises he's gone too far will be eerily familiar to many. So will the portrayal of others walking on eggshells; involuntarily flinching away at his approach; their impotent rage; their loyalty, even when the person they became friends with or looked up to has disappeared down the black hole of addiction.
People who have never been close to an addict offer sweeping, facile advice: "Well, just stop spending time with him/her." "TELL THEM what they've become." "Why are you still friends with them?" Of course they need to hear the truth, but what good will destroying an already fragile ego do? And are you telling the truth out of love or to vent your anger and eliminate your own guilt? If they're not ready to hear it, will it do more damage than good?
However, staying with an addict shouldn't bring automatic applause. There are times when walking away and letting them fall is the best thing to do. The reasons for staying with your child, lover or friend aren't always noble. Sometimes you're afraid to leave because you don't know what else to do; sometimes you need to save someone; sometimes you feel guilty. Often, it fills a need to avoid your own pain. There are reasons some people are addicted to taking care of addicts.
That's not to say that one shouldn't stay for love or friendship: if you can keep your sense of self and firm boundaries, enter their darkness without being sucked in, and if you can still find the person you care for, then don't move an inch. Be searingly honest with yourself: motives are rarely pure, and this is no exception. Knowing that, if you honestly want to stay and can do so without losing yourself and becoming a martyr, you deserve that applause.
But remember: *if* they ever come out of the addiction - and it is only ever an *if* - you'll be building a new relationship. Your friend will either choose another addiction or will grapple with the underlying pain and be transformed. The shift in interpersonal dynamics will register a 10 on the Richter scale. No matter how patient, how caring, how understanding you've been, it will all matter: every lie; every broken promise; every time they were too self-absorbed to be there for you; every time they went for the jugular and never apologised because they couldn't remember what they'd said. Whether you admit it or not, you're hurt and angry. That can become a permanent barrier in the relationship if it isn't resolved with honesty and love.
But before that day comes, it's likely that even the strongest camel's back will break.
It is here that the scriptwriters' brilliance came through twofold: first, in the title, "Finding Judas". Aside from the obvious allusion to betrayal, it throws up real questions about Judas' motives: did he feel that Jesus was getting addicted to the power given him? That the attention they were drawing would bring about the extinction of their race? That he didn't go to the high priest out of greed, but because he felt he was acting for the greater good? Did he feel he was being faithless to be trustworthy?
" You've started to believe
The things they say of you
You really do believe
This talk of God is true.
And all the good you've done
Will soon get swept away.
You've begun to matter more
Than the things you say...
Listen, Jesus, do you care for your race?
Don't you see we must keep in our place?
We are occupied; have you forgotten how put down we are?
I am frightened by the crowd.
For we are getting much too loud...
And they'll crush us if we go too far.
If we go too far...
Listen, Jesus, to the warning I give.
Please remember that I want us to live." -Jesus Christ Superstar
This interpretation of Judas' motives makes it particularly appropriate that the person who goes to the detective investigating House isn't Chase, whom he punched; or Cuddy, whom he ripped into. It's his best friend, Wilson - the nice guy, the empathetic, caring one who didn't turn when his assets were frozen and his practice shut down by his refusal to incriminate House, but who had finally had enough when other people were really getting hurt.
We see him step into Detective Tritter's office, take a deep breath and say, "I'm gonna need thirty pieces of silver."
And one day, so will most of us.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
One gospel, two sermons...
This weekend, I had the experience of listening to two sermons on one gospel reading. I went to mass twice (polishes halo, checks horns to see if sharpening needed) - last night as a scheduled reader, this morning as a dutiful Catholic.
The gospel reading centred on the line, "Love one another as I have loved you."
Last night's sermon was given by an expansive American priest - his heart was in the mass and in the sermon and it showed. He started off by calling it a nearly perfect gospel reading: the only factor marring it was the timing - Judas had just left to betray Jesus. He then went on to state that loving one another as Jesus loved us wasn't the fluffy proposition it is often suggested to be, because loving as Jesus did meant following the way of the cross, not as in "my cross to bear", but dying those little deaths. He told us, "Think of the people who make you crazy." And he told us that loving them as Jesus loved us means explaining something to them one more time, listening to that problem one more time, letting them push us out of our comfort zone one more time: not rolling our eyes or whingeing behind their backs, but really being *present* for them in that time, in that place. And he even pointed out that when we talk to God, we might sound just a wee bit like those needy people we go on about (squirms uncomfortably).
It was a *wonderful* sermon. He acknowledged our feelings of annoyance and dislike as being human, but told us that we needed to move through them to something bigger, to seeing Christ in each one of those people that make our lives difficult. What made it really work was that it was something he was passionate about - and he was right in there with us. It was a sermon that said, "You're human, feeling that way is normal, but we're here to love one another, so push through it." It left you feeling ready to do just that.
Today, Fr Voldemort, in a sermon that would have kept Freud and Jung busy for months, went on about how, instead of feeling distressed when we feel nothing at church, we should feel relieved because "We shouldn't trust our feelings. Feelings are subjective." Well, so is your opinion. Frankly, my feelings have told me far more about what is really going on than my head ever has.
Love is action, he said. Not untrue. He used Mother Teresa as an example: "She found the poor repellent. But she reached out to them anyway." Now, I don't know if anyone else has a problem with this, but I do. You CANNOT see Christ in anyone *if you find them repellent*. They are mutually exclusive states. Love does not mean feeling a tight bond with someone, true, but it means that *you understand that they are a child of God* and acknowledge that in them - which means you *feel* respect, openness, interest in who they are and the stories they have to tell. Being repelled by them is in direct opposition to being open to them - love is far more than doing what you're supposed to. Mother Teresa has just fallen at the first hurdle to sainthood, and you've fallen into a Kantian fallacy, Fr V.
After that, on to the liturgy. "That is why we should guard against making our liturgy exciting and entertaining." London Oratory Choir, darling? They qualify as 'entertaining', and I know you approve of them. Followed by one of the best lines of all time:
"WE ARE NOT IN CHURCH TO ENJOY OURSELVES."
Leaving aside the argument that "daily life is your temple and your religion" (Gibran) and all you do for God should be done with love, warmth and joy, what is the resurrection about? Joy. So, really, yes, we are there to *celebrate* Christ, re-present Him in the Eucharist and enjoy our fellowship, whether we choose evangelical services or a Latin Mass.
To round it off, Voldemort destroyed his entire argument by using Our Lady at the foot of the cross as the ultimate example - even using the phrase, "a sword pierced her own heart". News bulletin: *FEELINGS* DON'T GET DEEPER THAN THAT. Her grief must have been beyond anything someone who isn't a parent can understand. And even though she *loved* her son (with feelings, just to clarify), she *let him go* and engaged with everything his life brought her: joy, worry, the everyday blessings and the sword. She felt every inch of it, and was transformed as a result.
And don't you think that *Jesus* felt that love for us? In what moment in the Gospel do you see him repelled by the poor, the lepers, the adultress, the marginalised?
THAT is your mistake, Fr V. The way to love is to *engage* your feelings, not deny them, as you do, and insist that we should. The way to love is to grow *through* them: the anger, the pain, the hurt, the joy, the grief that are all part of our human experience, and rightly so. "Doing it anyway" should be a stage, not a way of life. Spiritual dryness, the same. To be fully human, we need rain to grow - and we need to be that rain for others.
Of course, this sermon took this particular angle because it is Fr Voldemort's way of being, his particular struggle. And to him I would say this: because you hold feelings in fear and contempt, your feelings own you. Every day, more of the anger leaks out round the edges of that cool surface persona, and takes away a little more of the man you could become. Don't let it destroy you.
I know you don't want to hear it, that you will dismiss it. But I say it because you are my brother in Christ, and even though you drive me crazy, I'm feeling the love right now...
The gospel reading centred on the line, "Love one another as I have loved you."
Last night's sermon was given by an expansive American priest - his heart was in the mass and in the sermon and it showed. He started off by calling it a nearly perfect gospel reading: the only factor marring it was the timing - Judas had just left to betray Jesus. He then went on to state that loving one another as Jesus loved us wasn't the fluffy proposition it is often suggested to be, because loving as Jesus did meant following the way of the cross, not as in "my cross to bear", but dying those little deaths. He told us, "Think of the people who make you crazy." And he told us that loving them as Jesus loved us means explaining something to them one more time, listening to that problem one more time, letting them push us out of our comfort zone one more time: not rolling our eyes or whingeing behind their backs, but really being *present* for them in that time, in that place. And he even pointed out that when we talk to God, we might sound just a wee bit like those needy people we go on about (squirms uncomfortably).
It was a *wonderful* sermon. He acknowledged our feelings of annoyance and dislike as being human, but told us that we needed to move through them to something bigger, to seeing Christ in each one of those people that make our lives difficult. What made it really work was that it was something he was passionate about - and he was right in there with us. It was a sermon that said, "You're human, feeling that way is normal, but we're here to love one another, so push through it." It left you feeling ready to do just that.
Today, Fr Voldemort, in a sermon that would have kept Freud and Jung busy for months, went on about how, instead of feeling distressed when we feel nothing at church, we should feel relieved because "We shouldn't trust our feelings. Feelings are subjective." Well, so is your opinion. Frankly, my feelings have told me far more about what is really going on than my head ever has.
Love is action, he said. Not untrue. He used Mother Teresa as an example: "She found the poor repellent. But she reached out to them anyway." Now, I don't know if anyone else has a problem with this, but I do. You CANNOT see Christ in anyone *if you find them repellent*. They are mutually exclusive states. Love does not mean feeling a tight bond with someone, true, but it means that *you understand that they are a child of God* and acknowledge that in them - which means you *feel* respect, openness, interest in who they are and the stories they have to tell. Being repelled by them is in direct opposition to being open to them - love is far more than doing what you're supposed to. Mother Teresa has just fallen at the first hurdle to sainthood, and you've fallen into a Kantian fallacy, Fr V.
After that, on to the liturgy. "That is why we should guard against making our liturgy exciting and entertaining." London Oratory Choir, darling? They qualify as 'entertaining', and I know you approve of them. Followed by one of the best lines of all time:
"WE ARE NOT IN CHURCH TO ENJOY OURSELVES."
Leaving aside the argument that "daily life is your temple and your religion" (Gibran) and all you do for God should be done with love, warmth and joy, what is the resurrection about? Joy. So, really, yes, we are there to *celebrate* Christ, re-present Him in the Eucharist and enjoy our fellowship, whether we choose evangelical services or a Latin Mass.
To round it off, Voldemort destroyed his entire argument by using Our Lady at the foot of the cross as the ultimate example - even using the phrase, "a sword pierced her own heart". News bulletin: *FEELINGS* DON'T GET DEEPER THAN THAT. Her grief must have been beyond anything someone who isn't a parent can understand. And even though she *loved* her son (with feelings, just to clarify), she *let him go* and engaged with everything his life brought her: joy, worry, the everyday blessings and the sword. She felt every inch of it, and was transformed as a result.
And don't you think that *Jesus* felt that love for us? In what moment in the Gospel do you see him repelled by the poor, the lepers, the adultress, the marginalised?
THAT is your mistake, Fr V. The way to love is to *engage* your feelings, not deny them, as you do, and insist that we should. The way to love is to grow *through* them: the anger, the pain, the hurt, the joy, the grief that are all part of our human experience, and rightly so. "Doing it anyway" should be a stage, not a way of life. Spiritual dryness, the same. To be fully human, we need rain to grow - and we need to be that rain for others.
Of course, this sermon took this particular angle because it is Fr Voldemort's way of being, his particular struggle. And to him I would say this: because you hold feelings in fear and contempt, your feelings own you. Every day, more of the anger leaks out round the edges of that cool surface persona, and takes away a little more of the man you could become. Don't let it destroy you.
I know you don't want to hear it, that you will dismiss it. But I say it because you are my brother in Christ, and even though you drive me crazy, I'm feeling the love right now...
Saturday, 5 May 2007
Monday, 30 April 2007
Sunday, 29 April 2007
Give up yer aul sins...
Fr. Former Librarian popped in to do a library search with this DVD in hand, which piqued my interest. He allowed me to borrow it on the condition that it stayed with me and came back safely to him. Done.
Brilliant, brilliant stuff. I haven't stopped laughing through the seven episodes, based on Peig Cunningham's tapes of her students' retelling of Bible stories in the 1960s at Rutland Street Primary School in Dublin - found in a dustbin years later.
Cathal Gaffney and Darragh O'Connell knew a good thing when they heard it, and decided to make a short animated film - which took the film world by storm and was nominated for an Academy Award in 2002. Proof that the best work comes from keeping it real.
I'm particularly tickled by the interpretation of Salome's dance of the seven veils, and I love the animation, which still kicks CGI to Timbuktu. Enjoy!
Brilliant, brilliant stuff. I haven't stopped laughing through the seven episodes, based on Peig Cunningham's tapes of her students' retelling of Bible stories in the 1960s at Rutland Street Primary School in Dublin - found in a dustbin years later.
Cathal Gaffney and Darragh O'Connell knew a good thing when they heard it, and decided to make a short animated film - which took the film world by storm and was nominated for an Academy Award in 2002. Proof that the best work comes from keeping it real.
I'm particularly tickled by the interpretation of Salome's dance of the seven veils, and I love the animation, which still kicks CGI to Timbuktu. Enjoy!
Friday, 27 April 2007
To speak or not to speak, that is the question...
There has been a lot of discussion on various blogs about this well-intentioned move for a day of silence across the blogosphere on 30 April for the victims of the Va Tech massacre, and, by extension, for victims of violence around the world. Many people will be participating and are spreading the word.
A significant minority (at a quick glance) will make their voices heard on Monday, saying "no" to silence. Their reasons are equally well-intentioned: many people will go along with it as a fad, to feel part of history, to follow the crowd. Instead of falling silent, they argue, we need to speak out in rage: for gun control, against injustice, for the death penalty, against the system. At least one person has said that it will be "business as usual" at their blog. Good reasons, all of them. After all, talking (or typing) is what we do best.
But there are compelling reasons to remain silent, one of which is to acknowledge and bear witness to unbearable anger, grief and pain in a world that considers speaking of "healing" the day after a tragedy like this appropriate. We live in a world that runs away from its Shadow by repressing it or trying to reach a "higher level of consciousness" without going through the darkness. True healing only comes by being *with* our darkness and our pain, letting it crack open the walls around our heart, and allowing it to pass through us, feeling it fully.
Most of my readers know how much I love Judaism. I feel very strongly that Jewish customs acknowledge every minute of our lives here, light and dark, as holy - and sitting shiva is one of the most powerful, giving us room and ritual which allows us to fully live our grief and paving the way to healing.
From the keriah, or rending of the garments prior to the funeral service, deeply symbolic on levels ranging from anger at our loss to the halachic requirement to 'expose the heart', to the covering of mirrors and sitting on the floor, shiva gives us permission to leave the outside world behind and completely enter the inner world of our grief for seven days. The process is allowed to begin, unhindered by the demands of others, aided by their love and support.
Shiva is also salutary for those who visit the mourners. When they come to the shiva house, they are to sit down and take their lead from the mourner. If the mourner is silent, then they remain silent - no platitudes such as "He was in so much pain, it was a blessing," or "She's in a better place," the comments so often overheard after a funeral or interment. We believe them to be for the mourners, but they're really for us, because we are uncomfortable staying with someone else's pain and grief. Shiva makes us focus on their needs, not ours. It forces us to be still and listen, and doesn't allow communication to become a barrier to communion.
The time comes when we must all rise from our grief and enter the world again, renewing our commitment to life and allowing our hearts to heal once more. Life is a cycle, and the key to fulfilling our vocation of living it authentically and in love is to trust in the cycle and enter each part of it completely and willingly: joy and sorrow; happiness and anger; light and Shadow.
And so, even though the time will come to analyse how the tragedy at Va Tech could have been avoided and to speak out against our culture of violence and gun laws, that time is not now. Let us be with those families and friends who have lost those they love to unimaginable violence.
It is not yet time to speak.
It is time to pay a shiva call.
Wednesday, 25 April 2007
Fell off the wagon...
Oops, back to Personality Quizaholics Anonymous for me...
Your Love Style is Agape |
 You are a caring, kind, and selfless partner. Unsurprisingly, your love style is the most rare. You are willing to sacrfice your world for your sweetie. Except it doesn't really feel like sacrifice to you. For you, nothing feels better than giving to the one you love. |
Your Seduction Style: The Charmer |
 You're a master at intimate conversation and verbal enticement. You seduce with words, by getting people to open up to you. By establishing this deep connection quickly, people feel under your power. And then you've got them exactly where you want them! |
Monday, 23 April 2007
Grin
I have finally arrived! My post on limbo has needled a traditional Catholic blogger named "Simon Peter" so much, he has linked to it and commented on it from where I cross-posted it on "Emerging Women", and others have joined in, calling it nonsense. Bloody brilliant. One of the regular readers on "Emerging Women" linked to an earlier post and was absolutely lovely about it...but somehow, I didn't feel like I'd arrived until I'd been properly slagged off.
And bless him, he spells phonetically..."Wimmin", indeed. Wonder if he attends the Oratory here. I'd love to shake his hand and thank him. On second thought, probably a London Oratory type.
THE TRIDDIES HATE ME! YES!
*Does funky chicken dance and kisses own hand in self-congratulation*
Happy Monday, everyone!
And bless him, he spells phonetically..."Wimmin", indeed. Wonder if he attends the Oratory here. I'd love to shake his hand and thank him. On second thought, probably a London Oratory type.
THE TRIDDIES HATE ME! YES!
*Does funky chicken dance and kisses own hand in self-congratulation*
Happy Monday, everyone!
Saturday, 21 April 2007
Blessed be
Recently, I've been doing a lot of spiritual reading and trying to put it into practice. My Grandfather's blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen is one of the most powerful books I've ever read and will certainly be one that I will go back to again and again. In it, she talks about blessing life and allowing ourselves to be blessed by it.
Today, I finally understood that by heart.
My housemate went out with her boyfriend, asking if I would be staying in, as the cats were out and about. As I was just planning to faff about, I answered in the affirmative. She responded by asking me to get them back in if I changed my mind.
About an hour later, I felt a bit restless and decided to nip down to the shops about 15 minutes walk from us. The cats were in, so I shut the back door and headed out.
Just as I crossed the little street before the shops started, I stepped under a tree shedding its blossoms - a 'blossom storm', as I've always thought of it. An elderly gentleman in a hat stopped me, and looking up at the tree, said in a rich, Eastern European accent:
"You know, in Japan, when the cherry blossoms touch someone, they bless them." Then he looked directly at me and putting his hand out towards me, said, "And so, I bless you."
Heartfelt, freely and spontaneously given, it was one of the most powerful blessings I had ever received. A barrier I had erected against life and its flow through me gave way.
I looked back at him, the words "And I, you," caught in my throat. Instead, I simply said what I could - a heartfelt "Thank you." And I blessed him in my heart.
How he knew that cherry blossoms were my dearest delight of a Washington spring, that I needed to be able to receive, that I most needed the unconditional love and safety that a blessing offers, I will never know. And I don't need to.
I suspect it's that he allows life to flow through him - and life knows.
And so, overflowing with the love and gratitude from having been blessed, I pass it on.
Blessed be.
Today, I finally understood that by heart.
My housemate went out with her boyfriend, asking if I would be staying in, as the cats were out and about. As I was just planning to faff about, I answered in the affirmative. She responded by asking me to get them back in if I changed my mind.
About an hour later, I felt a bit restless and decided to nip down to the shops about 15 minutes walk from us. The cats were in, so I shut the back door and headed out.
Just as I crossed the little street before the shops started, I stepped under a tree shedding its blossoms - a 'blossom storm', as I've always thought of it. An elderly gentleman in a hat stopped me, and looking up at the tree, said in a rich, Eastern European accent:
"You know, in Japan, when the cherry blossoms touch someone, they bless them." Then he looked directly at me and putting his hand out towards me, said, "And so, I bless you."
Heartfelt, freely and spontaneously given, it was one of the most powerful blessings I had ever received. A barrier I had erected against life and its flow through me gave way.
I looked back at him, the words "And I, you," caught in my throat. Instead, I simply said what I could - a heartfelt "Thank you." And I blessed him in my heart.
How he knew that cherry blossoms were my dearest delight of a Washington spring, that I needed to be able to receive, that I most needed the unconditional love and safety that a blessing offers, I will never know. And I don't need to.
I suspect it's that he allows life to flow through him - and life knows.
And so, overflowing with the love and gratitude from having been blessed, I pass it on.
Blessed be.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Limbo in...erm, limbo
From Reuters:
VATICAN CITY (Reuters) - The Roman Catholic Church has effectively buried the concept of limbo, the place where tradition and teaching held that babies went if they died without baptism.
I'm sorry. Did I miss something here? "There are reasons to hope God will save these infants..." "Reasons to hope"? I don't need "reasons to hope" for those precious children and those parents, some of whom are my friends. I know. God is love - every baby is His most precious creation, and should one die when she has barely touched this Earth, who could believe that He would do *anything* other than sweep that soul back up into His arms?
Only people who had never loved anyone deeply could possibly assume otherwise and even dream of creating a place like limbo.
You may ask, and rightly so, "*Why* did they feel the need to come up with limbo?" Well, if the Church allowed unbaptised babies to go straight to heaven, the next question would be about good people who hadn't been baptised...and if the babies could go to heaven, then the door to heaven would be open for *them*, and what would be the point of baptism into the Church? Or, indeed, the Church at all?
Hmmm. Does that sound like a clarification of God's will? Or does it sound like a way of putting God in a box, of justifying the Church's existence? After all, if there are as many paths to God as people, with only "Remain in God, who is love, and operate from there" as the key principle...there's no need for organised religion or laws to keep the faithful 'good' and separate from their wholeness - whether it's their anger, sexuality, passion, or pain. There is just a community of people, interconnected through their humanity and divinity, helping eachother on their way home.
No way of controlling anyone, of being more worthy than anyone, of having all the answers. That must be a frightening thought for those who are addicted to a priesthood of any denomination. Maybe even for all of us, much as we'd hate to admit it.
So, goodbye to limbo, which, like the Church that gave it birth, has an "unduly restrictive view of salvation." (The "If you're not in the club, you can't come into the treehouse" view of salvation, I call it. It's difficult to hate the Church if you think of the Vatican as a bunch of adolescent boys dressing up in red robes, making up ever more complex rules for their club. And actually believing that those rules determine how God, reality and the world work.) Good riddance. Aristotle, go on up!
And hello to the little ones looking down from heaven over the centuries who've been having a good giggle about this whole concept:
"You mean I nearly spent 75 years there? Blimey. Mind you, the harp playing IS getting a bit tedious..."
VATICAN CITY (Reuters) - The Roman Catholic Church has effectively buried the concept of limbo, the place where tradition and teaching held that babies went if they died without baptism.
In a long-awaited document, the Church's International Theological Commission said limbo reflected an "unduly restrictive view of salvation".
The 41-page document was published on Friday by Origins, the documentary service of the U.S.-based Catholic News Service, which is part of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops.
Pope Benedict, himself a top theologian who before his election in 2005 expressed doubts about limbo, authorised the publication of the document, called "The Hope of Salvation for Infants Who Die Without Being Baptised".
The verdict that limbo could now rest in peace had been expected for years. The document was seen as most likely the final word since limbo was never part of Church doctrine, even though it was taught to Catholics well into the 20th century.
"The conclusion of this study is that there are theological and liturgical reasons to hope that infants who die without baptism may be saved and brought into eternal happiness even if there is not an explicit teaching on this question found in revelation," it said.
"There are reasons to hope that God will save these infants precisely because it was not possible (to baptise them)."
*****************************************************I'm sorry. Did I miss something here? "There are reasons to hope God will save these infants..." "Reasons to hope"? I don't need "reasons to hope" for those precious children and those parents, some of whom are my friends. I know. God is love - every baby is His most precious creation, and should one die when she has barely touched this Earth, who could believe that He would do *anything* other than sweep that soul back up into His arms?
Only people who had never loved anyone deeply could possibly assume otherwise and even dream of creating a place like limbo.
You may ask, and rightly so, "*Why* did they feel the need to come up with limbo?" Well, if the Church allowed unbaptised babies to go straight to heaven, the next question would be about good people who hadn't been baptised...and if the babies could go to heaven, then the door to heaven would be open for *them*, and what would be the point of baptism into the Church? Or, indeed, the Church at all?
Hmmm. Does that sound like a clarification of God's will? Or does it sound like a way of putting God in a box, of justifying the Church's existence? After all, if there are as many paths to God as people, with only "Remain in God, who is love, and operate from there" as the key principle...there's no need for organised religion or laws to keep the faithful 'good' and separate from their wholeness - whether it's their anger, sexuality, passion, or pain. There is just a community of people, interconnected through their humanity and divinity, helping eachother on their way home.
No way of controlling anyone, of being more worthy than anyone, of having all the answers. That must be a frightening thought for those who are addicted to a priesthood of any denomination. Maybe even for all of us, much as we'd hate to admit it.
So, goodbye to limbo, which, like the Church that gave it birth, has an "unduly restrictive view of salvation." (The "If you're not in the club, you can't come into the treehouse" view of salvation, I call it. It's difficult to hate the Church if you think of the Vatican as a bunch of adolescent boys dressing up in red robes, making up ever more complex rules for their club. And actually believing that those rules determine how God, reality and the world work.) Good riddance. Aristotle, go on up!
And hello to the little ones looking down from heaven over the centuries who've been having a good giggle about this whole concept:
"You mean I nearly spent 75 years there? Blimey. Mind you, the harp playing IS getting a bit tedious..."
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Not such a bad position to be in...
Last Thursday, I took Rachel up on a dare.
She gave me one of the qoolest cricket t-shirts ever for Christmas. It's dark blue and in big black/white print reads:
"69-2
Not such a bad position to be in"
Rach dared me to wear it to church. I did one better. I wore it on a day I was going up to read.
I nipped into the sacristy to ask Fr Celebrant (a good friend) if he wanted me to do the sing-songy Easter sequence, and he answered in the affirmative. As I left to sit down for mass, he said, "I *read* that."
I looked back cheekily. "Yes, but did you *get* it?"
"Yes, I did."
A few minutes later, he toddled out of the sacristy to where I was sitting. I looked up expectantly, wary of the wicked twinkle in his eye.
"I meant to ask...is it just your t-shirt, or have you been there?"
Stunned, and grateful that blushes don't show up against my skin, I looked at him and said, "Been there, done that..."
In unison, everyone: got the t-shirt.
Wore it in public. To church.
He grinned and walked off, and to his credit, managed a straight face whilst I read. Fr Voldemort's face over the chalice was priceless. His eyebrows nearly reached the top of Our Lady's statue.
In a church where most of the parishioners are hooked on liturgy, sexlessness and humour deprivation like we wish kids were hooked on phonics rather than Xbox, it felt good.
Damn good.
And to the earnest American saying, "I can't believe the audacity..." outside church after mass:
Believe it.
I'm through pretending.
She gave me one of the qoolest cricket t-shirts ever for Christmas. It's dark blue and in big black/white print reads:
"69-2
Not such a bad position to be in"
Rach dared me to wear it to church. I did one better. I wore it on a day I was going up to read.
I nipped into the sacristy to ask Fr Celebrant (a good friend) if he wanted me to do the sing-songy Easter sequence, and he answered in the affirmative. As I left to sit down for mass, he said, "I *read* that."
I looked back cheekily. "Yes, but did you *get* it?"
"Yes, I did."
A few minutes later, he toddled out of the sacristy to where I was sitting. I looked up expectantly, wary of the wicked twinkle in his eye.
"I meant to ask...is it just your t-shirt, or have you been there?"
Stunned, and grateful that blushes don't show up against my skin, I looked at him and said, "Been there, done that..."
In unison, everyone: got the t-shirt.
Wore it in public. To church.
He grinned and walked off, and to his credit, managed a straight face whilst I read. Fr Voldemort's face over the chalice was priceless. His eyebrows nearly reached the top of Our Lady's statue.
In a church where most of the parishioners are hooked on liturgy, sexlessness and humour deprivation like we wish kids were hooked on phonics rather than Xbox, it felt good.
Damn good.
And to the earnest American saying, "I can't believe the audacity..." outside church after mass:
Believe it.
I'm through pretending.
Friday, 6 April 2007
"My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
It's Good Friday, the darkness before the dawn for the Christian church. The day that the Catholic Church feels most vulnerable, with every tabernacle bare of the Blessed Sacrament and Christ's comforting presence.
After the joy and comfort of the Pesach Seder that marks Maundy Thursday, the altars are stripped bare, the Blessed Sacrament is moved to the altar of repose, and darkness, grief and vulnerability mark the Church until the candle of hope is lit, at the beginning of the Easter Vigil. The Catholic Church embodies these phases beautifully with the Triduum - essentially one liturgy over three days marking each part of the story and the emotions that ensue.
I go to Tenebrae (Latin, "darkness") each morning of the Triduum, which is essentially Matins and Lauds, including the sung Lamentations of Jeremiah, psalms, readings, and an ending sequence that is spine-tingling. On Saturday, the Oratio Jeremiae is sung. It is a beautiful way to begin each day of the Triduum and focus on what lies ahead.
Today, Good Friday, is a day of brutality, grief, silence, numbness - and fear that the light of tomorrow's Easter Vigil may not come. In a superb sermon today, the celebrant spoke of visiting Rwanda, how there are some events that are beyond words, that we must grieve, but offer the action (in Catholic terms, mass) that Jesus has given us: "Take, eat; this is my body, which will be given up for you."
A few weeks ago, my friend Jan and I were discussing Christ's words from the cross, as she was writing some meditations for some Lenten concerts she was organising. "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" took up most of the conversation, as we talked about Jesus' emotions at that moment, and I said, in a flash of intuition:
"Jesus was angry. Jesus was angry at God."
As I listened to today's sermon, that conversation came back to me. We always talk about the grief of Good Friday, and well we should. But why is it that we always avoid the *anger* in those words of Jesus? We say, "See, he felt forsaken, so it's ok for us to feel that way. He's taken it on for us," or we talk about his momentary doubt. But we never talk about what one author calls his "anguished reproach" of God, the fury unleashed in Jesus Christ Superstar's Garden of Gethsemane:
I only want to say
If there is a way
Take this cup away from me
For I don't want to taste its poison
Feel it burn me,
I have changed -
I'm not as sure as when we started
Then I was inspired...
Now I'm sad and tired
Listen, surely I've exceeded
Expectations
Tried for three years
Seems like thirty
Could you ask as much
From any other man?
...
Why, why should I die?
Oh, why should I die?
Can you show me now
That I would not be killed in vain?
Show me just a little
Of your omnipresent brain
Show me there's a reason
For your wanting me to die
You're far too keen on where and how
But not so hot on why
Alright I'll die!
Just watch me die!
Many people were shocked by this portrayal of Jesus: we are so often presented with him as going meekly to his slaughter, and how like a lamb going to its shearing, opening not his mouth.
What, we expect this passionate man who had just upset the money changers' tables in the temple to go to his death without opening his mouth? He did, and boy, *how* did he. That anger, that reproach is embodied in "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
As a society, as a world, we have huge problems with anger: we see its destructive capability - emotionally, physically, globally, and we try to push it away, down into our Shadow, where we don't have to face it, hoping that the pressure of everything on top of it will turn it into some sort of diamond - we'll even take cubic zirconia, thanks very much!
Instead, it blows as explosively and predictably as Old Faithful, the geyser in Yellowstone Park, spraying everyone and everything in its path.
We forget that, as Jesus shows us in JCS's Gethsemane and on the cross, that an open, honest expression of anger can be controlled, *transformative* and often, the mark of an intimate relationship. Beneath Christ's anger lie the very human emotions of doubt, fear, pain, and dare we say it - a sense of betrayal: "I have done everything you asked of me, why *this*?" And it is Jesus' intimacy with God, His complete trust in God's unconditional love, that allows him to speak so openly of his anger, fear and pain.
We forget that burying anger destroys relationships. What if Christ hadn't expressed his anger and doubt to God? It would have put up a barrier between Him and God, as surely as it does in human relationships.
So why can't we face Jesus' anger with God? Perhaps because facing the fact that the Son of God was angry with the Father would force us to face the fact that *we* are angry with God - somewhere, somehow, to some degree. It would make us examine our relationship with God and force us to drop that barrier with God and let our relationship with Him transform us. And that's scary. It's easier to seek the mythical 'perfect' relationship that we imagine Jesus had with God, rather than the full, deep, passionate, authentic relationship He *did* have. It's safer to approach an asymptote than to fully enter into a relationship as our true selves, willing to fall as deeply as it takes to live it properly.
What we must remember is that Jesus expresses his anger from the heart - not to lash out, not to manipulate, not sideways towards someone it isn't really directed at - and that is why it is transformative: his hands and his heart are open, not clenched. He asks questions such as "Would what I've said and done matter anymore?", and uses words such as "sad", "tired" or "forsaken". It's between Him and His Father, and that's where He works it through.
And so, He moves forward, towards acceptance and the greater intimacy with God that is His at Easter, uncertainly at first:
Then I was inspired
Now I'm sad and tired
After all, I've tried for three years
Seems like ninety
Why then am I scared
to finish what I started
What you started
I didn't start it
God thy will is hard
But you hold every card
I will drink your cup of poison
Nail me to your cross and break me
Bleed me, beat me
Kill me, take me now
Before I change my mind
but later, with absolute trust after expressing His anger and sense of abandonment from the cross:
"It is finished. Father, into thine hands I commend my spirit."
May being completely authentic and vulnerable in our relationship with God - from the joy and love to the rage, fear and doubt - give us the courage to do the same.
After the joy and comfort of the Pesach Seder that marks Maundy Thursday, the altars are stripped bare, the Blessed Sacrament is moved to the altar of repose, and darkness, grief and vulnerability mark the Church until the candle of hope is lit, at the beginning of the Easter Vigil. The Catholic Church embodies these phases beautifully with the Triduum - essentially one liturgy over three days marking each part of the story and the emotions that ensue.
I go to Tenebrae (Latin, "darkness") each morning of the Triduum, which is essentially Matins and Lauds, including the sung Lamentations of Jeremiah, psalms, readings, and an ending sequence that is spine-tingling. On Saturday, the Oratio Jeremiae is sung. It is a beautiful way to begin each day of the Triduum and focus on what lies ahead.
Today, Good Friday, is a day of brutality, grief, silence, numbness - and fear that the light of tomorrow's Easter Vigil may not come. In a superb sermon today, the celebrant spoke of visiting Rwanda, how there are some events that are beyond words, that we must grieve, but offer the action (in Catholic terms, mass) that Jesus has given us: "Take, eat; this is my body, which will be given up for you."
A few weeks ago, my friend Jan and I were discussing Christ's words from the cross, as she was writing some meditations for some Lenten concerts she was organising. "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" took up most of the conversation, as we talked about Jesus' emotions at that moment, and I said, in a flash of intuition:
"Jesus was angry. Jesus was angry at God."
As I listened to today's sermon, that conversation came back to me. We always talk about the grief of Good Friday, and well we should. But why is it that we always avoid the *anger* in those words of Jesus? We say, "See, he felt forsaken, so it's ok for us to feel that way. He's taken it on for us," or we talk about his momentary doubt. But we never talk about what one author calls his "anguished reproach" of God, the fury unleashed in Jesus Christ Superstar's Garden of Gethsemane:
I only want to say
If there is a way
Take this cup away from me
For I don't want to taste its poison
Feel it burn me,
I have changed -
I'm not as sure as when we started
Then I was inspired...
Now I'm sad and tired
Listen, surely I've exceeded
Expectations
Tried for three years
Seems like thirty
Could you ask as much
From any other man?
...
Why, why should I die?
Oh, why should I die?
Can you show me now
That I would not be killed in vain?
Show me just a little
Of your omnipresent brain
Show me there's a reason
For your wanting me to die
You're far too keen on where and how
But not so hot on why
Alright I'll die!
Just watch me die!
Many people were shocked by this portrayal of Jesus: we are so often presented with him as going meekly to his slaughter, and how like a lamb going to its shearing, opening not his mouth.
What, we expect this passionate man who had just upset the money changers' tables in the temple to go to his death without opening his mouth? He did, and boy, *how* did he. That anger, that reproach is embodied in "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
As a society, as a world, we have huge problems with anger: we see its destructive capability - emotionally, physically, globally, and we try to push it away, down into our Shadow, where we don't have to face it, hoping that the pressure of everything on top of it will turn it into some sort of diamond - we'll even take cubic zirconia, thanks very much!
Instead, it blows as explosively and predictably as Old Faithful, the geyser in Yellowstone Park, spraying everyone and everything in its path.
We forget that, as Jesus shows us in JCS's Gethsemane and on the cross, that an open, honest expression of anger can be controlled, *transformative* and often, the mark of an intimate relationship. Beneath Christ's anger lie the very human emotions of doubt, fear, pain, and dare we say it - a sense of betrayal: "I have done everything you asked of me, why *this*?" And it is Jesus' intimacy with God, His complete trust in God's unconditional love, that allows him to speak so openly of his anger, fear and pain.
We forget that burying anger destroys relationships. What if Christ hadn't expressed his anger and doubt to God? It would have put up a barrier between Him and God, as surely as it does in human relationships.
So why can't we face Jesus' anger with God? Perhaps because facing the fact that the Son of God was angry with the Father would force us to face the fact that *we* are angry with God - somewhere, somehow, to some degree. It would make us examine our relationship with God and force us to drop that barrier with God and let our relationship with Him transform us. And that's scary. It's easier to seek the mythical 'perfect' relationship that we imagine Jesus had with God, rather than the full, deep, passionate, authentic relationship He *did* have. It's safer to approach an asymptote than to fully enter into a relationship as our true selves, willing to fall as deeply as it takes to live it properly.
What we must remember is that Jesus expresses his anger from the heart - not to lash out, not to manipulate, not sideways towards someone it isn't really directed at - and that is why it is transformative: his hands and his heart are open, not clenched. He asks questions such as "Would what I've said and done matter anymore?", and uses words such as "sad", "tired" or "forsaken". It's between Him and His Father, and that's where He works it through.
And so, He moves forward, towards acceptance and the greater intimacy with God that is His at Easter, uncertainly at first:
Then I was inspired
Now I'm sad and tired
After all, I've tried for three years
Seems like ninety
Why then am I scared
to finish what I started
What you started
I didn't start it
God thy will is hard
But you hold every card
I will drink your cup of poison
Nail me to your cross and break me
Bleed me, beat me
Kill me, take me now
Before I change my mind
but later, with absolute trust after expressing His anger and sense of abandonment from the cross:
"It is finished. Father, into thine hands I commend my spirit."
May being completely authentic and vulnerable in our relationship with God - from the joy and love to the rage, fear and doubt - give us the courage to do the same.
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