Yes, it’s true. I am a tweeter. And while I gave up Facebook for Lent (for many reasons which I will enumerate after Easter), I didn’t quit tweeting. This morning, the Unvirtuous Abbey — one of those whom I “follow” on Twitter and “Like” on Facebook — has taken a vow of silence for this holy week. It’s a good thought, and I suppose maybe be connected to some of my practical and spiritual reasons for withdrawing.
Silence can purify. Sloughing off dead skin like a molting snake, silence shirks off the excess. Maybe it’s silence in what we put out into the world. For me, it’s been about what I take in. With thousands of images and ideas, articles and attitudes infiltrating my mental and emotional space, I must step back. I am now one of those weirdos who doesn’t watch TV. I still have one on which I watch my happy, little Netflix DVDs, but I’m the chooser of what flows through rather than some media mogul who opts for some trashy reality series rather than a good mystery.
Silence. I used to fill up every moment with sound. In college, we blared our boom-boxes. Sometimes, we aimed to drown out noisy neighbors upstairs or down the hall. Other times, the goal was to modify the frequencies of the train roaring by. When the years of forced loudness went away, I found myself hungering for the sounds of others. Some sort of media always kept me company. But over the past few years, I’ve preferred the echoes of my dog’s feet padding down the hall. Birdsong. Mowers of people down the street. Yes, even the cattle lowing under my bedroom window.
I have regretted the lack of interplay with other notions and experiences happening during my quiet times. I feel I’ve missed the magnitude of the earthquake, tsunami, and reactor’s vulnerability in Japan. I’m a bit numbed out to the ongoing economic crisis. For better or worse, I nearly skipped over the national budget crisis.
At some points, I think Francis Asbury was better off on horseback in the wilderness. But then, he would have lost wonderful conversation with Madame Russell, and many others. During this long Lent of silence, I’ve missed the easy, brief conversations with loved ones. So it is that I subscribe with gratitude to my friend J’s blog and ponder over her words and liturgies. Here she shares some thoughts on Holy Week with which I resonate. I commend them to you.
As for me, the silence will end, soon. Will it be too soon? Time will tell.
Certain seasons seem to require certain songs. Followers of Jesus tend to be cyclical people. Living through the cycles of preparation for and celebration of Christmas and Easter are common to almost all of us, whether we are a part of low or high liturgical styles in our worship, or even if we don’t worship. As we approach the days leading up to Easter, those cycles of songs and texts flow through me.
I often wonder what songs and stories go with people who don’t have a particular belief system. It seems that our culture creates its own cadence. New Year’s Eve/Day flow into Presidents’ Day. St. Valentine’s turns into St. Patrick’s but these are seldom observed as people whose lives witnessed to the power of Christ, but rather as opportunities for indulgence in red and green, chocolate and beer. The first Day of Spring, Easter, Earth Day, and May Day move us through the renewal remembrances. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Memorial, Independence, and Labor Day mark the high moments of Summer’s beginning, peak, and ending. Times of remembrance stir with the anniversaries of September 11, Veteran’s Day, and Pearl Harbor. We delight in the fun and frivolity of Halloween. The year’s end cycles closed with times for family and friends — Thanksgiving and Christmas. But is there a common story? Is there a common anthem for these patterned times?
Not too long ago, a dear friend of mine who has long been intrigued by the new movements of Christian music shared her thoughts on the matter. One day soon, all of the old hymns will be made new. Think of Chris Tomlin’s interpretation of “Amazing Grace.” When a movie by the same title was being developed, he was asked to tweak the beloved hymn. At a concert I attended back in October, he shared that he immediately said, “No way.” Can you imagine? Cries of sacrilege would raise up from the depths of Christendom that thinks all must stay the same. But then he started doing some research. He found out that even “Amazing Grace” as we had it up until 2006 had been edited. A new verse was added and the world didn’t implode. So, after much prayer and consideration, he added one transition: “My chains are gone, I’ve been set free. My God, my Savior has ransomed me. And like a flood His mercy reigns. Unending love, Amazing grace.” It’s in keeping with the character of the song and has served to convict many a heart.
The concept of Ancient-Modern worship is an intriguing one. All things are made new. Revelation 21:5 says: “Behold, I am making all things new.” Isaiah 43:19 says: “See I am doing a new thing. Now it springs forth; can you not perceive it?” I love adaptations and reclamations of the old. It pains me to watch people in worship bored to tears by the solemn sounds of old hymns, all the while missing great teachings on theology and practice of the faith.
So I’m hoping that one day before too long, someone will adapt “Go to Dark Gethsemane.” It needs to maintain the minor key and somber character, but it needs new energy so that people can connect with the power of the song. James Montgomery (1771-1854) penned the lyrics while good Richard Redhead (1820-1901) wrote the music. The song tells the story of those last moments of Jesus’s life.
Go to dark Gethsemane, ye that feel the tempter’s power;
Your Redeemer’s conflict see, watch with Him one bitter hour,
Turn not from His griefs away; learn of Jesus Christ to pray.
See Him at the judgment hall, beaten, bound, reviled, arraigned;
O the wormwood and the gall! O the pangs His soul sustained!
Shun not suffering, shame, or loss; learn of Christ to bear the cross.
Calvary’s mournful mountain climb; there, adoring at His feet,
Mark that miracle of time, God’s own sacrifice complete.
“It is finished!” hear Him cry; learn of Jesus Christ to die.
Early hasten to the tomb where they laid His breathless clay;
All is solitude and gloom. Who has taken Him away?
Christ is risen! He meets our eyes; Savior, teach us so to rise.
O the wormwood and the gall. It’s one of those lines that you can’t comprehend if you haven’t a) been around the church very long, b) don’t know context clues, or c) haven’t done a bit of bible study. Lamentations 3:12-19 does pretty well with setting the stage for what wormwood and gall convey:
12 he bent his bow and set me as a target for his arrow. 13 He drove into my kidneys the arrows of his quiver; 14 I have become the laughingstock of all peoples, the object of their taunts all day long. 15 He has filled me with bitterness; he has sated me with wormwood. 16 He has made my teeth grind on gravel, and made me cower in ashes; 17 my soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; 18 so I say, “My endurance has perished; so has my hope from the LORD.” 19 Remember my affliction and my wanderings, the wormwood and the gall! (ESV)
Afflictions. Sufferings. Bereft. Hopeless. Bitterness. Poison. Laughingstock. Taunted. A target. All of these get at what Jesus became as he took that cross upon his shoulder and then took his place upon it. Maybe that’s why current musicians haven’t touched it. It’s too dark and most praise and worship music wants upbeat hopeful stuff. I have found though, that Casting Crowns is quite comfortable confronting our brokenness and pain. All you need do is watch their video interpretations of their songs “American Dream” and “Slow Fade.” Talk about bitterness.
What songs and texts help you journey through the cycles you keep?
The Lenten Season is a time for reflection. Lately, I’ve been thinking back over the fact that I possess no memories of a time before I knew myself to be a follower of Jesus, a singer, a reader and lover of stories, or an artist. I contrast, I distinctly remember that I began writing in middle school. Angsty poems, love poems, broken-heart poems, God-praise poems. Stuff that turns my stomach now. Over time, I published various contributions in school literary magazines.
In graduate school, I wrote many liturgical texts, some of which were collected in a seminary publication. It seems that collection has been distributed widely because, from time to time, I find my texts at various churches’ websites or in their newsletters, such as this one from March 15, 2009 St. Pius X Parish:
O God of Wounded Hands,
who scoops us up out of lifeless clay,
who shapes us and sculpts us to reflect yourself;
O God of Wounded Hands, who breathes life into us,
who knows our limited humanness and becomes like us;
O God of Wounded Hands,
who suffers the piercing and torment of your own flesh,
The thing is, writing helps me to discover my faith, too. What is deep down inside there? What’s on the surface waiting to be scratched. I wonder what helps you to discover who you are? Are you working on the process of finding who you are and who God dreams for you to be?
teach me wisdom in my secret heart 