(58) death/life, life/death

On Friday, I found out that my college roommate’s 9-month-old son was undergoing a heart transplant that morning. My own heart was heavy, torn between grief for the donor’s family and hope/fear for my friend’s family.

Thousands of miles away, the even-younger son of the sister of an acquaintance of mine (a.k.a. we do not know each other, but I have been following their story via Facebook) is struggling to survive. Oddly enough, he was born with the same rare heart condition as my college roommate’s son. Sadly, he has not done quite as well and his parents are facing decisions that range from terrible to worse.

Almost once every week or two, we will get texts that Grandpa is going to the emergency room again. I remembered him today, taller than me, driving Grandma to all the piano recitals, taking us out to dinner. He was a bottomless font of perseverance, strength, opinion, and of course (it seemed to us), money, supporting us as we learned piano and traveled the world. He allowed us to play with him, he allowed us to move him with our music. He would listen with eyes closed, but would always insist that he wasn’t asleep, just listening. And when he met my future husband, he was one of his biggest fans right away, making him feel right at home in the family. But that person I remember already seems faded and frayed, difficult to detect in the person now struggling to keep breathing and maneuvering the bottom floor of his beautiful home in a power wheelchair.

And the work I am now doing often feels overshadowed by death and suffering, as I transcribe details of patients’ lives and medical histories.

***

Just a couple of weeks ago, we celebrated Pascha (Orthodox Easter). As the priest reminded us many, many times, the crowds of Palm Sunday quickly dispersed, abandoning Christ until only a handful of disciples remained to witness his death at the end of the week. “Don’t desert Christ,” he admonished the congregation, “Walk with him faithfully through Holy Week.” On Thursday evening in church, we read every Gospel reading pertaining to the Crucifixion. The priest carried the large cross from behind the altar into the center of the church and hung the icon of Christ upon it, then we were invited to come and kiss His feet. On Friday afternoon, we were there when the priest removed the icon from the cross, wrapping it in a white cloth. By all appearances, death had swallowed up Life.

But Saturday morning the church was brilliant in white. Because even though Christ’s body still lay entombed, He was already trampling the gates of hell. Life has defeated death.

Skip ahead to today.

In the brief memorial service that followed liturgy today, the priest reminded us that even as we grieve the loss of those we love, we are passionately hopeful. Christ’s resurrection changes everything – even if I forget to live as though this were so.

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (Jn 12:24 ESV)

***

I feel as though we are left living in a strange space between death and life. It feels overwhelmingly narrow and dark, living in this cycle where all life ends in death. And yet…

It also feels incredibly expansive and blazing with hope, for we are living toward a death that is swallowed up in life.

***

My heart is still heavy. All the words of truth in the world could not heal the grief of having to decide if it’s time to bring your little one home to die. I am empty of reassurance for my grandpa as he faces the reality of his own end of what is known.

Somehow it is reassuring to me that the Gospel reading at the final service of Holy Week, on Pascha Sunday in the afternoon, after everyone comes back together one last time after celebrating the Resurrection at midnight Sunday morning, feasting until the wee hours, and going home to rest, ends with Thomas saying:

“Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” (Jn 20:25 NIV).

I do not know why this is the final Gospel reading of Holy Week.

But somehow, it reassures me and fans my little flicker of hope. After all of that, Thomas? You’ve been with Christ in person, your fellow disciples have seen Him alive again, and still you doubt? And yet, Thomas became the apostle who carried the Gospel to India and died there. Maybe I am reassured because I feel so small to be entrusted with such a vibrant hope of victorious Life. Maybe I am reassured because I too have tasted this Life-that-swallows-death and yet I do not know how to live honestly and hopefully here in the shadowlands.

(57) palm sunday eve

Lent is over.

It is Lazarus Saturday and the eve of Palm Sunday, or the celebration of the feast of Christ’s triumphal entrance into Jerusalem in the Orthodox Church. This means a remarkably festive day even in the anticipation of sorrow because the raising of Lazarus from the dead foreshadows our own hope of resurrection.

I surprised even myself by my full participation in the Lenten fast. But my sister told me before it began that part of the purpose of fasting is to practice the discipline of saying “no” to our desires. Food is a good thing, but when we fast, we practice mastering this one aspect of ourselves rather than letting it master us and this discipline has obvious applications in all other areas of life. I wanted to practice this. And my brother-in-law told me that Lent is like climbing a mountain, like the long journey to the highest spiritual high, like that of an epic summer camp. They both were looking forward to it. And so I figured I’d give it a try.

And now I understand.

I understand that at this point when I feel like I cannot go another day without an egg, even though I have already gone without for many, many days; when I cannot imagine eating any type of legume one more time, even though I have feasted on delicious curries, homemade refried beans, homemade bread with ripe avocado and vegan chocolate cake for weeks and have never gone truly hungry; when the only edible substance that sounds good is wine (thank God for wine being allowed on the weekends during the fast); when I know I have eaten, but like the very hungry caterpillar, I am still hungry…

even now, as Lent draws to a close and only one week remains of the fast and it is the Holy Week we have been anticipating for so long…

even in the middle of all of this, I am already looking forward to Lent and Pascha next year.

I cannot really explain this.

I do not think I am particularly more spiritual because I’ve participated in the Lenten fast. I don’t think that I prayed more, although I certainly did attend church more often. I still felt frustrated and overwhelmed with my new job. I’ve still been emotional and tearful for numerous reasons. I haven’t been particularly more selfless or generous or compassionate.

But I do feel really hungry and not just for eggs.

I anticipate that this Holy Week is going to be intense and hard. I’ll be working full-time as well as trying to go to church at least every day. I will be very tired and emotionally stretched. But I bet that when it is over, I will be sorry to close this chapter, to lower the curtain on this season.

I know that life isn’t all about feelings. But even when I have felt raw and broken with loneliness and longing, or when everything has gone wrong again and again in these recent days, I have still felt suspended and buoyed in a sweetness, a tangible grace.

I feel close to Jesus.

And I want to walk with Him through this Holy Week. And then keep going.

And I will probably get off course. Which might be partly why I already know I need to practice the discipline of Lent again next year.

And I can hardly wait.

(51) forgive me, a sinner

(a.k.a. thinking about orthodoxy – part 3)

This is Forgiveness Sunday in the Orthodox Church and Lent begins at midnight tonight.

I have never quite experienced anything like this.

In a separate vespers service after the regular liturgy this morning, we each asked forgiveness of literally every other person present in the church. This is called “the rite of mutual forgiveness.” Maybe this is kind of what we aim for when we practice literal foot-washing in other church settings.

The priest was first, “because I am the chief sinner among you,” he explained. Each deacon, subdeacon and altarboy then approached him and they asked forgiveness of each other before standing beside him in a growing line. Then his wife and family, “because,” as the priest explained, “I sin against my wife more often than any other person.” And on it goes. Each person in the congregation goes down the line and then stands at the end of it.

You take a moment to stand facing each person in line, make the sign of the cross and bow to the ground, and say “forgive me, a sinner” and then respond (since they said the same thing), “as God forgives, I also forgive” or “may God forgive us both” and then embrace.

I wanted to leave multiple times before this all began. I was so nervous and it just seemed so odd. My sister had encouraged me last night to be humble, to see it as a learning experience, and “not to worry.” Easier said than done, but her instructions became a bit of a mantra, calming my nerves last night and today.

But it was a beautiful experience, despite being moderately awkward and very warm and stuffy in the church by the time we finished.

I needed this.

I need to be forgiven of many wrongs. I need to forgive many wrongs. Even during the morning liturgy, I was reminded of the anger and judgmental attitude I felt yesterday toward someone I love. I needed to have someone else look me in the eyes and remind me that God forgives me.  I need mutual forgiveness because I need to be reminded that, as a member of the human community, I both suffer with the oppressed and am in part responsible for the acts of the oppressors. I needed to give the gift of forgiveness and receive it in return.

Since some of you who might be reading this weren’t there today, please forgive me, a sinner.*

And know that I forgive you and God forgives you.

This is a sweet beginning to Lent.

*Maybe we can talk another time about the strange and heavy connotations of the word “sinner” and how I don’t always know how to use it or when and how I only realized recently that it applies to me too.

(49) spiritual tourist

(a.k.a. thinking about orthodoxy – part 2)

The bishop is regal-looking, very tall in his black robes with wide sleeves and hat with the long opaque veil hanging behind his shoulders and down his back. A large pendant icon of the Theotokos with Christ as a child is hanging from his neck and he walks with and leans on a long staff. He commands attention, respect, before even uttering a word. And yet, he speaks with gentleness, humility, simplicity, even including a joke about people who chew gum in church that makes the priest’s 3-year-old giggle out loud and the rest of us smile. And when we wander next door from church service to potluck lunch, he is accompanied by a gaggle of children, with whom he willingly converses and exchanges greetings, even hugs. In Orthodoxy, there is no shortage of spiritual leaders and spiritual parents to look up to.

The bishop explained in his morning homily that, although there is a Bible verse saying that we are to call no man father, we address the priests as “father” because we recognize them as bearing Christ’s icon or image in a unique way. In reality, we call them “father” only because of their sacred role in the life of the church, ministering in the name of the Trinity. Perhaps I am not explaining this well and I may have gotten it wrong somewhat. But that is what I understood.

It is a busy weekend with the bishop’s visit. Liturgy this morning at the mission church, then choir practice and vespers tonight at the main church and then morning prayers and Divine Liturgy again tomorrow at the main church. I had a brief conversation with myself this afternoon: “You don’t have to go to vespers,” I said. “I know,” I replied, but I kind of want to go.” “Why?” I asked. I had no answer to that question, but I went anyway. And I enjoyed the vespers service more than any of the services I’ve been to so far. I think I enjoy it because I can participate in the entire service, rather than participate in building up to taking Communion, and then not being invited to receive the elements. But there is also something sweet about the evening prayers in a dimly lit sanctuary.

In all of this, I am a spiritual tourist. Just visiting, just passing through, just trying to find a place for my heart to rest while I live here in this city. I am curiously and terrifyingly drawn to Orthodox practice and faith, yet afraid of it at the same time. (Why is this? Perhaps that is a question for another time.) Fortunately, I have the excuse of my husband’s absence to avoid needing to come to any conclusions right now. I can just listen, participate, ask questions, learn, wonder, struggle, be. And of course continue to pursue spiritual depth in my life through every possible means.