Discipline, Devotion, Distraction

This one, this post, it's a little bit of processing. I figure stuff out by writing it down, or by talking it out. I'm not even sure I'm going to post this in the public realm, but if you are reading it, that means I decided to publish it. That also means that you should decide now if you really want to get any deeper into my head. If not, absolutely no offense taken. Skip on to the other ramblings and fun pictures. If you do continue reading here, know that I don't think I need to have answers as much as I need to put it out there.

A friend told me about going to holy week services at her Catholic church. Hers is not, I assume, a typical run-of-the-mill Catholic church, and they do their holy week services a little differently than most. (Cassie has a good description here.) Anyway, my friend mentioned that she walks into the Good Friday service every year in what she believes to be a solemn but pretty emotionally stable state of mind. But when the congregation processes to the front of the church to kiss the feet of the statue of Jesus, she completely breaks down. She said it takes all of her power to not just stay there, clinging to the cross, weeping.

I'm pretty sure, no matter if you believe Jesus was God's son or not, Jesus was a good, good man who loved the people around him, and who died a torturous, horrific death by execution for crimes of which he was innocent. If Jesus was only a mere man, a prophet who spoke truth and was killed unjustly by the authorities, his story should probably tear you up. If you consider Jesus your Savior you died for you because he loves you, well then, I would think your reaction should be a debilitating grief on Good Friday, even with Easter waiting in the wings. And then Easter should be, well, exhilarating (if not a little confusing and scary and huge).

So here's Jesus, this amazing man, tortured and killed. All day Saturday, he's dead. It's over. No more conversations over dinner, no more parables on the mountain, no more hugs and smiles. No more gentle looks. He died, and there was nothing you could do to stop his pain. You couldn't stop him from being taken away, beat up, slashed open.

On a minute, microcosmic level, I've seen this. I've watched helplessly while people I loved were taken away unjustly by the authorities and I did not exactly know their fate. I held children as they cried while their mothers were being loaded into vans in handcuffs. I watched my husband, my partners, my friends get hauled away for the most asinine reasons. Every time Michael was arrested, I was emotionally drained. I didn't sleep well, I waited all hours for his call to tell me he was OK and when he might be getting released. And in many ways I know my fears and insomnia were ridiculous. Our justice system is flawed, yes, but there was little chance that Michael or any of the other arrestees were going to die in a holding cell overnight, or that they were going to be beaten or starved. Jail food might be gross, but it was offered, every 6 hours or so, and the episode might have lasted longer than 1 night, but it never lasted more than four. But ultimately, that rationale didn't really affect my feelings.

Which is why when I hear stories from friends and acquaintances from Central America who have loved ones who were disappeared, or hear about the detainees in Guantanamo, I feel like I can understand a hundredth of the feeling that these people might be experiencing. I might have a teensy tiny hunch into what the followers of Jesus might have felt on that night so long ago; the fear, the uncertainty, the dread, the helplessness, the grief. Jesus was a goner, and they all knew it.

So I ask, why can't my friend clutch the feet of Jesus, wailing? Is it because there is a line of people behind her? Because there are schedules to keep and this type of emotional outburst might screw the flow of everyone's day up? Maybe. But really, isn't hers the most pure, the most genuine, the most honest response on a day set to recall a good friend's death? Why must we pull ourselves away? And on the other hand, why are we not able to even get volume when we shout "Alleluia!" on the day of Jesus' rising? I'm not Pentecostal, but I am human, and I have been granted the greatest blessing, so why can't I shout and celebrate my socks off for hours? Days?

Because there are other things in out lives. Distractions, right? Is that what they are? How could I have brought my children to a service such as the Good Friday one and had the opportunity to cling to the feet of Jesus? I have to meet needs, every two seconds. I have to occupy and tend to and feed and on and on. If I were to get even a little teary in honor of the remembrance of our Savior's sacrifice, I might feel somewhat obligated to wipe the tears away so that I didn't frighten the children. Not that I want to shelter them from this story, but what the heck do I say to them? How do I explain this sadness? This terrible event? They can't really understand that the world itself is larger than our living room. I can't explain it now, so I don't allow myself time to face it even for myself.

And why, on the day of Celebration, do I have to be worried about what I wear to church? (I wore brown, people. Brown sweater, brown pants. So utterly inappropriate.) And do I need to get there early enough so that my kids can run around the sanctuary and find the plastic eggs filled with crap that's bad for their teeth? Is that what it's about?

(As an aside, I like my church, and I love my pastor. In an unusual deviation from truth and honesty and theology, she told the children during their little sermon that the Easter Bunny comes because Jesus died for our sins and was raised from the dead. I think it was a quick attempt at an easy way to get the focus off the larger-than-life rabbit-you-take-pictures-with-at-the-mall who kept coming up during the sermon. But no, it isn't true. Bunnies come around for the same reason the robins do. It's spring. The Easter Bunny comes because he means big business and loads of money. I think, other than his name, he's pretty unrelated to Jesus.)

I feel like spirituality has trouble mixing into my every day life. I know that I am simultaneously a physical and a spiritual being. I don't have the time to grant the attention that I feel like my "spiritual side" deserves. I mean, God is... well, who am I to say who God is? But it seems to me that the being of God is bigger (such an inadequate description), more important, more central to life for mere monotonous recognition on Sunday mornings. Even daily devotions and prayer times seem to be an exercise in futility. Not futility, I guess, if you consider those times to be maintenance of an on-going relationship, but I have a lot of questions for this God, a lot of misunderstandings. So much is unclear. I feel like I need several retreats by myself to even get into a place where I can feel like prayer (do I even believe in prayer?) can happen without needing to spend 10 hours on catching God up on what's been going on in my life. Who has time for that? But shouldn't I have time for it?

So how do I become someone who is truly devoted to my God without becoming as loony as the Saints? How did Jesus do it? How did he find balance? He must've been a little loony himself.

The bottom line for me is it feels half-assed unless I'm able to give it everything. It feels unbalanced and frivolous and a relationship of convenience unless I can really make a relationship with GOD a central part of everyday life. Everyday stuff. I just don't have any idea how to do that, or if I really can. This is GOD we're talking about. (And in another way, I feel a little silly that I even have to think this much about it. I'm sure it comes far more naturally to people in the world who have many fewer "conveniences" and schedules to wade around in.)

I got an inkling of how this might play out when I read a recent post of a friend whose tiny beautiful son died after 4 months of life in September of last year. In many, many ways his is a different situation entirely from my own. Yet his anecdote of being out amongst strangers and allowing himself to openly wear his tears or his smiles when he felt either (or both) nudge him represents to me and idea of how to live in the reality of something that touches such deep raw emotion while continuing to do the daily work of mailing your taxes.

Geezlouise, this is turning into a book. Not a good or helpful one, I suppose. But while we're on the subject, I guess I want to know if anybody has any good book (or activity) recommendations for me. I'm willing to read up for some guidance. (But please, folks, no one recommend either of Claiborne's books, OK? Not even in a funny-haha sort of way. Not even if you found them to be life-altering and profound.) (If that statement makes you feel bad, you can talk to me about it. My email is at the top of the page.)