Fat Tuesday and Dinosaur Bones

This morning I was half-listening as someone on NPR droned on about the meaning of "Carnival" and it's relationship to "Fat Tuesday" (the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday which kicks off Lent in the Western Christian Church). So I decided to look it up myself. From www.dictionary.com -

CARNIVAL
Car"ni*val, n. [It. carnevale, prob. for older carnelevale, prop., the putting away of meat; fr. L. caro, carnis, flesh + levare to take away, lift up, fr. levis light.] 1. A festival celebrated with merriment and revelry in Roman Catholic countries during the week before Lent, esp. at Rome and Naples, during a few days (three to ten) before Lent, ending with Shrove (i.e. Fat) Tuesday.

MARDI GRAS
Mar"di` gras", n. [F., literally, fat Tuesday.] The last day of Carnival; Shrove Tuesday; -- in some cities a great day of carnival and merrymaking.

It seems sad to me that the only vestige of Great Lent left in the wider culture is the excess preceding it. It’s like some great creature whose bones are the only remaining evidence of its magnificence. But happily my metaphor is too cynical. Great Lent still roams the earth in some places.

Forgiveness Sunday

Yesterday was Forgiveness Sunday in the Orthodox Church. It is the inauguration service into Great Lent, for obvious reasons. The first act of repentance in a fallen world must be the asking and the granting of forgiveness. At Vespers on Sunday evening after the usual prayers, psalms, etc., every person in the parish goes to every other person and begs mutual forgiveness. It is done in an orderly way beginning with the Priest who bows before each person and says, "Forgive me, a sinner." We each respond, "God forgives." Because our parish is small, and because a number of us live in community with each other. . .this service is quite meaningful because like a big family we are constantly stepping on each other's toes. So with most people, when I bow and say, "forgive me, a sinner", all the selfishness, the critical thoughts, the condescension, the mean-spiritedness of my withered and stony little heart comes into view. I really feel like a crummy sinner, and it really helps when the person I know I've offended says, "God forgives." Things really get "meaningful" when you exchange bows with your spouse and beg mutual forgiveness of each other. Like most things associated with Great Lent. . .it is a service filled with a bright sadness.

Ancient Christianity & African-American Conference

I was so involved in a conference from Thursday through Sunday of last week, that I forgot I had today off. . .until yesterday evening. It was like being a kid and waking up to 8 inches of new snow, knowing that school was out. Time to get the sled out and go tear up the hills! But I'm so sobered from the conference I attended, that I don't have any desire to tear anything up. My soul has been shredded enough over the last few days. That's not exactly right. . .it was more like surgery. I didn't feel too much pain, but the recovery is going to take a while.

I attended the 11th annual Ancient Christianity & African-American Conference here in Portland. I encourage you to click on the link and read a little about this conference, and also explore some of the other links provided at the website. I'm not inclined to "summarize" the conference here in this Blog. But, I am hopeful that as I integrate many of the things I heard, the things I saw, the conversations I had with people of color as well as other white folks like myself. . .it will color my future Blog entries. . .no pun intended. However, since this website is all about music, I would like to mention one thing.

All my life I have been profoundly affected by the music of African-Americans. It's probably a matter of taste, but more formal forms of music have never appealed to me the way that early Delta Blues, Jazz, some Rock, some Pop, Bluegrass, rootsy Country, and Folk music has (no order intended). There is something real in this music that comes from the heart. . .usually a heart seasoned with suffering. Now, not all of the music I listed came from African-Americans. Bluegrass, for example, seems to have formed in the Appalachian mountains and has some connection to the folk music of the poor and struggling Eastern European immigrants who settled there to mine coal, etc. But the Afro-Americans didn't come to this country as immigrants, but rather as slaves. Their suffering was more profound and it seems God has given them an even greater consolation in the music they have managed to create. I'm no student of Jazz, but I know enough to know that it is an art form created largely by African-Americans on this continent. . .perhaps the only music that is extant today that can make that claim. I've always wanted to thank the African-American people for this music, but how do you thank a "people"? As a Christian I should have known the answer to that question. . .the key is in the Incarnation of Christ. That is, when God appeared in the flesh, he took on the body of a single man, Jesus Christ. When I worship and bow down before Christ, the Icon of the Holy Trinity as it were, I am worshipping God. The same applies, in a much smaller scale of course, with people. That is, each of us are representatives, or icons, of larger groups. Being in a conference where this sort of thing is made clear made it possible for me to say to a small group of African-Americans, "Thank you for creating such real, soul-stirring music that has benefited my soul for many years." It felt good to say that. . .and it felt even better to hear, "You are welcome."

The Devil works at Starbucks

“I’ve got to stop eating scones” was reverberating through my head as I drove to Starbuck’s this morning for a cup of coffee. It’s been happening every winter since moving to the Northwest. . .I get into the habit of eating “a little something” with my coffee. It reduces the acid. It prevents heartburn. It gives me a little brain food. I’ve got a million of them. . .justifications and excuses that is. Anyway, with Great Lent approaching I know I’ve got to cut it out and so I was steeling myself to do battle with the pastry case before I entered Starbucks. But I made a tactical error. I stopped off at the restroom. How was I to know they would stoop so low as to advertise lite versions of pastries in there. The bathroom? The hook was something like this, “My drink is a cup of victory. . .to the angels of resolution sitting on my shoulder.” And beneath it were drawings. . .in that Starbucky, yuppie, I’m-into-art-and-other-cool-stuff style. . .of three alternative, lite pastries. I don’t think it even mentioned pastries in the text. . .it just talked about angels and resolutions and other quasi-religious and self-righteous things. Reading it and seeing the cute little drawings made everything seem OK. . .like angels were rewarding me with pastries for even considering to work on my gluttony. And before I realized what was happening, I found myself wondering if I had enough change in my pocket to buy one. Deplorable! Diabolical! Talk about attacking a man when his defenses are down. C.S. Lewis said in the introduction to The Screwtape Letters that he had learned the secret of listening in on the stratagems of the devils. It's easy. . .he just studied ad copy.

House Blessings and Community

Sometimes I feel like I'm the luckiest man in the world. I live in an affluent society which has a corrosive effect on "community", and yet I get to experience the warmth of community every day where I live. So much so, that I tend to take it for granted. But last night it was brought home to me when our Priest came over for the annual "blessing of our house." The blessing of houses is an Orthodox custom, which like most things Orthodox goes way back. Here's how it goes:

The Priest comes over with water that was blessed during the Theophany service a few weeks ago. . .and a big brush. . .something like an over-sized basting brush. He comes into your house and goes to your icon corner where a vigil light is lit. He then starts reading the ancient prayers of blessing, facing the icons. After finishing, he takes the big brush, dips it in the water, and while everyone present sings the troparion (Greek word for hymn) of Theophany (Baptism of Christ), the Priest sprinkles the four corners of each room of the house and everyone dwelling there. . .including any cats or dogs that may be wandering through at the moment. . .to their great surprise. The troparion of Theophany is sung since that is the spiritual "source" of the water and so in a mysterious way it is a literal baptism of your dwelling. It's meant to provide for spiritual renewal, assuming of course the prayers and sprinkling of holy water is accompanied by faith in those who live there. Here are the words to the troparion:

When Thou was baptized in the Jordon O Lord,
The worship of the Trinity was made manifest.
For the voice of the Father bore witness unto Thee,
Calling Thee His beloved Son.
And the Spirit, in the guise of a dove,
Confirmed the certainty of His words.
O Christ God Who has appeared and enlightened the world,
Glory be to Thee.

It may sound silly to some folks, but I can tell you it is quite meaningful and effective. . .much better than a vacuum cleaner and windex. . .although that kind of cleansing usually precedes the house blessing.

The reason I feel so lucky, is that I live in a hundred-year-old house in downtown Portland which has been divided into three apartments. Our Priest and his wife life downstairs, my wife Macrina and I live on the second floor, and three single women who are also members of our parish live above us on the 3rd floor. So when we do the house blessing, everyone in the house attends each other's blessings. That is, we start on the third floor and work our way down. My favorite part is I get to use the big brush and douse the Priest when we are doing the blessing of his house.

Afterwards, we all gathered in Fr. Nicholas' kitchen and his wife Barbara served us ice cream. The whole thing brought tears to my eyes because there was such a warmth and comfortable familiarity among us. As I've said before, the liturgical calendar of the Church is the means by which community gets built in the Orthodox Church. Yep, Macrina and I are the luckiest. . .no, that's a pagan expression. . .we are among the most blessed people on earth.

Angelic Self Pity

I've been accused of being moody. Actually, I don't think the few people who have dared to say this to my face were "accusing" me. . .they were just giving me some feedback. They were letting me know my moods, especially when they change suddenly, are hard to deal with. Trouble is, I find it difficult to hear feedback over this noisy angel of self-pity who sometimes nests on my shoulder. Not one of the more luminous angels, but an imaginative builder who flies out now and again to retrieve pieces of my past, pieces of my future (not sure how he manages that) and weaves them into a sturdy little nest close to my ear. For some reason, he never picks up anything from the present moment. Strange. He's managed to weave together every wound my soul has ever suffered into a very comfortable home for himself. Which would be OK, but he doesn't just live there quietly. He loves telling stories and gets most of his inspiration right from the nest itself. His favorite genre is historical fiction and most of his stories are quite entertaining. But I've learned from experience they are just ear candy, and provoke a kind of emotional hunger that never gets sated. It's aggravating and I don't exactly know why I allow him to live here. It's just that when people say mean things to me like, "Dude, you're moody!", I’ve found his stories a brief consolation that I’ve grown accustomed and perhaps even addicted to.