Ironic Advent Meditation #7: People Get Ready

              

 

 Ironic Advent Meditation #7: People Get Ready

          As ya’ll all probably already know, Advent comes from the Latin word for chocolate hidden in little windows in cardboard calendars. Well, not really, but tell that to my friend Laura Brown who has a blog post about the her first encounter with Advent (that is, chocolate hidden in little windows in cardboard calendars). Anyway, Advent really means come to (us) and the season of Advent, within the liturgical year of all Christians who observe such a thing, is a season for four weeks before the feast of Christmas.

          Further, it is seen as a time of preparation, repentance, and focusing on the meaning of the (eventual) coming of Christ. That gets more than a little confusing (thus my entire concept of ironic Advent) because it is a time of preparation for the coming of the baby, and the coming of the kingdom when the baby (now grown, dead, resurrected, and gone back to heaven) will return in power and glory, AND the coming of the presence of Christ in our lives at Christmas and in the lives of believers at the eucharist (communion). That’s a lot of stuff. Thus, I always have a lot to ironize. That doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s important. That means I do.

          But since I didn’t have my computer yesterday, so I didn’t get a “meditation” posted, let me do the ironic thing and send one out about being ready. People Get Ready. That’s the name of an absolutely great old song, not sure if it’s a gospel song, a soul song, a rock song. I know: it’s an Advent song (Laura Brown!). And if my tech don’t fail me now, there should be a link to the song at the end of the meditation. But, you could say I wasn’t ready to fulfill my personal obligation to myself to get a meditation done yesterday.  

          Well, for that matter, you could probably say I’ve never been totally ready for most of the great things that have happened in my life. Being born (for sure), my first kiss (definitely wasn’t ready for that), winning some awards in sports that I didn’t think I deserved, getting married, being a parent, the ending of Sixth Sense (I mean, come on, who was ready for that!), losing a parent, losing the other parent, losing a brother. You don’t really get ready for that sort of stuff. Or, I guess, no matter how ready you think you are or you try to be, it’s never enough.

          But that’s OK, I think. Advent is a time of getting ready for SO DANG MANY THINGS (see list above), the best of us are still flying by the seat our pants when the Overwhelming Dose of power, justice, and love whops us upside the head (if He/She/It ever does). Still. Still. Still. We have a season to get ready. To listen to the words of the prophets. To consider the ministry of the wild holy Baptist (John, not Frank the guy from Shreveport). To be quiet and wait. And to be loud and busy.    Because waiting to get the big Christmas . . . gift might (and probably should) get us thinking about what the heck we should be doing so that the world is a little more or even a lot more Christmassy for the anxious, lonely, confused people all around us.

          “People Get Ready. There’s a Train a’coming.” As my friend Jennifer said today, there’s a cosmic longing that intersects with this holy time (for those who think it’s holy) or, at least, this very weird liminal time (sociologically/anthropologically speaking). And we try to do a LOT of things to deal with that cosmic longing, sometimes including trying to act like we believe the story again. I have no problem with people who do that. Pascal thought that doing so was a pretty good idea, and I’ve always thought he was smarter than I was. I don’t know the first thing about vacuums, for example.

          Other people just make sure they watch A Charly Brown Christmas, even if they finally can’t go all the way with St. Linus the Evangelist. Is that a bad thing? Other folks just try to think more about and do more for their family and their loved ones. Make a few days really special for them, as if it’s really their birthday instead of that other kid’s. I love those people too. I know a lot of them. May all their peanut brittle be . . . brittle. And sweet.  

          Other people write ironic advent meditations. Or sing songs. Like “O Come O Come Emmanuel.” Or “Santa Baby.” Eww. But, technically, that’s a Christmas song (right Laura?).        

          Me? At least tonight I’m listening to some of the late 60s version of this song--the Chamber Brothers, Aretha, and the Staples Sisters. Maybe, if I feel like switching it up, I'll track down Rod Stewart and Jeff Beck's version (you can google that one). Unfortunately, I can’t go back and listen to the kid whose name I can’t remember who used to play it at Jesus People gatherings in Denver when I was a teenager. My brother Noel would remember. But he’s gone. Or, at least, he's not answering our texts. I know, because Missy said she tried last week.  

          Anyway, it helped me then. Gonna’ try it again.

          Peace, people. Good will too. Make it happen and it will . . . happen. 
<Here is the song done by the Staples Singers (yes, Mavis singing the lead) back in 1968. >
Other great versions by Aretha, the Chambers Brothers, the Impressions (with the author, Curtis Mayfield), Eva Cassidy, and, as I said, by Rod Stewart and Jeff Beck. 

         

Ironic Advent Meditation 2015 #6: Anything Useful (The ORIGINAL Ironic Advent Meditation)*

 

Anything Useful: 
a guest meditation by 
Jennifer Woodruff Tait (on her birthday)







 Joe Martyn Ricke and M Richard Miller, this poem is all your fault.

If you came to church for anything useful today,
forget it.

Anything practical: 
three points to help you in the Monday workplace, 
two tips for witnessing to your coworkers, 
five guides to a good marriage.

If you came to church for the hats, 
coffee, 
cookies, 
friends, 
family, 
cheese, 
pew cushions, 
happy songs, 
warm feelings,
or even a blessing, 
forget it.


This is the first Sunday of Advent.

Lo, He comes with clouds descending, once for ransomed sinners slain.

The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ.

*first posted on Facebook December 2012. 

Ironic Advent 2015 Meditation #5: Grammar of Exile

 






The optative subjunctive is used to give direct expression to prayers, fears, curses, and so on. Fearing Clauses. The most common context in which one issues prayers, etc., is when one is afraid: "May he come! I'm afraid." Now, if you think about this, the only reason to pray that someone come is that you are afraid that he won't come. . . .

Grammar of Exile*


We wait for Thee
O subjunctive G*d--
 
Be no longer passive
with your imperfect people,

indicate your hitherto 
conditional love,

Thou, whom the imperate sounds of angels
hymn absolutely.
 
Demonstrate Thyself to us,
Comparatively declining persons, 
separate, split, neuter, periphrastic.
 
Our present tense, forgive, O Lord, 
our future interrogative--
 
how long? how long? when wilt Thou hear our voice?
Now let our jussive plea arise and find agreement:
 
Veniat!

*Originally posted December 5, 2012.  

I'm not laying either 

Ironic Advent Meditation #4: Bummer Advent

Ironic Advent Meditation #4: Bummer Advent*

 

            I don’t know if people say bummed out anymore. Well, more precisely, I don’t know if other people still say it. I say it. And I said it several times today. In back to back classes—British Lit and World Lit. Of course, I get used to students staring at me like I’m crazy (especially when I’m acting out the role of Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner like I was today), so I’m not sure if their empty gazes meant that they didn’t know what I meant by bummed out or if they were just sick and tired of waiting for class to be over. I did get an email from a colleague the other day, responding to my note saying I had to miss a meeting, which just said “Bummer.” But, after all, he’s a member of the intelligentsia and probably talks like that all the time.

            Anyway (or as Jennifer Lynne Ricke says, anyways), I was talking about the way certain works of literature seem designed, at least to some degree, to bum you out. Or induce a downer, if you will. Or take the pep out of your step. Or slap you upside the head. Or, remind you that you live in a fallen, flawed, undependable universe, dude, if you insist on philosophizing. The works in questions were Ozymandias, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Candide. Can I get a witness? 

           This topic was not in my lesson plan for the day. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a lesson plan for any day ever. But still, let's just say that I didn’t have bummer written in the margins of my books or in my notes or anywhere. It was just a spontaneous overflow of powerful teaching when we analyzed the state of mind and heart of the so-called “wedding guest” at the end of Mariner, and the intended “mighty” audience of Ozymandias, and the intended butt of the satire in Voltaire’s Candide—that would be pretty much all of humanity since the dawn of time, I think, especially German and Dutch humanity. These authors WANT to take away our false optimism (Candide), our arrogance (Ozymandias), and even our trust in the state of things as they are (Mariner) by reminding us of the world’s mutability, humanity’s inexplicable moral lapses, and the downright horrors that attend the lives of “featherless bipeds with a soul” in this “the best of all possible worlds.” Bummer Dude. 

            How can this be salutary? For that matter, why am I using the word salutary in an ironic Advent meditation? I really can’t think of a better word to make my point, and even if I could I would stubbornly resist using it because I like the sound of salutary. These literary works intend to be, or at least pretend to be, I think, salutary despite their harsh effects. And, in doing so, they exemplify and embody a belief that literature, and other cultural works, can give us pleasure (one quality usually included in most definitions of art) even while leaving a nasty taste in our mouths (or whatever metaphor makes sense here—perhaps a grating noise in our ear). Sweet things are good. Happy noises make us happy, sometimes. And everyone who knows me well knows that I love comedy, especially the overwhelmingly joyous and redemptive comedies of Shakespeare (despite their dark patches).

            But. Sometimes a poem, a song, a story, not to mention talk with a friend (or an enemy), a newscast, or any number of other things can hurt or sting or just obstruct the flow of what we think ought to be smooth reality. AND THAT CAN BE A GOOD THING. In the Ancient Mariner, the “wedding-guest” was just trying to go a friend’s wedding when the old sailor accosted him, fixed him with his hypnotic gaze, and told him his strange story of sin and guilt and slooooow redemption. At the end, the wedding guest skips out on the happy day’s events, “a sadder and wiser man.” And the Mariner stalks off in search of his next victim/patient. For his disturbing story, we are meant to see, disturbs in order to teach difficult wisdom.

            This Sunday, the First Sunday of Advent, just after we lit the first candle and sang a wonderful Advent song (the utterly brilliant and moving 9^th Century evening hymn, “Creator of the Stars of Night”), we stood up to be cheered by the good news of the Gospel. Something surely about Mary and an angel. Maybe a begat or ten. Or some other news that is good in the way that we want good things to be good. Something Ricky Bobby, for example, would like. Instead, we hear Jesus totally bumming out his disciples. Whoa, Son of Man, what a downer! Why you messing with my Advent bliss? How about some peace, love, and beatitude, bro . . . I mean, Rabbi?   

            You probably know what he said already, so I won’t belabor it. Wouldn't want you to lose your Advent buzz from the Advent chocolate you get in your Advent calendar. But it went a little something like this:

Jesus said to his disciples:

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars,

and on earth nations will be in dismay,

perplexed by the roaring of the sea and the waves. (when are we doing “Silent Night”?)

People will die of fright (did he say die of fright? what about chocolate?)

in anticipation of what is coming upon the world . . . .

For that day will assault everyone (salt? . . . what?)

who lives on the face of the earth.

Be vigilant at all times

and pray that you have the strength

to escape the tribulations that are imminent

and to stand before the Son of Man.” (what about candles?)

            This is not what we expect our good news to be. Sounds WAY like some Old Testament prophet thing that I’d rather not understand anyway. Of course, truth be told, I do this Advent thing every year, so I should be ready. But it doesn’t get any easier. I suppose that’s why we do it every year. People think I do ironic advent because I don’t like warm, fuzzy feelings and chocolate. NOTHING COULD BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH. I Like ‘em all. Bring ‘em on. I’m just trying to explicate some texts, a liturgical tradition, and a little something I like to call . . . reality. 

            Come to think of it, I did see a few stunned looks on the faces of students today. A few of them had never thought about the fact that they could be stunned by a poem or a story. Stunned in the painful way not the Facebook way [as in, this story will STUN you because it is STUNNING, and after all this is FACEBOOK, etc.].

            And they probably also never thought that they would have a professor who claimed that such an experience could be salutary. OK, maybe they just weren’t following me. But please, dear Ironic Advent audience member of mine (may I call you that?), please follow me. I am SORRY as heck that neither Advent or Christmas is going to end this year (as it hasn’t ended the previous 2000 or so years) with peace on earth, happy New Year’s, or a playoff appearance for the Chicago Bears. In fact, it’s worse than that. Human arrogance, stupidity, and malice might just keep showing its ugly head. There might even be yet another shooting incident, like, maybe in San Bernardino, California. Alright, I actually wrote this after hearing about that one. I'm so sorry. Every time that happens, I want to apologize to someone.

            You want this to be a good Advent? And I’m talking to myself more than you, believe me. The way to wait is not to wait the way you usually wait. I mean the way to get ready for Advent is not to wait for something that’s going to happen in exactly so many days from now (or many, many years in the future when the little baby will come back as a big King and all that). Instead of that do at least several of the following (the first two I assume, the others take a bit more will power): Light a candle (I mean your heart). Sing a hymn (especially Creator of the Stars of Night). Empty out your refrigerator and give it all away to someone who needs it. Or just fast for awhile until you figure out a new way of relating to food. Ring the bell. No, really, I mean ring the bell for Salvation Army. Find someone who needs the kind of love we say comes to us in the Incarnation, and do your best to be that for them. Find a situation that needs the justice of the Son of Man and find some way to do justice. Knit hats for (c)old people. 

            It will probably be slow going, like the Ancient Mariner's slow redemption. That's not all bad. One negative recommendation: don’t post on Facebook that everyone else should love or bring justice like Jesus. That might seem like what Candide does, but it isn’t really (and I don't have time to explain it). It's virtue signalling, and I am well aware that I am tippy-toeing on that line right now. Well, I guess go ahead and do that if you’re going to write a formal sonnet that people will still read in 200 years, or a long ballad in pseudo-medieval style, or the greatest extended satire in the literary tradition. But not if it’s just going to be more Facebook stuff. That’s what worries me. I should know. Like I said, it's hard to think about these things without sounding like a someone who is more adventy-than-thou.

            Also, you might consider confessing to someone, preferably not a wedding guest. That sounds like a downer, I know. But it might have a salutary effect. Or, it might just bum you out. Or both. 

        OK? While we are waiting for the kingdom to come, let's stun folks (and ourselves) with the goodness for which we long. 

*This meditation first posted Advent 2015. 

IRONIC ADVENT 2015 MEDITATION #3: A SONG FOR SAINT ROSA (PARKS)

Ironic Advent 2015 Meditation #3: 

A Song for Saint Rosa (Parks)

Advent time is waiting time

so the preachers say,

it’s waiting for the coming

of the glorious freedom day,

it’s waiting for the savior

and for the better way,

Advent time is waiting time

so the preachers say.

Sister Rosa was waiting now

for a long, long time;

She said “If freedom is coming,

I will be the sign;

I will be the problem,

I will not go away.

I’ve been waiting Lord

but I’m not waiting today.”

chorus:

Rosa rose up from her sorrow

and planted something strong,

something sweet and beautiful

something worth a song,

She said I will be the problem

that will not go away

I’ve been waiting Lord

But I’m not waiting today.

Instrumental Interlude followed by:

Now Rosa rise up from your sorrow

and make us something strong,

something sweet and beautiful

something worth a song,

We will be the problem

We will not go away,

We've been waiting Lord

But we're not waiting today.*

*recording available upon request (I mean, you have to pay for my daughter's college bill, but I will record it for you if you do).