It will be easy to forget, largely because Americans have been force-fed a steady diet of Super-sized media events for the last few weeks. First, it was Super Sunday, the annual national holiday involving two football teams, too much food, and countless TV sets. Then, this year, immediately following Super Bowl Sunday, 22 American states celebrate Super Tuesday, perhaps the most significant primary and caucus day in presidential politics. For days after Super Tuesday, the American media will drive Tuesday's events right into a Super-sized cliff.
All of this results in the diminution of the great Christian season of Lent. Tomorrow, Shrove or Fat Tuesday, marks the transition from feast to fast; the fast which begins Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, or the official start of the Lenten season of penitence, discipline, mortification, gratitude, hope, deliverance, resurrection, and triumphant rejoicing.
I would urge my Christian readers to remember this season with all due diligence. It is a season of wonders, a season of soft and salvific discipline. It is a reminder of all good things to come.
Peace.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Monday, February 04, 2008
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Sitting In The Doctor’s Office, Waiting For My Wife
I went to the nurse today complaining of an excess of joy. I told her that my stomach was churning with delight; that my hands tingled with bliss and my head pounded with gratitude. I wonder, I said, if there is something wrong. How could I be sick with happiness? How could I be fraught with peace? How could I be wracked with innocence? Should I see the doctor?
She replied that she was glad that I was feeling better. She noted that my complaints from last month no longer seemed relevant. It is clear that your skin has cleared up, she said, and that there are no signs of the deep wounds that once dripped with sarcasm. It looks too like you are no longer biting your tongue or your lip, and that you’re no longer straining to look backwards. I can feel no spasms of regret; the knots of second-guessing seem to have been smoothed away; and the arthritis of cynicism seems to have vanished, leaving your hands free. And I cannot tell you how glad I am to see that you are so fully rested.
There was nothing I could tell her that explained my sudden change, but I told her what I knew: When I woke from what began as a restless sleep but by dawn had become a deep calm, my head was deliciously dizzy with a wine I had not sipped. My arms were light with a spirit I did not earn. There were proverbs on the back of my hands, though I cannot see them now. There were scriptures flying past my window, with many of them gathering in gentle flocks beneath my bird feeders. My heartbeat was a chorus of angels; my ears rang with choruses of hope, my tongue was sweet with glad tidings. And while the thermometer outside my window was filled with gold, my barometer offered no report. And then I saw that my watch pointed to the hour of redemption.
What does all this mean? I asked, laughter spilling from my mouth.
You know what it means, she said, reaching up and wiping ashes off my forehead. It means you’ve already seen the doctor.
Peace to you on this Ash Wednesday.
Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
She replied that she was glad that I was feeling better. She noted that my complaints from last month no longer seemed relevant. It is clear that your skin has cleared up, she said, and that there are no signs of the deep wounds that once dripped with sarcasm. It looks too like you are no longer biting your tongue or your lip, and that you’re no longer straining to look backwards. I can feel no spasms of regret; the knots of second-guessing seem to have been smoothed away; and the arthritis of cynicism seems to have vanished, leaving your hands free. And I cannot tell you how glad I am to see that you are so fully rested.
There was nothing I could tell her that explained my sudden change, but I told her what I knew: When I woke from what began as a restless sleep but by dawn had become a deep calm, my head was deliciously dizzy with a wine I had not sipped. My arms were light with a spirit I did not earn. There were proverbs on the back of my hands, though I cannot see them now. There were scriptures flying past my window, with many of them gathering in gentle flocks beneath my bird feeders. My heartbeat was a chorus of angels; my ears rang with choruses of hope, my tongue was sweet with glad tidings. And while the thermometer outside my window was filled with gold, my barometer offered no report. And then I saw that my watch pointed to the hour of redemption.
What does all this mean? I asked, laughter spilling from my mouth.
You know what it means, she said, reaching up and wiping ashes off my forehead. It means you’ve already seen the doctor.
Peace to you on this Ash Wednesday.
Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
A Eucharistic Chore, Trash Bags In Hand
Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator. Rarely is this a pleasant chore, and yesterday was no exception. For I found all sorts of things I would rather not find; and there were a few smells that were anything but harbingers of spring. I also discovered that what I uncovered was a set of bad investments, a terrible waste of money. But most importantly I discovered a chest full of metaphors.
For on the back of the top shelf, I found two gallons of confidence, now grown moldy, thick with putrescence. Next to them, in a tightly closed jar, I found several pickles of bad memories, soured beyond the palate's care. Next, I found several dozen rotten eggs of resentment, and a half-dozen kernels of canned jealousy decaying beneath loose plastic. Under a tin of anxieties, I found one pound of unsliced unforgiveness and two pounds of gratitude. And then there was a cracked dish, leaking Time.
On the middle shelf I found three cans of sins of omission and four of commission; under them rested a clouded bag filled with tortillas of tortured dreams. There was one can of whipped fury; another of unopened desires. There was a zip-lock bag of good intentions; and several bottles of half-used faith and un-used hope. And there was an uncorked bottle of merlot, the red wine of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and thank-you notes, now little more than vinegar and gall.
In the bottom drawers I found once-ripe talents now shrunken to shriveled pith or, in some cases, grown in size, with tumorous fungi rendering them unknowable. On the doors there were countless fermented wishlists; there was one large bottle jammed with the beginnings of myriad projects; in a bottle of beer, I found a dry twig of mirth. In the cheese drawer I found the rancid butter of regrettable words; on the butter tray I found the grease of temptation and lust. In the cold-cuts bin I found bloated promises that should have been burned on an altar, or nailed to a Cross. And there, in the bin's back reaches, I found an unopened carton of forgiveness.
In the freezer I found a box of frozen grace, which was very heavy to lift. Adjacent was another little dish, half-filled with more Time. Beneath an air-tight plastic container full of procrastination, were several slices of joy, wrapped in aluminum foil. Next to them, in the ice tray, I found cubes of blood mixed with water, carelessly placed beside a loaf of brittle unleavened bread. Lastly, in the corner, I found an open box of baking soda, with Arms and Hands on its label raised in prayer, now stiffened from absorbing too much neglect.
Today, I continue to try to throw out the bad and thaw out the good, leaving the doors to the fridge wide open. I promise to clean out the old No-Name refrigerator more than once every 44 years. And I promise to thaw the cubes of wine, and receive the bread, with something approaching thanksgiving. Or so I pray.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
tagged:Christianity
For on the back of the top shelf, I found two gallons of confidence, now grown moldy, thick with putrescence. Next to them, in a tightly closed jar, I found several pickles of bad memories, soured beyond the palate's care. Next, I found several dozen rotten eggs of resentment, and a half-dozen kernels of canned jealousy decaying beneath loose plastic. Under a tin of anxieties, I found one pound of unsliced unforgiveness and two pounds of gratitude. And then there was a cracked dish, leaking Time.
On the middle shelf I found three cans of sins of omission and four of commission; under them rested a clouded bag filled with tortillas of tortured dreams. There was one can of whipped fury; another of unopened desires. There was a zip-lock bag of good intentions; and several bottles of half-used faith and un-used hope. And there was an uncorked bottle of merlot, the red wine of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and thank-you notes, now little more than vinegar and gall.
In the bottom drawers I found once-ripe talents now shrunken to shriveled pith or, in some cases, grown in size, with tumorous fungi rendering them unknowable. On the doors there were countless fermented wishlists; there was one large bottle jammed with the beginnings of myriad projects; in a bottle of beer, I found a dry twig of mirth. In the cheese drawer I found the rancid butter of regrettable words; on the butter tray I found the grease of temptation and lust. In the cold-cuts bin I found bloated promises that should have been burned on an altar, or nailed to a Cross. And there, in the bin's back reaches, I found an unopened carton of forgiveness.
In the freezer I found a box of frozen grace, which was very heavy to lift. Adjacent was another little dish, half-filled with more Time. Beneath an air-tight plastic container full of procrastination, were several slices of joy, wrapped in aluminum foil. Next to them, in the ice tray, I found cubes of blood mixed with water, carelessly placed beside a loaf of brittle unleavened bread. Lastly, in the corner, I found an open box of baking soda, with Arms and Hands on its label raised in prayer, now stiffened from absorbing too much neglect.
Today, I continue to try to throw out the bad and thaw out the good, leaving the doors to the fridge wide open. I promise to clean out the old No-Name refrigerator more than once every 44 years. And I promise to thaw the cubes of wine, and receive the bread, with something approaching thanksgiving. Or so I pray.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.
tagged:Christianity
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