Utrecht, Heidelberg, and Trent

It is a rare gift to behold an historic event, so rare that I might not have noticed it for the brief ordinariness of it all. I witnessed a small step closer in the dance of ecumenism between long-separated partners: the Catholic Church and the Reformed Church.

In typical Reformed fashion, it began with a study cfommittee charged by the Reformed Ecumenical Council (REC) with the task of evaluating the Heidelberg Catechism Q&A 80 on the Catholic Mass (Eucharist) and the Lord’s Supper. Written in the 16th century, this confession accuses the Catholic Church of “condemnable idolatry” in the celebration of the Mass, on grounds that it denies the uniqueness of Christ in the elements. (There’s a bit more going on there too; read it for yourself. You can also read the Christian Reformed Church in North America’s report on HC80).

On the plane to Amsterdam, I glanced at the ponderous report prepared by the committee. By the time of the presentation session, I had forgotten their main conclusion, and so was suprised to hear their humility and repentance of its gross mischaracterization of Catholic theology, at least today.

When Monsigneur Rodano, head of the Council on Ecumenism at the Vatican, rose to deliver his remarks, his creased hands unfolded a single sheet of paper on the podium. I expected a few dry remarks on the nature of the Catholic Eucharist. Instead, in a light Jersey accent (picture the Godfather in a clerical collar) he voiced an eloquent and impassioned plea for mutual understanding. He warmly commended the CRCNA for its efforts at dialogue with Catholic leaders to learn the nuances of their church’s beliefs, and gave an rousing cry for the honest truth that brings the healing of memory.

Holy Monday

Kent suggested that we all write daily reflections on each day of Holy Week. After reading Dean’s great post on Palm Sunday, I’ve decided to take up the challenge.

A long journey back from Spring Break gave me many hours to think. Palm Sunday passed with a rush of wind and a receding church sign in the distance spelling out some cheesy sermon title. But missing Palm Sunday doesn’t bother me much. Most of Jerusalem probably missed it, too busy with chores and errands, noisy kids and annoying soldiers. The hullabaloo of Jesus’ triumphal entry overcome by clanging kitchen pots and nosy noisy neighbors.

[later]
Today’s chapel reprised Palm Sunday, so I didn’t miss it after all. Bewildered, tired college students waved palm branches, filling the chapel with eager green. As we sang happy clappy songs and rousing hymns, I wondered if I should be there at all. I did not belong inside the chapel, or on the street, waving palm branches and shouting hosanna.
Fool.
I knew exactly where I should be: outside of the chapel, away from the celebration, beyond the city wall. My hosannas never transitioned into horror or hatred. There was only horror. I was not at Jesus’ side when he came into Jerusalem. I was not at his side when he walked through the crowds. I was not around when cheers turned into jeers. I was away, gone, lost; I wandered through narrow streets and back alleys, stepping through the dreary haze of washed-out lives, empty pots, fires and ashes, smoke, dust.

Lament

I just finished writing a paper on John Witvliet’s book Worship Seeking Understanding. One of the chapters which provoked most thought was a reflection on death and the worship life of a community. The topic has been on my mind due to recent events in the Calvin community. I originally split this in two posts but decided to reunite the sections today. Here it is:

Though absent for last fall, I have walked with the community through the sicknesses of Daryl Holmlund, John Zoerhoff, and Carol Smith; and have been further impacted by the recent death of Rachelle Goedhardt and Carol Smith. Although I know that death is no more common this year than any other in the Calvin community, the weight of suffering seems to bear down heavier than before.

Last year I served as a Worship Apprentice, an experience that shaped my faith journey into the rhythm of faith of the entire community. Although no longer so intimately involved in the worship planning and leadership, I still retain a close link with the sighs and joys of Calvin students, faculty, and staff. This close identification with the worship life of the community is a dangerous thing, I know, but one that I contend is closer to Christ’s self-giving sacrifice for the church. If worship nurtures the faith of the community through difficult times, then we need to be intentional at including lament in the rhythms of communal worship.

Last fall I spent the semester in Budapest, Hungary, through Calvin’s Off-Campus Programs. Among the most moving days I spent in the city were those surrounding All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, because I experienced communal lament in a way I had never seen before. Of all their national holidays, these are the most cherished by Hungarians, where one remembers loved ones who have died, mourns centuries of national tragedies, and honors saints and heroes.

On a cold November night, I went to a graveyard in the Buda Hills about an hour before it closed. Inside, people milled around quietly, placing candles and flowers around a rotunda and a sculpture near the front gate. As Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background, I stood for over an hour, watching candles flicker in the wind. When a candle blew out, I would take another and light it, or cluster candles together against the wind. Old women, young couples, and teenagers walked quietly through the graveyard, remembering those they loved. Sadness hung heavy as fog descended over the city, obscuring the bright lights along the Danube.

I waited for the music of Fall to cascade over me, and once the music repeated itself, I walked through narrow paths up the hillside, among gravestones and wooden markers. Along with the entire nation, I mourned the loss of loved ones, the untimely death of humans by war, disease, and famine, and the suffering of the world. As I walked back down the hill, the vibrant, joyful notes of Vivaldi’s Spring reminded me that death does not have the last word. Lament moves through sorrow and anguish to quiet, confident trust in God. Christians would benefit from deeper, worn-in practices of lament in the rhythms of public worship.

Israel’s Smelly Sacrifices

(The following was written as a response to bethaniqua‘s post “Dirt.”)

I was struck today by Lenten dirtiness today. Prof. Witvliet talked about Israel’s sacrifices as a pattern for worship today, and the whole affair seemed messy to me. I can handle the part about chopping up an animal and burning it on an altar, but the whole deal of catching the blood and pouring it on the altar… I bet it was a pretty stinky altar after the first day of sacrifices, not to mention after a year.

It reminds me of a market my mom frequented when I was younger: the first arched cement pavilion held the staples vendors on the sides, and the vegetable guys built colorful piles on tables in the middle. They would greet us like old friends, I’d barter for whatever mom assigned me, and they might toss in a free tomato for me afterward. The next pavilion over was a completely different story. My sisters refused to set foot in there, but I was fascinated by the butchers that lined the sides and the pungent spice vendors in the middle. Meat was piled high on the counters, hung from hooks in the ceiling. Blood dripped to the fly-infested floor, and plastic vats cradled their unidentifiably sketchy contents. To walk in there was an animal biology lesson, if you could handle the stench. And they cleaned the place! I can only imagine the accumulated reek of years of sacrifices.

How is it possible, then, that the Psalmist marvels at God’s power and glory as he approaches the stinky sanctuary? (Psalm 63:2) I would have held my nose with one hand while waving the other and shouting a nasal “Hallelujah!” I don’t think our noses are more sensitive than the Israelites’. Maybe I prefer our clean, sanitized, and frankly, sweet-smelling, form of worship. Last year we tried to make the chapel smell like freshly-baked bread. No luck – the ventilation system is too efficient. This Lent we should try something different. Blood dripping down the chancel? Dead rats in the brick holes? Dirty socks beside the hymnals? It’s about time we raise a holy stench with our worship!

Things heard from the pulpit – part 2

A backlog of ideas forces me to post about something really old. A week after the previous “Things heard from the pulpit”, I went with my home church youth group to the National Evangelical Mennonite Youth Assembly, in San Juan, Dominican Republic. Unlike the annual “fun” retreat in August, this conference was about the business of electing new officials, presenting yearly reports, and networking with other Mennonite youth around the country.

In the evenings, someone brought in a guest preacher to share the word. The first night he spoke, I was amazed – not at his wisdom or effective presentation, but rather at his blatant techniques of mass emotional manipulation. Along with my friend Junior Váldez, I hastily scribbled down a list of the preacher’s techniques at the very moment he put them in action. A note of warning: this was not my church; I do not endorse most of the things he did; thanks to Junior for his help.

• If you feel like nobody is paying attention, try to make some commotion (a typical pentecostal method) (easier if you have good musicians).

• Wake up a dead crowd by playing some games: “Make a noise, and cut it off when I wave my hand.”

• Pick a random person from the audience and have her pray for another random kid. Interrogate him about personal problems, using vague, general situations to force him to admit his need for prayer in a particular area. Try to force her to speak in tongues.

• If no one else seems interested in speaking in tongues, do it yourself. For example, string a random series of syllables not normally present in your language (Spanish) into a long word: “shababaparama shabaparashabababa usalashabara pamashatara marokamitara bapapapa” (actual quote).

• When all else fails, make the musicians come back to the instruments and sing another song. Loudly.

• If at all possible, turn up the volume more! Sonic assault lulls people into submission and blind obedience.

• Don’t start your sermon (if you actually prepared one; after all, that’s the Spirit’s job) if you can make another prayer, sing another song. That way you know everyone is in the right spirit.

• If you can’t push someone over (aka “slaying in the Spirit”) because someone else has a hand behind her, spin the person around in circles until she is so dizzy she falls down.

• If the musicians try to calm the people by playing a soft song, scream at the top of your lungs over the music. Use words like fire, spirit, unción, worship! – and repeat as many times as possible. An especially useful technique if you cannot sing in tune or time.

• Extra bonus points if you have talented singers that know more songs than you.

• Start a dance party: play music so catchy that no one can stop from moving to the pulse of the bass drum.

• Recruit someone to lead a “conga line” around the church.

• Don’t worry about your lack of a sermon, because people will remember the incredible things you did more than your words.