In ways I’ve rarely understood, my soul reverberates with the rhythms of the ancient Celtic year – especially their sense that these are holy in-between days. My Scots Irish ancestors believed that “the transitions between the seasons” were liminal spaces akin to “the shores between land and water, the boundaries between political territories, bridges that cross streams of water, and the twilight between day and night.” (Llewellyn) They sensed that these realities “were neither one thing or another” – mystery more than certainty or both/and as I’m want to say – where physical-ity hugs spirituality in a sacramental way. The poet, Angela Bailey, sings:
Every moment is born from the death of the last moment:
Every spring is born from last year’s autumn,
As the darkness of this season ripens and surrounds us, may we know your Divine Presence, O God of the day and the night, trusting that you will bring comfort near to us and sustains us for the journey. O Ground of our Being, may we also find ways to enjoy the rest of this season and enter into it fully. In your precious presence we pray: Creator + Christ, and Holy Spirit. Amen. (David Hill, The Celtic Year)
Every moment is born from the death of the last moment:
Every spring is born from last year’s autumn,
every leaf that falls nourishes new life
That will sprout when the earth is warmed again:
That will sprout when the earth is warmed again:
So why do we insist on clinging?
Why do we not let go as easily as a tree
Why do we not let go as easily as a tree
Lets go of both its leaves and its seeds,
Letting one die so that another will grow?
Why indeed? Fr. Richard Rohr suggests that part of the answer has to do with the way our spiritualities have been shaped more by ideas and concepts than God’s first incarnated word in nature. Most clergy “were trained for years by going away not into a world of nature and silence and primal relationships, but into a world of books. “
But that’s not biblical spirituality and that’s not where religion begins. St. Paul insists that spiritual formation starts with an encounter with nature: “Ever since the creation of the world,” he writes in the first chapter of Romans, “the invisible essence of God and God’s everlasting power have been clearly seen by the mind’s understanding of created things in nature.” We know God through the things that God has made. The first foundation of any true religious seeing is, quite simply, learning how to see and love what is. Contemplation is meeting this reality in its most simple and direct form unjudged, unexplained, and uncontrolled!
The inward journey, as the mystics like to say, is taking a LONG, loving look at what is real. Not the words of Scripture, the study of doctrine and dogma, or even the recitation of liturgical prayer: it is gazing upon what is right in front of us with love. Christine Valters-Paintner, on of my favorite wisdom keepers, suggests that when Jesus sensed his call to an outward and public ministry of sharing love, renewing the prophetic tradition of Judaism, showing people a way to opt out of the status quo, and incarnating the love of God in human flesh: he went into the wilderness.
Why, after thirty years – a span of time when life expectancy in his era was about the same age – did Jesus wait another forty days to begin his public ministry? Where did he go and what was he doing for so long that was so important? NOTHING. Jesus wasn’t even eating… he was not doing a thing except being. He sought out the wilderness so that he could make time to read God’s first “book” of creation… One of the lessons Jesus gives by his example is that before action, contemplation must take place… outside the noise, confusion, and chaos that so often surrounds us… Spending time reading the original scriptures of nature shows us how to step back, truly rest in contemplation before rushing into action. (Earth: Our Original Monastery, pp. 24-25)
This is what I have been stumbling towards over the past 25 years – learning to read God’s first word in nature – and letting that word shape and inform my heart, my being, and my activity. Living consciously into a nature-based Celtic Christian spirituality, however imperfectly, reminds me that since I was a small child I’ve been enraptured with this time of year: mid-October through mid-November and into Advent. I cherish EVERYTHING about it – the sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and activities – even the oblique melancholia that creeps inside of me as the days suddenly shrink after Day Light Savings Time ends evokes a bit of quiet gratitude and has done so for decades.
Intuitively and sensually, autumn is about endings: “the harvest has been gathered indoors,” writes Gertrud Mueller-Nelson. “The garden’s excess has been turned under the earth one last time. And while we return to the earth the riches she shared with us and allow the rotting melons or the bright leaves to be turned back into the soil, we sense something of the interdependence” of creation built into this in-between time. How does the written word of God we often say in our funeral liturgies put it: from dust we came and to dust we shall return? In the beginning, we emerge from the earth and into the hummus we finally return to rest. Whether you garden or not, if you’re awake and watching nature – even in the city – the circle of life dances before us, inviting us to let go and be-come empty so that we might be filled by God’s grace. Creation, the ancient Celts, Christian liturgy as well as the Beatles are clear: let it be, let it be, whispered words of wisdom, let it be.
· This is what the autumnal triduum of All Hallows Eve, All Saints and All Souls Day asks us to practice: letting go in trust that the threshold of darkness will bring new life and light to us in God’s own time. It is a hallowing of our fears and anxieties, an inverted spiritual adventure that seeks to assure us that out of the darkness will come new light in the love of Christ. It is a counter-intuitive faithfulness of the highest order.
· “These three feasts,” writes historian Christopher Hill, “remind us that the roots and branches of Christianity are in the unseen, and that the trunk passes for only the littlest while through this daylight world of time and the five senses. These feasts are intended to be a remedy for our unease with the unseen, to teach us to get along with mystery” and be gentle with our-selves. Sadly, our culture has buried these feasts giving them little attention or significance – leaving only the “popular folk holiday, Halloween,” to do the heavy lifting. (Holidays and Holy Nights, p. 46) Hill adds that now our secularized vigil of All Saints at Halloween acts like “an impish little brother to the former great vigils, offering a small echo of their world-transforming mysteries.”
Once upon a time, however, in both Christian and pre-Christian Celtic practices, these three days of All Hallows Eve nee Samhain practiced living into all types of darkness and anxiety with far more trust than fear. The ancient Celts paid attention to the cross-quarter day of November 1st that arrives halfway between the Autumnal Equinox and the Winter Solstice. These moments looked and felt like in-between time as one season died and another struggled to be born. Meg Llewellyn notes that this experience was “neither one thing nor another, letting human beings step outside their rigid mental boxes to catch a glimpse of mystery… in the old days THIS was the most potent in-between time of all.” (The Celtic Wheel of the Year, p. 19) November 1st was celebrated as the start of the Celtic New Year she adds because:
It was a ‘hinge’ time, marking the transition between summer’s light and winter’s darkness. It was believed that during this “thin time” between the seen and unseen realms, the gate between these worlds swung open and remained so until the gate closed about November 16th… from late October to early November… the past, present, and future became intertwined as the dead walked among the living, the faerie folk danced visibly and solemnity and celebration embraced in festivals of bonfire light to drive back evil spirit while families communed with relatives who had already crossed… Samhain became a time to honor the ancestors, not as the dead and departed, but as the living spirits of loved ones who guarded the root wisdom of the tribe.
I like Christopher Hill’s insight when he writes: “In the more sensuous awareness of time that people had in the absence of precise measuring systems, it was apparent that at these moments, one time had ended. Time would start again, of course, but between the end of one cycle and the beginning of the next there was a gap – and in these gaps it was believed that the world reverted to the way it was before time began – at the creation – dreamtime – much like each day shows us the year in miniature at both noon and midnight suggest a smaller crack in time… where anything is possible. (p. 51) Hill amplifies this saying:
Such occasions are perilous, undetermined, turning points and even crises, where things can go one way or another. This human sense of time is so deep and apparently universal that it has found its way into al-most every religious tradition. It is the root of most holy days and the source of sacred time. The timeless, of course, can break through at any moment; holy days are simply our celebrations and sacraments of that fact.
That is why, in both the Christian and pagan manifestation of these celebrations, these vigils begin at night. Our modern addiction to efficiency has erased much of this practice except at Christmas in the West and Easter in the East. But organic spirituality that is not tamed, homogenized, or sanitized by practicality recognizes that “sacred work takes place in the middle of the night, when the way is open between eternity and this world.” Our Jewish ancestors still mark the start of a “day” when evening falls. And our written Bible tells us that Jesus was born at night, was transformed and resurrected in the darkness, and once told his friends that “what I say to you now in the dark you must share with the world in the light.” Small wonder Jesus taught the skeptic, Nicodemus, about the “mysteries of rebirth and the holy spirit… in that famous nighttime dialogue” in St. John’s third chapter.
It was only about 500 years ago that we in the West gave up night vigils. Those of us from the Reformed tradition know our obsession with rationality and order. Our theological ancestors mistrusted the darkness – metaphorically and literally – both because some post-vigil events became rowdy, but also because intuitively they were excursions into the imagination. And those stolid old Protestants sensed that the imagination was fundamentally pagan. The old vigils that started with All Hallows Eve, however, insisted that the sacred and the human MEET in the imagination in yet another in-between time and place where what was out there – on the border – came close: now we see as through a glass darkly, said St. Paul, only later shall we see face to face. Let’s also note that our Protestant elders were not much for sacramental spirituality either.
They were literalists not poets, shaped by an era which rejected the belief that what could be seen pointed towards holy mysteries that were unseen. That’s one of the reasons I continue to let go of more and more of my Reformed heritage: the baggage is just too heavy to carry. It’s stultifying, wordy, and fearful – heady and abstract without much grounding in the senses – so I find the way of the ancient Celts who reveled in this glorious in-between season much more satisfying. Indeed, in our recent review of St. Mark’s gospel from the Common Lectionary over these past few weeks, I’ve found the Celtic lens and wisdom of Mother Nature to be liberating as it offers us upside-down and in-between stories of Jesus sharing God’s grace with his friends along the way.
Perhaps you know this but each of the four gospels in our canon – and some beyond it, too – not only tell a spiritual story, but organize their tales in such a way as to help us grasp their unique spirituality. St. John collects seven wisdom stories using the I AM formula to link Jesus the restorative powers of the sabbath. St. Matthew describes Jesus as the new Moses utilizing ancient Jewish practices to show Jesus as the fulfillment of the prophetic liberation. And St. Mark shares a three-pronged spirituality that starts close to home with Jesus and the disciples in Galilee, expands along the road where insights and events ripen incrementally, and concludes with a journey to the Cross in Jerusalem where self-emptying and letting go result in resurrection.
Today’s text not only closes part two of St. Mark’s stories of Jesus on the road outside of Galilee, but it also dramatically contrasts two other stories we’ve considered. Two weeks ago, we heard about a wealthy man who kept all of the commandments from his youth -- an obvious sign of God’s blessings in first century Palestine – yet he was unable to let it go and follow Jesus. Today we meet a blind beggar – an outward symbol of sin and the absence of God’s blessings in first century religiosity – but he is able to throw off his cloak, perhaps his only possession, let it go, get up, and follow Jesus on the way to the Cross. Last week James and John, the Sons of thunder, showed up wanting Jesus to give them places of honor and power when he entered his glory.
Today we come upon one sitting in the gutter along the way – hodos – who cries out for mercy. You see the contrasts, right? What’s more, as Bible scholars point out, there are two healing stories about blindness that act as bookends to this second section of St. Mark’s text. The first finds Jesus touching a blind man twice so that he might see and then see more clearly in chapter 8; the second the healing of blind Bartimaeus in chapter 10. Two stories of Jesus healing the blind – one to open, one to close part two of this gospel – with both serving as transitions to the bigger story of what has happened and what is still to occur.
· Looking backwards these stories symbolically emphasize the multiple meanings of darkness: ignorance, fear, physical as well as spiritual blindness where Jesus asks: "Do you have eyes and fail to see? Do you have ears, and fail to hear? Do you not remember?" (8:18).
· They also point to a spirituality of being on the way – hodos – an incremental unfolding of God’s grace and presence. St. Mark wants us to know that rarely do we have just one Damascus Road experience that changes everything. More likely is a lifetime along the way where epiphanies and connecting the small threads of synchronicity add up to a new way of being. Over and over, section two of this gospel shows Jesus and his friends on a journey through the darkness into the light.
Pastor Brian Stoffregen wisely adds that the contrast between Blind Bartimaeus and the disciples: two of the closest allies along the way ask Jesus for positions of power and honor while the blind beggar cries out for mercy and illumination. “Those who want to save their life will lose it,” Jesus tells both, “While those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” Looking ahead, today’s story solidifies its in-between status as Bartimaeus prophetically links Jesus with King David – the Messiah – whom the crowd will celebrate on what we know as Palm Sunday to cries of “Hosanna, hosanna, blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
Reading these texts through the lens of both the ancient Celts and the wisdom made visible by God’s first word in nature have helped me reclaim the new/old vigils of All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day. I’ll use one of the oldest All Hallows Eve liturgies next week on October 31st to help get us in the groove and then emphasize a few simple ways to reclaim these forgotten treasures.
It’s been said that All Hallows Eve is like an autumn Carnival or Mardi Gras: playful about mystery, using wild costumes to give shape and form to our dreams and imagination; and like the ancient mummers who went door to door singing and begging treats in the dark, All Hallows Eve invites us to own rather than suppress our fears. Christopher Hill rightly notes that “when we fear and suppress the night, fear and destruction is what we get. When religion, old or new, suppresses the creatures of the night, it ends up chasing witches with horrible literalness – or hunting down perceived enemies – or searching for diabolical mess-ages in children’s books or pop music.”
And this isn’t merely an abstract, intellectual theory: in this weeks’ TIME Magazine there’s an article entitled: Why Everyone Is So RUDE Right Now. It’s a sobering story of Americans snapping and acting out in the worst possible ways towards restaurant workers, flight attendants, and others in the lower echelons of the service industry.
Letting one die so that another will grow?
Why indeed? Fr. Richard Rohr suggests that part of the answer has to do with the way our spiritualities have been shaped more by ideas and concepts than God’s first incarnated word in nature. Most clergy “were trained for years by going away not into a world of nature and silence and primal relationships, but into a world of books. “
But that’s not biblical spirituality and that’s not where religion begins. St. Paul insists that spiritual formation starts with an encounter with nature: “Ever since the creation of the world,” he writes in the first chapter of Romans, “the invisible essence of God and God’s everlasting power have been clearly seen by the mind’s understanding of created things in nature.” We know God through the things that God has made. The first foundation of any true religious seeing is, quite simply, learning how to see and love what is. Contemplation is meeting this reality in its most simple and direct form unjudged, unexplained, and uncontrolled!
The inward journey, as the mystics like to say, is taking a LONG, loving look at what is real. Not the words of Scripture, the study of doctrine and dogma, or even the recitation of liturgical prayer: it is gazing upon what is right in front of us with love. Christine Valters-Paintner, on of my favorite wisdom keepers, suggests that when Jesus sensed his call to an outward and public ministry of sharing love, renewing the prophetic tradition of Judaism, showing people a way to opt out of the status quo, and incarnating the love of God in human flesh: he went into the wilderness.
Why, after thirty years – a span of time when life expectancy in his era was about the same age – did Jesus wait another forty days to begin his public ministry? Where did he go and what was he doing for so long that was so important? NOTHING. Jesus wasn’t even eating… he was not doing a thing except being. He sought out the wilderness so that he could make time to read God’s first “book” of creation… One of the lessons Jesus gives by his example is that before action, contemplation must take place… outside the noise, confusion, and chaos that so often surrounds us… Spending time reading the original scriptures of nature shows us how to step back, truly rest in contemplation before rushing into action. (Earth: Our Original Monastery, pp. 24-25)
This is what I have been stumbling towards over the past 25 years – learning to read God’s first word in nature – and letting that word shape and inform my heart, my being, and my activity. Living consciously into a nature-based Celtic Christian spirituality, however imperfectly, reminds me that since I was a small child I’ve been enraptured with this time of year: mid-October through mid-November and into Advent. I cherish EVERYTHING about it – the sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and activities – even the oblique melancholia that creeps inside of me as the days suddenly shrink after Day Light Savings Time ends evokes a bit of quiet gratitude and has done so for decades.
Intuitively and sensually, autumn is about endings: “the harvest has been gathered indoors,” writes Gertrud Mueller-Nelson. “The garden’s excess has been turned under the earth one last time. And while we return to the earth the riches she shared with us and allow the rotting melons or the bright leaves to be turned back into the soil, we sense something of the interdependence” of creation built into this in-between time. How does the written word of God we often say in our funeral liturgies put it: from dust we came and to dust we shall return? In the beginning, we emerge from the earth and into the hummus we finally return to rest. Whether you garden or not, if you’re awake and watching nature – even in the city – the circle of life dances before us, inviting us to let go and be-come empty so that we might be filled by God’s grace. Creation, the ancient Celts, Christian liturgy as well as the Beatles are clear: let it be, let it be, whispered words of wisdom, let it be.
· This is what the autumnal triduum of All Hallows Eve, All Saints and All Souls Day asks us to practice: letting go in trust that the threshold of darkness will bring new life and light to us in God’s own time. It is a hallowing of our fears and anxieties, an inverted spiritual adventure that seeks to assure us that out of the darkness will come new light in the love of Christ. It is a counter-intuitive faithfulness of the highest order.
· “These three feasts,” writes historian Christopher Hill, “remind us that the roots and branches of Christianity are in the unseen, and that the trunk passes for only the littlest while through this daylight world of time and the five senses. These feasts are intended to be a remedy for our unease with the unseen, to teach us to get along with mystery” and be gentle with our-selves. Sadly, our culture has buried these feasts giving them little attention or significance – leaving only the “popular folk holiday, Halloween,” to do the heavy lifting. (Holidays and Holy Nights, p. 46) Hill adds that now our secularized vigil of All Saints at Halloween acts like “an impish little brother to the former great vigils, offering a small echo of their world-transforming mysteries.”
Once upon a time, however, in both Christian and pre-Christian Celtic practices, these three days of All Hallows Eve nee Samhain practiced living into all types of darkness and anxiety with far more trust than fear. The ancient Celts paid attention to the cross-quarter day of November 1st that arrives halfway between the Autumnal Equinox and the Winter Solstice. These moments looked and felt like in-between time as one season died and another struggled to be born. Meg Llewellyn notes that this experience was “neither one thing nor another, letting human beings step outside their rigid mental boxes to catch a glimpse of mystery… in the old days THIS was the most potent in-between time of all.” (The Celtic Wheel of the Year, p. 19) November 1st was celebrated as the start of the Celtic New Year she adds because:
It was a ‘hinge’ time, marking the transition between summer’s light and winter’s darkness. It was believed that during this “thin time” between the seen and unseen realms, the gate between these worlds swung open and remained so until the gate closed about November 16th… from late October to early November… the past, present, and future became intertwined as the dead walked among the living, the faerie folk danced visibly and solemnity and celebration embraced in festivals of bonfire light to drive back evil spirit while families communed with relatives who had already crossed… Samhain became a time to honor the ancestors, not as the dead and departed, but as the living spirits of loved ones who guarded the root wisdom of the tribe.
I like Christopher Hill’s insight when he writes: “In the more sensuous awareness of time that people had in the absence of precise measuring systems, it was apparent that at these moments, one time had ended. Time would start again, of course, but between the end of one cycle and the beginning of the next there was a gap – and in these gaps it was believed that the world reverted to the way it was before time began – at the creation – dreamtime – much like each day shows us the year in miniature at both noon and midnight suggest a smaller crack in time… where anything is possible. (p. 51) Hill amplifies this saying:
Such occasions are perilous, undetermined, turning points and even crises, where things can go one way or another. This human sense of time is so deep and apparently universal that it has found its way into al-most every religious tradition. It is the root of most holy days and the source of sacred time. The timeless, of course, can break through at any moment; holy days are simply our celebrations and sacraments of that fact.
That is why, in both the Christian and pagan manifestation of these celebrations, these vigils begin at night. Our modern addiction to efficiency has erased much of this practice except at Christmas in the West and Easter in the East. But organic spirituality that is not tamed, homogenized, or sanitized by practicality recognizes that “sacred work takes place in the middle of the night, when the way is open between eternity and this world.” Our Jewish ancestors still mark the start of a “day” when evening falls. And our written Bible tells us that Jesus was born at night, was transformed and resurrected in the darkness, and once told his friends that “what I say to you now in the dark you must share with the world in the light.” Small wonder Jesus taught the skeptic, Nicodemus, about the “mysteries of rebirth and the holy spirit… in that famous nighttime dialogue” in St. John’s third chapter.
It was only about 500 years ago that we in the West gave up night vigils. Those of us from the Reformed tradition know our obsession with rationality and order. Our theological ancestors mistrusted the darkness – metaphorically and literally – both because some post-vigil events became rowdy, but also because intuitively they were excursions into the imagination. And those stolid old Protestants sensed that the imagination was fundamentally pagan. The old vigils that started with All Hallows Eve, however, insisted that the sacred and the human MEET in the imagination in yet another in-between time and place where what was out there – on the border – came close: now we see as through a glass darkly, said St. Paul, only later shall we see face to face. Let’s also note that our Protestant elders were not much for sacramental spirituality either.
They were literalists not poets, shaped by an era which rejected the belief that what could be seen pointed towards holy mysteries that were unseen. That’s one of the reasons I continue to let go of more and more of my Reformed heritage: the baggage is just too heavy to carry. It’s stultifying, wordy, and fearful – heady and abstract without much grounding in the senses – so I find the way of the ancient Celts who reveled in this glorious in-between season much more satisfying. Indeed, in our recent review of St. Mark’s gospel from the Common Lectionary over these past few weeks, I’ve found the Celtic lens and wisdom of Mother Nature to be liberating as it offers us upside-down and in-between stories of Jesus sharing God’s grace with his friends along the way.
Perhaps you know this but each of the four gospels in our canon – and some beyond it, too – not only tell a spiritual story, but organize their tales in such a way as to help us grasp their unique spirituality. St. John collects seven wisdom stories using the I AM formula to link Jesus the restorative powers of the sabbath. St. Matthew describes Jesus as the new Moses utilizing ancient Jewish practices to show Jesus as the fulfillment of the prophetic liberation. And St. Mark shares a three-pronged spirituality that starts close to home with Jesus and the disciples in Galilee, expands along the road where insights and events ripen incrementally, and concludes with a journey to the Cross in Jerusalem where self-emptying and letting go result in resurrection.
Today’s text not only closes part two of St. Mark’s stories of Jesus on the road outside of Galilee, but it also dramatically contrasts two other stories we’ve considered. Two weeks ago, we heard about a wealthy man who kept all of the commandments from his youth -- an obvious sign of God’s blessings in first century Palestine – yet he was unable to let it go and follow Jesus. Today we meet a blind beggar – an outward symbol of sin and the absence of God’s blessings in first century religiosity – but he is able to throw off his cloak, perhaps his only possession, let it go, get up, and follow Jesus on the way to the Cross. Last week James and John, the Sons of thunder, showed up wanting Jesus to give them places of honor and power when he entered his glory.
Today we come upon one sitting in the gutter along the way – hodos – who cries out for mercy. You see the contrasts, right? What’s more, as Bible scholars point out, there are two healing stories about blindness that act as bookends to this second section of St. Mark’s text. The first finds Jesus touching a blind man twice so that he might see and then see more clearly in chapter 8; the second the healing of blind Bartimaeus in chapter 10. Two stories of Jesus healing the blind – one to open, one to close part two of this gospel – with both serving as transitions to the bigger story of what has happened and what is still to occur.
· Looking backwards these stories symbolically emphasize the multiple meanings of darkness: ignorance, fear, physical as well as spiritual blindness where Jesus asks: "Do you have eyes and fail to see? Do you have ears, and fail to hear? Do you not remember?" (8:18).
· They also point to a spirituality of being on the way – hodos – an incremental unfolding of God’s grace and presence. St. Mark wants us to know that rarely do we have just one Damascus Road experience that changes everything. More likely is a lifetime along the way where epiphanies and connecting the small threads of synchronicity add up to a new way of being. Over and over, section two of this gospel shows Jesus and his friends on a journey through the darkness into the light.
Pastor Brian Stoffregen wisely adds that the contrast between Blind Bartimaeus and the disciples: two of the closest allies along the way ask Jesus for positions of power and honor while the blind beggar cries out for mercy and illumination. “Those who want to save their life will lose it,” Jesus tells both, “While those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” Looking ahead, today’s story solidifies its in-between status as Bartimaeus prophetically links Jesus with King David – the Messiah – whom the crowd will celebrate on what we know as Palm Sunday to cries of “Hosanna, hosanna, blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
Reading these texts through the lens of both the ancient Celts and the wisdom made visible by God’s first word in nature have helped me reclaim the new/old vigils of All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day. I’ll use one of the oldest All Hallows Eve liturgies next week on October 31st to help get us in the groove and then emphasize a few simple ways to reclaim these forgotten treasures.
It’s been said that All Hallows Eve is like an autumn Carnival or Mardi Gras: playful about mystery, using wild costumes to give shape and form to our dreams and imagination; and like the ancient mummers who went door to door singing and begging treats in the dark, All Hallows Eve invites us to own rather than suppress our fears. Christopher Hill rightly notes that “when we fear and suppress the night, fear and destruction is what we get. When religion, old or new, suppresses the creatures of the night, it ends up chasing witches with horrible literalness – or hunting down perceived enemies – or searching for diabolical mess-ages in children’s books or pop music.”
And this isn’t merely an abstract, intellectual theory: in this weeks’ TIME Magazine there’s an article entitled: Why Everyone Is So RUDE Right Now. It’s a sobering story of Americans snapping and acting out in the worst possible ways towards restaurant workers, flight attendants, and others in the lower echelons of the service industry.
“The combination of a contagious, life-threatening disease and a series of unprecedented, life-altering changes in the rules of human engagement” numerous studies have found, “have left people anxious, confused and, especially if they do not believe the restrictions were necessary, deeply resentful.” TIME goes on to document that this: “period of threat has been so long that it has had a damaging effect on people’s mental health, which for many has then been further debilitated by isolation, loss of resources, the death of loved ones and reduced social support. “During COVID there has been a marked increase in anxiety, a reported increase in depression, and an increased demand for mental health services. Lots of people, in other words, are on their very last nerve. This is true whether they believe the virus is an existential threat or not. “Half the people fear COVID – and half the people fear being controlled.” We are not a people accustomed to such staggering challenges. What’s more, our culture often refuses to name its fears and is far more practiced in denial than honesty. And lest you think this is an exaggeration, our trauma cuts deeper than manners for: “Impolite interactions are not the only thing that’s on the rise; crimes are too.”
“We’re seeing measurable increases in all kinds of crimes that suggests to that there is something changing,” says Jay Van Bavel, associate professor of psychology and neural science, and co-author of a book on social harmony: The Power of Us. He suggests the reasons for the rise in both are structural and profound; America has lost sense of social cohesion, as a result of the widening gaps between the wealthy and working class. “The more inequality you get—which has gotten worse in the last few decades—the less of a sense of cohesion there are across socioeconomic classes. That’s something that if that’s not addressed is going to continue to cause turmoil.”
Culturally we have a lot of work to do in the spirit of healing – so why not reclaim the liturgically safe space the vigil offers us and start to name what truly terrifies us personally, socially, politically, and spiritually? No one knows exactly what the ancient Celts did at Samhain, but we do know that bonfires played a part – as did feasting and mumming – going house to house in a costume with songs and sometimes a simple drama. So, how might we name our fears, enter the darkness with the new light of illumination, and incarnate this vigil for our era?
I don’t know if children will be trick or treating this year: but if they are in your world, why not meet them in costume and playfully engage them in the night? Or maybe just illumine your home – I’ll use candles but that won’t work every-where – so you might try little fairy lights. And jack-o-lanterns? They can become illuminated gargoyles playfully lighting up the night. So, in this time of fear and uncertainty, let’s incarnate a bit of sacred creativity, yes?
You see, part of the charism of All Hallows Eve is radical hospitality: meeting our darkest fears with trust and light. If we welcome children as they reclaim their role as ancient mummers, why not playfully practice reaching out to them in the darkness as a sacramental act of sharing God’s love and light in a trying time? The two days following vigil, All Saints and All Souls Day, have their own charism. Maybe you could read about them before we regroup next Sunday for Small is Holy. But in anticipation, let me offer a simple sacramental act in making a picture box of your communion of saints – those who are public and important to you – as well as those who are private and a part of your family. It is a way to give shape and form to our prayers – and it can be a whole lot of fun, too.
· Two years ago, I did it: searching for pictures of grandparents, mentors, my mom and dad and two sisters who have gone before me; I also unearthed the secular icons Di made for me when I completed my post-graduate studies – pictures with a gold nimbus behind the head of Rumi, Joni Mitchell, Aretha Franklyn, Abraham Joshua Heschel, Dr. King, Bruce Springsteen, George Harrison, Marvin Gaye and many, many more.
· Both gathering the pictures and then setting them in a small box was a grand time of remembering those who have shaped and carried me on my journey of faith. As that old TV commercial said: Try it – you’ll like it! I want to close this reflection with an All Hallows Eve prayer shaped by the Celts as preparation for our Eucharist:
“We’re seeing measurable increases in all kinds of crimes that suggests to that there is something changing,” says Jay Van Bavel, associate professor of psychology and neural science, and co-author of a book on social harmony: The Power of Us. He suggests the reasons for the rise in both are structural and profound; America has lost sense of social cohesion, as a result of the widening gaps between the wealthy and working class. “The more inequality you get—which has gotten worse in the last few decades—the less of a sense of cohesion there are across socioeconomic classes. That’s something that if that’s not addressed is going to continue to cause turmoil.”
Culturally we have a lot of work to do in the spirit of healing – so why not reclaim the liturgically safe space the vigil offers us and start to name what truly terrifies us personally, socially, politically, and spiritually? No one knows exactly what the ancient Celts did at Samhain, but we do know that bonfires played a part – as did feasting and mumming – going house to house in a costume with songs and sometimes a simple drama. So, how might we name our fears, enter the darkness with the new light of illumination, and incarnate this vigil for our era?
I don’t know if children will be trick or treating this year: but if they are in your world, why not meet them in costume and playfully engage them in the night? Or maybe just illumine your home – I’ll use candles but that won’t work every-where – so you might try little fairy lights. And jack-o-lanterns? They can become illuminated gargoyles playfully lighting up the night. So, in this time of fear and uncertainty, let’s incarnate a bit of sacred creativity, yes?
You see, part of the charism of All Hallows Eve is radical hospitality: meeting our darkest fears with trust and light. If we welcome children as they reclaim their role as ancient mummers, why not playfully practice reaching out to them in the darkness as a sacramental act of sharing God’s love and light in a trying time? The two days following vigil, All Saints and All Souls Day, have their own charism. Maybe you could read about them before we regroup next Sunday for Small is Holy. But in anticipation, let me offer a simple sacramental act in making a picture box of your communion of saints – those who are public and important to you – as well as those who are private and a part of your family. It is a way to give shape and form to our prayers – and it can be a whole lot of fun, too.
· Two years ago, I did it: searching for pictures of grandparents, mentors, my mom and dad and two sisters who have gone before me; I also unearthed the secular icons Di made for me when I completed my post-graduate studies – pictures with a gold nimbus behind the head of Rumi, Joni Mitchell, Aretha Franklyn, Abraham Joshua Heschel, Dr. King, Bruce Springsteen, George Harrison, Marvin Gaye and many, many more.
· Both gathering the pictures and then setting them in a small box was a grand time of remembering those who have shaped and carried me on my journey of faith. As that old TV commercial said: Try it – you’ll like it! I want to close this reflection with an All Hallows Eve prayer shaped by the Celts as preparation for our Eucharist:
Holy and gracious One, as we move from autumn towards winter, we know that the darkness can be sill and calm, or tempestuous and wild; it can be beautiful to behold, or harsh and frightening. In whatever may meet us on the journey, may we be drawn into your Divine Presence more fully. We pause to go deeper silently…
O God of stillness, ruler over the darkness, we pray for those places within our world which are dark and hurting whether through human actions or natural means. (Take a moment and call those places into your heart.) Now let us say: Lord, have mercy.
· O God of stillness, ruler over the darkness, we pray now for those places within our local communities which are in darkness in one form or another, whether through the actions of local people or broader governmental decisions. (Stillness…) And so we pray: Christ, have mercy.
· O God of stillness, ruler over the darkness, we pray for those places within your church which are in darkness in some way, whether through selfish stubbornness or the political decisions of hierarchy. (Stillness…) And now we pray: Lord, have mercy.
O God of stillness, ruler over the darkness, we pray for those places within our world which are dark and hurting whether through human actions or natural means. (Take a moment and call those places into your heart.) Now let us say: Lord, have mercy.
· O God of stillness, ruler over the darkness, we pray now for those places within our local communities which are in darkness in one form or another, whether through the actions of local people or broader governmental decisions. (Stillness…) And so we pray: Christ, have mercy.
· O God of stillness, ruler over the darkness, we pray for those places within your church which are in darkness in some way, whether through selfish stubbornness or the political decisions of hierarchy. (Stillness…) And now we pray: Lord, have mercy.
As the darkness of this season ripens and surrounds us, may we know your Divine Presence, O God of the day and the night, trusting that you will bring comfort near to us and sustains us for the journey. O Ground of our Being, may we also find ways to enjoy the rest of this season and enter into it fully. In your precious presence we pray: Creator + Christ, and Holy Spirit. Amen. (David Hill, The Celtic Year)
CHECK OUT THE LIVE STREAMING HERE: https://fb.watch/8RwRyk5vYM/
No comments:
Post a Comment