A Poem for Easter Monday

Resurrection, Gaudenzio Ferrari, c. 1530

Seven Stanzas at Easter
by John Updike

Make no mistake
If he rose at all it was as his body;
If the cells' dissolution did not reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent,
It was not as his spirit
In the mouths and fuddled eyes
Of the eleven apostles;

It was as his flesh: ours--
The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart that pierced, died, paused
Then gathered again out of enduring might
New strength to enclose.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb
Make it a real angel,
Opaque in the dawn light,
Weighty with Max Planck's quanta,
Robed in real linen spun on a definite loom.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Transcendence, making of the event a symbol,
A sign painted in the credulity of a vanished age;
Let us walk through the door.
The stone is rolled back:

Not papier mache, not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality
That in the slow grinding of time
Will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest awakened in an unthinkable hour
We are embarrassed by the miracle
And crushed by remonstrance.

A Poem for Holy Saturday

Easter Saturday by Elizabeth Rooney

A curiously empty day,
As if the world’s life
Had gone underground.
The April sun
Warming dry grass
Makes pale spring promises
But nothing comes to pass.

Anger
Relaxes into despair
As we remember our helplessness,
Remember him hanging there.
We have purchased the spices
But they must wait for tomorrow.
We shall keep today
For emptiness
And sorrow.

Idol vs Icon

I have struggled with the purpose and the reasoning behind "The Artist's Way" class that I taught this past term. But Dave just sent me a link to an article in Comment Magazine by Alison Wilkinson on Marion's distinction between the idol and the icon. She then links this distinction to social networking technology and our use of this technology.

It is strange, but she seems to get to the heart of my hopes for this class. It is not the creative act itself or self expression or even our participation in artsy things that moves us toward the 'spiritual life.' Are we moved past ourselves and are we moved past things and activities toward God? How does our practice and presence in the world move us in this 'transcendent' direction, yet at the same time not leave care for ourselves behind?

Creativity is a practice that moves in both of these directions. We are taken out of ourselves yet at the same time, through our encounter with art or creation or with the creative process we know ourselves. We can only know ourselves in the light of our encounter with others. Sometimes that 'other' is a painting (e.g., Rothko or Piccasso) or it is another person or experience (e.g., the therapeutic moment). But if we linger with the painting or the person or the moment too long, as if that is the very thing that we are searching for, then we slide into idolatry. The moment of transcendence is lost.

This is why I define 'spirituality' in relational terms rather than in experiential terms. To have a spiritual experience is not to have a spiritual life. We might be transformed in the moment, but it is how we live and practice life after that moment that truly transforms us.

Thus, spirituality is practice, it is what we do day to day and hour to hour. Creativity is a practice that can either turn us inward upon ourselves or open us outward toward others. But I would like to think that our participation in beauty (of all sorts) calls us outward into the world. We feel ourselves opened toward others and toward new experience. As this is a primary agency of the Holy Spirit, then we can identify how God works through our creative and artistic impulses in the world. We are moved into the world to make meaning and to create beauty in unlikely places.

All this to say, I think this is what the class was about... perhaps I am still attempting to articulate the mystery of life in the Spirit. We are creative beings who are moved by the Spirit. But do we have ears to hear and eyes to see what the Spirit is doing today and in the moment? May we be people of the Spirit. That is my prayer...

A Bit of Musical Fun...

OK, I don't know how to describe where I am sending you except that it is a bit addictive. The person who created this cite has provided a space to play with sound. In essence, it is a square of music that plays itself. You determine the notes by selecting different blocks. Give it a try:

• Musical Fun

Some End of the Term Humo(u)r

OK, now that most of your papers have been written, I thought you would like to laugh at others (or even yourselves; or is that ourselves or maybe others?). Here is a little help in how not to make spelling mistakes. Enjoy!

10 Words You Need to Stop Misspelling (by The Oatmeal)

Music, Always Music...

Here is a favorite poem of mine. I think O'Saidhail does a good job of exploring the relationship between music and spirituality. Do you see/sense the Holy Spirit in the poem?

Music, always music. And when the violins tumble
a thief has entered me.
Come and gone.
A sneaking anarchy
leaving spoors of memories I never had.

Incognito. Whimpers through crevices and pores,
quick bowings of a violin,
furious pizzicato
of what hasn’t been
whinnies and hops beyond a future I imagine.
My vigilance breaks down. Rupture of being.

This  syncopation. Offbeat,
out of phase
with myself, I vibrate.
What’s this breathlessness I can’t catch up with?

That flight of thirds mincing up a treble
clef. Lines of joy.
Matrix of frontiers.
EVERY GOOD BOY
DESERVES FAVOUR. Silences are spelling FACE.

Endless glory of some muteness that eludes me.
Approach of another face,
tremolo of forsakenness
naked and homeless.
How can I fold and suckle all its orphanhood?

Music, always music. Neighbor, are you the face
of that thief breaking in,
Hollowing me out?
A tumbling violin
breathes its cries in me.
I’m womb and mother.

“Music,” by Micheal O’Siadhail, from A Fragile City