A wrecked season

We sang this piece at Mass tonight, the first time its been in our Advent playlist in a long time. I found this version by the Ignatian Schola while hunting up a video for the RevGalBlogPals Sunday Afternoon Video feature (where I ended up posting a version of Conditor Alme Siderum — Creator of the Stars of Night).

I didn't post this video, precisely because it left me unsettled and therefore felt not quite the thing for a feature that has as one of its aims to be a calm and meditative space for those who have ministered through the weekend. But yet..the contrast between the images here and warm and stilling Advent hymn seemed to fit a liturgical season that for me at least has felt 'wrecked.'

I don't mean wrecked in the sense of ruined (or even wrecked in the sense of the car accident I was in this weekend), but wrecked in its (admittedly obscure) sense of intentionally dismantled.

Yesterday I was part of a choreography workshop with Susan Rethorst in Philadelphia (in my scientist persona). Rethorst uses a technique she calls "wrecking" to make dances. She hands over a piece in progress to another choreographer and invites them to make it their own, completely and utterly. This 'wrecking' is not simply destruction, but repurposes what remains to new ends, takes what might seem awkward or unsuitable and resets it, renews it, reuses it — re-creates it. It is a dismantling, in its oldest sense: a breaking down of my defenses, a "reversing of the cloak" that I wear.  It requires utter surrender.

This video made me think of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's suspicion about our expectations of the Advent and Christmas seasons, that we "are indifferent to the message, taking only the pleasant and agreeable part of it and forgetting the serious aspect, that the God of the world draws near to the people of our little earth and lay claim to us." This video 'wrecks' the song, turning the consoling words and peaceful melody into a challenge. What would it take for me to don the cloak of comforter and walk into the cold, rather than huddle within the warmth of the season?  Utter surrender.

Alert: Zoonotic hazards

Slate magazine has an article up about dangerous animals.  Bats top their list, but I would like to point out a little known danger associated with domestic cats.  These animals are potent soporifics.  Just one cat, left at the end of a bed, can stupefy two adults for hours.  Even in an open area, such as on a couch or easy chair, Felis domesticus poses a significant napping risk.

Fluffy was curled up, purring, at the bottom of my bed this morning.  The alarm went off, but my feet were warm and the cat was purring and the next thing I knew it was 8:30.  Be warned.

Reflection: Choosing the better part

I'm certain it was my friend Fran who coined the word crazymadbusyness to describe this time of year -- and it's such a good one, I used it twice in this reflection, given just before Thanksgiving at a local retreat house run by the IHM sisters.  In it I think about practical ways to pry (pray?) my fingers off my to-do list and try 'to-be' instead.

I'm giving another reflection there next week: Made Radiant by the Light of the World.  If you are in the area and want to come, it is from 7 to 8 pm at the IHM conference center in Bryn Mawr.

Ex communio

Depending on how the morning (and the morning traffic) goes, I sometimes end up at the church too late for daily Mass (but at least early for Morning Prayer).  I typically take a spot in a pew in the back of the dim church and take some time to meditate and pray.

Daily Mass at my parish is celebrated in a small octagonal chapel set behind and slightly to the side of the main sanctuary.  The tabernacle is visible from both the chapel and the main sanctuary, a glass panel separates the two spaces; double doors left open let sound move freely.  As a result, I can see and hear much of what is going on in the chapel, albeit at a bit of a remove.

I am finding these liminal moments a potent contemplation of what it might mean to be ex communio, outside the walls.  Of what it might feel like to to watch and to wait.  To see the light well up from within the darkness.

Advent demands

Advent is my favorite liturgical season.  It glows in memory, glimmers expectantly in the here and now.  Yet this year, more than most, I'm aware of the demands that Advent makes on me.

I wonder how often we romanticize Advent.  Dim lights, soft colors.  Hymns in a minor key.  The liturgy is muted, but not stripped bare.  There are no set fasts, no elected penances. The story line twirls around visits from angels, swaddled infants, pastoral scenes of shepherds and foreign visitors bearing a whiff of mystery.  The sort of season you can settle into a comfortable chair with and let soak in.

It is a time of getting — for a child will be born unto us, a son will be given to us...and His name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace — not a time of surrender.  Giving up is for Lent — into your hands I commend my spirit.

This week, someone asked me for my "widow's mite" -- all that I had left to in a particular area of my life.  I gave it away, but it hurt all the while.  Now I'm contemplating generosity and poverty.  Is it generous when it costs me nothing, or makes me feel good?  Is it generous if it still hurts a day later?  If I complain about the loss?  The likely answers are yes, yes, yes and yes.

Pregnancy and birth (and child-rearing) are all calls to surrender.  They are messy, at times painful, ways to grow.  Advent's story is not a sweet tale of young mothers, but a call to hand over everything, in pain and in joy.  Time to take off the rose-colored glasses and pray for clarity and wisdom and hope as I wade into Advent.