Lent Day 28: A Strange Place

Previously I referenced a Madeleine L'Engle poem that I heard read at a recent church service, because I wanted to see with my eyes what I had heard with my ears.  I've finally had a chance to read more of that book, including poems that were not read aloud.

I didn't explain before that Madeleine L'Engle, of A Wrinkle in Time fame, wrote many poems "reflecting on themes of love, loss, faith and beauty" (from the book jacket) and are all collected in a book called The Ordering of Love.

Here's one that really caught my eye, because it captures exactly what I've been exploring for the past 27 days of Lenten posts.  I've not written much poetry, or sad to say even read much poetry in my lifetime, but that will probably change soon.  I'm appreciating more than ever the fullness of expression with an economy of words.  Here is a "This is a Strange Place" (from p. 124 of The Ordering of Love)

This is a strange place
and I would be lost were it not for all the others
who have been here before me.
It is the alien space
of your absence.
It had been called, by some,
the dark night of the soul.
But it is the absence of night as well as light,
an odd emptiness,
the chill of any land without your presence.
And yet in this Lent of your absence,
I am more certain of your love and comfort
than when it is I who have been withdrawn from you.

Lent Day 19: I Am Become Like a Pelican

One of the worst parts about serving as a lay church musician is that I don't always get to focus on the readings or other parts of the service.  The church liturgy is the work of the people, and those who preside, assist, lector, usher or provide music are often focused on the choreography of the service for the congregation, and these 'leaders' often don't get to provide their full attention on all parts of the service.

One of the best parts (of serving as a lay church musician) is that I'm not shy about asking for the inspirational materials (readings, sermons) after the service because I couldn't focus my full attention at the time.  This past Sunday was one of those times.

Our worship band provides music during what we call "Center Celebration," a worship service that comes right between the early (8:15) and late (11:00) service on the first Sunday of months during the academic year.  Although it replaces the education hour (Sunday School, Youth Group, Bible Class) on that one Sunday, different groups volunteer each month to construct a themed service, like focusing on the environment or St. Francis of Assisi (which is held outdoors and pets are welcomed to be blessed).

This month's service focused on Lent, and we had poetry by Madeleine L'Engle interspersed throughout the regular parts of the liturgy, plus we played new music for Lent, published just this year.

One poem struck me between the eyes, or more like ears... and I couldn't find a copy on the "InterWebs," so I include it here with full attribution:

"I Am Become Like a Pelican"

I am become like a pelican in the wilderness....
For I have eaten ashes as it were bread,
and mingled my drink with weeping....
But thou, O LORD, shalt endure for ever.
Psalm 102:6, 9, 12

God is dead?  Well, of course God is dead!
Where have you been?  Did you not see the dark
Cover the hill and strike against the cross?
We killed him then two thousand years ago
And once was not enough.  We kill him now
In each denial, each unloving act.
Daily we kill him, trampling on his name,
Spitting on his word.  And we are told,
And rightly, that he died between two thieves
And not two candles shining on an altar.
And yet there, too, perhaps most terribly,
He's crucified each day by priest and those
Who take him, unaware of all the clouds
Of witnesses encompassing them in song
And prayer, who kneel there coldly unaware
Of those who suffer in the adjoining pew.
We do not understand his feast; we live
Again his crucifixion, but forget,
Each time we crucify him there again
Between those candles whose bright flame is lost
To darkened eyes, that when he died for us
After three days he rose, and still for us.
We kill him, but we cannot keep his light
From blazing forth in flame for every one
Who fouls his word and calls him dead and cries
In loneliness because his name is lost.

And yet, receiving now my heart's true food
I feel his light rush coursing through my blood.
Nourished by his spilled wine and broken bread,
I know that my Redeemer is not dead.

--  Madeleine L'Engle, from The Ordering of Love, pp. 314-315

This poem was read after communion, and from the musical perspective, we had just recovered from some of the mixed signals about which hymns to play when.  (This was not a major concern... we just rolled with the flow; everyone received communion and sang hymns that they know by heart.)  I wasn't expecting a long poem at that point in the service.  Usually once communion is shared, it's a pretty quick slide to the "sending forth" end of the service.

So... I got to listen, to focus fully on the above words, and immediately I knew I wanted to read it myself, over and over again.  Some might consider the poem controversial, but I think it's beautiful and resonates deeply within me for my Lenten journey.


[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]