Changed words

I can’t believe they are changing the words.

And, that they say they are changing the words in order to change the images that the worshippers have in their minds.

This is my reaction to the news, “Catholic liturgy has new translation,” from Sunday’s Boston Globe.

Wow.

It feels like when I read Bishop John Shelby Spong’s book, Liberating the Gospels: reading the bible with Jewish eyes, and learned that, no, Joanne, there was no star, no camels, no angels that holy night. It’s all poetry to spark your imagination, to move your heart, and to stir your soul.

Wow.

God’s revelation is not sealed, once again.

Instead of hearing, The Lord be with you.

And responding, And also with you.

Now, we will say, And with your spirit.

Sounds a lot like what they say at King’s Chapel, with the old Anglican now Unitarian Christian Book of Common Prayer: And with thy spirit.

I guess part of me is amazed that liturgy can be changed, is changed, and has been changed. My friend Beverly reminds me of the first changes that came post Vatican II, in the 1960s, when the mass went from Latin to English. She still misses the cadence and mystery of the ancient phrases.

Me? I came along just after that. So the 1973 English translation was my first liturgical language. Although I think my very first language was the images cast in marble and brushed in gold inside the sanctuary walls.

Mary, her hands in prayer, in the side chapel.

Jesus, in his arms, a sheep that was once lost.

Candle flame, flickering in red glass jars, lit by worshippers whispering prayers for healing and peace.

I wonder what new images the new translations, closer to the original Latin they say, will call forth?

I wonder what mystery, magic, and learning will emerge now?

I wonder what doors will be open for curious souls…

One more poem.

How did I miss this one from the writer's almanac on the 20th?
Tomorrow, a comment on the changes in the american catholic liturgy...
Enjoy.

Holy Ghost

The congregation sang off key.
The priest was rambling.
The paint was peeling in the Sacristy.

A wayward pigeon, trapped in the church,
flew wildly around for a while and then
flew toward a stained glass window,

but it didn't look like reality.

The ushers yawned, the dollar bills
drifted lazily out of the collection baskets
and a child in the front row began to cry.

Suddenly, the pigeon flew down low,
swooping over the heads of the faithful
like the Holy Ghost descending at Pentecost

Everyone took it to be a sign,
Everyone wants so badly to believe.
You can survive anything if you know
that someone is looking out for you,

but the sky outside the stained glass window,
doesn't it look like home?

"Holy Ghost" by June Beisch, from Fatherless Women. 

Uniting for a fair economy

I first heard about Chuck Collins some years ago when I discovered that economic justice was really one of my passions. At that time I began to support United for a Fair Economy which he founded. Since then I was lucky enough to meet Chuck through his wife, the Unitarian Universalist minister, Tricia Brennan. Most recently I read, Robin Hood Was Right: a guide to giving your money for social change, which he co-wrote with Pam Rogers and Joan Garner. His passion and knowledge have led our family to use our money for social change. Check him out here at TED talk: http://wealthforcommongood.org/

When I finally sat down

When I finally sat down,

After a year of shuttling back and forth between

Bridgewater and Boston

Between Pelham Terrace and city hospital

Between the brownstone and the grocery store

Between the bank and and the gas station

Between the pharmacy and the kitchen…

After months on the phone

with cousin Lynda in Texas and Aunt Fran in New Hampshire

With primary care physicians and hospital residents,

With surgeons and med students,

With social workers and elder care service intake workers,

 and potential assisted living center directors…

After weeks perched on the edge of the couch trying to listen

Over the sound of the tv turned up loud to compensate for the oxygen machine

Trying to see in the room unlit because “we have to pay for those lights!”

Trying to navigate around the oxygen tubes stretched from first floor to ground floor to 2^nd floor woven through the rails of the stairwell…

After days in the airless and overheated hospital room waiting for answers,

Can you tell us why she is having so much trouble breathing?

She wants to know why her blood needs to be drawn so often; look at her arms!

He does not want any more treatments; he’s done, no more.

In the cafeteria, we have become regulars:

The veggie burgers are good - with cheese -  the coffee is hot, the clam chowder, says Aunt Grace, from Texas, is wonderfulJ

I chat with the orderly who brought Uncle for a CT scan last week;

He helps out in the kitchen when he can, he says. How is your uncle, he asks, better?

The housekeeper who wants to introduce cousin David to her granddaughter, reminds me how beautiful the young woman is; really, she says. How is your aunt?

At bedtime, I ride the elevator down to the lobby with the cashier; we laugh at how we keep meeting at the same time each night. Same time tomorrow, she asks?

He does not want any more treatments; he’s done, no more.

After hours of holding his hand, reading aloud the funnies, and singing songs from the ole days,

We begin cooing:

We love you

We miss you already

But we’ll be ok

And we will take care of auntie

You are a great man and you have done so much good in this world

It’s ok now to let go…

After minutes making “arrangements”

I bring his best, and only, suit, to the funeral home

write the notice for the papers,

pick the casket,

order the flowers

and call the cemetery to ask them to pick the plot:

Wherever it is will be fine, as long as they will be together someday…

After seconds of my chair nestled as close to Auntie’s as possible

The priest reads the prayers honoring his life and asks for eternal rest for his soul

The homily is good, acknowledging our grief and the hope in the mystery to come

At the cemetery, the Navy color guard plays taps and presents the flag.

At Pelham Terrace, the food we bought at Cosco, White’s Bakery, and Pasta Bene is laid out. I drink Italian coffee, and the relatives who stop by for a while get to know one another. It’s been a long time since they have been together.

When I finally sat down,

I opened the window to a mild November air and breathed in the last remaining burst of color from the trees readying for winter’s sleep

Just then, I rested so deeply, in every muscle and thought,

And I realized

that all that had come before this moment was a gift

That all that work of love had

led to this one breath of rest

and the next breath too

When I finally sat down

I knew that a full life consists of both work and rest

And that neither can exist without the other…

For how deep would my rest be if I hadn’t work so hard?

What a bore it would be to just sit

What a cheap gift without the effort?

And so when I finally sat down

I cried with grief and gratitude and amazement at this life

And its gifts.

Another Poem

Last night both the boys (young men now really!) were home, for the first time, in months. Both slept in their old beds in their old rooms and both woke, this morning, at a later hour than both their parents. Home, after leaving home. A gift the weekend before Thanksgiving.


And this morning, this, another poem, from The Writer's Almanac, dropped in:


First Thanksgiving

When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts,
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object,
like a soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, after him, fresh
from the other world--which lay, from within him,
within me, Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing--whirling, over the months,
in a slow blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn't need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she's fast asleep, I'll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air--I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.

"First Thanksgiving" by Sharon Olds, from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002.

Here's today's selection from The Writer's Almanac...it's been my practice lately to forward these in emails to close friends, but in recent weeks, to post them to facebook, so I thought I'd try the blog, to get started...


In the Secular Night

In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
you remember it from being sixteen,
when the others were out somewhere, having a good time,
or so you suspected,
and you had to baby-sit.
You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
and filled up the glass with grapejuice
and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
with his big-band sound,
and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple.

Now, forty years later, things have changed,
and it's baby lima beans.
It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
This is what comes from forgetting to eat
at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
drain, add cream and pepper,
and amble up and down the stairs,
scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
talking to yourself out loud.
You'd be surprised if you got an answer,
but that part will come later.

There is so much silence between the words,
you say. You say, The sensed absence
of God and the sensed presence
amount to much the same thing,
only in reverse.
You say, I have too much white clothing.
You start to hum.
Several hundred years ago
this could have been mysticism
or heresy. It isn't now.
Outside there are sirens.
Someone's been run over.
The century grinds on.

"In the Secular Night" by Margaret Atwood, from Morning in the Burned House.