March 28: Palm Sunday, Saint Proterius

I always find Holy Week draining. This could be due to the fact that I'm an organist and musician at a Catholic church and a Methodist church; head of the Worship Team at the Methodist church; Sunday school teacher; choir director; choir member; and, this year, because of an insane compulsion to volunteer, director of a children's Easter Sunrise Service musical, which is scheduled for 7 a.m. Sunday morning. Between Palm Sunday and Easter, I have a total of eight services, masses, practices, and rehearsals to be at. To add to the fun, this morning my sister-in-law e-mailed to let me know that she's having a birthday barbecue on Holy Saturday afternoon for her stepson. I can tell you that when I read that message, the little vein that's been pulsing prominently in my temple the past few weeks nearly sprang a leak.

However, my level of involvement is not the main reason I can barely peel a purple egg on Easter. I find the liturgies and services themselves emotionally taxing, starting with Saturday night's vigil mass for Palm Sunday. At a Catholic celebration for Palm Sunday, the entire passion narrative is read dramatically, involving several actors and the priest, who always gets the part of Jesus despite having the tone and inflection of Roseanne Barr at a baseball game. It ain't Broadway. It ain't even off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway, which is, I believe, somewhere near Pittsburgh.

There are always moments of unintended humor during this reading. My favorite is when the congregation, playing the part of the angry mob before Pilate, drones "crucify him" with the energy and enthusiasm of heavily medicated insomniacs. It takes a good 15 or 20 minutes for the entire story, from Jesus on the donkey to Jesus in the tomb. If I were directing the production (watch me turn into C. B. Demille), I'd hold open auditions and find parishioners who had some acting chops. I'm not looking for Streep or Deniro, but when you're portraying a person who's bleeding to deathon a cross, I expect to hear a little discomfort, maybe even some pain. However, the idea of me saying to my parish priest "Can you try that again, with more feeling?" makes me a little uncomfortable, the way going to confession or eating tuna does. Besides, I know how volunteering at churches goes. If I said I'd like to direct the reading of the passion, I'd be king of Palm Sunday, minus the jackass, from now until death. So, I keep my mouth shut and suffer, which I count as part of my Easter penance.

It's not all bad acting, though. There is always a point during a Palm Sunday passion that gives me pause, every time it happens. Near the end of the reading, the narrator says, "Jesus cried out in a loud voice, 'Father, into Your hands I commit my spirit.'" Then the narrator, depending on the translation of the gospel being used, says something like, "Jesus took his last breath and died."

At that moment, everyone in the church falls silent and kneels. The pause usually lasts around 30 seconds. Those 30 seconds, for me, are worth the price of admission. It's always solemn. It's always reverent. And it always fills me with a deep melancholy and gratitude.

Now, I'm not going to get all Billy Graham on you, but, to me, that moment where we concentrate on such sacrifice is loaded with meaning. During those moments, I think of sacrifices people have made for me: my father working from sun-up to sun-down to feed and clothe and house nine kids; my older sister buying me a new car when I graduated from college and moved downstate; my pastor friend holding my sobbing self for two hours the night my wife told me she was leaving; my daughter letting me crawl into bed with her night after night when my wife moved out, somehow sensing in her five-year-old head that I needed her nearness to anchor me. I think of my son's one-year-old fingers curled around my thumb in the darkness of his crib, trusting me to warm his home; fill his belly; protect his tiny, peach life from bruises and wounds. So much of what we do, or should do, every day of our lives is about sacrifice.

The saint for Palm Sunday knew about sacrifice. Proterius, a 5th century bishop, became Patriarch of Alexandria in 451 during a time of great religious upheaval. He stuck to his guns, of course, in the face of rioting mobs who wanted him to renounce his beliefs and doctrines. Eventually, he fled to a church for safety in 454. Proterius was stabbed to death inside that church. Sacrifice.

I know I am who I am today because of the sacrifices people have made for me. It's humbling to think that the sacrifices I make, or don't make, for my daughter and son will mold them into the woman and man they will eventually become. That's why Holy Week drains my energy so much. It's not the music or choir practices or worship services or masses. It's not the candles and incense and holy water. It's not the baptisms and first communions and confirmations. It's about sacrifices that shape our lives, make us who we are.

It's about 30 seconds of silence.

March 25: The Annunciation of the Lord

I'm sure you're waiting, Faithful Reader, for me to discuss Manly Man Poetry Night again. However, this week, my friend and I did not go to Big Boy, eat manly onion rings, scratch ourselves in manly ways, and write manly poetry. This week, I hosted our monthly book club meeting. Now, I'm sure you're saying to yourself: Poetry and now a book club. Man, could this guy get even more sexy and macho? Yes, I am a fine specimen of testoterone, and don't ever forget it.

My book club consists of family, friends (including my pastor friend), family of friends, and friends of friends. We have been going strong for close to six years (which in book club years is close to four decades), and, while our ranks have seen a little fluctuation, for the most part, we are a stable group of readers. I use the term "stable" in the physical sense, not the mental sense.

At 7 p.m. on March 25, our little band of literati met to discuss this month's reading selection, The Anarchist, a novel about the assassination of William McKinley. If you are interested, I give the book four stars. It was written by John Smolens, a colleague of mine at the college where I teach, and, brave soul that he is, he consented to come to our meeting to answer our questions, put up with our dysfunction, and down some Killian's. This isn't the first time that John has visited our group. In fact, this is the third novel of his that we've read, and consequently his third time in the hot seat. Either John is really hard-up for something to fill his Thursday night, or he really enjoys being with us. I prefer to believe the latter as opposed to the former.

Much of the conversation with John concerned his research for the novel, which included trips to Chicago and Buffalo to read and pore over newspapers from 1901, the year President McKinley was shot by an anarchist named Leon Czolgosz. As presidential assassinations go, it's a story not too many people know the details about. I vaguely recalled that McKinley was shot greeting the public in a large hall. McKinley's murder does not have the historical weight of Abraham Lincoln's or the immediacy of JFK's. In fact, most people barely remember the names of the two other assassinated presidents of the United States. (If you're wondering, they're William McKinley and James Garfield. Garfield, I believe, was shot in a train station, but that's the extent of my knowledge.)

When I commented to John how few people really know the details surrounding McKinley's death, or what a hugely popular president he was, John smiled, sipped his Killian's, and said, "I was kind of counting on that."

As a writer, I can vouch for the fact that writing an interesting poem, story, novella, or novel about a subject as familiar as JFK's assassination would be as difficult as getting a clear shot from the grassy knoll. However, writing something interesting about William McKinley's fatal shooting at the Pan-American Exposition is an easier endeavor (not the writing, which is hard work no matter what the subject, but the creation of something fresh and unique). John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, these are names everybody knows. Leon Czolgosz, on the other hand, is a name that conjures no immediate associations. Drop Leon's name at a party that's not a book club gathering about The Anarchist and see if it starts any interesting conversations. (I once went to an online chat room where people were debating who would win the Nobel Prize in Literature that year. I typed something like, "I think it's going to be a poet from the United States named Martin Achatz." The resounding virtual silence was deafening. Leon's name would have the same effect in a crowd not consisting of history geeks and conspiracy theorists.)

Stories that have been told over and over lose their power, become ordinary and expected, even stories containing angels and virgins and people rising from the dead. Familiarity breeds boredom and apathy. March 25 is the celebration of the Annunciation, which, for my non-Catholic friends, is the appearance of the angel Gabriel to Mary telling her that she is going to be the mother of God. Basically, it's the commemoration of the conception of Jesus. Nine months from this date, we will be opening Christmas presents. It's a story every person, Christians and non-Christians, has heard over and over again. It has lost its luster and power, which is an amazing statement to make. Even I have to admit that i would rather discuss a novel about a presidential murder than sit down with a Bible and go over the narrative of the birth of Christ again.

I always struggle with this at Christmas and Easter. Sometimes it feels like I'm just putting in the DVD for Oliver Stone's JFK and watching it for the tenth time. Say it with me: "Back and to the left. Back and to the left." That film can still evoke an emotional response in me, but it's a response I expect and am prepared for. Every once in a while, I get shaken out of my complacency when it comes to the Christ narrative, usually by some artistic work. Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ knocked me on my ass when it first came out. Reading a Flannery O'Connor short story does this for me occasionally, as well.

Writing this blog has made a difference for me this Lent. I have been much more aware of my spiritual and personal and emotional life for the past 40 or so days. Being so brutally honest with myself in front of my one or two readers has been like watching the Zapruder film frame-by-frame for blood spatter evidence. Not a completely pleasant experience, but one that has invested my Easter journey with deeper meaning.

I think that's one of the jobs of believers--to reinvent the story, to find the Leon Czolgosz that makes you view history in a totally different way. If you can't do that, then faith really becomes a matter of rereading a good book for the umpteenth time, hoping that the ending has changed. For the record: President McKinley dies in The Anarchist, and Jesus rises from the grave on Easter morning. The trick is writing an ending for yourself that makes a difference.

I'm still working on my last chapter this Easter.

March 23: Saint Toribio de Mogrovejo

I thought of titling this blog "The Nasty Bitch Strikes Back" (start humming the Star Wars theme with me), but I decided to take the high road. You may remember, Faithful Reader, the last time Nasty Bitch (henceforth referred to as NB) made an appearance in a post. She said and did some not-so-Christian things to my wife, so I went to her house and said and did some very not-so-Christian things is response. The ensuing guilt and remorse I experienced from my outburst ruined the better part of a week for me (think Luke after Darth cut his hand off). I finally ended up apologizing to NB, and, armed with the knowledge that I had done the right thing, the thing both Jesus and Yoda would have wanted me to do, I moved on to my next opportunity to make an wookie of myself.

Well, yesterday, when I spoke to my wife on the phone, she told me NB had said some more not-very-Christian things to her and my daughter and pretty much slammed a door in my wife's face, literally. Of course, my first response was to go to the Dark Side. I had this out-of-body vision of myself screaming at NB again, but the vision that immediately followed was of me having to suck Bantha butt again and apologize. Neither vision gave me much pleasure.

My wife and daughter were at home, out of harm's way, so I decided to pray about the situation on the drive home. I prayed for NB. Her mental state has not improved since my last outburst. In fact, I would say she has gotten worse. She looks like she hasn't slept in about two weeks, and , on a good day, her mood is sullen. On a bad day, she's just, well, a nasty bitch. Since she hasn't had an appointment with her psychiatrist, I know she hasn't started taking any medication to improve her condition. That means that she's still experiencing auditory and aural hallucinations. The last time she was like this, the voices were telling her to kill herself.

As I drove, I prayed for NB. I asked that she be made well, that she gets the help she obviously needs. I prayed that she be happy, really happy--no seeing figures standing in the mirror behind her or sneaking into her bedroom at night, no hearing voices whispering her name or telling her to harm herself. I prayed that she would turn back into the person I used to like, the person I remember going on vacations with. I prayed that she just be a whole person again. Wholeness. I've prayed similar prayers for my wife when she was in the throws of mania or addiction.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I felt peaceful. I wasn't ready to charge over to NB's house and challenge her to a light saber duel. I was calm and accepting. I saw NB for what she is right now--a sick individual in need of compassion and understanding. That doesn't mean I shouldn't protect myself and my family from cruelty and pain. That does mean that I recognize the source of that cruelty and pain as a symptom of NB's broken mind/heart/soul. And I can pray for her.

That's pretty much what Toribio de Mogrovejo did for a good portion of his life. A 16th century Spanish professor of law, he was appointed bishop of Lima, Peru. For a quarter century, he walked through jungles, forded rivers, wrestled gigantic alien Rancors (just making sure you're paying attention), and exposed himself to things like malaria, leprosy, and heatstroke. Instead of expecting broken people to come to him for help, he went out, met people where they were, and brought them the love and compassion of God. By the time he died in 1606, he had confirmed and baptized nearly one million people.

I probably didn't go as far as Toribio would have gone for NB yesterday. Toribio would have walked to her house, sat down with her, maybe held her hand. He would have asked her how she was doing, listened to her talk about her illness, her anger, her sadness. He would have led her to a better place.

I, on the other hand, patted myself on the back for not calling NB a nasty bitch to her face. I just prayed for her, handed her over to the likes of Saint Toribio, and hoped for the best. Sometimes that's what it's all about: A New Hope.

May the Force be with you.