Something I love about the church calendar is that it marches on regardless of how you feel. Something I don't really like about the church calendar is that it marches on regardless of how you feel.
The ecclesiastical year begins about a month before the calendar year, with Advent. The years go by in a three-count circle, creatively named year A, B, and C. Advent and Lent are remarkably similar times of waiting, preparation, and reflection.
For a number of years, I felt like I was in a perpetual Advent, always waiting, knowing that something good was at hand... but not here yet. Every year I wanted Advent to be longer, I sunk into it and knew I was at home. This year and last year, I waited with great anticipation for Advent, but it no longer felt like my season of life. It will probably come back around in the "year B" of my life and then again in "year C", whenever those start.
I'm not sure what liturgical season I feel connected to now. Maybe Pentecost, a time of fiery activity, rejoicing, confusion, general chaos and newness. I don't think it's an accident that a celebration like Pentecost marks the beginning of what, liturgically, is called Ordinary Time. Ordinary - you know, chaos, people eating things that were once forbidden, Jesus having left them, the disciples making a lot of messes and then beautiful things rising anyway.
Today is Good Friday. Three years ago, I spent all of Holy Week at a monastic community in France called Taize. Good Friday was the incredibly powerful climax of the week. I had questioned monks, been in dialogue with people my age from around the world, meditated and prayed.
At 3:00 pm, bells tolled around the grounds marking the hour of Jesus' death. Everyone stopped and was silent for five minutes. Hundreds and hundreds of people. Silent. Remembering the story that we are all connected to and contemplating it. And some of them were probably thinking normal thoughts like "Has it been five minutes? Is it okay if I sneeze? Gosh I have to use the bathroom. My leg itches."
I was silent though, letting the wind on the hill whisper through my open fingers.
I understood the mystery of this day in a way I hadn't before and haven't since. I wish I could feel that way every year, but emotions are pretty fickle. The church calendar brings us through Lent, Good Friday, Easter, and Pentecost no matter where we feel we are. And so today, I hold closely the memory of that day on a hillside in France and know that it is holy.
The ecclesiastical year begins about a month before the calendar year, with Advent. The years go by in a three-count circle, creatively named year A, B, and C. Advent and Lent are remarkably similar times of waiting, preparation, and reflection.
For a number of years, I felt like I was in a perpetual Advent, always waiting, knowing that something good was at hand... but not here yet. Every year I wanted Advent to be longer, I sunk into it and knew I was at home. This year and last year, I waited with great anticipation for Advent, but it no longer felt like my season of life. It will probably come back around in the "year B" of my life and then again in "year C", whenever those start.
I'm not sure what liturgical season I feel connected to now. Maybe Pentecost, a time of fiery activity, rejoicing, confusion, general chaos and newness. I don't think it's an accident that a celebration like Pentecost marks the beginning of what, liturgically, is called Ordinary Time. Ordinary - you know, chaos, people eating things that were once forbidden, Jesus having left them, the disciples making a lot of messes and then beautiful things rising anyway.
Today is Good Friday. Three years ago, I spent all of Holy Week at a monastic community in France called Taize. Good Friday was the incredibly powerful climax of the week. I had questioned monks, been in dialogue with people my age from around the world, meditated and prayed.
At 3:00 pm, bells tolled around the grounds marking the hour of Jesus' death. Everyone stopped and was silent for five minutes. Hundreds and hundreds of people. Silent. Remembering the story that we are all connected to and contemplating it. And some of them were probably thinking normal thoughts like "Has it been five minutes? Is it okay if I sneeze? Gosh I have to use the bathroom. My leg itches."
I was silent though, letting the wind on the hill whisper through my open fingers.
I understood the mystery of this day in a way I hadn't before and haven't since. I wish I could feel that way every year, but emotions are pretty fickle. The church calendar brings us through Lent, Good Friday, Easter, and Pentecost no matter where we feel we are. And so today, I hold closely the memory of that day on a hillside in France and know that it is holy.
I still feel that way about Advent.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was an undergrad, I wrote an essay for a non-fiction writing class that interspersed a discussion of the theology of Advent (watchful waiting and preparation) with my feelings of being stuck in a perpetual holding pattern in my life.
That was when I was 22. Now, nine years later, things are starting to seem a lot less like "something good is at hand" and a lot more like it's "always winter but never Christmas."