Where Heart and Mind Meet

Crater

In 1992, after the breakup of Yugoslavia, long-standing religious and ethnic tensions erupted into violent, armed conflict.  For 44 months, from April 1992 until December 1995, war ravaged the region.  Over 100,000 people were killed and 2 million were displaced; it was the most devastating loss of life in Europe since World War II.  The world was mute too long in the response.

Sarajevo, a beautiful city rich with theatre, art, and music, became Europe’s “capital of hell.”  On 27 May 1992, as a long queue of hungry families waited outside the city’s last functional bakery for bread, a mortar shell killed 22 of them. Verdan Smailovic, the then 37 year-old principal cellist of the Sarajevo Opera, witnessed the tragedy from the window of his home.  These were friends, patrons, and people he knew; they were people.  The crater in the ground mirrored the one in his heart.

The next day, at approximately the same time as the tragedy, in his full evening performance attire, Verdan took his cello to the crater.  At risk of falling to sniper fire, he played.  He did so for 22 days, one performance for each of the victims.  He offered them as a “daily musical prayer for peace.”  He would continue to offer his gift in bombed out schools and bomb shelters; he often played a funerals at significant risk of a snipers bullet.  He says that “the people were hungry, but still had soul.”  He was able to escape the city in late 1993 and lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

Verdan Smailovic playing in bombed National Library

On Thursday, 5 April 2012, 20 years after the violence broke out, Verdan returned to Sarajevo to play again at a concert for foreign journalists who covered the war at their own peril.  At the Hotel Holiday Inn, with members of the Sarajevo String Quartet who also played during the war, they debuted a piece titled “Remembrance” that been written specifically for the painful anniversary.

The reunion and remembrance, coincidentally, was Maundy Thursday this year.  In the Christian liturgy, this night of Holy Week moves us into the days of Awe and Mystery as we journey through Good Friday to Easter.  On Maundy Thursday, we remember that Jesus washed his disciples feet and we share a meal of bread and cup.

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To again turn our attention to Luke 24:36-48, the disciples are still in shock from the events of what we call “Good Friday.”  There was nothing “good” about it for them.  In the immediately preceding stories, a group of women went to the tomb to finish preparing Jesus’ body for burial; they go to be custodians of the crucifixion, to clean up after the horrific events.  They do not find a body there, but “two men in dazzling clothes” tell them that Jesus has risen.  When the tell the male disciples, they think it an “idle tale, and they did not believe them.”  Peter runs to look, and is “amazed.”  But amazed about what?  As yet, he still does not believe that Jesus has risen.

Later that evening, two return, undoubtedly out of breath from a seven-mile run from Emmaus to Jerusalem.  During their walk in the other direction, Jesus joins them; but they do not recognize him.  Jesus gives them a biblical history lesson, but it is not until they share a meal that their eyes are open. In the breaking of bread, their hearts are quickened.  Jesus disappears and they run back to tell the disciples.

“While they were talking about this,”  Jesus appears, finally, to the disciples en masse.  Despite the reports of the women and the Emmaus sprinters, they think they are seeing a ghost.  At this point, for them, the ARE seeing a ghost—a phantom presence.  They do not yet see; they do not yet know resurrection.

It is curious to me that Jesus directs them, as a means of comfort and instruction (perhaps), to the very place that they do not want acknowledge:  ”look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself.”  Most of them, nearly all the men, fled the scene of the arrest, trial and crucifixion.  They have been on the lam and hiding from the authorities.  They are simply trying to stay alive and make sense of their experience.

In fact, Jesus directs them right back to the crater in order to show them how to make music, even in the horror…to be continued.

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Chrysalis

Every truth has a consequence; every light casts a shadow.

Atlanta really didn’t have “winter” this year; I’m not sure it ever even really reached freezing at my house.  Some celebrated its absence, but I didn’t.  I missed it; I need the four seasons.  The cadence is a deep spiritual rhythm for me:  birth, growth, harvest and sabbath.

The lack of winter has already had practical consequences for me:  I have been bitten by mosquitoes no less than three times!  There are also a great deal winged creatures congregating around my porch light.  Some are beautiful, others creepy; but as long as they don’t bite me, I try not to judge.

Viewing them reminded me of a story I heard on NPR in the spring of 2008. Biologists Martha Weiss and Doug Blackiston at Georgetown University wondered if moths remember anything from their caterpillar days.  The process of transforming from caterpillar into moth is rather traumatic; inside the chrysalis, a biological minestrone is stewing—a complete biological meltdown and reorganization.  Through the trauma of metamorphosis, does anything remain.

The biologists used green tobacco hornworm caterpillars to see if learning in this stage of their development could persist into life as a moth.  The scientists would give the caterpillars a whiff of stinky gas and then an electrical shock.  (I know, poor things!)  According to professor Weiss, “you could tell that they noticed the shock.”  The caterpillars actually quickly learned, stench = jolt, and would avoid anything that smelled jolting.

Tobacco Hornworm caterpillar, pupa and moth

The learned caterpillars then spent the normative 5 weeks in their chrysalis urn; their bodies and brains melting down and reorganizing.  When they emerged as their transformed winged-selves and given the choice of stinky air or non-stinky air, they noticeably avoided the stench.  In other words, their learning survived the trauma of metamorphosis.  Professor Weiss says, “they’re not good at crossword puzzles.  They’re not good a calculus, but they can make connections that are relevant to their lives.”

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We are in the midst of our Great 50 Day celebration of Easter, our “alleluias” have returned to worship.  However, even a casual read of the Easter pericopes in the Gospels reveal that the disciples do not quickly or easily proclaim “alleluia.”  They have entered a soupy metaphoric minestrone.  They have witnessed shocking events and they are traumatized.

The Gospel lesson for the Third Sunday of Easter (22 April), Luke 24:36-48, presents a powerful peek into their chrysalis.  They are startled, frightened and terrified—BECAUSE Jesus is standing there with them.

They had a clear set of expectations of what it meant for Jesus to be the Messiah; namely, that Jesus would not die.  When Jesus does, something profound and deep dies within them.  They understand who THEY are in the context of their theological beliefs.  Jesus’ death is not just a “theological” death for them; it is a traumatic death of a core of their communal and personal identity.

My favorite phrase in the reading is, “while in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering.”  At this point, however, it is perhaps important to remember:

Courage is not the absence of fear; courage is the strength we find to guide us through our fears.  Faith is not the absence of doubt; faith is a place of uncertainty, wonder and mystery.  Joy is not simple happiness or giddiness; joy is a deep, quiet centeredness rooted in the awareness of Presence—it is not circumstantial, but an awareness that we are never alone, no matter our circumstance.

The disciples don’t know it, yet, but something essential has remained through the trauma of their metamorphosis…to be continued.

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O my Beloved, you are my shepherd, I shall not want; you bring me to green pastures for rest and lead me beside still waters renewing my spirit, you restore my soul.  You lead me in the path of goodness to follow Love’s way.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow and of death, I am not afraid; for you are ever with me; your rod and your staff they guide me, they give me strength and comfort.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of all my fears; you bless me with oil, my cup overflows.  Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the heart of the Beloved forever.

Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying

This Sunday (29 April), the focus at both Worship Services (8:30 & 11:00) will be Psalm 23. We will sing it (3 different hymns and 2 anthems), chant it, pray it and seek to lean into this ancient Hebrew poem.

The challenge and opportunity of the poem is its familiarity; we each, likely, have multiple experiences with Psalm 23. We might have memorized it early in our lives; it is often used at times of memorial. 

Instead of having a “normal sermon” this Sunday, I would like us to “gather” around the poem and risk a little sharing.

So, as preparation: what memories do you have of the “use” of Psalm 23? What occasions has it “come” to you?

Part of the power of Psalm 23, I think, and a critical part of what makes it so enduring is that in six verses of poetry, it describes the journey of us all.

We move from a spiritual place of nourishment (verses 1-3) where there is green, green grass, crystal, sustaining waters and clear pathways to dark and shadowy valleys (verse 4), and finally to wholeness and integration (verses 5-6) where there is balm for healing every wound, including those received from enemies or that we inflicted, mercy for all, and a table of abundance at which every shares the feast.

Throughout every phase, every place, every terrain, is the Presence and Companion:  the Good Shepherd, the Lord, the Sustainer and Redeemer.   It is our awareness of the Companion that changes; we are never left alone.

Start at the beginning:  where are the places, what are the practices, who are the people that bring your awareness to the green, green grass?  When have you been beside the “still waters?”

Each of our journeys includes passage through the valley of dark shadows and death.  A “Chinese proverb” says:  you can only walk halfway through a forest before starting the journey out the other side.  Death comes not just to our bodies, but to dreams and aspirations; sometimes even to our greatest hope.

What valleys have you crossed that either during the crossing or by looking in the “rear view mirror,” you could see the Companion walking beside you?

The journey of the 6-verse poem is from an awareness of abundance (green, green grass), through the difficult terrain of life and circumstance (shadows and death) and finally to a place of integration and wholeness.

The Table in the House of God is set in mercy and goodness, and it is set for all.  There is healing balm for those who have been wounded along the way; scars are softened with oil.  Strife comes to an end.  Enemies are no more, at their hand or ours ours.  Even the internal enemies we have made with those parts of our very selves that we reject are laid aside.  We are known and accepted.   The Welcome Feast is offered in abundance.

When have you had a foretaste of this feast?  When have you been welcomed home after a long journey?  When have you been startled, and maybe even relieved, by the place settings for all at the Table?

These reflections are also posted on Facebook (Shannon Michael Pater and Central Congregational United Church of Christ).  Please feel encouraged to leave comments and share.

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