Good Friday in a Better Place

It is Good Friday, and I'm tired.  But of course I'm tired.  Yesterday I drove down the mountain to teach, drove home, and then my spouse and I drove up I 26 in the opposite direction so that I could preach and preside at Faith Lutheran for Maundy Thursday worship service; for more on that, see this post on my theology blog.

I am reminding myself that I have plenty of time to get all the things done that need to get done today.  The primary thing is grading.  I am caught up at Spartanburg Methodist College, but my online classes need attention.

I also need to write a rough draft of my Easter sermon.  I know what I plan to write, so I am less stressed about that.

But I don't want this blog to just be a catalog of to do lists.  I spent a bit of time looking at old Good Friday posts and thinking about what a strange assortment of experiences I've had.

The body experiences are the ones that come to mind, not the worship experiences:

--In 2022, I went out for my normal walk in the pre-dawn dark and fell and broke my wrist.  There wasn't a clear precipitating event, no trip, no misstep.  One minute I was walking and the next I was falling.  I didn't think I had broken my wrist because it didn't hurt.  I am still a bit spooked by this experience, if we're telling the truth.

--In 2024, I spent the morning of Good Friday in the mammography center getting a more advanced scan.

I've had a wide variety of worship experiences, at various points in the day.  None of them match my memories of childhood Good Friday services, which seemed more dramatic than any other, with tales of torment and spookiness and the big Bible slammed at the end.

I've done a variety of the Stations of the Cross, which always leave me wanting to make my own version, not because I find them lacking but because they are so inspiring.

And of course, there are the days when I have had to work because I was in such a secular setting.  I have always had a liturgical calendar moving alongside my secular life, and they rarely match.

Today, I am in a much better place, both physically (healthy even though I'm carrying 30 pounds more than I would like) and in terms of my work life.  I am grateful on this Good Friday.

Here's a poem from a harder time, back in 2003, a time of many home repairs and infestations.  It was inspired by the time when the termites came out of the ceiling in two places inside the house as they swarmed, and it was awful.  It happened in the spring which made me think of spring holidays:  Easter and Passover, and this poem emerged, published for the first time here:

A Thousand Wings



The termites swarm on Good Friday,
the one day of the year when bread and wine
cannot be consecrated.
The termites fill my book-lined study.
I cannot kill them fast enough.

Finally, I shut the door and weep.
I cry for the Crucified Christ.
I cry for my house, under assault
from insects who have declared war
on wood, as if to avenge His death.
I cry for terrors and tribulations and plagues
that do not pass over.

In the evening, I sweep up a thousand wings.
I dust my shelves and attend to my house,
the way the women must have prepared the corpse,
bathing and anointing with oil

so lost in misery and despair,
resurrection blindsides us,
coming from a direction we could never expect,
a cold tomb, modern chemicals,
a spirit unconquered by minutiae.

A Different Poem for Maundy Thursday

Today is Maundy Thursday, the day that celebrates "The Last Supper" of Jesus.  Of course, it's not the last supper.  After his resurrection, he gets right back to having meals with people, cooking fish on the beach for breakfast.  But it's the last supper on this side of the crucifixion.

If you'd like a serious Maundy Thursday sermon, I've posted the manuscript (which might change a bit between now and tonight's 6:30 worship service at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, TN) in this blog post.

On a less serious note, I pulled a loaf of bread out of the freezer for tonight's worship and realized that I had pulled out a chunk of fatback.  Happily, I realized it right away and pulled out the correct bag that contains bread not pig fat.  I double checked and will double check again, probably several times before I leave for school.

My poet brain is already making connections.  But it won't be in time for today's blog post.

Instead, let me post an earlier poem.  It's never been published, and it's not my favorite Maundy Thursday poem (those are here and here).  I wrote it back in 2012 when I was filling in for one of the deans who was away for a week on vacation.  It was a high traffic time in the dean's office when students would come in to discuss their failures and their options, so the office needed to be staffed.  I was a department chair who volunteered.  It was also Holy Week, which provided me all kinds of interesting parallels and possibilities.

The Dean Hears Student Appeals During Holy Week


On the Monday after Palm
Sunday, the students form
a line outside the office of the Dean.

The students come to protest
their sudden change of fortune.
They’ve always been good
students! They can’t fathom
why they’ve been forced
to leave school.

The dean drifts off during
their pleas. The dean thinks of palm
branches, donkeys, and crowns of thorns.
The dean studies transcripts
and hears sad tales of woe.
Like Pontius Pilate,
the dean, several steps removed, asks
questions but never knows for sure:
each decision, a shot in the dark.

Unlike Pontius Pilate, the dean never
has scrubbed hands. The dean listens
to each appeal and offers second
chances, even if undeserved,
a gleam of grace
in a world where redemption
seems impossible.

Running, Running, Running into National Poetry Month and Holy Week: An Unfinished Post

It's the kind of week where I feel like I'm running, running, running.  Even though I have a plan for my classes, there's still prep work to do, and I'm behind in my grading.  It's Holy Week, so I have two sermons, not my usual one.  It's a good kind of tired I'm feeling, since I like everything I'm doing, but tiredness is tiredness.

Let me record a few fragments, so that I don't lose them.

--It is National Poetry Month.  I will probably not do as much as I have in past years.  But I will mention it to my English students.  Maybe I shouldn't--I didn't mention Women's History Month or Black History Month.

--Yesterday I did my communal poetry project with my English 102 class, a project that I first described in this blog post.  I can't always tell what my students are thinking, and yesterday, although I tried to have class conversation after the creating of the poems and my reading of them, they were stonily quiet.  So I decided to have them write about the process.  I was surprised by how many students enjoyed it.  I do realize that some of them might have been telling me what they thought I wanted to hear, but I think that some of them were genuine.  It's good to remember that I might be misinterpreting my students' silence.  Across the classes that I teach, semester after semester, I don't find students wanting to be verbal in class.  It does seem like a generational shift.

--Yesterday I heard about a different kind of writing process, the Frederick Buechner Writing Competition.  I was particularly intrigued by the wide range of types of writing the judges will consider, but this passage made me decide to enter: "The editorial board will give special consideration to pieces that discuss Buechner’s work and themes, to literary and theological essays, and to sermons — the written sermon being an undervalued art form that was particularly close to Frederick Buechner’s heart."  So I decided to enter:  more in this blog post.  

--I've been thinking about the life of a sermon writer.  Some sermons are so much easier than others--and it's often not the ones I would have thought would be easier, back before I was writing sermons every week.  And it's interesting to think about how writing a weekly blog post about the Sunday Gospel text is different from a sermon.  My blog posts are usually half the length of a sermon, and for much of my blogging, I've been able to assume that no one would be reading my blog.  Sermons are so different.

--My congregation in Bristol, TN is the most attentive group of listeners I've ever had, more so than students certainly, but also more so than other congregations.  

Comparing Raisins to Jellybeans in the Composition Classroom

I had such a good time designing autumnal themed writing for my Composition classes in the fall that I wanted to do something similar in this term.  In the fall, I had more days to fill than I had ideas, which led me to try new things, like showing Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video and creating a playlist of autumnal themed music across genres and having students listen and write.  I created the music experience as I was driving to campus feeling unsatisfied with the lesson I had planned--and thus, I came up with something better.

This year, we have three class days, but that works well too.  I have three days planned that lead to writing comparison/contrast essays.  Yesterday was the first day:

Yes, we compared jelly beans to raisins.  Back in January, I had found a raisin mindfulness exercise in this NYT article about a restaurant reviewer changing his approach to food.  Somewhere in the past few months, I came up with the idea of adding a jelly bean.

I gave them two sheets of paper, the pink one for jelly beans and the purple one for raisins.  We went sense by sense describing the two.  And then, I had a worksheet where they compared the two:  five ways that they are similar, with two sentences elaborating on each way, and the same for differences.  They engaged thoughtfully throughout the whole process, and it took longer than I thought it might.

Tomorrow, we'll go back outside to see our trees.  Earlier in the semester, I had each student adopt a tree, and we did a variety of exercises to write about the tree.  Now we'll go back outside to see how the trees have changed--or haven't, because some students chose pines and other evergreen trees.

On Monday, for our third pre-writing, we'll listen to Spring music.  It won't be quite as specific to spring as my autumn playlist was specific to autumn.  I'll have them write about the differences in the music.

Then on Wednesday and Friday, we'll work on turning that material into essays.  I've decided that if they haven't been in class to do the pre-writing work, they will have to choose another topic.  If a student has missed all three?  I will have them go back outside to see their tree again, but first, I will have a conversation about how they need to be in class for all the remaining class days.   And next semester, I'm going to put similar language on my syllabus about needing to be in class for the pre-writing, and that the grade for the final essay may be reduced if the student hasn't been in class to do the work in person.

It's interesting to think about how I once yearned to do more online, so that I had more flexibility.  I got that chance, and it's been great.  Now I am happy to be teaching in person, so that I can do more to control the writing process and require that the students do the actual writing, not some AI tool.

After we do this last comparing and contrasting essay, we have one last assignment, a mini-research assignment which incorporates the mandatory library orientation.  And then we are done--and then, I will catch my breath.

One Last Look Back at Quilt Camp and Palm Sunday

It's been the kind of week (or two or three) where I begin Monday feeling like I need a few days off to recover from the week before.  But at least I was able to get some decent quality sleep last night.  

It's sobering/exhilarating to realize how few weeks remain in the semester.  The last days of class are April 27 and 28, which means we only have four full weeks of class left--and those aren't really full weeks.  We have Good Friday off, and I will be out on April 17.  These weeks will fly by, and then it's summer.  My summer this year will be much more relaxed than last year--hurrah!  I was reading through my CPE end-of-term documents, and I remembered, again, how intense the schedule was.  I'm happy to be through with that training.

Let me record a few snippets before I lose them.

--Yesterday I had a poem idea. We do Passion Sunday, which means we read the whole Holy Week text. This bit from Good Friday (Matthew 27: 50-53) leapt out at me: " Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split.  The tombs also were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised.  After his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many."

Is there a poem in those lines?  I keep thinking about those holy people, long dead, rising up and wandering around Jerusalem.  Do I want to update it to a modern capital city, D.C. perhaps?

--Here is a picture of the Lutheran World Relief quilt top that I made in one day, on Saturday at Quilt Camp:

It's not what I would have created if I was starting from scratch.  The quilt top contains about 25 squares made to go in a quilt of a different pattern, squares donated when the pattern didn't work.  They were in fall (or autumn adjacent) colors, but not necessarily colors that went well together side by side.  I looked for other fabrics that might work, and for what it is, I think it's fine.

--Yesterday afternoon, I worked on some hand sewing.  In the early evening, I made this Facebook post:  Later yesterday, I made this Facebook post: "After Palm Sunday worship and a beautiful drive back through the mountains, I'm doing a bit of hand stitching while watching season 5 of 'The Chosen,' which brings Jesus and the gang to Holy Week, which seems a fitting ending to the day and a fitting beginning to Holy Week."

Time to get ready to head down the mountain in a different direction.  It's that time of year when every drive is slightly different, in terms of which trees have leaves and which ones have flowers and which ones are still bare--beautiful!

Palm Sunday, Again

Today churches across Christendom will celebrate Palm Sunday, the day when Jesus rides triumphantly into Jerusalem.  Of course, the same crowd that cheers for Jesus will just a few days later be screaming for his death.  Many churches will cover the whole Holy Week story today:  Palm Sunday has become Passion Sunday.  Here are some thoughts swirling in my brain this particular Palm Sunday:

--Palm Sunday shows us the folly of fame.  People may love you on one day and cry out for your crucifixion 5 days later.

--Spring, however, reminds us that the days of winter will not last forever. 

--Does every religion have a cycle of days that reminds humans that resurrection is not only possible but promised?  I think so.

--Spring also reminds me that the shrubbery/trees that don't bloom brightly one year might be shining in a future year.  Spring reminds me not to give up.

--The Palm/Passion story reminds me that it's not about me, that we're characters in a larger narrative (as does the Passover story, which people across the world will be hearing this week too, in some Christian traditions, and next month, in the Jewish tradition).  We will find ourselves in great danger if we start to believe it's all about us, personally.

--I find many values to being part of a religious tradition, but the constant reminder of the larger vision, the larger mission, is one of the most valuable to me.  The world tells me that many things are important:  fame, money, famous/rich people, a big house, a swell car, loads of stuff.  My religious tradition reminds me of the moth-eaten nature of these things that the world would have me believe is important.  My religious tradition reminds me of the importance of the larger vision.  And happily, my religious tradition is expansive enough that my creative work can be part of that larger vision.

--Spring shows us that many types of work can contribute to the garden.  That, too, is an important message for me right now.

--I went looking for a good Palm Sunday poem that I've written, but time is short, and I can't find one.  Instead, let me direct you to this poem by Mary Oliver.

Sewing on the Machine at Quilt Camp

Yesterday at Quilt Camp, I got out my sewing machine, which might surprise those who know me.  For much of my life, I've sewed by hand.  I'm still deeply committed to sewing by hand, particularly as a self-calming practice.  Stitching a seam by hand not only calms my brain but also settles my attention.

I am the only person at Quilt Camp who does most of her sewing by hand.  I don't have a sewing room, so if I'm sewing, it's likely at the kitchen table which is problematic for many reasons.  But honestly, for many reasons, I actually prefer to sew by hand.

So last night, after posting the below picture, I made this Facebook post:  "Those of you who know me, are you more surprised to find out that I'm still awake at 10 p.m. or that I've been sewing on a sewing machine all day at Quilt Camp?"

All of the piles of blocks behind me were stitched by hand.  But yesterday, I wanted one of the sewing machine experts to see if she could get the bobbin winder to work.  She could not.  So why did I keep sewing on the machine?

One of my Quilt Camp friends had won a batch of quilt blocks as a prize, which we both agreed was a strange prize for a quilt contest, and she was trying to figure out how to assemble them into charity quilts, her task assigned to her as she claimed her prize.  I offered to help.  Here we are, me showing her the long strips I decided to assemble:

I knew that getting the quilt top done during the retreat was my best hope of getting it done, so I just kept sewing and sewing.  And finally, at 9:20, as Duke was winning the basketball game that some of my Quilt Camp compatriots were watching, I did.  However, I forgot to take a picture of the finished quilt top. 

Soon I'll head back to Quilt Camp for the last morning.  I'll get my cloth organized so that I can keep sewing small scraps into log cabin squares, the sewing that I do in the evening as we watch T.V. together.  It's been a good Quilt Camp, but it's time to come back down from the mountain (and I'll be rejoicing that my trip home is very short).