5th Sunday After Easter
Acts 7:55-60
Psalm 31: 1-5, 15-161 Peter 2:2-10John 14: 1-14
In the name of the + Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. AMEN.
When Pastor Susan asked if I wanted to preach this Sunday, my heart's reaction was swift: wait, what? It's not as if I haven't preached before, but it was mostly during the midweek service where even the worst sermon can be forgiven.
No, Sunday morning is different and the recipe a bit stricter: two cups of entertaining story, a tablespoon of theology and an ounce of good morals, all mixed together with the readings and baked on the fire of the Holy Spirit. Voila, a proper Sunday sermon.
What story could I possibly tell that would link the martyrdom of St Stephen, St Peter's letter, and Jesus' statement that he is the Way, the Truth and the Life? These are not light readings.
Each one of these readings strikes first with questions: why are they so upset with Stephen? What's Peter saying? What can Jesus possibly mean?
If I were following the recipe for a Sunday sermon, it seems that I would be adding much more than a tablespoon of theology, and theology is hard to digest outside of discussions and books. It's no wonder that the Apostles always seem a little confused- they listened to Jesus preach and didn't have the benefit of reading it again a few times and then writing a paper on what Jesus meant.
Sermons, speeches, proclamations. They all demand careful listening in real time. There's no stopping to re-hear the sentence just before this one to catch a missed word or phrase. It's very easy to hear something very different from what the speaker meant. The spoken word seems so error-prone.
But the spoken word is what got Stephen into trouble. See, Stephen spoke with grace and power and truth. He didn't hesitate to tell his persecutors that they were acting just like the people who murdered the prophets before him. He wasn't shy about God and he wasn't shy about telling others about God's wonderful work.
His great crime, though, was that he proclaimed the vision of Christ standing at the right hand of God. His persecutors didn't ask him to repeat himself for fear that they had misheard him- they reacted. They covered their ears, dragged him out of the city, and hit him with rocks until he died.
The spoken word is not for the faint-hearted or the inattentive.
Stephen was condemned to death for his proclamation about Jesus, and yet that wasn't the only word he uttered. He prayed for Jesus to receive his spirit and he also prayed that his persecutors would not have that sin held against them. I wonder where Stephen learned to pray for his murderers. I'm sure that he heard someone explain how important it is to pray for your enemies.
What did his persecutors hear when he prayed for them? Did they get angry? Or did they even hear his prayer on their behalf?
Probably not. They heard his words and reacted violently, so I can't imagine that they'd pay attention to anything else he said.
That's the danger in speaking- will the words I say be heard at all? Will they be misheard? Will they anger or hurt the person I'm speaking with? Will the person listening think I'm crazy? I can only control the words coming out of my mouth, but I can't control how the words will be heard.
I started off this sermon by telling you the anxiety I had just getting started, and now I'm telling you the risks that the preacher faces each time he or she gets into the pulpit. Preaching is dangerous business.
Faced with these risks, what do we do? Do we stop telling the truth? Do we keep from sharing the loving acts of God? We can't. We just can't. Once we've been called out of darkness into God's marvelous light we simply must continue proclaiming and praying. It's in our blood- we're God's people, a holy nation, a royal priesthood. Our baptismal covenant finds a good model in St Stephen- serve the poor and downtrodden, proclaim Christ crucified and risen, and pray for the Church and the world.
During the AIDS crisis in the 1980s, a frequently used slogan was “Silence Equals Death.” To be silent meant that people would suffer from a deadly disease in despair and isolation. Ending that silence saved many lives by bringing the crisis to light. People had to open their hearts when they saw brothers and sisters dying alone and abandoned from a horrible disease. Of course some people were angry, furious that anyone dared talk openly about it, but we must not be silent in the face of death- especially if it means the death (physical, emotional, or spiritual) of another.
Or what about domestic violence? For so many families, home is not a safe place. Emotional and physical abuse still plague American families, and silence does not help. The abused need to hear that they do not deserve to be hurt- emotionally, mentally or physically. And we must be quick to teach each other that violence is not acceptable. Younger generations especially need to hear and see that no one should be shamed into silence and that our families and churches are places of healing even in the most painful and dark of times.
Today, what proclamation needs to be heard? What truth do we need to share? Who needs to hear the message about Christ, the way, the truth and the life?
In our community of Idaho Falls, is there a burning truth that needs to be preached? Do any suffer and need our voice? What will we do if no one listens- or what will we do if they get mad? What will we do if they judge us for our faith?
In our world many people hear little of Christian preaching other than words of condemnation and judgment. First and foremost we are called to proclaim Good News to the poor, the downtrodden, those who feel so far from God. And what is that Good News? That God loves all people so much that he was willing to live among us and to die for us so that we could be made whole and live in joyful union with him. How many get to hear that life-giving message about Jesus? How many of us have really listened to that message, taken it to heart? We must listen to it so that we can preach it to others. That is part of our call as God's royal priesthood- it is our responsibility, lay and ordained, to proclaim the good news to the world.
No one says preaching is easy. No one says there isn't a risk of saying the wrong thing or saying it in the wrong way. No one says that there isn't a chance that we will be judged. Whatever we say needs to be firmly rooted in the love of God and the grace of Christ and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit. Go, help people to learn of Christ and to love him.
May God always be in our listening, and may God always be in our speaking. AMEN.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sermon for May 22, 2010
Below is the text of my sermon for this past Sunday. You can look up the readings I'm talking about on www.oremus.org.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Holy Monday
Aaaaand here's Holy Week. That high drama, the pageantry, the darkness. Oh, the darkness.
Yesterday was Palm Sunday, marking Christ's triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Thursday we commemorate the institution of the Eucharist (the "Last Supper" which we remember each week during communion). Thursday we also remember the Agony in the Garden and the Arrest. Friday is the trial and crucifixion of Christ. Saturday is the lonely day- we remember the agony and fear and confusion the Apostles felt. And finally Saturday night we hold a vigil, waiting to hear the blessed proclamation of the Resurrection.
The Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of Holy Week, however, seem empty. Many churches will hold additional services to encourage devotion. There is one special service, Tenebrae (Latin for "Darkness") which consists of Psalms and readings which bring us deeper into the mystery of redemption. It ends in darkness and is one of the few services without a dismissal. A loud noise is all the ends the service. No comforting words. More on this tomorrow after I lead Tenebrae.
But back to Monday.
Holy Monday has no special liturgies in the Western church. It is still a fast day and it gets a special prayer (called a collect), but it does not get a special ritual.
The collect of the day is, interestingly enough, used in Friday Morning Prayer during the rest of the year in the Episcopal Church.
Yesterday was Palm Sunday, marking Christ's triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Thursday we commemorate the institution of the Eucharist (the "Last Supper" which we remember each week during communion). Thursday we also remember the Agony in the Garden and the Arrest. Friday is the trial and crucifixion of Christ. Saturday is the lonely day- we remember the agony and fear and confusion the Apostles felt. And finally Saturday night we hold a vigil, waiting to hear the blessed proclamation of the Resurrection.
The Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of Holy Week, however, seem empty. Many churches will hold additional services to encourage devotion. There is one special service, Tenebrae (Latin for "Darkness") which consists of Psalms and readings which bring us deeper into the mystery of redemption. It ends in darkness and is one of the few services without a dismissal. A loud noise is all the ends the service. No comforting words. More on this tomorrow after I lead Tenebrae.
But back to Monday.
Holy Monday has no special liturgies in the Western church. It is still a fast day and it gets a special prayer (called a collect), but it does not get a special ritual.
The collect of the day is, interestingly enough, used in Friday Morning Prayer during the rest of the year in the Episcopal Church.
Almighty God, whose dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.May these quiet, strange days bring us peace and life as we walk toward Golgotha to stand watch with our crucified Lord.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Entering Holy Week
Ah, Holy Week. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday, a day commemorating Jesus' entry into Jerusalem. We also include the reading of the Passion, remembering that the triumphal entry leads to the crucifixion.
This is a beautiful yet dark time. From the literal darkness of the Tenebrae liturgy to the spiritual darkness between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday as we watch with the reserved sacrament, we are drawn into the depths. The depths of abandonment, despair, and hell itself.
This is Arvo Part's arrangement of Psalm 130, "De Profundis," which is Latin for "from the depths."
The English translation of Psalm 130:
Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord;
Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears consider well the voice of my supplication.
If you, Lord, were to note what is done amiss,
O Lord, who could stand?
For there is forgiveness with you;
therefore you shall be feared.
I wait for the Lord; my soul waits for him;
in his word is my hope.
My soul waits for the Lord,
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.
O Israel, wait for the Lord,
for with the Lord there is mercy;
With him there is plenteous redemption,
and he shall redeem Israel from all their sins.
This is a beautiful yet dark time. From the literal darkness of the Tenebrae liturgy to the spiritual darkness between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday as we watch with the reserved sacrament, we are drawn into the depths. The depths of abandonment, despair, and hell itself.
This is Arvo Part's arrangement of Psalm 130, "De Profundis," which is Latin for "from the depths."
The English translation of Psalm 130:
Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord;
Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears consider well the voice of my supplication.
If you, Lord, were to note what is done amiss,
O Lord, who could stand?
For there is forgiveness with you;
therefore you shall be feared.
I wait for the Lord; my soul waits for him;
in his word is my hope.
My soul waits for the Lord,
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.
O Israel, wait for the Lord,
for with the Lord there is mercy;
With him there is plenteous redemption,
and he shall redeem Israel from all their sins.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
A Lent of Taking Control?
Normally Lent is a time of giving up control to God and recognizing our limitations. It's a time of being still and taking stock of our sins. We repent, we fast, we take on disciplines.
It's also my favorite time of year. Odd, that a time of darkness is the time I feel closest to God. I've known God best in the darkness of depression than in the times of unspeakable joy. As we slowly make our journey to Golgotha and the Crucifixion of our Lord, we are entering into some incredibly dark time.
The word 'discipline' is not a word that seems friendly to many ears. It seems so dry and dead and ancient. This year I have focused on dietary discipline. Meat only once a day and never on Wednesdays and Fridays. Candy is out (except when I fail, which happens). The whole eating-for-God plan has worked well in unexpected ways.
For starters, I realized just how powerful food is. In our culture of abundance, most do not worry about from where the next meal will come. It's just there. Food is also powerful in our bodies. We break it down for energy, and it also makes our brains very happy.
As I've had to be very deliberate about my dietary choices for these past few weeks, I've noticed just how little I think about them. On feast days this Lent, I've suspended the discipline since, well, it is a feast! One morsel of chocolate leads to another and another. None of them really satisfied, but my brain would insist that one more piece, one more handful would be just dandy.
Mindful eating requires a lot of control and a lot of restraint, and it gets harder to restrain oneself once that first sweet has been eaten. Just one! I tell myself. But that one is unsatisfying without its brethren. They, too, must be eaten. Before long a container of delicious chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs is gone.
There's been some joy in discovering that I can say no to those impulses. When I remind myself of my discipline, it feels great that my mind does not revolve around that sweet I'm denying myself. When I fail, I have to dust myself off and try again. God doesn't get furious when I fail in my fasting; God wants me to take control of this part of my life so that it doesn't take control of me.
It's also my favorite time of year. Odd, that a time of darkness is the time I feel closest to God. I've known God best in the darkness of depression than in the times of unspeakable joy. As we slowly make our journey to Golgotha and the Crucifixion of our Lord, we are entering into some incredibly dark time.
The word 'discipline' is not a word that seems friendly to many ears. It seems so dry and dead and ancient. This year I have focused on dietary discipline. Meat only once a day and never on Wednesdays and Fridays. Candy is out (except when I fail, which happens). The whole eating-for-God plan has worked well in unexpected ways.
For starters, I realized just how powerful food is. In our culture of abundance, most do not worry about from where the next meal will come. It's just there. Food is also powerful in our bodies. We break it down for energy, and it also makes our brains very happy.
As I've had to be very deliberate about my dietary choices for these past few weeks, I've noticed just how little I think about them. On feast days this Lent, I've suspended the discipline since, well, it is a feast! One morsel of chocolate leads to another and another. None of them really satisfied, but my brain would insist that one more piece, one more handful would be just dandy.
Mindful eating requires a lot of control and a lot of restraint, and it gets harder to restrain oneself once that first sweet has been eaten. Just one! I tell myself. But that one is unsatisfying without its brethren. They, too, must be eaten. Before long a container of delicious chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs is gone.
There's been some joy in discovering that I can say no to those impulses. When I remind myself of my discipline, it feels great that my mind does not revolve around that sweet I'm denying myself. When I fail, I have to dust myself off and try again. God doesn't get furious when I fail in my fasting; God wants me to take control of this part of my life so that it doesn't take control of me.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
To My Own Condemnation
As I sat in the cafeteria yesterday, eating some delicious beef teriyaki and reading Thomas Merton, a conversation I'd had with a good friend came to mind.
For most of my life I've been fat. Heavy. Chunky. Clinically, the term would be 'obese.'
My friend, on the other hand, is not even close to being fat. Never has been. Never will be.
Our desks are next to each other, and most of last year she'd give me her second cookie from lunch. Without thinking I would eat it.
That is, until two months ago when my doctor said that I'd reached the weight I swore I would never see again. I was heartbroken to see the digital readout.
For Lent, then, I'd sworn that I would cut out sweets, and even cut out meat on certain days. I would get myself back to a proper relationship with food. I would stop running to it for solace and strength.
In that conversation with my friend, I mentioned how I can get paranoid when I eat. When I eat in public, I start to think about what my food choices indicate to other people. Should it be the day that I indulge in something fattening, then other people are silently "tsk-tsk"-ing me for poor dietary choices and for being a 'Fat American.' Should it be that I'm eating anything other than a leafy salad, then I'm failing as a human being. Each bite I take is a bite to my own condemnation.
And each bite I take is yet more confirmation that I shall live and die unloved by any partner, for who would want to date this?
She looked at me strangely. She couldn't fathom how someone could think all those things while simply eating. She couldn't understand how much hatred and anger and shame and despair could be wrapped up in the simple act of eating.
Yet it's not just in the simple act of eating. It's in the simple act of being.
Walking around, catching a sideways glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, eyes focused not on my smile or my lovely beard but my gut. That damned gut. Every positive is quickly and effectively negated by that mass of fat I lug around in front of me.
To the gym! I should say. To healthy food and exercise! I should say. And so I try.
But that gut is obstinate and unyielding.
That gut has a greater power than I'd thought.
Where does it get such power?
From the opinion in pop culture that it is ugly and is a sign of worthlessness and sloth.
From the judgment that it renders me unfit for desire and sex, worthy only for what I can offer in mind and heart. It neuters me.
From the years it has sat there, giving me ample (pun intended) ammunition to judge myself.
It stands and sags as a sign of years of sin. Sins of sloth, sins of gluttony, sins of worthlessness.
....
Is it a cross to bear? I'd say so.
It's a sign of shame. It's been that way for years. It has changed me in many ways. My feelings of shame over my body have forged me into the person I am now. Daily I struggle with my body. My obsessions, my fears, my sadness. It mounts its assault on my self-esteem.
Is this what St Paul talks about? The thorn in his side that plagues him day and night? Something that breaks him day by day?
Can this lump of flesh bring me to rely more and more on God? The one God who loves me and cares for me and gives me wholeness? Yes, yes it can. Does it? Each day is a new day of new struggles.
Society and culture and other people cannot determine my worth. They can't. They try and frequently convince us that they determine our worth, but they can't. Their power is an illusion.
God, however, values us. Even the worst among us are held close to God's heart, if only we'd see it and feel it and open ourselves to it.
I may eat, and I may eat unworthily, and I may eat to my own condemnation. It is not God who condemns me, however, and so the verdict is, in the eyes of eternity, null. Nothing. Void.
I must feast on God, and in that eating there is no condemnation.
For most of my life I've been fat. Heavy. Chunky. Clinically, the term would be 'obese.'
My friend, on the other hand, is not even close to being fat. Never has been. Never will be.
Our desks are next to each other, and most of last year she'd give me her second cookie from lunch. Without thinking I would eat it.
That is, until two months ago when my doctor said that I'd reached the weight I swore I would never see again. I was heartbroken to see the digital readout.
For Lent, then, I'd sworn that I would cut out sweets, and even cut out meat on certain days. I would get myself back to a proper relationship with food. I would stop running to it for solace and strength.
In that conversation with my friend, I mentioned how I can get paranoid when I eat. When I eat in public, I start to think about what my food choices indicate to other people. Should it be the day that I indulge in something fattening, then other people are silently "tsk-tsk"-ing me for poor dietary choices and for being a 'Fat American.' Should it be that I'm eating anything other than a leafy salad, then I'm failing as a human being. Each bite I take is a bite to my own condemnation.
And each bite I take is yet more confirmation that I shall live and die unloved by any partner, for who would want to date this?
She looked at me strangely. She couldn't fathom how someone could think all those things while simply eating. She couldn't understand how much hatred and anger and shame and despair could be wrapped up in the simple act of eating.
Yet it's not just in the simple act of eating. It's in the simple act of being.
Walking around, catching a sideways glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, eyes focused not on my smile or my lovely beard but my gut. That damned gut. Every positive is quickly and effectively negated by that mass of fat I lug around in front of me.
To the gym! I should say. To healthy food and exercise! I should say. And so I try.
But that gut is obstinate and unyielding.
That gut has a greater power than I'd thought.
Where does it get such power?
From the opinion in pop culture that it is ugly and is a sign of worthlessness and sloth.
From the judgment that it renders me unfit for desire and sex, worthy only for what I can offer in mind and heart. It neuters me.
From the years it has sat there, giving me ample (pun intended) ammunition to judge myself.
It stands and sags as a sign of years of sin. Sins of sloth, sins of gluttony, sins of worthlessness.
....
Is it a cross to bear? I'd say so.
It's a sign of shame. It's been that way for years. It has changed me in many ways. My feelings of shame over my body have forged me into the person I am now. Daily I struggle with my body. My obsessions, my fears, my sadness. It mounts its assault on my self-esteem.
Is this what St Paul talks about? The thorn in his side that plagues him day and night? Something that breaks him day by day?
Can this lump of flesh bring me to rely more and more on God? The one God who loves me and cares for me and gives me wholeness? Yes, yes it can. Does it? Each day is a new day of new struggles.
Society and culture and other people cannot determine my worth. They can't. They try and frequently convince us that they determine our worth, but they can't. Their power is an illusion.
God, however, values us. Even the worst among us are held close to God's heart, if only we'd see it and feel it and open ourselves to it.
I may eat, and I may eat unworthily, and I may eat to my own condemnation. It is not God who condemns me, however, and so the verdict is, in the eyes of eternity, null. Nothing. Void.
I must feast on God, and in that eating there is no condemnation.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Martyrs and Prophets
Recently, the Episcopal Church put out a revised calendar of saints. It was meant to include more laypeople and people from different Christian traditions and to reflect more ways of being a Christian.
Thumbing through it, however, I notice something very interesting: the proliferation of people listed as "Prophetic Witnesses." The category is full of people who were inspired by the Spirit to challenge injustice or do some reform work. For example, the saint listed for today is a German Lutheran who revived the order of deaconesses and founded hospitals and church newspapers. What makes this "prophetic"? Because he tried to give women a special ministry in the church? A few years ago we would have called him a reformer, but I guess that's too boring.
By adding so many to that category, however, I think we're changing some very central notions of what it means to be a Christian. Firstly, we're diluting what "prophetic" means. It's being used for every little thing that seems to be a nice social/liberal agenda instead of those challenging the hierarchy. Prophets are few and far between and are widely vilified while they are alive because they challenge the culture around them and the religious and political hierarchies. How many of these prophetic witnesses can claim that?
Secondly, the abundance of "prophetic witnesses" is seeming to take precedence over martyrdom, which is the highest "rank" of feast days (for those who don't know, saint days are ranked in order of precedence- it's a complicated system). Martyrs are people who die confessing the faith on their lips, and people are still being killed for the Christian faith today (see the bombing of the Coptic church in Alexandria over this weekend). Martyrs are and always must be the vanguard of the church. Christ willingly walked to his death for what he was and what he preached, and so should we. We are to be living martyrs, unashamed of who we are and the God we follow. We are to be like St Stephen, caring for others, proclaiming the truth, and dying for God. Yes, even a martyr has to proclaim the truth like a prophet, but is not a "prophetic witness." The martyr's life tells us more about the truth than all the words of the "prophetic witness."
Being a "prophetic witness", however, will remind the world of the worst legacy of Christendom- telling people what to do. Instead of focusing on lives given completely to God even at death, we will focus on how much our saints told us the mind of God (something that we are quick to yell at fundamentalists for, by the way) and told us what to do. This is especially true for the clergy who stand in the halls of power yet decry privilege.
While I understand and appreciate the need for the Church to denounce injustice and oppression, we have to remember that we're not the only ones doing so. Many atheists and agnostics and people from other traditions condemn oppression and deceit and corruption, too. We're not unique at all in that regard. We're not even unique in caring for the stranger, the homeless, and the downtrodden. You don't have to be a Christian to emulate the "prophetic witnesses."
We are unique, however, in that we can live lives completely given over to Christ like the martyrs did. For whatever reason, they were murdered for their commitment to Christ. No one outside the Christian faith can do that. That is why the martyrs are front and center in the church... or at least they should be.
Thumbing through it, however, I notice something very interesting: the proliferation of people listed as "Prophetic Witnesses." The category is full of people who were inspired by the Spirit to challenge injustice or do some reform work. For example, the saint listed for today is a German Lutheran who revived the order of deaconesses and founded hospitals and church newspapers. What makes this "prophetic"? Because he tried to give women a special ministry in the church? A few years ago we would have called him a reformer, but I guess that's too boring.
By adding so many to that category, however, I think we're changing some very central notions of what it means to be a Christian. Firstly, we're diluting what "prophetic" means. It's being used for every little thing that seems to be a nice social/liberal agenda instead of those challenging the hierarchy. Prophets are few and far between and are widely vilified while they are alive because they challenge the culture around them and the religious and political hierarchies. How many of these prophetic witnesses can claim that?
Secondly, the abundance of "prophetic witnesses" is seeming to take precedence over martyrdom, which is the highest "rank" of feast days (for those who don't know, saint days are ranked in order of precedence- it's a complicated system). Martyrs are people who die confessing the faith on their lips, and people are still being killed for the Christian faith today (see the bombing of the Coptic church in Alexandria over this weekend). Martyrs are and always must be the vanguard of the church. Christ willingly walked to his death for what he was and what he preached, and so should we. We are to be living martyrs, unashamed of who we are and the God we follow. We are to be like St Stephen, caring for others, proclaiming the truth, and dying for God. Yes, even a martyr has to proclaim the truth like a prophet, but is not a "prophetic witness." The martyr's life tells us more about the truth than all the words of the "prophetic witness."
Being a "prophetic witness", however, will remind the world of the worst legacy of Christendom- telling people what to do. Instead of focusing on lives given completely to God even at death, we will focus on how much our saints told us the mind of God (something that we are quick to yell at fundamentalists for, by the way) and told us what to do. This is especially true for the clergy who stand in the halls of power yet decry privilege.
While I understand and appreciate the need for the Church to denounce injustice and oppression, we have to remember that we're not the only ones doing so. Many atheists and agnostics and people from other traditions condemn oppression and deceit and corruption, too. We're not unique at all in that regard. We're not even unique in caring for the stranger, the homeless, and the downtrodden. You don't have to be a Christian to emulate the "prophetic witnesses."
We are unique, however, in that we can live lives completely given over to Christ like the martyrs did. For whatever reason, they were murdered for their commitment to Christ. No one outside the Christian faith can do that. That is why the martyrs are front and center in the church... or at least they should be.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Roger Ebert on Loneliness and the Internet
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2010/11/all_the_lonely_people.html
Roger Ebert here has posted a wonderfully thoughtful piece on loneliness.
This weekend I've had two big events in my life, one wonderful and another heart-breaking.
Let me start with the heart-break. A guy I was very close to, someone who made me feel so wonderfully special and attractive and desirable, someone whom I thought was devastatingly attractive and fun and witty, finally told me that he was seeing someone else. It's not like we were dating; he was in Texas and I in crazy Idaho. He's going to be a vet and I something religious-y. I cried and cried. I felt foolish. I felt horrible. Someone who made me feel so wonderful (and I hope I made him feel wonderful, too) suddenly was out of reach. I couldn't hope, pine away or daydream about him in that way any longer. A great guy I'd met online was suddenly made even more removed.
It hurts still. Can I hope that there is another guy out there who will make me feel wonderful like that? Is there another guy out there to whom I can give my heart, and can I trust that he won't break it? It's been in moments such as these that I wished I had a heart of stone. Something unshakable. Something impermeable. Something that wouldn't break so easily.
I spoke with him about it, and he helped me to feel less foolish. That sometimes makes it worse; knowing that the guy whom you can't have is such a nice guy that he cares for you even in your worst moments. Still, what does the future hold? Should I just close myself off to avoid any heartbreak?
And last night (before the heart break happened) I had a wonderful date with a good guy. Very nice, very attractive, and somehow he found me attractive and nice, too. A possibility full of hope, perhaps. And I met him online, too.
The internet is wonderful, but it makes loneliness even worse at times. You can find so many interesting people, possible friends, and maybe even the partner you've been hoping for, if only you'd look in the right place. You can make your own persona and you can be as closed or open as you wish.
Regardless, loneliness hurts a lot. An incredible amount. It's enough to make people shy away from relationships at all. But then there's hope, the true queen of the virtues. Not love, not faith, but hope.
Roger Ebert here has posted a wonderfully thoughtful piece on loneliness.
This weekend I've had two big events in my life, one wonderful and another heart-breaking.
Let me start with the heart-break. A guy I was very close to, someone who made me feel so wonderfully special and attractive and desirable, someone whom I thought was devastatingly attractive and fun and witty, finally told me that he was seeing someone else. It's not like we were dating; he was in Texas and I in crazy Idaho. He's going to be a vet and I something religious-y. I cried and cried. I felt foolish. I felt horrible. Someone who made me feel so wonderful (and I hope I made him feel wonderful, too) suddenly was out of reach. I couldn't hope, pine away or daydream about him in that way any longer. A great guy I'd met online was suddenly made even more removed.
It hurts still. Can I hope that there is another guy out there who will make me feel wonderful like that? Is there another guy out there to whom I can give my heart, and can I trust that he won't break it? It's been in moments such as these that I wished I had a heart of stone. Something unshakable. Something impermeable. Something that wouldn't break so easily.
I spoke with him about it, and he helped me to feel less foolish. That sometimes makes it worse; knowing that the guy whom you can't have is such a nice guy that he cares for you even in your worst moments. Still, what does the future hold? Should I just close myself off to avoid any heartbreak?
And last night (before the heart break happened) I had a wonderful date with a good guy. Very nice, very attractive, and somehow he found me attractive and nice, too. A possibility full of hope, perhaps. And I met him online, too.
The internet is wonderful, but it makes loneliness even worse at times. You can find so many interesting people, possible friends, and maybe even the partner you've been hoping for, if only you'd look in the right place. You can make your own persona and you can be as closed or open as you wish.
Regardless, loneliness hurts a lot. An incredible amount. It's enough to make people shy away from relationships at all. But then there's hope, the true queen of the virtues. Not love, not faith, but hope.
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