I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Perhaps mortality is the right word. And I'm not convinced that this is a morbid way of thinking. I don't know what precipated this, other than the fact that the season of Lent is a reminder of our mortality and limitations and sinfulness and of how Jesus lived with and through these constraints and has redeemed them. The other night, I read through the Book of Common Prayer liturgy regarding death, and today I came across an article regarding Walter Wangerin, a Lutheran pastor, on hopeful dying. This is all very interesting in lieu of what we've been reading in Christianity and Postmodernism about the idea of transhuman--that is, a person who transcends one's created materiality with the use of one's reason, creating ever more 'perfect' forms of technology, forms that will enable us to achieve immortality and paradise all by our own ingenuity.

I've never realized before how fearful I actually am of death. The fact that my life is but a puff of smoke or wildflower fading after a summer-bloom. And in all this, what of our lives matters? I've never had to deal with the death of a close friend or family member, but in the experiences of death one or two connections from me, I've mourned for the tearing nature of the death of the person. There is something so potent about the fact that we are embodied beings.

One of the things that bothered me most about this transhuman business was that it denies the goodness of creation and denies that the Divine became Man and will Himself redeem this creation. (And here, gnosticism rears its ugly head in a hyper-technological form!)

Why do we rage against the physical act of dying? Obviously, yes, we want to rage against the destructive somewhat abstract category of death that sin encapsulates, and of course, physical death is an indictment of the fallenness, yet also exhibits the finite creaturehood of humanity.

Wangerin writes, "By declining this change with great passion, or receiving it with a huge natural fear, we accuse the divine providence of tyranny, and exclaim against our natural constitution, and are discontent that we are human."

Wangerin sees the process of dying as one in which one is made especially aware of one's weakness, but of Christ's Light shining remarkably brightly all the same.

"And then—recognizing the consequences of the Old Adam's liberation—I must, I must, I absolutely must believe in the mercy of God, which makes merciful the people whose mercy I do dearly need."

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From Oberman's Luther: Man Between God and the Devil,

For the just shall live by faith, and 'life' does not begin in Heaven. According to the medieval memento mori, in the midst of life we are surrounded by death. Luther's faith enabled him to vigorously turn this on its head: 'In the midst of death we are surrounded by life.'

Today was an encouraging day, even though I'm entirely too tired (from having a cold). I like these kinds of days. I like simple conversation over coffee and biscotti, and prayer of two vastly different forms within the day (book of common prayer and extemporaneous, charismatic prayer). I like thoughtful discussions and disagreeing well. I like found cameras. I am blessed to be reminded that I somehow reflect the Lord's glory. I like conversations over lunch about graduate school and church background and other such things. I like whirlwind tours of the thought of Freud, Lacan, Cixous (with background on Descartes and Kant) and second half of class movie watching. I'm learning to appreciate, perhaps. Dr. Pearse's teasing brand of humor, and am fascinated by the Catholic Reformation. I'm also really enjoying what I've read so far of Letters to a Young Catholic, especially its discussions of G.K. Chesterton and Flannery O'Connor. And I have far too much to do, that I'm ceaselessly putting off, but I feel some kind of joy--for friendship (what an impossibly wonderful gift!), and the binding nature of the Church's (or Christian holy people's) identification and reception of the Holy Spirit, and how this binds us together in such deep, unsearchable richness and compassion. I like these graspings of the hope and joy of the Lord.

Sometimes I'm afraid I will be forgotten. That I myself am forgettable. But I think we're all worth remembering; i.e. not even a single sparrow falls to the ground without the Father's knowing. But what kind of remembering will people have of me? I suppose I'd rather they remember my feeble attempts at friendship than those parts of me I wish would rather not exist. But I'm sure that I will be remembered, if at all, as myself as a bundle of paradoxes, as a very imperfect yet grace imbued girl. And this grace not of myself.

I just harvested a crop of InterLibrary Loan books, including:
Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom, and Community
George Weigel, Letters to a Young Catholic
James Smith, Introducing Radical Orthodoxy
R.S. Thomas, Selected Poems
I'm very excited about these: poetry helps keep me sane and quenches my thirst for beauty, Berry helps me to think more deeply about culture and education and community, I'm ever interested in Catholicism and I'm young, and I just read a book of James Smith's for Christianity and Postmodernism, and liked it a whole lot, and it will help me think about the church in contemporary society and the necessity for liturgical proclamation. All in all, I'm rather happy with these acquisitions. I know I shan't have time to give them the proper reading they deserve, but I love at least leafing through these treasures, and savoring what I can.
In sum, I love to read. ;-P

My mother shared with me some humorous stories regarding my childhood today.

First, when I was a new baby, and attempting to nurse, my sister (then 3) grabbed tightly ahold of my arm and began squeezing. She squeezed so hard, in fact, that my mother was concerned that the circulation of blood to my hand was being cut off. My mom had to threaten to take away a privilege before my sister would ease up.

Second, when I was in grade school, coming home from sunday school and church, I told my mom what we had been learning about 'cults'. I had a friend who was Mormon (and the Mormons were included in the lesson), and apparently I said something like 'I must tell Kami she is a part of a cult; I must tell her the truth'. Apparently I grew very serious and furrowed my brow. My mother proceeded to tell me that she didn't think that would be such a good idea.

Sometimes I'm just flabbergasted by the speed of thoughts, of tears, of laughter, of words, of images, of affection. And then I grow melancholy. I grow melancholy because I fear my lack of love; I grow melancholy as I realize what treasures await us each gracious moment, and how just as quickly as they are revealed they are buried again. I grow melancholy when I think of things I wanted to say, or should have said, or shared, or prayed, or written.
But, there is joy in all of these things, and ever new delights are given to us: in the people we are given to love and honor, in the merciful hum of each new day dawning, in the dance of light and white dots of night, in the feeding of birds and of the throwing of snow, in cards and calls of 'this is the good I see in you, that God is drawing out of you', in the 'knowing' that is made possible among close friends, of how and why one is feeling.
Oh, to live in gratitude for these things, and not to mourn unduly the loss of what we were given for just a short time. But to celebrate it, and to celebrate the legacies we leave each other.

Lenten thoughts

From Robert Webber's Ancient-Future Time:

Luther captured the meaning of Lenten spirituality when he called upon his followers to 'live in your baptism'.

Today in baptism we may be asked:

Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?

Do you renounce the evil powers of the world, which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God?

This last question has been reverberating throughout my mind. How does sin draw us so far away from the God that loves us so lavishly? The sin that weigh our souls down with guilt (both real and false)--the sin our Lord will absolve if we claim our forgiveness and repent? Another prayer Webber cites is a prayer for the Lord to take from me the spirit of sloth--(a laziness that prevents us from choosing a spiritual pilgrimage aimed at overcoming the powers of evil working against us) and faintheartedness (despondency, a negative and pessimistic attitude toward life).

We need to renounce these things with an emphatic Yes! Amen. (Truly.) Somehow, we choose to fight. Fighting to take hold of this love and mercy.