Forgive me and help me

Good Friday services are quiet and dark, no matter the lighting. To fit the mood, last night's music included old pieces which I imagined being sung by medieval voices within echoing stone walls.

It is natural to feel guilty on Good Friday, and so that's where I went. I forced myself to continue exploring my own personal sin-monkey, the grand poobah: pride. Unfortunately my pride takes the most ugly and inexcusable form: it is spiritual.

When I first began this blog I wrote with conviction that the view of spirituality I was exploring was the right one. I thought I had discovered the fullness of faith, and was simply entering into it and trying to share it. The beauty and majesty of what I studied kept me in a state of breath-constricting wonder. All I wanted to do was help others enter into the same place. To share the joy and "rightness".

My desire to share the beauty was good. But the pride I took in my stance was not good.

It is now several years later. The awe continues, but the theology has shifted. Considerably. The Catholicity that I find so gorgeous is under review. Not dismissed, not tarnished, but evaluated. God set me on a road of such strange beauty and love that I have no choice but to revise my understanding.

That revision remains under way. Who knows where it will eventually lead. So far it has led to an increased focus on Christ's teaching of love, and in particular, on His words about the Law.

I find myself engaging in a new form of debate, from a position polar opposite to the one I formerly held.

What I've discovered this Holy Week is that I'm still a judger of right. I'm still full of pride in knowing that opposing Christian views are "wrong".

My focus is now on the love of God rather than on the law of God, and that's good. But my judgementalness is still there, and that's not good. I still yell "Crucify him!" with the rest of the crowd.

Please Lord, help me not to be a pharisee. On your most holy day of resurrection, forgive me and help me.

Wormicide

It was raining the other day, and as I left work and walked across the vast parking lot I watched a worm squirm his way through a puddle. The sight of this gets me every time, and I bent to try to rescue him. He was slippery and annoyed by my "help", energetically resisting my efforts. I eventually did grab him, hoping I didn't hurt him in the process, and walked him over to a landscaped area which offered some dirt.

I felt both virtuous and victorious.

For roughly 13 seconds.

Then I saw another worm, this time already dead.

Then another.

Then another.

And a sense of futility rolled over me; the parking lot was too big. I was surrounded by other parking lots. The city was full of parking lots and driveways and other surfaces all covered with suicidal worms awaiting destruction.

I couldn't possibly save them.

That's when the anger hit; what the heck is wrong with worms that they end up drowning on asphalt?

Where do they all come from?

Why do I feel guilty about them?

And then, as if in a Hallmark card commercial, silent violins began to play and I thought of birds.

Birds were the answer; every rainstorm is a gift to the birds.

And I felt better.

Easter is coming. Alleluia.