Un Coeur Gross

[To finish on Joseph]


: extract from journal - 12.04.09 :


Easter Sunday - Vers L'église church.

A most surprising experience. Simple, protestant celebration in a beautiful, small church, all in french. I caught enough of the sermon to gather what was being shared – Joseph of Arimathea. The vicar spoke of Joseph's big heart, and how his heart was like the tomb from which Jesus was 'ressucité' – resurrected. He contained both death and life in his heart, with HOPE for the Kingdom of God to come. (Luke 23:51).

The vicar began his sermon by placing his hand on his heart, feeling for his own heartbeat.

"Le coeur symbolisé la vie, et la mort. C'est un cadeau, chaque jour. Joseph de Arimathea avait un coeur gross...," and he stressed the word 'big' with his hands as if he was growing into it.

So, as I pondered yesterday, he says Joseph symbolises our hope for life, even in death.

That these thoughts of yesterday were followed with a clear reiteration is too bare-faced to be meaningless.

•

A calling to stand in the shadows with a torchbeam is tough, and can feel very bleak. If this is you, you are in very good company. Our response to this call has to be a work in progress, heartened by knowing the greater your experience of suffering, the greater your capacity to love. You learn gradually that hope will always have the last word.

Hang in. Hang in.


{Today's soundtrack: me & my guitar}

More About Joseph

[Fearing the last post turned sober thought into trite meandering.]


: extract from journal - 11.04.09 :


Easter Saturday – Switzerland, Sur le Buis

Today is the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It is a day of rest. We rest with the difficulty of things, and the challenge of situations unresolved.

When Joseph [of Arimathea] came to take Jesus' body down from the cross, wrap it up and bury Jesus, he carried in his arms the deadweight of a strong man. The effort it would take to do this is one of fierce will, the sort of effort that is possible when the end goal–the ultimate vision–is clear in heart and mind. If I run a long race, the vision that gets me through the most gruelling parts is that of crossing the finish line and enjoying the victory of achievement at the end. For Joseph, he must have had some vision of the ultimate achievement beyond today in order to physically carry Jesus' body off the cross and into its tomb.

Joseph was the only man on the council who opposed the sentencing of Jesus. He was 'a voice of one calling in the desert'. How would his protestations have been received at council, and what would observers have made of his behaviour at the cross after Jesus died?

Joseph displayed a tenacity that relied solely on his hope for redemption, and yet what he carried of that hope was a deadweight, bloody carcass. For us, there are equivalents everyday – smaller, quieter echoes.

Today–Easter Saturday–is often, for me, the most difficult day of Easter. It is the liminal space where decisions or events determine a separation from the old, familiar way, and where the new way is not yet known or established. The new way is not even glimpsed, but we hope for it with all our hearts because one thing is sure: it would be a difficulty too far to live with the nothingness–the inconclusiveness–of things as they stand today. It is not even about being satisfied, complete or whole, but experiencing the powerful hand of redemption at work. That is what we hope for with Joseph.


Luke 23:51 "... he was waiting for the kingdom of God."


{that day's soundtrack: melting snow}

Dreamer

This image is from a little medieval church in a tiny village somewhere in the Swiss Alps. I sat there last Easter and pondered hope in the face of everything against it, as demonstrated by the big heart of Joseph of Arimathea. He carried the bloody corpse of Jesus in his arms and tended to it, because he believed death was not the final word. This is what I was thinking about when I found a big, red felt heart on the seat in front of me, and these pew-ends seemed to me to be the shape of encouraging angels, so I photographed them to remember being so moved by a story of hope in the face of death.

For a person blessed with imagination and thought, the physical world around you is only a starting point. There are–metaphysically–things not yet existing which will indeed come to pass. How do I know? Because this is what we persistently translate into music, brushstrokes, sculptural form and lyrical adventure, and keep doing because it keeps unlocking things for people. This is how we take a scribble of thought and sweep it into a beautifully crafted line with form and expression, assembled into a compelling vision.

Some questions:

Why are we compelled by art and music?
Because the thoughts and visions they contain can resonate with our most inexplicable longings and articulate hope.

Why are we not–even after everything–immune to hoping?
The answers to our hope (mine at least) often interrupt my straining at the leash by arriving from a totally alien direction with a gust of new, unbelievable life. This has taken me quite by surprise a number of times and captivates me into hope proper, believing not only that anything could happen, but occasionally does.

If hope is your greatest strength, is it also your greatest weakness?
Say, for example, you spied a handsome stranger one day as you stood by a tea urn backstage somewhere, and you sensed he spied you, and then as quickly and without a word passing, he disappears because he has a life to live that bears no relation to the fantasy you have suddenly created. Hope says he's not married, or doesn't prefer boys, and that its possible he could be your prince, and proceeds to colour in the pictures for you. Irresistably irrational, you are helpless in Hope's arms.

Hmm, angels on my pew...

...a voyage into the fairytale wilderness it is then with nothing but a pencil box for company.


{Today's Soundtrack: Bethany Dillon - The Acoustic Sessions}