Category Archives: spirituality

Clipping through the Book of Revelation

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Usually, I encounter Scripture through discrete chunks we call “texts” — single verses or clusters, or, if one follows some reading plan, several chapters at the most. Every once in a while, however, I will read through some book of the Bible in one sitting.

When I do this — read an entire book at a time — I’m often surprised. For one thing, it rarely takes as long as I expected it would. The very fact that the books are broken into verses and chapters, I suppose, plus the fact that whole sermons are sometimes devoted to a few verses, plus the burdens (both positive or negative) of certain verses upon vast areas of our lives (I’m thinking, for example, of texts as diverse as Romans 8:28 and I Timothy 2:12,13) — all this conspires to make us think individual books are as large and strenuous as Mount Everest.

So it’s a good surprise how a sense of scale and shape return, and more quickly than expected. It’s like shifting the Google earth screen to a larger view, in which essential contours and proportions can be seen. One gains a new and necessary specificity about the book as a whole.

And then there’s the landscape one sees by clipping along through it from beginning to end.

Last week I read the Book of Revelation this way. I’m not naturally drawn to fantastical creatures or to blood, nor interested any more in the End Times jigsaw puzzles around this book that I was set to decades ago. I know that the Revelation was written for a time of terrible persecution for those who refused to worship Nero et al., and wanted to keep that context in mind, but otherwise hoped to see it as if for the first time. Impossible to do so, of course, because there’s only one first time and for me it’s long gone. But here it was again, a vivid, very visual, and action-packed display, yes, but one of consolation, of God’s protective power and zeal on behalf of God’s suffering people.

What really struck, and stayed with me, in this particular reading, however, was how the author had built his vision of hope upon earlier Scriptures (which we now call the Old Testament). I realized this because I used The Jerusalem Bible version, which has allusions and quotations in italics and so makes obvious how many there are. I saw old sources built into a striking narrative around the central fact and figure of Christ.

Such building, it seems to me, must be what it means to “let the Word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). I think of challenges that I or others in my family and community face. Can I too, more openly and imaginatively, let the Word’s “old” words, phrases, images, and people gather in me to form “new” narratives of hope?

Who keeps vigil with no candle

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My friend Leona Dueck Penner sent me an email note with the following poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, this in response to the post, “Through the unremarkable, beautiful gate.” It’s wonderful and I want to share it with you too.
The blessing of  earth
God, every night is hard.
Always there are some awake,
who turn, turn, and do not find you.
Don’t you hear them crying out
as they go farther and farther down?
Surely you hear them weep; for they are weeping.
I seek you, because they are passing
right by my door. Whom should I turn to,
if not the one whose darkness
is darker than night, the only one
who keeps vigil with no candle,
and is not afraid—
the deep one, whose being I trust,
for it breaks through the earth into trees
and rises,
when I bow my head,
faint as a fragrance
from the soil.
-Rainer Maria Rilke, From The Book of Hours II, 3

Last words

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I’ve been caught up this Good Friday by the last words of a dying man. The words the dying Jesus spoke on the cross tell us a great deal about Jesus, of course, about his humanity, his divinity. But it seems to me that we are meant to speak these words as well. Some will come out of us easily enough: the great need, both physical and psychological, of “I thirst,” and the devastation of “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (The latter resonates for me in the personal care homes I’ve been in and out of lately on account of my mother; here are so many people whose diminished lives seem a cry of forsakenness.)

Other last words we have to keep on learning, words of care such as Jesus spoke to his mother and a disciple (“Behold your mother…your son”), words of trust (“Into your hands I commit my spirit”), and words of forgiveness (“Father, forgive them…”). Even the word to the thief (“This day you will be with me”) must be seized for its startling mercy. (Richard John Neuhaus develops this particular saying, in his book Death on a Friday Afternoon,  under the heading “Judge Not,” on the hope/assurance to hear this said to me — and to all.) And then the word of satisfaction (“It is finished”) that grows out of knowing one’s purpose, of who one is; shouldn’t that be imitated too, even at the end of each day?