Jesus Wept

This weekend was difficult in some ways.  Unexpectedly so.

After a relaxing morning spent catching up with my writing, I had second-hand experience with male chauvinism and, lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. 

No, I thought hysterically, I’ve just updated my blog!  You can’t give me more material so soon!  Do you have no care or concern for my wellbeing?!

Though I had been biting my tongue for some time (okay, so I said some things), events came to a head over the long weekend.  I would definitely classify it a major fracas that involved the surfacing of a deep-seated belief (that women, and only women, should do housework), a resulting culture war (one party saying that this belief was cultural and one emphatically disagreeing), and the fallout (a compromise of sorts, minor psychological abuse in the form of pressure and warnings to keep the whole thing quiet – citing relationship ties and because it was ‘culture’).  I wasn’t here for most of it, and cannot clarify any further; it was just really important for me to see this level of conflict over such a minor issue.

God’s laws encourage us to love God and love one another (to death, as it happens).  Indian culture (and apparently some African ones) holds fast to the little-known 11^th commandment on a missing page of the Bible:  Thou (this means you, Eve, you silly snake-charmed twit) Shalt Not Not Serve A Man Hot, Fresh Food In A Timely Manner – Any man worth his salt has a right to a full, happy belly with minimal to no work.  Anything short of this is directly caused by feminism and indicates the fast-approaching judgement of Christ.  

On this law hang all the chauvinists, amen.   

This is an issue that drives me insane – we all need to eat to live, thus we all need to prepare food.  To eat.  To live.  Further discussion is unnecessary. 

(But it continued regardless.) 

Then I had to run to a Good Friday service that compounded my sense of disorientation.  The first song we sang was Celebrate Jesus:

Celebrate Jesus, celebrate! (x4)

He is risen (x2)

And he reigns forever more!

I wondered if I’d Rip Van Winkle’d a few days away.  I looked around at people dancing and wondered if this was the Rapture – I’m okay with praising the Trinity forever, but I’d thought my surroundings might change a little.  More comfortable chairs at the very least.  Less dust, definitely.  

By the end of the sermon, I could understand the focus on the resurrection – it is the hope of things to come, and it is the sign that Jesus had spoken the truth about his ability to save – but it just proved to me that I would never find myself in the right camp. 

At home, I know people who make me want to say, “You do know he is risen, right?  Right?  Like, he’s not always being smacked around or hanging out on the cross or in the tomb.  He has gone ahead of us, as always, and this is our joy and strength!” 

Here, I find myself wanting to say, “You do know he died for our sins, right?  Right?  Like, he was born, lived a sinless life, and died on a cross – so that I could call God my Father too.  There has to be some sort of humility in that recognition!”

It’s not that I have found the perfect balance, but Advent and Lent have been great times of getting to know Christ, the power of his resurrection, and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death – in expectation of the resurrection from the dead (as Paul says).  Even the Israelites post-Exodus were always reminded that they used to be slaves in Egypt.  This clearly wasn’t to make them suffer communal depression, and it speaks against this idea that sorrow is a solely Catholic waste of time gift.  It was to urge the Israelites to be humble about their current station and to do good works (e.g. leave some of the harvest for the aliens, widows, and orphans).  Jesus didn’t sashay or cha-cha to Lazarus’ tomb or to the cross (though both ended in God's glory) – he wept and prayed as would a man of sorrows who is acquainted with grief.

I was given the example of a mother dying during childbirth – it seems rational that the child would be more joyful for his life than he would mourn for his mother. 

I suppose.  But I think it depends on your focus.  If the child wants to think about himself and has no other day to celebrate – of course he would give thanks for his life.  But if he wants to honour his mother and life the rest of his life in joy…  To me, the resurrection is the light in which I live my life.  So for the short time before Easter (either just Good Friday or all of Lent), I can approach the cross with my heart and mind like Jesus – speaking life to people and laying my sins to rest at the foot of the cross.

In the end, it seemed more a chicken-and-egg issue:  Is God more glorified in the fact that Jesus was raised from the dead, or in the fact that he died for us?  It really isn’t a major disconnect – I even shared a joke on Facebook on Good Friday (I felt the fires of hell for a brief minute) – but I prefer the quiet reflection of the Anglican Church.

So I took some time by myself with my Bible and thought about this being my last weekend with my host family.  I’ll still see them at church, but their shiny little baby will no longer come and curl his arm around mine and suck on his thumb for a few peaceful moments.  I will no longer have a Pastor On Demand.  I will no longer be able to cook with a woman who enjoys laughing at with me.  They waved me off with a meal, much love and support, and the cheerful idea that I should offer my hair to start cooking fires in the village as this will help build relationships with my neighbours. 

Another Disney story unutterably ruined.  

From now on, I will remain (at least for a short while) on the compound, where dogs howl and/or vomit all night (at least one isn’t in heat anymore), think about my coming placement, and dream of armed pygmies attacking my knees.