April 20: Something Extraordinary, Improbabilities of Jesus, Homeless

Arthur and Ford are about to learn the truth about the spaceship they are currently on . . .

"Which government . . ." started Ford again.

"No government owns it," snapped the robot, "it's been stolen."

"Stolen?"

"Stolen?" mimicked Marvin.

"Who by?" asked Ford.

"Zaphod Beeblebrox."

Something extraordinary happened to Ford's face.  At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess.  His left leg, which was in midstride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again.  He stared at the robot and tried to disentangle some dartoid muscles.

"Zaphod Beeblebrox . . .?" he said weakly.

"Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless.  "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God, I'm so depressed.  Here's another of those self-satisfied doors.  Life!  Don't talk to me about life."

"No one even mentioned it," muttered Arthur irritably.  "Ford, are you all right?"

Ford stared at him.  "Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said.

There you go.  Arthur and Ford are riding through the universe in a hot spaceship, boosted by the President of the Galaxy.  Since the spaceship is powered by Improbability Physics, this information is not really surprising.  Improbable, but not surprising.  On this Easter weekend, when the miracle of Christ's resurrection is celebrated by Christians throughout the world, this seems like an appropriate passage on which to reflect.

Think about the improbabilities of the life of Jesus Christ and Easter.  Jesus, who grew up the son of a carpenter in a nothing town near the Sea of Galilee, wasn't seen as anybody important.  Just a guy who made tables maybe.  Repaired oxcarts and fences.  That's it.

He probably didn't look all the special, either.  Olive-skinned, with dark, curly hair.  Muscled from working with heavy wood.  There weren't any power tools back then.  Everything was done with his own two calloused hands and backbreaking labor.  I'm sure he carried some scars from his carpentry work.  Times when a hammer or chisel or saw slipped, bit into his skin.

This person, a handyman, a no one, literally changed the world.  That is real improbability.  And now, 21 centuries later, we still celebrate him.

Yesterday, I played the organ at the Good Friday service at my church.  Lots of chanting, singing, and prayers.  We venerated the cross.  Celebrated Holy Communion.  At one point during the service, we did a litany of intentions.  We prayed for Pope Francis.  The bishop of the diocese.  Priests and clergy.  Then we prayed for Jewish people.  Those who don't believe in Christ.  Those who don't believe in God.  Lastly, we prayed this:

Let us pray, dearly beloved, to God the Father almighty, that he may cleanse the world of all errors, banish disease, drive out hunger, unlock prisons, loosen fetters, granting to travelers safety, to pilgrims return, health to the sick, and salvation to the dying.

When I heard those words, I wondered how many of the people in the congregation below really thought of their implications--cleansing the errors of the world.  Feeding the hungry.  Healing the sick.  Freeing prisoners.  Welcoming travelers and pilgrims.  If people were really listening, they should have felt pretty uncomfortable with themselves and conditions in the United States.

Think about it.  We have a healthcare system that denies people necessary medical treatment because they can't afford it.  We have families starving while CEOs of billion-dollar corporations are getting tax breaks.  We are imprisoning pilgrims (including children) who come to this country, seeking a better life.  We aren't feeding the hungry or comforting the sick or welcoming the stranger. 

That bothers me.  Makes me angry and sad.  Notre Dame Cathedral burned on Monday.  By Tuesday night, over one billion dollars had been pledged for the rebuilding of it.  That's a miracle, and I hope that Notre Dame does rise from the ashes.  However, if the world can do that in the space of 24 hours, why can't it solve world hunger just as quickly?  End poverty?  Cure cancer?

You might hear tomorrow morning.  Easter.  Two of Jesus's disciples are walking toward the city of Emmaus after his resurrection.  They encounter Christ on the road, but they don't recognize him.  Now, as disciples, they probably had seen Jesus.  A lot.  They knew what he looked like.  Sounded like.  Walked like.  Yet, they don't know who he is on this road.  The same thing happens with Mary Magdalene.  She encounters a guy who she thinks is a gardener near Jesus's tomb on resurrection morning.  She, also, doesn't seem to be able to identify Christ, even though she washed his feet with her hair.

I can only think that Jesus wasn't appearing as Jesus.  He was changed.  Transformed.  Perhaps, he was a beggar.  Or a leper.  Or a woman.  Christ was appearing in the form of someone completely unrecognizable to them.  To drive home a point.  From that time forward, he would be a part of everyone.  The poor, sick, dying, hungry.  He would be the immigrant at the border.  The AIDS patient in the emergency room.  The guy at the entrance to Walmart holding a sign that reads, "Homeless.  Anything will help."

Maybe that's the real message of Easter.  It's not the incense or chanting or music or hard boiled eggs or ham.  It's opening our eyes and seeing Jesus Christ everywhere.  In everyone. 

Saint Marty hopes so.

August 19: Facebook Memory, Classic Saint Marty, "Emmaus"

This morning, when I woke up, Facebook had sent me a memory:  a picture of my sister who died three years ago on this day.  It took me by surprise.  In the back of my head, I knew it was the anniversary of her passing, but I wasn't prepared to see her face smiling at me from my phone.

I just got back from visiting the cemetery with my daughter.  It's been a long, warm, sad day.  I've spent most of it mowing grass.  In an hour or so, dinner at my parents' house.

Today's Classic Saint Marty is from three years ago . . .

August 19, 2015:  Bewildered Expression, 6:27 a.m., Maggie Nelson, Unbearably Vivid Colors

And then Ives blinked and found himself standing on the sidewalk beside his wife, across the street from the Church of the Ascension.  On the pavement, just by his feet, was a large piece of canvas, and under it a body, stretched out.   Then the officer lifted off the canvas and shined a flashlight onto the face to reveal the shocked and bewildered expression of his son.

My sister died this morning at 6:27 a.m.

When I saw her last night, she was breathing hard, each intake hitting her chest like a hammer.  I leaned over, said her name and then, "It's me.  Marty."  Her eyelid lifted, and she focused on me.  I told her about my long day of work.  I told her about classes starting next week.  Just before I left, I leaned over and whispered, "You don't have to be afraid, Sal.  You don't."

When I got to my parents' house at around 5 a.m., my sister was surrounded by the people who loved her.  My mother and father, siblings, nieces, nephews, and best friends.  We all stood around her, touched her hands and feet, told her how much we loved her.

Her breaths got slower, the spaces in between longer, and then she was simply gone.

I thought I was prepared for it.  I thought I was going to hold myself together.  I thought a lot of things.  But, in those moments following my sister's death, I felt an incredible emptiness enter me, as if I had been scooped out like a pumpkin at Halloween.  I wasn't prepared.

It has been about twelve hours since that moment.  I am still not prepared for a world without my sister.  For 17 years, I worked with her.  Eight- and nine- and ten-hour days.  I spent more time with her than any of my other siblings, and we knew each other deeply.  Trusted each other deeply.  Loved each other deeply, without having to say it.

There will be no cartoon tonight.  No laughter.

My sister once said to me, "You know, I wish I was as strong as you."

Saint Marty isn't strong tonight.  He's heartbroken.

98 from Bluets

by:  Maggie Nelson

Vincent van Gogh, whose depression, some say, was likely related to temporal epilepsy, famously saw and painted the world in almost unbearably vivid colors.  After his nearly unsuccessful attempt to take his life by shooting himself in the gut, when asked why he should not be saved, he famously replied, "The sadness will last forever."  I imagine he was right.

Loss never gets easier.  It gets more distant, until days like today, when it becomes fresh again, like grass that's just been cut, bleeding the smell of green into the air.

A poem for today . . .

Emmaus

by:  Martin Achatz

My sister lies in her bed
while her neighbors scream
in the hallway outside her door.
My sock, something’s wrong
with my sock, moans one voice.
And, Give it back, give it back now,
begs another, so full of longing
that I want to find its owner,
reach into my pants pocket,
empty its contents into
the speaker’s hands, hope
that, among the five quarters,
scrap of paper with a phone number,
burned-out Christmas bulb,
Tootsie Roll wrapper, maybe,
just maybe, he may find
what he’s lost.  My sister
has grown deaf to these voices.
She grips her bedrails,
grimaces, pulls herself closer
to me, the effot making her
shake as if some fist
is pounding on the door of her
body.  Do you want a drink?
I ask.  No, she says.
Are you warm enough? I ask.
She nods, closes her eyes.
Should I change the channel?
I ask.  No, she says again.
Then silence as she drifts
like a vagrant kite on a windy
day.  I wonder if she dreams
her body whole, climbs through
the window of her room, begins
walking down the road, between
the snowbanks, under the moon.
Maybe she meets other people
who tell her about the things
they can’t find.  Socks.  Cocker spaniels.
Birthday cards.  Wives.  Poems.
Husbands.  Photographs.  Friends.
The road is crowded with loss.
But they all keep moving, like pilgrims
on some cold Easter morning, hoping
to meet the one who will have
directions, will know how to get home.

August 19: Resurrection and Hope, Field of Strawberries, "Emmaus"

Today, I have a poem I wrote for my sister a little over two years ago.  On Easter, a day of resurrection and hope.

Hope is a strange thing.  It allows you to survive terrible experiences.  Lifts you out of the darkness.  I have some good friends who see my faith in God as naive.  A hold-over from times before nuclear bombs and modern medicine and science.  That may be true.

However, in a world full of hate, I will choose hope.  Every time.

Saint Marty hopes his sister is sitting in a field of strawberries today, listening to ABBA songs, watching my son and daughter grow and grow like summer ferns.

Emmaus

by:  Martin Achatz



My sister lies in her bed
while her neighbors scream
in the hallway outside her door.
My sock, something’s wrong
with my sock, moans one voice.
And, Give it back, give it back now,
begs another, so full of longing
that I want to find its owner,
reach into my pants pocket,
empty its contents into
the speaker’s hands, hope
that, among the five quarters,
scrap of paper with a phone number,
burned-out Christmas bulb,
Tootsie Roll wrapper, maybe,
just maybe, he may find
what he’s lost.  My sister
has grown deaf to these voices.
She grips her bedrails,
grimaces, pulls herself closer
to me, the effort making her
shake as if some fist
is pounding on the door of her
body.  Do you want a drink?
I ask.  No, she says.
Are you warm enough? I ask.
She nods, closes her eyes.
Should I change the channel?
I ask.  No, she says again.
Then silence as she drifts
like a vagrant kite on a windy
day.  I wonder if she dreams
her body whole, climbs through
the window of her room, begins
walking down the road, between
the snowbanks, under the moon.
Maybe she meets other people
who tell her about the things
they can’t find.  Socks.  Cocker spaniels.
Birthday cards.  Wives.  Poems.
Husbands.  Photographs.  Friends.
The road is crowded with loss.
But they all keep moving, like pilgrims
on some cold Easter morning, hoping
to meet the one who will have
directions, will know how to get home.

April 5: God's Love Number Forty-Seven, Nap, New Poem, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Happy Easter.

Yes, we have reached the end of the Lenten season and the beginning of the Easter season.  It has been a very busy few days.  Four church services, one lasting almost three hours with five baptisms, three confirmations, and three first communions.  I got to bed at 1 a.m. and got up at 5 a.m. today.  I am beat.  I'm not usually a napper.  Too much to do.  Quizzes to correct.  Lesson plans to create.  Blog posts to write.  But this afternoon, I took a two hour nap.

That's God's love number forty seven:  a nap on Easter afternoon.  A true Sabbath break.  I'm a little anxious about the time I lost for work.  However, I needed the rest.  I feel refreshed and focused. 

I have a new poem for you today.  It's the poem I wrote last week and recited during the church services this morning.  And today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago, during my year with Charles Dickens.

April 5, 2012:  Rolling Year, Wise Men, Keeping Focused

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most.  Why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode!  Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me!"

The spectre in question is Jacob Marley, and, in this passage,  he is lamenting his eternal fate of wandering through the world, witnessing its needs and sufferings.  Marley is a victim of his own trivial concerns and selfishness.  Just like Scrooge.  Just like most of us.

I know, when I woke up this morning, my first thought wasn't about poverty or famine.  My first thought was more like, "I am so freakin' tired.  I wish I could just go back to bed and skip work."  Very rarely do I contemplate how lucky/blessed I really am to have jobs to go to, breakfast to eat, hot water to shower with.  No, I pretty much go through my life with blinders on, thinking about the things I don't have.  In some ways, it's a lot easier to be unsatisfied with life.  Think about it.  It's much easier to be envious of a person (of his job, her car, his home, her family, his this, her that) than to be happy with your job or home or car.  Gratitude is difficult to cultivate.

Modern society and culture foster an attitude of want.  I just got an iPad 2 for Christmas.  Apple just released the next generation iPad last month, and it's selling like crazy.  It's the newest "something better" every person wants.  I want a full-time teaching job at the university.  I want a bigger house.  I want to write a bestselling book.  (I wanted to win the lottery last Friday.)  We all suffer the same affliction as Marley--walking through life with our eyes down, focused only on our path.  Our journey.

I don't often think of the bigger picture.  For instance, I don't think of my neighbors across the street very much.  They're an elderly couple.  The husband is very ill.  I haven't seen him out much at all this winter.  The last time I said anything to his wife was last fall.  I had a box of blueberry doughnuts left over from a church function.  I gave them to the wife, mainly because I didn't want the temptation in my house.  The wife was thrilled with the pastry.  She kept saying, "Are you sure you don't want these?  Are you sure?"  It was a tiny gesture, made more out of selfishness (wanting to watch my weight) than anything else.  Yet, it made a difference in that couple's lives.

For a couple minutes, my eyes weren't focused down.  They were focused upward, toward that Star.

For a couple of minutes, Saint Marty was a wise man.

Just as good as gold, frankincense, or myrrh

Emmaus


My sister lies in her bed
while her neighbors scream
in the hallway outside her door.
My sock, something’s wrong
with my sock, moans one voice.
And, Give it back, give it back now,
begs another, so full of longing
that I want to find its owner,
reach into my pants pocket,
empty its contents into
the speaker’s hands, hope
that, among the five quarters,
scrap of paper with a phone number,
burned-out Christmas bulb,
Tootsie Roll wrapper, maybe,
just maybe, he may find
what he’s lost.  My sister
has grown deaf to these voices.
She grips her bedrails,
grimaces, pulls herself closer
to me, the effor t making her
shake as if some fist
is pounding on the door of her
body.  Do you want a drink?
I ask.  No, she says.
Are you warm enough? I ask.
She nods, closes her eyes.
Should I change the channel?
I ask.  No, she says again.
Then silence as she drifts
like a vagrant kite on a windy
day.  I wonder if she dreams
her body whole, climbs through
the window of her room, begins
walking down the road, between
the snowbanks, under the moon.
Maybe she meets other people
who tell her about the things
they can’t find.  Socks.  Cocker spaniels.
Birthday cards.  Wives.  Poems.
Husbands.  Photographs.  Friends.
The road is crowded with loss.
But they all keep moving, like pilgrims
on some cold Easter morning, hoping
to meet the one who will have
directions, will know how to get home.


Confessions of Saint Marty