The Trad Pad

Readers of this blog will have noticed that I like to mark the changes of the seasons whether natural or spiritual or both together. To-day is Holy Cross Day, an ancient feast day or memorial day in the Christian Calendar. The excerpt below which I consider is a meditation on the Cross by one of the world’s greatest writers in English, is from Paradise by Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison, Alfred A Knopf, NY, 1998, pp 145-147

…Misner walked away from the pulpit, to the rear wall of the church. There he stretched, reaching up until he was able to unhook the cross that hung there. He carried it then, past the empty choir stall, past the organ where Kate sat, the chair where Pulliam was, on to the podium and held it before him for all to see – if only they would. See what was certainly the first sign any human anywhere had made: the vertical line; the horizontal one. Even as children, they drew it with their fingers in snow, sand or mud; they laid it down as sticks in dirt; arranged it from bones on frozen tundra and broad savannas; as pebbles on riverbanks; scratched it on cave walls and outcroppings from Nome to South Africa. Algonquin and Laplanders, Zulu and Druids – all had a finger memory of this original mark. The circle was not first, nor was the parallel or the triangle. It was this mark, this, that lay underneath every other. This mark, rendered in the placement of facial features. This mark of a standing human figure poised to embrace. Remove it, as Pulliam had done, and Christianity was like any and every religion in the world: a population of supplicants begging respite from begrudging authority; harried believers ducking fate or dodging everyday evil; the weak negotiating a doomed trek through the wilderness; the sighted ripped of light and thrown into the perpetual dark of choicelessness. Without this sign, the believer’s life was confined to praising God and taking the hits. The praise was credit, the hits were interest due on a debt that could never be paid. Or, as Pulliam put it, no one knew when he had “graduated”. But with it, in the religion in which this sign was paramount and foundational, well life was a whole other matter.

See?….See how this official murder out of hundreds marked the difference; moved the relationship between God and man from CEO and supplicant to one on one? The cross he held was abstract; the absent body was real, but both combined to pull humans from backstage to the spotlight, from muttering in the wings to the principal role in the story of their lives. This execution made it possible to respect – freely, not in fear – one’s self and one another. Which was what love was: unmotivated respect. All of which testified not to a peevish Lord who was His own love but to one who enabled human love. Not for His own glory – never. God loved the way humans loved one another; loved the way humans loved themselves; loved the genius on the cross who managed to do both and die knowing it.

But Richard Misner could not speak calmly of these things. So he stood there and let the minutes tick by as he held the crossed oak in his hands, urging it to say what he could not: that not only is God interested in you: He is you.

Would they see? Would they?

This afternoon I drove over to St Agnes Anglican Church at Glen Huntly to hear a concert of Sydney Carter music and poems given by Franciscus Henry.

Franciscus was communicative, talented in voice spoken and singing, and in guitar playing. The audience responded well to him. I love Carter’s music and its Quaker-ly way of thinking, of exposing hypocrisy, and of deep thought. Franciscus toured with Sydney Carter on an Australian visit so there was the added touch of some intimacy with the composer, writer and singer himself. Although Franciscus pointed out that Carter believed his music should be seen as a blueprint on which others could build. The afternoon was finished with some warm fellowship over a glass of red which was much appreciated on a very cold and blustery day.

To-day is the Feast of the Transfiguration. It brings to me the message of how much our world needs to be transfigured - from war to peace; from destructivity to creativity; from ugliness to beauty. This is why I have included a photograph of a fruit tree in blossom in my back yard. It is being transfigured from winter barrenness to spring glory and then will come fruitfulness. It also occurs to me what Transfiguration could mean for us in the southern hemisphere. In the northern hemisphere, Easter - the Feast of the Resurrection - comes along with the full impact of a northern spring which is missing from southern celebrations. What an impact might occur could we of the south feel if we made a major event of Transfiguration.