WTF?

What a time to be home, where there is cable. (For those of you not in the know, the current post is brought to you from the Montreal suburbs, where I am visiting with my family for the holidays.)
With the TV on all day, as my father likes it, I can keep a close tab on the rising death toll in Southeast Asia. I can see the new footage as it reaches the TV stations, and watch the same wave obliterate the same chunk of shoreline, hear the same Indian woman weep and wail as the tsunami throws the biggest possible wrench in her wedding day, every hour, on the hour. I am being morbidly infotained against my will and better judgement, but have been unwilling to ponder the dark and wormy questions this raises, too preoccupied with the all-consuming joy that is the dominant feature in my life at this time. (Again, for those not in the know--there just may be two or three of you out there--I am spectacularily in love, and it ain't with Wilco this time.) Until this morning.

I should've paid heed to the title of U2's new album before approaching my Bible today--because the thing did go off like a bomb in my face. And has prompted the question of the day--though isn't it, really, the same question, everyday?--which is, What the fuck?

Here's how it went. My morning and evening prayers are governed by the Book of Alternative Services of the Anglican Church of Canada (which is the North-of-the-border equivalent of the Episcopalian Church.) It guides me through a series of psalms, Scripture readings, collects, canticles, litanies and prayers. It got troublesome right away, as I decided to use Psalm 67 for the Invitatory (which is a call to worship.)

God be merciful to us and bless us,
And cause His face to shine upon us,Selah

²That Your way may be known on earth,
Your salvation among all nations.

³Let the peoples praise You, O God;
Let all the peoples praise You.

⁴Oh, let the nations be glad and sing for joy!
For You shall judge the people righteously,
And govern the nations on earth. Selah

⁵Let the peoples praise You, O God;
Let all the peoples praise You.

⁶Then the earth shall yield her increase;
God, our own God, shall bless us.

⁷God shall bless us,
And all the ends of the earth shall fear Him.

The earth shall what? Yield her increase? Are you kidding? Which nations, exactly, are singing for joy? My translation has saving health for salvation in verse 2. As the death toll threatens to multiply beyond our--anyway, my--capacity to grasp the numbers due to impending disease.

It went on from there. Next up I got slammed by Psalm 18, the first part.

¹ I will love You, O LORD, my strength.

²The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer;
My God, my strength, in whom I will trust;
My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

³I will call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised;
So shall I be saved from my enemies.

⁴The pangs of death surrounded me,
And the floods of ungodliness made me afraid.

⁵The sorrows of Sheol surrounded me;
The snares of death confronted me.

⁶In my distress I called upon the LORD,
And cried out to my God;
He heard my voice from His temple,
And my cry came before Him, even to His ears.

⁷Then the earth shook and trembled;
The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken,
Because He was angry.

⁸Smoke went up from His nostrils,
And devouring fire from His mouth;
Coals were kindled by it.

⁹He bowed the heavens also, and came down
With darkness under His feet.

¹⁰And He rode upon a cherub, and flew;
He flew upon the wings of the wind.

¹¹He made darkness His secret place;
His canopy around Him was dark waters
And thick clouds of the skies.

¹²From the brightness before Him,
His thick clouds passed with hailstones and coals of fire.

¹³The LORD thundered from heaven,
And the Most High uttered His voice,
Hailstones and coals of fire.<sup>[a]

14</sup>He sent out His arrows and scattered the foe,
Lightnings in abundance, and He vanquished them.

¹⁵Then the channels of the sea were seen,
The foundations of the world were uncovered
At Your rebuke, O LORD,
At the blast of the breath of Your nostrils.

¹⁶He sent from above, He took me;
He drew me out of many waters.

¹⁷He delivered me from my strong enemy,
From those who hated me,
For they were too strong for me.

¹⁸They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
But the LORD was my support.

¹⁹He also brought me out into a broad place;
He delivered me because He delighted in me.

²⁰The LORD rewarded me according to my righteousness;
According to the cleanness of my hands
He has recompensed me.



There was just no way to read this psalm this morning without thinking of the thousands upon thousands who cried out to the heavens, to the Lord whom, for all that they may not profess belief in Him (as though this should matter), nevertheless desires to be their stronghold, and were not plucked out of the great waters. Impossible to read without thinking of the many who didn't even have a moment, a breath to cry out with. Eighty thousand and counting. The morning after Christmas.

As water shortages and unburied bodies threaten the population that survived the devouring waves I am instructed to read, in John 7:37, how Jesus said, "If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink." I am no literalist--I'm a friggin' poet--but I cannot help but ask, What the fuck? What do I make of all this, here, with my beer and my blog and my Bible, with my heart chock-full of love and hope and belief, belief in a loving, caring, concerned God who, up until Sunday morning, knew of each hair on the head of each of the thousands upon thousands of departed, just as he knows each hair on my head?

I'm not even done yet. Follows the canticle, which today is Song of Creation 1 (Song of the Three 35-51--can anyone tell me what this is and where else it is found?)

....

The Cosmic Order

Glorify the Lord, you angels and all powers of the Lord,
O heavens and all waters above the heavens.
Sun and moon and stars of the sky, glorify the Lord,
praise him and highly exalt him for ever.

Glorify the Lord, every shower of rain and fall of dew,
all wind and fire and heat.
Winter and summer, glorify the Lord,
praise him and highly exalt him for ever.

Glorify the Lord, O chill and cold,
drops of dew and flakes of snow.
Frost and cold, ice and sleet, glorify the Lord,
praise him and highly exalt him for ever.

Glorify the Lord, O nights and days,
O shining light and enfolding dark.
Storm clouds and thunderbolts, glorify the Lord,
praise him and highly exalt him for ever.

....


Praise the Lord you tremors of the earth, you murderous waves, you ravenous and careless waves. Praise the Lord, and highly exalt him for ever, you mudslides, you open graves, you upturned railroads. Glorify the Lord you outbreaks of disease, you poisoned wells, you ravaged villages, you torn people, you weeping, ravaged people. Praise him, and highly exalt him for ever. Dead and orphaned children by the thousands, praise him.

My faith, today, these days, is not shaken. This doesn't have a real enough grip on me to shake me. When I pray, today, I believe, Lord--help my unbelief, I pray for my unbelief in numbers and images, pray for my utter inability to grasp the reality of the situation, to grieve for it. What I pray for is the strenght not only to ask What the fuck? when liturgy forces me to see that creation, all day everyday, is in the business of praise, and that this does not exclude the earthquake or the following tsunami, but also to follow up, to inquire, in the light of these events--What, then, is praise?

My questions are as old as the hills. This is the most worrisome part--much better minds, and hearts, than mine have looked and looked for answers. I don't know that any have been found. But there is nothing else to do, not one other thing, when your world has been wiped and ripped and you find yourself alive, bewildered--saved--than to reach for the smallest, closest thing, and to start picking up the pieces.

Let us start, then.

Surely the Psalms are one of the better places to start, even though they tend to behave like bombs.

By Bread Alone

I have been in love since the moment
I was born, little heart full
of devotion, and greedy to give
it away. Dull-haired boys with rocks
in their pockets on the playground—
later, the lanky moods of tall beauties
in high-school corridors—but also books,
cats, pop lyrics worn smooth like stones
from overuse, dreams of distant lands
and the lives to be lived there—all
have been gifted with this love of mine,
all to return it. But as by some magical blessing
(or curse?) it comes back to me not diminished
for having been spent, but multiplied,
like those astonishing baskets of bread.
There is always more to go around than needed.
And so I go, with my heart in my pocket
and the heavy basket on my back, looking
for feet to lay them down at.
Oh yes, I know, no need to tell me—
why not lay it before the Lord, he will
accept it gladly. I agree—that is
the worthiest possible answer. But I’ve not only
a greedy heart, but also greedy hands.
A greedy mouth that will not be satisfied
by bread alone. For whom,
this burden of tenderness?
For whom, the weight of my kisses?
The Lord is always with me:
but he is lighter than a feather on the breeze,
and too preoccupied with dancing. I want
warmth of muscle, grip of skin
and bones. And so I go—looking,
hungry, with a basketful of bread
on my back. And so
I go, searching for you, with the Lord
dancing behind me.

A Warm Welcome

Please join me in welcoming to the blogworld my dear, excellent friend Michael. He is a man of cunning wit & wisdom, and keen intelligence. I am most excited about his new blog, A Journal of Wills, and I bet you will be, too. (Michael--in order to increase your readership among the particular demographic of people who frequent Weeds, I will out you as a former resident of the Lone Star State.)

I am also making amends for a terrible show of blog bad matters by adding Sean's Ruminations to my blogroll, which I should've done as soon as he added me to his. My apologies, Sean.

In which Fanny waxes poetic on her MP3 player

You have to understand this: when it comes to things computerized & digital, etc, not only am I a neophyte, but as recently as about a month ago I was a thorough naysayer. (Though I will not relent on the subject of cellphones—they are evil, and I pray daily for the soul of those among my friends who own one.) There are several factors at play in my newly embracing technology—one of which is my recent acquisition of an MP3 player.

(Before you think to ask, you geeks, it is a Creative MuVo TX FM, whatever that means, 256MB, is small and sleek and white and damn sexy.)

Given my until-recently-held position on matters of tiny, gadgety electronics, it is of great surprise to myself (and to you as well, I’m sure) that I soon after the purchase found myself not only totally enthralled with this potent little thing, but also totally overcome with iPod envy. Lusting after gigs! Me! Who would’ve thunk it?

I am not deluding myself here that I am adding anything new to all the e-ink already spilled about the wonders of these bits of plastic and wires and whatever else go into the making of MP3s (if I am wrong and there are no wires in the thing, don’t write to tell me, I utterly don’t care) but please allow me to share my small personal epiphany* on this matter.
I was up till all hours last night downloading tunes—I went on an both an 80s and a Motown binge. (Shoot! As I wrote this I just thought of about a half-dozen songs I didn’t think to include. Relax Fanny, breathe, for at this rate twelve-step programs and sponsors are not far around the corner.) This morning I was all pumped to go running to listen to my new mix. Never mind the fact that the thing is so light as to be unnoticeable, that the sound is clear, does not skip. I have only seven words of praise for my MP3 player: Thank You Fallettinme Be Mice Elf Agin.

Among music snobs, I am the chief of sinners. I wholeheartedly agree with John Cusack’s utterance in High Fidelity (my favourite movie) that what really matters is not what you are like, but what you like. Music, books, films, these things matter. (As my friend Matthew said in a conversation recently, when there is a lot of crossover between two people’s record collection—and only the truly cool persist in calling them records—now that’s love. But I’m getting sidetracked.) And I am glad to have reached a point of maturity in my life, of self-knowledge and self-possession that allows me, without having to choose camps as in the days of teenage wasteland, to proclaim my equal & unapologetic love for Pearl Jam, George Michael, Marvin Gaye and Modest Mouse, —and to have a gadget to facilitate the expression of such love.

I know this is nothing new—I too have been making tapes absolutely forever—but this is so much less messy, so much more malleable. And just so cool.

I give you my morning run—each song causing me to exclaim yeessss to the bushes & robins, each one pushing me to run harder: I Just Can’t Get Enough, by Depeche Mode; Hungry Like the Wolf, by Duran Duran; Faith, by George Michael; When I Come Around, by Green Day; Lust for Life, by Iggy Pop; I Love Rock n’ Roll, by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts; Ocean Breeze is Sally, by Modest Mouse; Let’s Get It On, by Marvin Gaye; Daughter, by Pearl Jam; Rapture and Indian Summer, by Pedro the Lion.

Now, that’s love.

*A side note—did you know that my name (this is a loose translation) in Greek means Light? As in epiphany, theophany—it means the showing forth, the coming forth of the Light of God. As in, "Oh Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall Fanny your praise." Sure is better than the meanings the British and Aussies give to my name. (Thanks to Father John & Matthew for this re-naming.)

The all-true, all-dressed, technicolor reading list of 2004

Here she is, in all her glory. It’s as complete as I can make it, yet I’m sure I’m forgetting stuff. I take so many books home from the library that I basically just use as decoration, or to feed wishful thinking. Somehow this list doesn’t make me out to be as brainy as I’d like it to—there’ll be more theology next year, Aquinas and Soul of Politics, here I come. The list would also be longer if I hadn’t taken six weeks to plough through Anna Karenina this summer... it was worth it, though, and there are more fat Russian novels in my near future.

The starred titles are, well, starred—the best of the bunch. The ones marked ‘R’ were re-reads—I dream of a year made up entirely of re-reads, and next year I hope to revisit the delights of Life of Pi and of Zadie Smith’s genius work White Teeth. The ones marked ‘%’ I only read bits of, either because I got distracted, because they are still in the ‘in progress pile,’ or have because they have beentried and found wanting.

Next up are the new book of short stories by Annie Proulx, Bad Dirt; Anthony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour; a book of Chesterton essays titled On Lying in Bed; and Saramago’s The History of the Siege of Lisbon.

FICTION

The Namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
*A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry
*The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, Mark Haddon
R The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
R Girl with a Pearl Earring, Tracy Chevalier
Unless, Carol Shields
*R Close Range, Annie Proulx
R Prodigal Summer, Barbara Kingsolver
*The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen
Kilter, John Gould
*A Complicated Kindness, Myriam Toews
A Death in the Family, James Agee
Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Alexander McCall-Smith
Tears of the Giraffe, Alexander McCall-Smith
*Swallows of Kabul, Yasmina Khadra
The Cave, José Saramago
*Runaway, Alice Munro
Ghost Writer, Philip Roth
%Holidays on Ice, David Sedaris
...and, the mysterious fabulous novel that breaks my heart and makes me snort with laughter and weep with gratitude everytime I open it, but that I’m still keeping a secret.

NON-FICTION

*Cash, Johnny Cash
Virgin of Bennington, Kathleen Norris
*Long Life, Mary Oliver
Ressuciter, Christian Bobin
*Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Lynn Truss
Solace of Open Spaces, Gretel Ehrlich
%Geometry of Love, Margaret Visser
Autoportrait au Radiateur, Christian Bobin
A Time to Keep Silence, Patrick Leigh Fermor
%Memoirs, Pablo Neruda
*Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain
%Quarrel & Quandary, Cynthia Ozick
%One Man’s Meat, EB White
%War of Art, Steven Pressfield


SHPIRITUAL SCHTUFF

Centering Prayer, M. Basil Pennington
%Genesis Trilogy, Madeleine L’Engle
Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle
Walking a Literary Labyrinth: A Spirituality of Reading, Nancy, M Malone
%A Circle of Quiet, Madeleine L’Engle
*R Way of a Pilgrim, Anonymous
Girl Meets God, Lauren F. Winner
%Cost of Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer
R Way of the Heart, Henri Nouwen
*Thoughts in Solitude, Thomas Merton
Genesee Diary, Henri Nouwen
*R Living with Contradiction, Esther de Waal
as well as countless re-readings of Merton and Kathleen Norris, of de Waal’s Seeking God, of Dillard; daily readings on The Rule of St Benedict, with commentary by Joan Chittister; and, of course, the Bible by the Lord, ed.

POETRY

The usual suspects: Mary Oliver (esp. her latest, Why I Wake Early,) Jane Kenyon, Pablo Neruda, Adam Zagajewski, Czeslaw Milosz, Wendell Berry, Wallace Stevens, Roo Borson, Jan Zwicky, Don McKay, Emily Dickinson, Denise Levertov, Robert Frost, ee cummings; and the latest additions, Robert Bly, Andrew Hudgins and Hannah Main-van der Kamp.