Triduum 7 - FINAL

This completes this series based on the
Triduum Retreat. I hope they have incouraged
new thinking about the significance of this
season in both religious and non-religious ways.

Gwen has started the flow of other ideas
about this 'burst of rebirth' time of year --
budding here, fading 'down under'. Let
us see more.

Namaste'
................................................................

the last part of this posting links back to Triduum 5.

The sunrise mass seemed less important somehow -- unjust perhaps, but only because it was known, relived -- where so many other events had been first-time experiences. Weariness was setting in, and the litany by the children seemed endless. All of the preparation, praying, joining of spirit -- suddenly finished! Why did I not feel joy and exaltation over the celebration of the day? Our Lord has risen! I was not alone I sensed in the burden some seemed to carry. The sorrow of parting? A death of yearning still waiting to be reborn? We had a final discussion group to share experiences, but most people were silent -- mostly in deep internal reflection. I had written another piece that morning and almost did not share it. Many people asked for copies after I did -- something to take with them besides memories.


TREED

Did you ever wonder if there was anything special about that tree, you know, before? Was it just the next one off the pile or assembled late because of that last minute shilly-shally at Pilot’s place? When they cut it down was it just another tree, or scraps left over from a noble project like a ship or lintel post for a great Roman house? If it was somehow recognized for a special destiny, where are the branches and leaves? Were they burned with special reverence? Did the smoke sting the eyes or fill the dawn with incense? Did the billowing swirls lay close to the ground in a last clutch at humanity, or rise finger-like to the sky as a signal to the heavens? The time had come -- but did anyone know? Did the woodsman know the part he played in the prophecy fulfilled? Did the carpenter’s adz need a special edge to shape and notch the posts? Did the spikes temper unusually long in the smoldering coals of fate? How many played a part in that symphony of death?

I only know that it sits here now upon my rack of discarded, useless poles. I can smell the sweat and blood and wine that has seeped into roughened pores. I can hear in its weathered grain the cries of lament from women wailing there. One spike is still affixed where from sallow flesh it was torn. I touch, no caress, the soft hewn length and wonder at the scene. Aye, I was there! The sound of spikes on wood is ringing in my mind and I listen still for cries for help, or angry curse or plea. The hammer swings and my arms ache. No, there were only those simple words -- you know them well.
I am forgiven for my part.

I only want to know -- what am I to do with this accursed tree?
............................

After arriving home I wrote two more pieces that I feel belong with the others -- perhaps because the experience of the weekend will never end. By these words, may it never end with thee.

TEARS

Where are all the tears of yesterday;
Those that flowed from beneath the cross
To start that flood of silent passion
That washed away our ancient fears?

Have there been enough now shed
In two thousand slow passing years
To allow a small shout of joy
For what was accomplished for us?

Oh, we rejoice on Easter morn
To celebrate He is risen,
And has conquered forbidding death
That we mortals forever dread.

Yet, I have always been confused
O'er this part of scripture story.
Wasn't Christ's suffering as man
The real point of divine gift?

Our Lord understands our plight
And suffering we must endure,
And we can take prayerful comfort
In a Father that weeps for us.

So cry for my sad sins and yours
And weep a bit in guilt and fear,
But drop a tear of joy or two
That he died in this special way.

.........................

Then I turned to writing a letter to my new friend, the sister of anguish described above. I crafted the piece shared before and then added a response -- you may wish to re-read that passage first.

I responded …

Nature's blessing of the grape is that it contains by right the spores of new life to bond with the death of the fruit. The blend of musty, molded dust and life juice from the bursting fruit are in passion formed into wine. This new living pulse gives little hint of the despair that wrought its life from now discarded skins of quick forgotten plans and shallow goals. The enchanted process of mingled death and life entwined spreads out - out into the waiting hearts of friends standing every ready to share this heady gift. They may not be prepared to answer full this blessing, or remember to extend a hand or heart when needed -- that too is the brush of humanity.

For better or worse, the shadowed figures that ebb and wane in importance to this daily focus on tasks and duty are also a bonding confusion of tortured humanity and masked divinity. They need this wine to nurture life and courage in taking the call to community that is your gift this day. Perhaps their day will come in time in a cycle seeded and renewed, but today it is you, my friend, that in dying can find new life and move forward to a new bonding to the center stem of that vine anchored in the clutch of time. Bask in the silent thanks that needs no words, for none will serve. All who share that spreading vibrant flow of your love's essence will know also the call to community that is our rightful place. We stand in ill-formed line perhaps, and march slightly out of step; but we will be there in turn to be ground into simple wine in the way that you have taught.

It is a sadness, perhaps, that a community must be small lest identity becomes one of 'they' instead of 'us', for all are part of a communal drift. But it may be joyful too, for else the wine may serve to be diluted. We need this loving gift for which we may never show more than a passing hug or distant smiled embrace. I hope you saved some of that wine for yourself, to age a bit perhaps, and mellow in a cask of memory's diffusion. When you are ready to embrace this painful, crushing experience anew, know that I for one will be holding forth a crust of bread. It will be waiting for you each day.

Ken Muller
April 2002