zadecydowałem, że nie będę już prowadził bloga DSTP. Dziękuję Wam wszystkim za okazaną przez tyle lat wierność. Opublikowane teksty będą nadal dostępne. Blog jako taki również będzie dalej istniał.

Życzę Wam wszystkiego dobrego,
Pradusz (Jarek Kubacki)

—

Dear Readers,

I decided to stop editing and writing on the blog. Thank you all for your fidelity all those years. Published materials will remain accessible. The blog as such will continue to exist as well.

I wish you all the best,
Pradusz (Jarek Kubacki)

First of all, it’s not fair that Thomas has been known in the tradition as the “doubting” one. Was he somehow special, did he have any characteristic that distinguished him from other disciples, for example particularly strong skepticism? Certainly not. It was his situation that was different.

According to the Gospel no single disciple believed someone else’s word, believed a message, someone else’s story. Everyone wanted and had to check, find out for themselves. Peter and John ran to the tomb and only when they saw it empty did they grasp the meaning of the Scriptures and that God was supposed to raise Jesus from the dead (John 20:8-10).

By the way, it may seem strange to us, that inability to comprehend – how is it possible that they didn’t get Jesus’ hints, so straightforward and clear to us? That he would point to his mission again and again, and they nonetheless succumbed to despair and didn’t await his resurrection, didn’t now that he prophesied it? In the Hebrew tradition they grew up in and to which Jesus constantly referred, the Messiah was the triumphant King of Peace, the Chosen One, like Jesus at the moment of his glory upon entering Jerusalem on the donkey. The suffering servant from Isiah is someone else. These traditions hadn’t been combined before. The disciples had to know that Jesus was referring to those prophecies, for they new the Scriptures well. But apparently it was too incomprehensible, or perhaps too difficult, to grasp the implications: the Messiah had to suffer, die, and, in the categories of this world, be defeated and crashed. So everything, human psyche and their tradition, made it difficult for them to comprehend. And they experienced something horrible, the passion and death of Jesus, events that could shake even the strongest conviction, the strongest expectation, the strongest faith in prophecy.

Mary on the other hand believed only when Jesus, whom he had first taken for the gardener, addressed her by her name (John 20:14-16). And the disciples gathered behind the locked door, afraid and low-spirited, saw Jesus and his wounds with their own eyes, didn’t they? (John 20:20) Thomas is not exceptional, is not a black, skeptical sheep. He simply wasn’t in the right place at the right time, “was not with them when Jesus came” (John 20:24; it is what I had in mind by saying that his situation was different). His encounter with the Risen One, his experience, was not different from the experience of the other disciples. In a sense he demonstrated something that applies to all.

It came to my mind that Thomas and his “doubts” fit perfectly the logic of the story that was written down “for us to believe than Jesus is the Messiah” (John 20:30) It is he, Thomas, that we identify with, for because of his straightforwardness the theme of doubt focuses on him. And in the story he, the doubting one, the one the reader identifies with – the reader who didn’t see Jesus, for she was not with the disciples, was she? – finally believes. So we too are more likely to believe, even though we don’t experience precisely what he did. In a sense Thomas doubted for us, so that we may find a place for ourselves in the story more easily. So perhaps Thomas was in a way sacrificed by the stigmatization as “the doubting one” in the tradition for our sake. Perhaps.

Jesus finally says, “blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29) When he appeared before the disciples for the first time, he said “As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” (John 20:21) This is for me one of the keys to this story. Those who haven’t seen are outside, behind the locked door, in the world. This is the world to which Jesus sent his disciples as his father sent him. Jesus desires that the world believes, but he didn’t show himself to the whole world, did he? Why? Wouldn’t it be simpler that way? For this world is full of people looking for a direct experience (and especially in our times). If they knew him in the glory of his deified body, looked into his brilliant face, saw the wounds and how he goes through the locked door – wouldn’t they believe? Wouldn’t it be better? For Jesus would certainly not only be able to achieve bilocation, which has been mastered even by the more spiritually advanced disciples of his, but even multilocation. Omnilocation. Why make the disciples undergo the difficulties of preaching, which at that moment turned out to be too much for them (for after a week they were still behind the locked door), and deprive people of this ultimate experience, giving them only the testimony of the disciples? Is this about a trial? Does God test the devotion of the disciples to preaching and the readiness of others to accept it? Is this about earning salvation, the fact that nothing comes easily, that there are no shortcuts?

I am convinced that it is not God’s desire to test us and put us to trials. He doesn’t want to torment us. He gives his grace freely. And this is what it’s all about, these two fundamental realities, I believe – grace and freedom. I don’t now personally – and we don’t know as a community, our theological and philosophical legacy notwithstanding – what grace and freedom precisely are. But we know, for it is the fundamental meaning of Pascha, that God is a liberator. He leads out of slavery. We know also that he doesn’t want us to be his slaves but his children and brethren. Beings he desires to include in the communion of the Trinity. That is why he cannot use violence and force, cannot be a puppeteer on a high throne. The mystery of the Incarnation consists in the human sin, the human tendency to self-destruction, the fatum that freedom has become to men, being transformed and enlightened from within, the human being gaining freedom without violence, without being forced to anything, without a magical intervention into his spirit, which would equal a command on the part of God. In the Incarnation God becomes man and destroys destruction and death, giving us a chance for the same by means of communion with him. It is God who doesn’t take any shortcuts and doesn’t command anything, doesn’t use his might. Instead, he humbles himself and suffers. Grace is not violence, it is the opposite.

If Jesus showed himself to everyone, wouldn’t he in a sense overwhelm them by his might? Would we recognize him as the Messiah he truly is? Yes, he showed himself to the disciples, but they followed him already when he was only a wandering preacher contested by the mighty of this world. He was not a supernatural being that can walk through locked doors.

We, the readers of the Gospel, change our identification, as it were. For sometimes we are the world that haven’t seen and should believe, and sometimes the disciples that believe and have to go into this world (but do they?). We are in reality both at the same time, all the time. The witness we should give consists in human presence – such as Jesus showed us by his life. We have to be for each other and share with each other – our experience, our bread and wine – so that we may know Christ as he truly is: a Messiah who refrains from violence, who doesn’t force anything, whose grace is the opposite of a command. Only when we travel this way here on earth – as the world and as the disciples – will we be ready to see Jesus in his deified body and take our own deified body, not fearing that we won’t understand whom God truly is and wants to be.

The difficult truth about the Judeo-Christian tradition is that it questions everything we see as trustworthy, rational, normal. It’s abnormal! The Pharaohs of this world don’t allow for their slaves to be so easily taken from them (think about Putin, for example!). Poor roaming preachers like Jesus usually don’t change the course of history. Rather, they end up in the dustbin of history and are forgotten. This is what this world is like, and everyone who sees it otherwise hasn’t, apparently, grown up yet. And we shouldn’t think that we can make anything easier by changing the literal approach to the Paschal stories to one more metaphorical or “spiritual”. The idea that Jesus lives forth in his disciples and followers is actually equally problematic as the vision of the open, empty tomb. It only seems a little less shocking, a little easier to comprehend…

But Easter is about incongruence. Easter is a breakthrough, exodus from the world as it is, the adult world, where one incessantly estimates probability and tries to properly asses consequences. Easter is a call to build upon the least probable, least trustworthy, weakest foundation. A foundation that cannot be described otherwise than by statements that are pure absurd from the logical point of view. It was excellently put by the ancient theologian Tertullian: “I believe because it is absurd.” Easter means exodus. Exodus from reality that can be predicted. From reality that can be shaped to one’s liking if only one has enough power. To celebrate Easter is crazy. It means embracing visions of which we know that they don’t come true. Departing on a journey while knowing that we won’t achieve our goal.  Challenging systems that can crush us without any problem. And finally shouting to the face of death: “although I have no idea what it actually means, I’m nonetheless convinced that LIFE IS STRONGER THAN YOU!” Do we want to live “like never before?” Then it is the only way. For we haven’t lived like that ever before, I haven’t, because I finally believed all the stories told me to explain what it means to be adult, and cautiously started accepting the laws of adulthood. Only what seemed possible was possible. It is of course a self-fulfilling prophecy if we ignore in advance anything that seems impossible. But Easter seems to be saying: “why not try the impossible if what’s possible doesn’t work anyway?” Do you remember: “Let imagination rule?”* And actually still worse: what we cannot imagine should lead us – “the white spot”**, Mary Magdalene’s “woman talk”… Liberated slaves turned out to be the chosen people in order to give witness that God never sides with the slave drivers. The risen powerless outcast, who, with the greatest possible insubordination, was called he Son of God to show that only he is the Lord, and not the mighty emperor in Rome…

*”Let imagination rule” was the slogan of the first truly progressive cabinet in the post-war history of Holland (1973-77) led by the leader of the social democratic party Joop den Uyl and composed of social democrats, radicals, progressive democrats and two confessional parties – a Catholic and a Protestant one.

**The term “white spot” is a reference to the words of a contemporary Lutheran theologian, Marcel Barnard. In his book “Wat het oog heeft gezien” he reflects on the Apostle’s Creed inspired by masterpieces of world painting. The chapter devoted to the resurrection was inspired by Giotta di Bondone’s fresco Nori me tangere. Bernard writes: “The true Pascha escapes observation. Noting is to be seen. So nothing can also be imagined apart from the empty place, a white spot. Giotto’s Risen One tends to be like that.”

Trudną prawdą o tradycji judeochrześcijańskiej jest, że narusza ona wszystko, co postrzegamy jako godne zaufania, racjonalne, normalne. Ona jest abnormalna! Faraonowie tego świata nie pozwalają, by tak łatwo odbierano im niewolników (pomyślmy choćby o Putinie!). Biedni kaznodzieje wędrowni, jak Jezus, zazwyczaj nie zmieniają biegu historii. Trafiają raczej na jej śmietnik i popadają w zapomnienie. Taki jest ten świat, zaś każdy, kto postrzega go w inny sposób, nie wyrósł jeszcze, jak widać, z krótkich spodenek. I nie myślmy, że coś sobie ułatwimy, zmieniając nazbyt dosłowne podejście do opowieści paschalnych na bardziej metaforyczne czy „uduchowione”. Myśl, że Jezus żyje w oraz przez swoich uczniów i naśladowców, jest właściwie równie problematyczna jak wizja otwartego, pustego grobu. Jedynie wydaje się nieco mniej szokująca, nieco łatwiejsza do pojęcia…

Jednak Wielkanoc to właśnie niespójność. To przełom, to eksodus z takiego świata, jakim on jest, ze świata dorosłych, w którym bez przerwy szacuje się prawdopodobieństwo wydarzeń i stara właściwie ocenić skutki swoich działań. Wielkanoc jest wezwaniem do budowania na najmniej prawdopodobnym, najmniej zaufanym, najsłabszym fundamencie. Fundamencie, którego nie da się inaczej opisać aniżeli za pomocą wypowiedzi, będących z logicznego punktu widzenia czystą niedorzecznością. Świetnie wyraził to starożytny teolog Tertulian słynnymi słowami „wierzę, bo to niedorzeczność”. Wielkanoc oznacza wyjście. Wyjście z rzeczywistości, którą da się przewidzieć. Z rzeczywistości, którą można dowolnie kształtować, jeżeli dysponuje się wystarczającą władzą. Świętować Wielkanoc to wariactwo. To żyć wizjami, o których wiemy, że się nie spełniają. Wyruszyć w drogę, wiedząc, że nie osiągniemy celu. Rzucać wyzwanie systemom, które mogą nas z łatwością zmiażdżyć. A w końcu rzucić w twarz śmierci: „co prawda nie mam bladego pojęcia, co to znaczy, ale i tak jestem przekonany, że ŻYCIE JEST SILNIEJSZE NIŻ TY!” Chcemy żyć „jak nigdy dotąd”? W takim razie jest to jedyna droga. Tak bowiem jeszcze nigdy nie żyliśmy, tak jeszcze nigdy nie żyłem. Ostatecznie bowiem uwierzyłem we wszystkie te historie, za pomocą których usiłowano wyjaśnić mi, co to znaczy być dorosłym, i zacząłem ostrożnie podporządkowywać się panującym w nich prawom. Jedynie to, co wydawało się możliwe, było możliwe. To oczywiście samosprawdzająca się przepowiednia, jeżeli z góry lekceważymy to, co wydaje się niemożliwe. Wielkanoc jednak zdaje się mówić: „dlaczego nie wypróbować tego, co niemożliwe, skoro to, co możliwe, i tak nie działa?”. Pamiętacie jeszcze: „Pozwólmy rządzić wyobraźni”?* A właściwie jeszcze gorzej: to, czego nie potrafimy sobie nawet wyobrazić, powinno nami kierować  – “biała plama”**, “babska gadanina” Marii Magdaleny… Obdarzeni wolnością niewolnicy, którzy okazują się ludem wybranym, aby świadczyć, że Bóg nigdy nie stoi po stronie poganiaczy niewolników. Zmartwychwstały bezsilny wyrzutek społeczeństwa, którego, z największym możliwym nieposłuszeństwem, zaczęto nazywać Synem Bożym, aby pokazać, że tylko On jest Panem, a nie potężny cesarz w Rzymie…

*„Pozwólmy rządzić wyobraźni” było hasłem pierwszego naprawdę progresywnego rządu w historii powojennej Holandii, który w latach 1973-77, pod kierunkiem przywódcy socjaldemokracji Joopa den Uyla, stworzyli socjaldemokraci, radykałowie, postępowi demokraci i dwie partie konfesyjne – katolicka i protestancka.

**Określenie biała plama jest nawiązaniem do słów współczesnego teologa luterańskiego, Marcela Barnarda. W książce „Wat het oog heeft gezien” przybliża treść apostolskiego wyznania wiary, czerpiąc inspirację z arcydzieł światowego malarstwa. Rozdział poświęcony zmartwychwstaniu zainspirowany jest freskiem Giotta di Bondone Nori me tangere. Barnard pisze w nim: „Rzeczywista Pascha wymyka się postrzeganiu. Niczego nie widać. Nie da się więc również niczego sobie wyobrazić poza pustym miejscem, białą plamą. Zmartwychwstały u Giotta zmierza właśnie w tym kierunku”.

This is the second reflection I wrote for the website tezeusz.pl (here you can find info about it in English) upon today’s readings. It is a part of their “online retreat” series for Lent.

Although I was taught not to mix narratives of different Evangelists, I cannot help but turn to Johan Sebastian Bach’s “St Matthew Passion” when reading John’s announcement of Judas’ treason. I associate Lent inextricably with two things: my favorite daffodils blossoming and the “Passion” of Bach – “the fifth Evangelist.” (Here you can listen to one of my favorite renditions – conducted by Stephen Cleobury.)

So also this time I read John’s story with Bach’s masterpiece sounding in my ears, even though the cantor from Leipzig wrote also “St John’s Passion,” which however never fascinated me in the same degree. ..

Listening to the “Passion” used to be for me in the first place a family event – a certain household ritual. In his modest record collection my grandpa had a recording of the “Passion” conducted by Günther Ramin in 1941. Later when I learned about various complexities of history, I imagined the boys from the magnificent St Thomas Choir in Leipzig that sang it wearing Hitlerjugend uniforms, which made the experience even more dreadful. Today I know that the Choir management succeeded in obtaining an exemption from membership in this organization for the singers, but it surely wasn’t able to isolate the boys completely from the influence of the ideological poison which penetrated all areas of life in the III Reich. What did they think when expressing by song the indignation and wrath at the traitor? (With the same passion and bravura as their successors in this recording from the 1990s?)

Did they associate “das mördische Blut” (“the murderous blood”) with the refrain of the nazi song they must have heard multiple times?

“Wetzt die langen Messer auf dem Bürgersteig,
laßt die Messer flutschen in den Judenleib.

Blut muss fließen knüppelhageldick
und wir scheißen auf die Freiheit dieser Judenrepublik”

(“Sharpen the long knives on the pavement,
let the knives slip into the Jew’s body.

Blood must flow, a whole lot of it,
and we shit on the freedom of this Jew Republic.”)

Not without a reason the Good Friday was a terrifying day for European Jewish communities. The fanatic “Christian” mob would organize bloody pogroms – heated by anti-Jewish messages that were abundant in liturgies, sermons and folk “Passion plays.”  Why do I write about this? Because I believe that we must never stop reminding ourselves that religion not only doesn’t protect against committing horrible crimes, but often induces them. Although there is surely a vast quality difference between Martin Luther’s anti-Judaism and the atrocious anti-Semitism of the national socialists, in practice the first undoubtedly often transformed easily into the latter. Did the magnificent chorals of the “Passion,” rediscovered by the German composer of Jewish descent, Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, prepare the ground for songs about slipping knives “in den Judenleib?” We could have a very long discussion about this. But regardless of the outcome of this discussion, I think we can make one conclusion. Religiosity, regardless of how deep and genuine it is, doesn’t guarantee that people will act in a humane manner. When depraved of the humanistic element, the awareness that the human being – and their commonwealth – is indeed the “measure of all things,” it may initiate crimes. Not only doesn’t religion protect against anything. It also needs a “humanistic correction” itself – continuous reminding that it is the face of the other in all its openness and vulnerability that reveals God to us, constantly pleading: DON’T KILL ME, DON’T HURT ME, like Emmanuel Levinas emphasized. I think, by the way, that it’s a good topic for Lenten reflections and examination of conscience. And I think it may have more to do with the story of Judas’ and his treason than we would suspect at the first glance…

Regardless of all these remarks and reflections, I’ve always seen the “Passion” as something personal. Especially after the death of my grandparents it sounded “only for me,” like daffodils blossomed “only for me” on my birthday in April. How great was my surprise when I realized after moving to Holland that here it is listened (and often sang) by… almost everyone, completely irrespective of their worldview. In a country where people asked about their denomination most often respond with “I’m nothing” or “I’m pagan,” millions go each year to concern halls and churches in order to listen to the “Passion” for three hours, and thousands take up the discipline of rehearsing for many months in order to take part in one of the multiple amateur renditions in the country. (Even if they don’t sound so perfectly as this wonderful version conducted by Tom Koopman, of course.) This way, through the “fifth Evangelist” and the admirers of his masterpiece, its Gospel message truly becomes “a light for the Gentiles” (see Isaiah 49,6),  demonstrating at the same time that Jesus Christ and his story don’t belong to any single religious or church tradition. The experience of performing the “Passion” with people who in a large part don’t have and don’t won’t to have anything to do with institutional Christianity, and still experience it in a very profound manner, is a great medicine for imposing any limits on Him. He will always destroy the limits from within – for example by the power of Bach’s music. A Dutch journalist who died a few years ago, Martin van Amerongen – a typical example of a left wing liberal intellectual (“to make it even worse” of Jewish descent), so a kind of a wicked wizard from fairytales for very naughty kids told by the religious right of all kinds – was a great expert in Bach’s works. He told an interesting story in his great essay about the “Passion.” For decades the best known Dutch rendition of Bach’s masterpiece was the “Passion” (performed with great solemnity and pathos) conducted by Willem Mengelberg. (You can listen to it here.) The performance began at 7:30 pm on Fridays. Amsterdam Jews would celebrate then the beginning of Sabbath at the near Synagogue. Immediately after the service they would go to the concert hall – with the rabbi and cantor leading them – to listen to the “Passion.” Although they were always late for the first choral, they made it before the first recitative of the Evangelist…

As we talk about the universal character of the story of Jesus, we have to say that the topic of treason is among the most universal themes it contains. I don’t know if there is anyone who can say that they never betrayed anyone or anything: somebody else, oneself, some conviction. Perhaps my vision of the human condition is overly pessimistic, but I honestly doubt that’s the case. In any case I cannot say this about myself. Bach, together with his lyrics writer (for Mr. Picander, in everyday life the head of the Leipzig post office, doesn’t rather merit the title of a poet), found a sophisticated way to emphasize that no listener should think the story is not about them. When Jesus proclaims that one of the present will betray him, the question “Lord, is it me?” is asked eleven times. Only Judas doesn’t ask it. He will do it a bit later. But even before he brings himself to ask the question, the choir already has the answer – in the choral “Ich bin’s, ich sollte büssen.” (“It’s me, it’s me who should be punished,” which can be found here.)
Like in Greek tragedies, the choir speaks here on behalf of us all and on behalf of us all confesses guilt. This confession gives a peculiar dimension to the outburst of wrath at the traitor (“’Sind Blitze, sind Donner in Wolken verschwunden?”) which I mentioned at the beginning, but which comes a little later in the “Passion”, after the arrest of Jesus. When the choir calls for hell to open its abyss and devour Judas, in the light of the earlier confession of guilt it calls… for itself to be punished (and thus for us all). The natural mechanism of looking for a “scape goat” often obscures this. It’s the “others” who are always guilty: the Jews, the Muslims, the liberals, the Freemasons, the left or the right wing. Yet Bach and Picander try their best to make this impossible for us. It is us in the dock. Moreover, we are pleading guilty…

This makes it all the more important to ask the question which has been bothering me for many years: WHAT ACTUALLY DID JUDAS’ TREASON CONSIST IN? Judas brought the servants of the archpriest to the Garden of Olives, where Jesus was praying, and pointed him with a kiss. A dramatic moment, certainly, but, from the point of view of the logic of the story, was it truly necessary? For Jesus wasn’t unknown. Recognizing him, even in the dark, wouldn’t be that difficult.

Another, perhaps more important question is WHAT MADE JUDAS DO IT? In any case not greed. The infamous 30 pieces of silver were worth so little that they look more like an excuse than a true motive for treason. So what was it REALLY about?

Personally I don’t ascribe low motives to Judas (such as for instance Peter’s when he denied Jesus out of simple fear).  I see him rather as someone completely devoted to his Master and unfalteringly believing in his power. His attitude is the attitude we often identify with true faith, unfortunately: based on the conviction that God is almighty and everything will be well if it only pleases him to “turn to action,” like at the touch of a magic wand. And this is what Judas tries to cause: Jesus, the Messiah of God, should finally start acting. Confronted with the might of the archpriest he will finally have to use his own might and crash his servants. For aren’t there in the Bible visions of a vengeful God turning into dust the enemies of the chosen people? Judas not so much betrays as provokes – to action. His desperate deed is in reality a cry: “DO SOMETHING FINALLY, DEMONSTRATE YOUR MIGHT!” How deep must his disappointment have been when he realized his plan failed. Jesus let himself be arrested and led “like a lamb to the slaughter.” Who doesn’t know the disappointment when it turns out that our faith doesn’t solve anything, doesn’t help, doesn’t serve anything concrete? That the fact we stand “on the right side” doesn’t guarantee a “happy end.” For the God Jesus calls his Father doesn’t grant victories but GIVES “ONLY” HIMSELF. He takes the side of the oppressed, but only as one of them – meaning to wake up the conscience of the oppressors by his vulnerability. In the “Passion” Judas finally understands this truth, which makes him sing the moving aria “Gebt mir meinem Jesum wieder” (“Give me back my Jesus”), which comes as tough from the other world, because the Evangelist had already told us about his suicide. (You can listen to it here beautifully sang by Walter Berry in 1971.)

And what about us? Do we see our faith as a sort of an “insurance” for ourselves, or are we able to accept that Jesus doesn’t want to be a Messiah who fights and conquers his (or actually our) enemies and grants victory to “our team?” Will we let him surprise, be truly different – as a Messiah for all – in order for salvation, in accordance with Isaiah’s prophecy, to reach to the ends of the earth, go beyond all limits and encompass all reality?

I was asked to write a reflection for the website tezeusz.pl (you can find info about it in English here) upon tomorrow’s readings. It is a part of their “online retreat” series for Lent.

The accustomed ears of the first listeners easily picked up from these words something that for us is no longer that obvious – the reference to the mysterious NAME OF GOD, which resounded for the first time from the ‘burning bush’ when the Holy One revealed himself to Moses, sending him to lead the people out of slavery: JHWH – I AM…

In the course of the ages the NAME was made into a philosophical statement: ‘I AM WHO I AM,’ thus ‘I take my being only from myself’ or ‘I am being as such.’ It’s worth asking, however, of what use were ontological speculations to Moses? When a mission of liberation is given to someone, is their first need to look into the mystery of being? Or is it rather true, like some claim, that the basic message of the NAME was far more practical: God wanted to assure the one he sent that he would accompany him and the people in their upcoming wanderings through the desert? So: I WILL BE WHOM I WILL BE, I WILL BE WITH YOU EVER AS THE COMPANION OF YOUR JOURNEY, WHEREVER IT TAKES YOU!

In the ecumenical congregation where I’ve been ministering for almost nine years we finished yesterday another series of ‘household conversations,’ this time about ‘Where our faith has lead us?’ I listened for three consecutive days to stories of my ‘parishioners’ about their lives, experiences, choices and trials. The biggest impression made on me the question asked by a certain lady of about 80 years old: ‘It’s all very nice, but how can we EXPERIENCE it?’ From many conversations I had with her during the last couple of years I know that on the one hand she must be called a truly ‘spiritual’ person, and on the other she’s still struggling with what many mystics have gone through: ‘the dark night of faith,’ where ‘the heavens are closed’ and ‘God is silent.’ She existentially experiences that she is ‘from below,’ from ‘this world’ and doesn’t have immediate access to the other dimension of reality which she longs for. It is very easily to dismiss this experience with cheap, worn up declarations, but it can also be seen as a special gift which is supposed to open us up for a difficult mystery.

In St. John’s Gospel Jesus says ‘If you don’t trust (for such is the original meaning of the word ‘believe’) that I AM/WILL BE [WITH YOU], you will die, missing the goal (because to miss the mark/goal is the basic meaning of the word ‘sin’). I’ve believed for a long time that it’s not about the moment of physical death. One can also ‘die’ in the midst of life, losing faith in its meaning and goal. Jesus points to the fact that if we don’t trust that God is present in our lives, we will die – succumbing to the conviction of the pointlessness and meaninglessness of everything. But the words the Evangelist had Jesus say tell us something more. This presence is inseparably related to him. And here lies a good opportunity for all who would like to make these words into a weapon against others. ‘See,’ they say barely concealing triumph, ‘It was clearly said here that you have to believe in Jesus as the Son of God, the only Savior, the Second Person of the Holy Trinity!’ And faith understood as trust turns into faith consisting in accepting a bunch of doctrines into which the original existential experience was turned in the course of the Church’s history. Maybe that’s not the point? Maybe we should stop burdening the Evangelist’s words with all the meanings ascribed to them by dogmatics, and try to get to the original experience?

The original experience of Christianity is the experience of God’s closeness in the human being. Not in some special ‘sacred circumstances,’ not in ‘signs’ that make us fall on our knees in awe, but in the human being: the neighbor, one of us – Jesus of Nazareth. Of course, this experience was from the outset put into hundreds of different statements and ‘clarifications,’ which gave birth to what we call the church doctrine (and actually a whole series of mutually exclusive doctrinal statements of which some have been judged ‘right’ and some ‘false’). But the point is that we must not forget that it is not doctrine that saves. It is not doctrine that saves and liberates us, but the basic experience behind it, the experience of the closeness of the Holy One. A peculiar closeness, for… a human one. Not some exceptional – divine – one, but an ordinary, everyday presence of another human being, which was made real in Jesus of Nazareth for his disciples, and is still made real in everyone who reflects something of his life in their lives– consciously following his example or simply putting into practice his dream concerning us all, the whole reality – the dream movingly (though maybe a little too lofty for our taste today) expressed once by Karol Grycz-Smilowski:

He [Jesus] dreamed a beautiful vision of a new man and a new society that is finally aware of the spiritual foundations of being and doesn’t leave its dark caves of sinister systems in order to prey only, but will make its aim the highest of spheres.

But when we say that it was in him – this particular man from Nazareth – that God came as close to us as possible, we cannot forget what happened to him. ‘When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will know that I AM.’ The reading from the Book of Numbers gives us the first hint about what happened. The people wandering through the desert were being bitten by snakes.  The Lord told Moses to make a bronze snake and put it up on a pole. Everyone who looked at it was healed and lived. The story brings to mind the way sympathetic magic works, whose echo remains for example in homeopathy. But the word ‘pole’ brings too mine something else: the cross on Calvary. ‘Wait a moment,’ someone could say, ‘I’ve always thought that the cross was rather a tool of humiliation, degradation, and here it’s spoken of UPLIFTING/ELEVATION?’ I would like to quote here Fr. Jerzy Klinger, a renowned Polish Orthodox theologian untimely deceased in 1976:

In reality, if we consider their meaning as a ‘cosmic’ event, the Cross and the Resurrection make an inseparable whole in the New Testament … We find this truth expressed by St. John even better than by St. Paul when he speaks of the Passion of Jesus as the ‘hour’ of his ‘glorification.’ ‘The uplifting of Jesus is for John at the same time and in the same degree his elevation on the Cross and in glory.’

This intuition of John is movingly shown in icons. In them, the Crucified one is not depicted dying or already dead, as is often the case in the West. In icons Jesus is not dying but ‘dancing’ – already experiencing the ‘great mystery of faith,’ which proclaims that death never has the last word if you live like he did – sharing your life with others until the very end, making it nourishment for others. The Good Friday, remaining a tragic event, reflecting not only the fate of Jesus but of all who fall prey to ‘sinister systems,’ in its deepest sense already is Easter and the Ascension.

This vision corresponds to the experiences of first Christians. A few days ago I received the latest issue of the Dutch Mennonite journal ‘Doopsgezind.nl,’ and found there the article ‘Is Easter a Feast?’ The author writes:

The Christian Church of the first centuries was formed by a minority, often a persecuted minority. It didn’t have anything to celebrate except for the power of the crucified Christ. There was no glorious victory over anything, but a deep faith that Jesus, the Crucified Jesus, didn’t succumb to the might of the powerful. As we read in the story of Jesus’ temptation in the desert, he renounced egoism, riches, power. And thus gained the upper hand of the devil.

We have to do with an amazing paradox here. Jesus is victorious, because… there is no victory, at least not in the categories of this world. His victory, the only victory, is the moral victory of someone who shows with their life that we really don’t have to ‘leave the dark caves of sinister systems to prey only,’ that we can, in accordance with God’s dream, be human with others and for others, share our life, truly forgetting about ourselves and our egoistic interest. But such a victory is ‘celebrated’ only on the cross, for we have made the world a place where only the powerful and fit win, if only they use their power with skill…

Let us now try and combine this all into a picture. Jesus calls that we trust God’s NAME. That is, trust that the Holy One will be present in our lives, will accompany us in our journey. Yet this presence – contrary to what we may expect – is not the presence of a God who miraculously helps us solve our problems, but the presence… of a human being. God is present in the human way and no other. This is what we discover in the man from Nazareth: the humanity of our God. The God shown to us by the Scriptures, the one Jesus calls his Father, of whom he feels inseparable, actually doesn’t want to be God. His dream, his goal, is to be a human being – as human as possible. And there comes the time to take the last step: on the one hand logical, and on the other extremely difficult. It is this humanity, because it’s so fulfilled, complete, lived to the very end, to its limits, that leads directly to the cross. It finds its culmination in the cry: ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ There is no God anymore – no  God of our expectations and dreams, a God who can be useful, solve anything for (and instead of) us. There is the loneliness of a dying man who confirms his faithfulness to humanity by his death – the humanity God dreamed of. The heavens are closed, God left his throne and allowed us to nail him to the pole of humiliation. Good Friday – with its stripped altars, the open empty tabernacle – is the peak of God’s revelation in our lives! And at the same time it reveals, more clearly than anything else, what being human is about: being thrown into this world without consent, torn by doubts, lonely and (sometimes) transcending loneliness by attempting to enter into a relationship with an other in the hope that it will finally be a long-lasting, profound relationship. For it is through this that our way to the ‘highest of spheres’ leads, whatever they mean…

No, what I wrote is not an answer to the question my ‘parishioner’ asked. These reflections I direct in the first place to myself. This Lent is for me a time I truly experience as wondering through the desert – of the painful necessity to abandon dreams and plans which have given meaning to my life the last couple of years, a time of returning to what I believed until recently I had left behind me for good. Everything is upside down. Nothing is as it seemed. What is left? Faithfulness to oneself and the hope that the void that surrounds me is the way God reveals himself in my life. A human God, weak and confused as myself, but faithful. For he cannot renounce his NAME…

Today I began the day listening to the sermon our dear friend, the Rev. Dr. Gregory Neal, preached last Sunday at his church in Irving, Texas.

It made memories from the wonderful trip we made through Poland only a little over a month ago with Greg come back, and especially a funny story related to Greg’s talk at the United Methodist church in Koszalin. Namely, a day or two after the talk, the pastor, the Rev. Sebastian Niedzwiedzinski, got a text from a Roman Catholic priest who listened to Greg, saying that he was disappointed, because Greg was supposed to talk about his travels, and spoke at least as much about the Eucharist. Well, there was a grain of truth in it (even though there was a lot about travels), but when Sebastian told me about that reaction, I thought the problem was not so much in what Greg said as in the fact that that priest didn’t expect it at all. How come? A United Methodist minister talking about the Holy Communion and its central place in his personal spirituality? Even more, he cannot be understood in the framework of the assumption which at least some listeners certainly made (Protestantism = a “symbolic approach” to Communion), and talks with deep conviction about his faith in the REAL PRESENCE OF JESUS CHRIST IN THE SACRAMENT OF THE ALTAR. And finally, as though there weren’t enough surprises, you could conclude from his words that his faith doesn’t only consist in accepting (perhaps a little by force) a certain doctrine, but constitutes a living element holding together his spirituality, giving direction and meaning to his life. This goes beyond the popular image of Protestants in the eyes of most Polish (and not only) Catholics.

Leaving aside this concrete memory – as funny as it was instructive (for it shows how much we have to do with regard to sharing knowledge about the Anglican approach to the Eucharist, which is also the root of the Wesleyan approach at the base of Methodism, even if many Methodists don’t realize this!), Greg’s sermon inspired another reflection in me. Most of us remember more or less the story about manna from heaven, which Israelites ate on their way through the desert. Greg reminded an important element of the story. Namely, manna was supposed to be collected only for a given day (unless the following day was Sabbath – then you could collect twice as much, because work on Sabbath was prohibited). Otherwise the “bread from heaven” would spoil. I suddenly realized how difficult it must have been.

Since a few days we have a more or less regular furry guest. It’s Mr. Salmon, a street cat, called so because of his special fondness of that treat… Mr. Salmon is a quiet and well-behaving cat  – you can tell at once that he hasn’t spent all his life in the streets. He surely had a home once. Yet daily struggle for survival has also left marks on his behavior. One of them is that he immediately eats everything you give him regardless of the amount, undoubtedly because life has taught him that you never know when the next meal will come. Looking at how greedily he eats, I realized that I often do likewise. Perhaps not always with regard to food (even though I sometimes eat more than I should), but other important things.

I was taught as a child that the characteristic of maturity or adulthood is thinking about tomorrow: planning, anticipating consequences of one’s actions, readiness to take them upon oneself. Alas, there is a side effect of this attitude: I feel especially helpless when consequences of certain decisions cannot be predicted, when the future is completely unclear and you simply have to have trust. I would like to collect as much manna from heaven as possible – for storage. In order to show how foresighted, careful I am (even though I like to be seen as a risk taking and spontaneous person!).

I act like this in private life, but also as coordinator of the Polish Episcopal Network. Only a few weeks ago it seemed to me that for such a young community, which necessarily has to improvise a lot, we have taken care of basic things quite well. The passing of Br. Pawel changed this dramatically. As we were updating our flyer yesterday it occurred to me that we cannot write anymore that there are monthly Eucharists in Cracow, because we simply don’t know that…

On the other hand we too have our share of manna from heaven. Cooperation with the Wacław z Szamotuł Vocal Ensamble and its conductor, Lukasz Laxy, is developing very well. We will most probably be able to hold a traditional Anglican Service of Nine Lessons and Carols. Only a few month ago I thought it would be impossible to organize in Poland. And for January we plan a conference for local leaders – among others, Bishop Pierre Whalon promised to come, which means that there will be an Episcopal Eucharist in the royal city. Yes, we don’t know if there will be one in February, which seemed “sure” until recently (at least as sure as it could be when based on an enthusiastic but ill man who were to turn 90 soon), but that’s the point! This is the trial the Israelites faced in the desert: to trust that manna will fall again the following day.

In the legacy of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Lutheran theologian and a member of anti-Nazi resistance movement, there is among other things the following confession of faith:

I believe that God can and intends to let good spring from everything, even from what is most evil. For this he needs human beings, who desire to turn all things to the good.

I believe that God purposes to give us in every crisis as much power of resistance as we need. But he does not give it to us in advance, in order that we shall rely not on ourselves, but on Him alone. Such faith will necessarily overcome all fear of the future.

I believe that even our defects and errors are not in vain and that it is no more difficult for God to deal with them than with our supposed good deeds.

I believe that God is not a timeless phantom, but rather that he waits and responds to true prayer and responsible actions.

This text was in my mind when I was writing many posts for the blog, but I think I never referred to it directly. Why? Because it is very difficult for me. Intellectually I agree with it and I would like very much to say those words as my own confession of faith, but I know that they surpass what is there really in my soul now. Do I really believe that “God purposes to give me in every crisis as much power of resistance as I need. But he does not give it to me in advance, in order that I shall rely not on myself [and my “adult” foresight], but on Him alone?” I once heard from a friend that God gives us precisely as much ability to see and foresee things that we may come to the next corner on the path of our lives, around which another challenge lurks. And not an iota more. And it is our task to learn and accept this, because it’s what faith consists in – the faith that overcomes all fear of the future.

I very often find it irritating when people treat faith as a rigid, unchangeable worldview, a list of answers to all possible questions, ready-made solutions to all possible problems. Today, however, the question comes to my mind whether at the base of my irritation there isn’t perhaps a little longing for this attitude? Whether I wouldn’t like to “have faith” (which itself sounds awfully, even if it’s a Biblical expression), which would make me see more, reach a kind of “certainty” anew. To live of the “bread of heaven” and really collect not more than enough for one day is truly difficult, even though experience tells you that the bread has been there just when you needed it. But you would like to collect more – for storage, just in case…

Today is not only Thanksgiving. Our Jewish brothers and sisters are beginning their celebration of Hanukkah. Hanukkah commemorates the miracle of the lights that happened in the times of the Maccabees. When the Jerusalem Temple was regained from the hands of the enemy, only one little lamp with kosher oil was found inside, with enough oil for only one day, but it miraculously burned for eight days – until new kosher oil was produced and the Menorah lit. When we read about Biblical miracles, we often ask if “they really happened.” But – as Talmud says – “there is no before and after in the Torah”, so we should ask this question – at once – in all possible tenses. And what will be the answer? My own answer? Perhaps: “I believe, Lord, help my disbelief!”?

Dzisiaj rozpocząłem dzień od wysłuchania kazania, które nasz serdeczny przyjaciel, ks. Greg Neal, wygłosił ostatniej niedzieli w swoim kościele w Irving w stanie Teksas.

W rożny sposób ożyły pod jego wpływem wspomnienia z przemiłej podroży, którą odbyliśmy zaledwie nieco ponad miesiąc temu po Polsce, a zwłaszcza zabawna historia, wiążąca się z pogadanką, którą Greg wygłosił w parafii metodystycznej w Koszalinie. Otóż, w dzień czy dwa później, tamtejszy proboszcz, ks. Sebastian Niedźwiedziński, otrzymał smsa od obecnego na niej rzymskokatolickiego duchownego, który wyrażał swoje rozczarowanie tym, że prelegent miał przecież opowiadać o swoich podróżach, a co najmniej równie dużo mówił o Eucharystii. No cóż, jakieś ziarno prawdy w tym pewnie było (chociaż wspomnieniom ze swych licznych wypraw Greg poświecił naprawdę dużo miejsca), ale od czasu, gdy Sebastian opowiedział mi o tej reakcji, nie mogę oprzeć się refleksji, że problem tkwił nie tyle w takim a nie innym ujęciu tematu, co w tym, że ów duchowny się takiego ujęcia ABSOLUTNIE NIE SPODZIEWAŁ. Jak to? Metodystyczny pastor, który mówi o Komunii Świętej, o jej centralnym znaczeniu w swojej osobistej duchowości? Co więcej, absolutnie nie daje się przy tym wtłoczyć w gotowy schemat, który przynajmniej niektórzy uczestnicy spotkania mieli w głowach (protestantyzm = „podejście symboliczne” do Komunii), i z głębokim przekonaniem świadczy o swojej wierze w RZECZYWISTĄ OBECNOŚĆ JEZUSA CHRYSTUSA W SAKRAMENCIE OŁTARZA? I wreszcie, jakby nie wystarczyło już niespodzianek, z jego słów można wywnioskować, że ta wiara nie polega jedynie na przyjęciu (trochę „na siłę”) pewnej doktryny, ale żywy element spajający jego duchowość, nadający kierunek i sens jego życiu? To zasadniczo wykracza poza popularny obraz protestantów w oczach większości polskich (i nie tylko polskich) katolików.

Abstrahując od tego wspomnienia, tyleż zresztą zabawnego, co pouczającego (pokazuje ono bowiem, jak wiele mamy do zrobienia w zakresie popularyzacji wiedzy o anglikańskim podejściu do Eucharystii, z którego wywodzi się przecież także podejście wesleyańskie, znajdujące się u podstaw metodyzmu, nawet jeśli niejeden metodysta nie zdaje sobie z tego sprawy!), kazanie Grega pobudziło mnie do jeszcze innej refleksji. Większość z nas przypomina sobie mniej więcej historię o mannie z nieba, którą karmili się Izraelici w drodze przez pustynię. Greg przypomniał pewien istotny wymiar tej opowieści. Otóż mannę należało zbierać jedynie w takiej ilości, która starczała na dany dzień (chyba że następnego dnia przypadał szabat – wówczas można było zebrać podwójną miarę, bo w szabat nie należy pracować). W przeciwnym razie „chleb z nieba” ulegał zepsuciu. Nagle uświadomiłem sobie jakie to musiało być trudne.

Od kilku dni mamy u nas w domu – mniej lub bardziej stałego – futrzastego gościa. To Mister Salmon, bezpański kot, zwany tak ze względu na szczególne upodobanie, z jakim raczy się łososiem. Mister Salmon jest kotem spokojnym i dobrze ułożonym – od razu widać, że nie spędził całego swego życia na ulicy. Na pewno kiedyś miał dom. Jednak codzienna walka o przeżycie również pozostawiła w jego zachowaniu pewne ślady. Jednym z nich jest, że od razu zjada to, co mu się poda. Bez względu na ilość, pochłania wszystko natychmiast, bez wątpienia dlatego, że życie nauczyło go, iż nigdy nie wiadomo, kiedy nadejdzie kolejny posiłek. Przyglądając się jego zachłanności, uświadamiam sobie, ze przecież właściwie postępuję podobnie. Może nie zawsze w odniesieniu do jedzenia (chociaż zdarza mi się jeść więcej niż powinienem), ale jeśli chodzi o inne ważne dla mnie rzeczy.

W dzieciństwie nauczono mnie, że oznaką dorosłości jest myślenie o jutrze: planowanie, przewidywanie konsekwencji danych posunięć, gotowość do wzięcia ich na siebie. Niestety ubocznym skutkiem tej postawy jest, że czuję się szczególnie bezsilny w sytuacjach, gdy skutków pewnych decyzji nie daje się przewidzieć, gdy przyszłość jest zupełnie niejasna i po prostu trzeba zaufać. Najchętniej nazbierałbym manny z nieba ile się da – na zapas. Po to, by pokazać, jaki jestem zapobiegliwy (chociaż skądinąd lubię uchodzić za chętnie podejmującego ryzyko i spontanicznego!).

Działam w ten sposób w życiu prywatnym, ale również jako koordynator Polskiej Wspólnoty Episkopalnej. Jeszcze kilka tygodni temu wydawało mi się, że, jak na tak młodą wspólnotę, która siłą rzeczy często musi opierać się na improwizowaniu, pewne podstawowe sprawy całkiem nieźle uregulowaliśmy. Odejście brata Pawła zmieniło to poczucie w sposób diametralny. Wczoraj aktualizowaliśmy nasza ulotkę informacyjną, gdy nagle dotarło do mnie, że nie możemy już napisać, że zapraszamy na comiesięczną Eucharystię w Krakowie, bo po prostu nie wiemy, czy będzie się ona odbywać…

Z drugiej strony i my jednak doświadczamy naszej manny z nieba. Coraz lepiej rozwija się współpraca z Zespołem Wokalnym im. Wacława z Szamotuł i jego dyrygentem, Łukaszem Laxym. W grudniu najprawdopodobniej uda nam się zorganizować w Krakowie tradycyjne anglikańskie Nabożeństwo Dziewięciu Czytań i Kolęd. Jeszcze kilka miesięcy temu uważałem to za niemożliwe do zrealizowania w polskich warunkach. Na styczeń planujemy spotkanie liderów, obecność na którym zapowiedział m.in. bp Pierre Whalon, a to oznacza również, że w królewskim grodzie odbędzie się episkopalna Eucharystia. Owszem, nie mamy pojęcia czy będzie ona miała miejsce również w lutym, co jeszcze do niedawna wydawało się „pewne” (na tyle przynajmniej, na ile można opierać swoja pewność na osobie pełnego dobrych chęci, ale schorowanego człowieka, który nieomal zamyka dziewiąta dekadę swego życia), ale przecież w tym rzecz! To jest właśnie próba, z którą mieli do czynienia Izraelici na pustyni: zaufać, że następnego dnia znów spadnie manna.

W spuściźnie Dietricha Bonhoeffera, luterańskiego teologa i bojownika antyhitlerowskiego ruchu oporu, zachowało się między innymi następujące wyznanie wiary:

Wierzę, że Bóg ze wszystkiego, nawet z najgorszego zła, może i chce wyprowadzić dobro. Potrzebuje do tego jednak ludzi, którzy każdą rzecz chcą wykorzystać ku dobremu.

Wierzę, że Bóg w każdym trudnym położeniu chce nam dać tyle wytrzymałości, ile potrzebujemy, tylko nie daje jej na zapas, abyśmy nie polegali na sobie samych, tylko wyłącznie na Nim. Taka wiara powinna przezwyciężyć wszelki lęk przed przyszłością.

Wierzę, że również nasze błędy i pomyłki nie są daremne i Bogu nie sprawia większej trudności dać sobie z nimi radę aniżeli z naszymi rzekomo dobrymi czynami.

Wierzę, że Bóg nie jest abstrakcyjny i ponadczasowy, lecz czeka na szczere modlitwy i odpowiedzialne czyny, i odpowiada na nie.

Ten tekst „chodził mi po głowie” przy pisaniu wielu postów na blogu, jednak chyba nigdy dotąd wprost do niego nie nawiązałem. Dlaczego? Bo jest dla mnie bardzo trudny. Intelektualnie zgadzam się z nim i bardzo chciałbym moc wygłosić te słowa jako własne wyznanie wiary, ale wiem, że przerasta on to, co mi rzeczywiście „w duszy gra”. Czy rzeczywiście wierzę, że „Bóg w każdym trudnym położeniu chce mi dać tyle wytrzymałości, ile potrzebuję, tylko nie daje jej na zapas, abym nie polegał na sobie samym [i swojej „dorosłej” zapobiegliwości], tylko wyłącznie na Nim”? Kiedyś usłyszałem od pewnej bliskiej mi osoby, że Bóg daje nam dokładnie tyle możliwości widzenia i przewidywania, byśmy byli w stanie dojść do kolejnego życiowego zakrętu, za który czai się następne wyzwanie. I ani grama więcej. A naszym zadaniem jest nauczyć się akceptować to, bo właśnie na tym polega wiara – ta wiara, która przezwycięża lęk przed przyszłością.

Bardzo często reaguję irytacją na takie traktowanie wiary, w którym staje się ona pewnym sztywnym, niezmiennym światopoglądem, listą gotowych odpowiedzi na wszystkie możliwe pytania, gotowych rozwiązań wszystkich możliwych problemów. Dzisiaj nachodzi mnie jednak pytanie, czy u podstaw mojej irytacji nie czai się przypadkiem odrobina tęsknoty za takim podejściem. Czy aby sam nie chciałbym „posiadać wiary” (co już samo w sobie brzmi strasznie, nawet jeśli skądinąd występuje, jako wyrażenie, również w Biblii), która spowoduje, że zobaczę więcej, osiągnę na nowo jakaś „pewność”. Żyć „chlebem z nieba” i rzeczywiście zbierać go tylko w takiej ilości, która wystarcza na jeden dzień, naprawdę nie jest łatwo, nawet jeśli doświadczenie dyktuje ci skądinąd, że ten chleb już wielokrotnie docierał w samą porę. Najchętniej jednak nazbierało by się go więcej – na zapas, na wszelki wypadek…

Dzisiaj jest nie tylko Święto Dziękczynienia. Nasi żydowscy bracia i siostry rozpoczynają właśnie obchody chanuki. Chanuka to pamiątka cudu świateł, który wydarzył się w czasach Machabeuszy. Gdy odzyskano Świątynię Jerozolimską, znaleziono tylko jeden mały pojemnik z koszerną oliwą, której powinno było starczyć zaledwie na jeden dzień, a jednak cudownie paliła się aż przez osiem dni – do chwili, gdy przygotowano nowe zasoby koszernej oliwy do zapalenia Menory. Gdy czytamy o cudach biblijnych, najczęściej pytamy, czy aby „na pewno się wydarzyły”. Jednak – jak mówi Talmud – „w Torze nie ma przedtem, ani potem”, dlatego powinniśmy zadawać to pytanie – jednocześnie – we wszystkich czasach gramatycznych na raz. I jak będzie brzmiała odpowiedź? Moja własna odpowiedź? Może: „Wierzę, Panie, pomóż memu niedowiarstwu!”?

Below you can read the reflection Pradusz delivered at the service commemorating the departed in his congregation, the Kritische Gemeente IJmond. It was inspired by the story of the risen Jesus meeting his disciples on their way to Emmaus (Luke 24, 13-32).

“What’s your name again?” There are hardly more unpleasant things than such a situation. We recognize the face, we realize that we should know the person standing before us… But the name, we just cannot find the name. Finally we cannot hide it any longer and have to ask: what’s your name again?

Forgetting is a part of life, not only of one of  its phases. In a few days, in the next series of house meetings, we will talk about aging. And I can imagine that we will take up this topic too. Yet it is not only a problem of the elderly. The fact we forget things has to do with the functioning of our brain. Our brain needs to forget in order to do its work properly. The fact that we work with computers so much can help us understand this phenomenon, because they too need to reboot from time to time. Otherwise they become slower, because they no longer can process the required quantity of data. So they too need to “forget” something from time to time.

Just as our economy is based not only on the money we really have, but even in a much greater degree on our debts,  so our world isn’t based only on information we really possess but also the information we have lost long ago. We realize this, but we don’t like it. In the Bible one truly dies only when all have forgotten them. And the Eternal One, the God of Life, the One God, is the one who DOESN’T FORGET ANYONE. This is how we recognize him or her. In a hymn by Huub Oosterhuis we sing: “This house full of people. Do you know who they are? I hope so. Have you counted us? Do you know our names? So you are the Only One.” I recall as we sang it together on the Schiphol Airport during one of the vigils near the detention center (the place where you can see how our country, allegedly so hospitable, treats those it doesn’t want to receive) organized by C.v.d.S. Today we commemorate him. We place a stone with his name on our commemoration board, because we haven’t forgotten him. Him with his commitment and enthusiasm, with his visions and ideals. Him, one of us, the unforgettable C.

The idea to make the topic of the service commemorating the departed commemoration or even memory itself came to my mind when we paid farewell to another member of our community a few weeks ago, T.V. For some reason I didn’t realize it when we were preparing the service and I understood it only during the celebration: T. was for the last time among us at the funeral service of his wife, your mother and grandmother, ten years ago. It made a tremendous impression on me. During the long years of his stay in the nursing home, when his dementia deepened and deepened, most of us didn’t see him. Yet for all those years we cherished his name and that’s why T. could once again come to life among us on that September day. I thought then: when we ask why we are here, why we do what we do, this is the answer, isn’t it? We CHERISH names and dreams, ideals and visions, memories and feelings they awaken in us. We cherish them because, regardless of how natural and normal forgetting is, there also has to be a place where we remember people and commemorate them. We need this both with regard to the departed and to the living, like for example the people at the Schiphol airport who would have been forgotten long ago if it weren’t for our vigilance.

This memory can also have something funny about it from time to time. Last Tuesday I was traveling with a friend, an American minister, from Southern Poland to Warsaw. At one moment he was informed that a member of his congregation, an elderly lady, passed away. Then it went like in the KGIJ. Our friend had to make a few phone calls, like I in such a situation. The procedure had to be started. So he was talking on the phone and I listened. Suddenly the conversation turned to a certain detail. As it turned out, the lady who passed away had an aversion to wafers because they would always stick to her throat. So she wished that only real bread be used at the funeral service. Those who prepared it had to take care of it. When I heard this, my first thought was: “are there any other places in this crazy, hectic and forgetful world where you can count on such a detail important to someone not being forgotten?” Today – perhaps, given the time difference, right now – the funeral of Mrs. M. is going on and I’m certain that bread will be broken – real bread, not wafers. For, however futile it may seem to some, it is an important matter that also belongs to cherishing her name.

In a moment we too will break bread and share wine. Then we will sing a hymn some of us consider too long. Its length results from the fact that it commemorates the names of Jesus’ ancestors. We cannot do it every time, of course, but tonight we have a special reason: for this hymn shows us, perhaps more than any other, what our service is about – commemoration, remembering, cherishing. Singing it, we tell the story of Jeshua-Jesus, “who in the human fashion was given his own name when he was born in distant past far away from here.” We commemorate him “as the dead who is not dead, as the living beloved.” And because we call him “the helper, the travel companion and the brother of the least among people,” we commemorate not only him. We remember everyone, we include everyone in his story, the story of the one who lives. There are no boundaries here and we don’t need to worry that we deprive someone of their identity, because, for example, they were not Christian. Of course there are also other names, other religions and other traditions. Of course there are also other stories, which are not worse but simply different. Yet this is the story we are rooted in. Maybe accidentally, maybe not. And it is this story that we tell in the broadest, most inclusive possible way.

And when we tell this story anew, and when we break bread and share wine to life (lechaim) and against death, something unexpected happens. In our Gospel reading today we read: “Their eyes were opened and they recognized him.” He was among them “as the dead who is not dead.” For to commemorate in the Biblical sense always means more than only to commemorate, it means to make something or someone present, to experience something anew. “The Word touched by sound, touched by holiness” (St. Hildegard of Bingen) becomes the LIVING WORD. The name comes to life again. This is the root of what the church called EUCHARIST – grateful remembering in a way that he whose story we tell is alive again, and together with him all the names we cherish, and we too:

“May we not live imprisoned in emptiness.
May we not turn back into dust.
Send your Spirit to transform us.
That we hear you, that we live you,
people for people, everything for everyone.
That we fulfill you word, our peace,
AWAKEN YOU STRENGTH AND COME TO MAKE US FREE.”
(Huub Oosterhuis)

Because

“This stream does never end,
even cold breath, the breath of death,
will not resist this word.”
(St. Hildegard of Bingen)

THE LIVING WORD…

Poniżej zamieszczamy rozważanie wygłoszone przez Pradusza na nabożeństwie upamiętniającym tych, którzy odeszli, w jego wspólnocie Kritische Gemeente IJmond. Jest ono zainspirowane historią o spotkaniu zmartwychwstałego Jezusa z uczniami podążającymi do Emaus (Łk 24,13-32).

“Przepraszam, jak masz właściwie na imię?” Mało co jest tak nieprzyjemne, jak taka sytuacja. Twarz jest nam na pewno znajoma, wiemy, że właściwie powinniśmy znać osobę, która stoi przed nami, tylko… No właśnie, to imię jakoś nie chce się wynurzyć z czeluści pamięci. W końcu nie da się już tego ukryć i trzeba zadać to pytanie: jak masz właściwie na imię?

Zapominanie należy do życia, nie tylko do jednego z jego okresów. Za kilka dni, w kolejnej serii spotkań domowych, będziemy rozmawiać o starości. I mogę sobie wyobrazić, że również ten temat zostanie poruszony. A jednak nie jest to tylko problem ludzi starszych. To, że zapominamy, ma po prostu do czynienia z funkcjonowaniem naszego umysłu. On tego potrzebuje, aby przyzwoicie wykonywać swe zadania. To, że obecnie mamy dużo do czynienia z komputerami, może pomóc nam zrozumieć to zjawisko, bo również one muszą od czasu do czasu zostać zresetowane. W przeciwnym razie ich działanie spowalnia się, ponieważ nie mogą już przetworzyć potrzebnej ilości informacji. Zatem i one muszą od czasu do czasu coś „zapomnieć”.

Tak jak nasza ekonomia opiera się nie tylko na pieniądzach, które rzeczywiście posiadamy, ale nawet w o wiele większym wymiarze na naszych długach, tak i nasz świat opiera się nie tylko na informacjach, którymi rzeczywiście dysponujemy, ale również na tych, które dawno umknęły nam z pamięci. Wiemy o tym, a jednak się to nam nie podoba. W Biblii umiera się tak naprawdę dopiero wtedy, gdy wszyscy już o tobie zapomnieli. Zaś Wiekuisty, Bóg życia, Bóg jedyny, to ten, który O NIKIM NIE ZAPOMINA. Właśnie tak Go/Ją rozpoznajemy. W jednej z pieśni autorstwa Huuba Oosterhuisa śpiewamy: „Ten dom pełen ludzi. Czy wiesz kim oni są? Mam taką nadzieję. Czy nas policzyłeś? Czy znasz nas po imieniu? Zatem jesteś tym Jedynym”. Przypominam sobie, jak śpiewaliśmy to na lotnisku Schiphol w czasie z jednego z czuwań przy areszcie granicznym (miejscu, w którym widać jak nasz, podobno tak gościnny, kraj traktuje tych, których nie chce ugościć) zorganizowanym przez C.v.d.S. Dzisiaj upamiętniamy jego samego. Umieszczamy kamień z jego imieniem na naszej tablicy pamięci, ponieważ o nim nie zapomnieliśmy. Nie zapomnieliśmy ani o nim ani o jego zaangażowaniu i entuzjazmie, o jego wizjach i ideałach. Nie zapomnieliśmy o nim – jednym z nas, jedynym w swoim rodzaju C.

Pomysł, aby tematem nabożeństwa upamiętniającego tych, którzy odeszli, uczynić upamiętnianie czy pamięć jako taką, przyszedł mi do głowy, gdy kilka tygodni temu żegnaliśmy innego członka naszej wspólnoty, T.V. Z jakichś powodów nie dotarło to do mnie, gdy przygotowywaliśmy nabożeństwo pożegnalne, zrozumiałem to dopiero w jego trakcie: że T. pojawił się po raz ostatni wśród nas, gdy żegnaliśmy w Morgensterkerk jego żonę, waszą mamę i babcię, dziesięć lat temu. To zrobiło na mnie niesamowite wrażenie. Przez długie lata jego pobytu w domu opieki, gdy coraz bardziej pogrążał się w demencji, większość z nas go nie widziała, nie miała z nim do czynienia. Przez wszystkie te lata jednak zachowywaliśmy w pamięci jego imię i dlatego właśnie T. mógł tamtego dnia we wrześniu mimo wszystko raz jeszcze pojawić się wśród nas jak żywy. Wówczas pomyślałem: gdy zadajemy sobie pytanie, dlaczego tutaj jesteśmy, dlaczego robimy to, co robimy, to przecież to jest właśnie odpowiedź, ZACHOWUJEMY W PAMIĘCI imiona i marzenia, ideały i wizje, wspomnienia i uczucia, które one w nas wzbudzają. Zachowujemy je, ponieważ, bez względu na to, jak normalną i naturalną rzeczą jest zapominanie, musi również istnieć miejsce, gdzie sobie ludzi przypominamy i upamiętniamy ich. Potrzebujemy tego zarówno w odniesieniu do umarłych, jak i do żywych, jak na przykład tych ludzi na lotnisku Schiphol, o których, gdyby nie nasze czuwanie, już dawno by zapomniano.

Niekiedy ta pamięć może mieć w sobie też coś zabawnego. W miniony wtorek jechałem z przyjacielem, amerykańskim duchownym, z południowej Polski do Warszawy. W pewnym momencie dotarła do niego wiadomość o śmierci członikini jego zboru, starszej pani. Dalej wszystko toczyło się w podobny sposób jak ma to miejsce u nas, w KGIJ. Nasz przyjaciel musiał wykonać kilka telefonów, podobnie jak ja w momencie, gdy otrzymuje taką informację. Procedury musiały zostać uruchomione. Tak więc telefonował, a ja słuchałem. W pewnym momencie rozmowa dotyczyła pewnego szczegółu. Jak się okazało, zmarła nie cierpiała opłatków, ponieważ zawsze przyklejały jej się do podniebienia. Życzyła sobie więc, aby w czasie jej nabożeństwa pogrzebowego do komunii użyto jedynie prawdziwego chleba. Przygotowujący je musieli na to zwrócić uwagę. Gdy to usłyszałem, moją pierwszą myślą było: „czy są jeszcze jakieś inne miejsca na tym zwariowanym, pogrążonym w pośpiechu i zapominalskim świecie, gdzie można liczyć na to, że taki szczegół, który dla kogoś był jednak ważny, nie zostanie zapomniany?” Dzisiaj – może, biorąc pod uwagę różnicę czasu, właśnie w tym momencie – odbywa się pogrzeb M. i jestem pewien, że na nabożeństwie żałobnym łamany będzie chleb – zwykły chleb a nie opłatki. Bo, jak mało istotne może się to komuś wydawać, to ważna sprawa, która również przynależy do zachowywania w pamięci czyjegoś imienia.

Za chwilę również i my będziemy łamać chleb i dzielić się winem. Dzisiejszego wieczoru zaśpiewamy przy tym pieśń, którą niektórzy z nas uważają za trochę zbyt długą. Jej długość wynika z tego, że upamiętniamy w niej imiona przodków Jezusa. Oczywiście nie możemy tego robić za każdym razem, tego wieczoru jednak mamy ku temu szczególny powód: ta pieśń ukazuje nam bowiem, być może bardziej niż każda inna, to, co stanowi temat tego nabożeństwa – upamiętnianie, przypominanie sobie, zachowywanie w pamięci. Śpiewając ją, opowiadamy historię Jeszuy-Jezusa, „który, jak każdy człowiek, został nazwany swoim własnym imieniem, gdy narodził się w dalekiej przeszłości, daleko stąd”. Upamiętniamy Go „jako umarłego, który nie jest umarły, jako żywego ukochanego”. Ponieważ zaś nazywamy Go przy tym „wspomożycielem, towarzyszem podróży, bratem najmniejszych z ludzi”, upamiętniamy nie tylko Jego. Wspominamy każdego, każdego włączamy w Jego opowieść, opowieść tego, który żyje. Tu nie ma granic i nie musimy obawiać się, że kogoś pozbawimy w ten sposób jego tożsamości, ponieważ np. nie był on chrześcijaninem. Oczywiście istnieją też inne imiona, inne religie i inne tradycje. Oczywiście istnieją również inne opowieści, które nie są gorsze, lecz po prostu inne. To jednak jest opowieść, w której jesteśmy zakorzenieni. Może za sprawą przypadku, a może nie. I właśnie ją opowiadamy w jak najszerszy, jak najbardziej inkluzywny sposób.

I gdy opowiadamy na nowo tę historię, i gdy łamiemy przy tym chleb i dzielimy się winem za życie (lechaim) i przeciwko śmierci, ma miejsce coś niespodziewanego. W naszej Ewangelii na dzisiejszy wieczór czytamy: „Wówczas ich oczy otworzyły się i rozpoznali Go”. On był wśród nich „jako umarły, który nie jest umarły”. Bowiem upamiętniać w sensie biblijnym oznacza zawsze więcej niż jedynie upamiętniać, oznacza uobecnić kogoś lub coś, przeżyć na nowo, doświadczyć na nowo. „Słowo dotknięte dźwiękiem, dotknięte świętością” (św. Hildegarda z Bingen) staje się SŁOWEM ŻYWYM. Imię ożywa na nowo. Jest to istota tego, co w Kościele nazwano EUCHARYSTIĄ – wspominania z wdzięcznością w taki sposób, aby ten, którego historię opowiadamy, znów ożył, zaś wraz z nim wszystkie te imiona, które zachowujemy w pamięci, a także my sami:

„Abyśmy nie żyli uwięzieni w pustce.
Abyśmy nie stali się na powrót prochem.
Ześlij swego Ducha, aby nas przemienił.
Abyśmy Cię słyszeli, abyśmy Tobą żyli,
ludzie dla ludzi, wszystko dla wszystkich.
Abyśmy wypełnili Twe słowo, nasz pokój,
WZBUDŹ SWOJĄ SIŁĘ I PRZYJDŹ NAS WYZWOLIĆ”.
(Huub Oosterhuis)

Ponieważ

„Ten strumień nigdy nie wyschnie,
nawet zimny oddech, oddech śmierci,
nie oprze się temu słowu”.
(św. Hildegarda z Bingen)

ŻYWEMU SŁOWU…