By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Previously published 2/17/12 in The Madera Tribune A U.S. tourist in Ireland marveled when he spotted familiar bottles of American beer behind the counter of a pub. “I see you have Bud Light over here now,” he commented. “Yes,” said the bartender. “But we only drink it for Lent.” The true tale was one of many swapped by visitors to the Chicago Tribune website three years ago. Another told of a university roommate who resolved to give up pizza for Lent. Normally his friends wouldn’t have been impressed, but when he abstained from the college staple from the first weekend of December through final exams later that month they took notice. No one had the heart to direct him to a calendar. I’m grateful someone did so to me. I realized Wednesday will mark the solemn day when Maderans of all walks of life will stretch out their hand to a classmate or co-worker and intone the traditional greeting: “You’ve got a smudge on your forehead.” There are two common liturgical responses to this. The first emphasizes the self-effacing character of the Lenten season as the ash besmirched Christian offers a weak smile and replies, “Um… thanks.” The responsorial alternative, usually spoken rather than sung, explains about weeks of spiritual preparation before the holy day of Easter. This explanation is largely ceremonial as it does not prevent the same greeting from being offered the following year — or sometimes even later the same day. Ash Wednesday is the ancient gateway for 40 days of renewed prayer, repentance, self-denial, and compassion for those in need. This time of Lent, a word that originally meant “spring,” alters the routines of Catholics, Orthodox, Lutherans, Methodists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, some Baptists and Mennonites, and others every year. I’ve always been grateful for the fellowship and reminder to renew my commitment to God, which often involves examining my own life and working at refocusing my scattered attention. There has never been a year when I felt the effort was unnecessary. The season of Lent draws its inspiration, in part, from the 40 days that Jesus spent alone in the desert after his baptism in the Jordan River by his older cousin John. There in the wilderness Jesus fasted and prayed. Afterwards he recalled scripture as he resisted the temptations of the demon Satan. Then Jesus began his public ministry. One would hope that Christians imitate this retreat of Jesus into the wilds not only to better prepare themselves to withstand attractions to evil but also to ready themselves to minister to those around them. Those in need, physically or spiritually, are never absent in any era. Jesus promised as much (Matthew 26:11; Mark 14:7), and he asked us not only to serve but to love our neighbor as our self (Matthew 25:37-40; Mark 12:30-31). “What a comfort is this way of love!” wrote the Carmelite nun Térèse Martin. “You may stumble on it, you may fail to match the grace given, but always love knows how to make the best of everything; whatever offends our Lord is burnt up in its fire, and nothing is left but a humble, absorbing peace deep down in the heart.” So why do Christians begin such a time as Lent with ashes? I am reminded of the poem “Spring and Fall” by Victorian poet and convert Rev. Gerard Manley Hopkins, SJ, that he wrote nine years before his own death. In it, he described the tears of a fictional girl at seeing the barren woods of the fall season. “Margaret, are you grieving / Over Goldengrove unleaving? / Leaves, like the things of man, you / With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? / Ah! As the heart grows older / It will come to such sights colder / By and by, nor spare a sigh.” Though no one had told her, he said, her heart had heard and her spirit had guessed the deeper meaning behind these empty trees. “It is the blight man was born for, / It is Margaret you mourn for.” In naked branches and in ashes, we see foreshadowings of our own death. The illusion of our own immortality quivers, and if we are honest so do we. In that moment, we can hide like a frightened child. We can chill our hearts to such thoughts. We can protest. We can cry. We can surrender to an inevitable doom. Or we who are Christians can trust the embrace of the death-conquering God we claim to love and follow.
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By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Previously published 12/26/97 in The Madera Tribune
“On the anniversary of the day on which the Gentiles had defiled it, on that very day [the 25th of Kislev] it was reconsecrated with songs, harps, flutes and cymbals ... For eight days they celebrated the dedication of the altar and joyfully offered holocausts and sacrifices of deliverance and praise.” — 1 Maccabees 4:54,56 The fourth candle will be kindled this evening, and so continues the eight-day Jewish festival of lights (AKA the feast of dedication, feast of Maccabees, Hanukkah, and Chanukah) which commemorates the reconsecration of the Temple of Jerusalem (c. 165 B.C.) after being recaptured from the Syrian Greeks, or Seleucids. The history revolves around the Joarib family of priests, and in particular Judah “the Maccabee” (d. 161 B.C.), glorified in G.F. Handel’s “Judas Maccabeus.” Following the lead of his father Mattathias, Judah and his four brothers spearheaded a revolt against the Seleucid dynasty, who waged several violent campaigns against the Jews. The trouble began with the prohibition of local religions by the King Antiochus Epiphanes, who seized a remnant of Alexander the Great’s kingdom in 175 B.C. Circumcision, holocausts, sacrifices, libations, and other observances of the law were outlawed. Some Jews apostasized (“left the faith”), while others were forced into hiding. “A man could not keep the shabbat [meaning ‘sabbath’] or celebrate the traditional feasts, nor even admit that he was a Jew.” — 2 Maccabees 6:6 In 168 B.C, King Antiochus sent an Athenian senator to Jerusalem to force the Jewish people to abandon their faith. The senator dedicated the Temple of Jerusalem to the “Olympian Zeus.” All were forced to partake in sacrifices to Greek and pagan gods or face the penalty of death. All the scrolls of the Jewish law that were found were torn then burnt. When a Jew came forward to sacrifice to Zeus, fury overcame the priest Mattathias and he slew the apostate Jew at the altar, as well as the king’s messenger and enforcer of the sacrilege. Mattathias tore down the altar to Zeus, and then he and his sons fled to the mountains with others who wished to keep their faith. Mattathias led a successful war against the Seleucids, and after his death his five sons continued an ultimately victorious guerrilla war against the supporters of the king. Before and during this time, many Jews died rather than forsake their traditions and their God. “Thus, two women who were arrested for having circumcised their children were publicly paraded about the city with their babies hanging at their breasts and then thrown down from the top of the city wall. Others, who had assembled in nearby caves to observe the shabbat in secret, were betrayed to Philip and all burned to death. In their respect for the holiness of that day, they had scruples about defending themselves.” — 2 Maccabees 6:10-11 Scholars and rabbis differ on why Judah received his famous nickname, Maccabee, which has come to refer to the two Jewish books of this period and the heroes in them. The most popular explanation however translates Maccabee as “hammer” (in Hebrew “makkebet” or “makkaba”) in reference to his crushing victories. A variant theory argues that the name refers to the peculiar shape of his skull, a “makban” or hammerhead. Others believe the name Maccabee is an acronym for the scripture verse “Mi kamokha ba’elim Hashem” (“Who is like unto thee among the mighty, O Lord!”), inspiring words that Judah may have carried into battle. The use of Hebrew acronyms as names came into use around the turn of the millennium. “After him they brought the sixth brother. When he was about to die, he said: ‘Have no vain illusions. We suffer these things on our own account, because we have sinned against our God; that is why such astonishing things have happened to us. Do not think, then, that you will go unpunished for having dared to fight against God.’” — 2 Maccabees 7:18-19 So why is Hanukkah also known as the festival of lights? The Jewish Talmud records that when the rededication of the Temple began no supply of pure olive oil could be found, except enough for one day’s burning. The person sent to purchase more oil wasn’t able to return until eight days later, and yet the oil lamps miraculously continued to burn. Thus it was that the eight-branched Menorah candelabrum has become an appropriate symbol of the holiday, which really celebrates how the seeming impossible is truly possible with God. Shalom! |
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