Wordsworth and Whitman

My roommate will make fun of me for writing this, since I'm suppose to be working on my paper. But since my paper is about Wordsworth and Whitman, this short digression shouldn't be too damaging. ;-) In fact, it might help me sort out my thoughts for the paper.

I'm writing about Wordsworth influencing Whitman, but something about the idea makes me a bit indignant, probably like it made Whitman himself. Whitman's indirect goal in his poetry was to cut the literary cord America still had going with Britain. In fact, he made a note to himself to "never mention any other author or work" in Leaves of Grass. But all the research I've done in realizing this connection between the British literary giant and the Good Gray Poet makes the relationship undeniable. There are so many similarities between them, but Whitman, in his notes, often wrote disparaging comments on Wordsworth, and was usually unsatisfied with him.

But he was setting out to do in America what Wordsworth did in Britain: write poetry for everyone, not just a stilted upper class. Write using language anyone can fathom. Write about the individual, the poet's spiritual journey.

Wordsworth published his magnum opus, the Prelude, 5 years before Whitman publised Leaves of Grass. Wordsworth died the same year the Prelude was published, and Whitman noted his birth and death dates often in the margins of articles. Whitman was very aware of Wordsworth, but often offered no comment when people compared him to the Bristish Romantic. Why would he, when he was making the effort to be utterly original, and seperate American poetry from British?

One source on Whitman is called the "Solitary Singer": it's a critical biography. But I have to wonder: was he all that solitary? He was very methodical in destroying his notes: maybe he was garnering more from the Brits that he cared to share.

Even so, despite all their similarities, I'd much rather sit down and read Leaves of Grass than the Prelude. But Tintern Abbey can compete even with my favorite Whitman poetry, so perhaps I've innately noted the connection just by which poetry I favor. Hm...

Music!

If you're looking for substance... look elsewhere. What follows is completely frivolous blather inspired by a movie: The Phantom of the Opera!

I won't mention that Emmy Rossum isn't exactly my favorite Christine. That doesn't matter: this is about the men! ;-)

In this movie, which served primarily as a fantasy for 14 year old girls, there are two routes Christine can take: dedicated and dashing Raoul,




or the cryptic and steamy Phantom of the Opera.



So... what is a girl to do??

My roommate... come to think of it, most of my friends, all say, Erik! The phantom!

I'm a bit more hesitant. If this plot was actually taken out of the book or the opera and put in real life... wouldn't Erik be that creepy guy on SVU that gets arrested for stalking and harrassment?? The kid that had a terrible life and so turned out a little... crazy?

Granted, I would say he probably did love Christine in the end. Loved her enough to let her go.

But might I complain for a moment? Poor Raoul gets a bad name, mostly because the Raouls of the operas and the movies are generally not near as dashing or handsome as the phantom. And Patrick Wilson made it through the movie with only two scenes in which his hair was noticeably disturbed. ;-)

But come on, let's compare lyrics here.

Phantom: "From the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve, to sing for my music!"

Raoul: "I'm here, with you, beside you. To guard you and to guide you!"

Honestly. A sympathetic character he may be, but the phantom is deceptive, selfish, frightening. What is it with girls... and guys, even!... going for the bad ones??

There are plenty of decent people out there, hiding amongst all the crazies. ;-)

Easter

The Easter story never gets old for me. Though, I did find myself recoiling when my Sunday School teacher insisted that we read over the passages on Jesus' crucifixion. I felt like I'd already done my mourning, already honored that moment, and I wanted to focus on the joy of Easter.

Something I notice about angels: every time they show up in the Bible, the first thing they say is "Do not be afraid." Angels, I don't think, are cherub-cheeked blonds; Jesus once referenced angels using the word "fleet". These are heavenly warriors. Imagine being Mary Magdalene, and walking up in time to witness one appear, roll away the boulder blocking the entrance to Jesus' tomb like it was nothing!

Imagine being Peter and John, responding to what was then considered the "unreliable" testimony of a woman, and running to the tomb to find it empty but for neatly folded burial cloths!

Just imagine being any one of those witnesses who watched Jesus' brutal murder and then saw him alive again!

My family, quirky as we are, made for an amusing Easter Sunday, but I can't help but crawl into bed at peace.

Prayer Room 3: Good Friday

Today, I sat in the prayer room from about 7:50 to 9:15, praying, listening, strumming my guitar, and singing quietly. What more can I write, can I gleen from the story of the Cross? Do I really want to imagine what He might have been feeling today? It may be too much.

I strummed this song, and sang it this morning, and a few other voices joined in.

"All to Jesus, I surrender,
All to Thee I freely give.
I will ever love and trust Him,
in His presence daily live.

I surrender all, I surrender all.
All to thee, my Blessed Savior,
I surrender all!"

And so, Good Friday begins.

Prayer Room 2

The prayers that covered the walls have bled up to the ceiling now.

God, let me get to Sunday, but do not allow me to ignore the significance of these nest days. In 48 minutes, Good Friday begins. God, let me not pass over this day without mourning, without appreciating with all that I have, the sacrifice made for me on that Friday, two thousand years ago.

Today, Holy Thursday, was a beautiful clear day, filled with many smiles, but tears as well. A friend of mine was having a particularly hard day. So many of my friend's questions brought me to my heart's knees.

Holy Thursday we remember as the night that Jesus and his disciples, his closest friends gathered, and he gave them communion. The Last Supper.

Thanks to BibleGateway.com, here's the text of it that passage in Luke 22.

"14When the hour came, Jesus and his apostles reclined at the table. 15And he said to them, "I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. 16For I tell you, I will not eat it again until it finds fulfillment in the kingdom of God."

17After taking the cup, he gave thanks and said, "Take this and divide it among you. 18For I tell you I will not drink again of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes."

19And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, "This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me."

20In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you."

Jesus is so human in these last moments before his arrest. I can see him leaning forward in his seat, gazing intently at his disciples, his closest friends, saying, "I've been waiting for this moment." He thrives on their presence, needs them near him in these last, tense moments. And though he is probably distracted by the knowledge of what he will endure the next day, Jesus takes the bread and wine, taking physical objects to foreshadow the events of Friday, trying to tell his friends that what would take place would be done for them and for the world. "This is my body, broken for you. This is my blood pored out for you." I can imagine the emotion choking his voice, the fear pounding against his ribs, his imploring gaze piercing his friends.

And not only this, but in these last moments with his friends, he already knew that one trusted man had betrayed Him for profit. I can see Christ's impassioned, maybe even teary gaze falling on Judas in that moment. "This is my blood, poured out for you." I can imagine Judas squirming, can imagine the chill he must have felt.

What I can't imagine, what is too wonderful for me to fathom, is that Jesus Christ truly did love Judas. He was a trusted friend, which makes the betrayal all the worse. But I believe he really did lay down his life with even Judas in mind.

Then, late that night, they went up to the Mount of Olives to pray.

Now, it's late, nearing midnight right now, as I type this blog entry in the prayer room. The clear sky of this morning has clouded over slightly, and a chilling wind beats at the door. Perhaps this night might not be so different that the night Christ experienced so many years ago.

The Words says that Christ told his disciples to pray, pray that they would not fall into temptation, then withdrew a stone's throw away from them, and knelt to pray. Even before the horror of Friday, this image of Christ on Thursday night breaks me every time I visit it.

Jesus is kneeling, trembling, feverishly praying. And in a moment of pure humanity, Jesus Christ says, "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me!" I wonder if he already heard the whip snapping, if he already heard the clatter of the dice the soldiers used to gamble for his clothes, if he could taste blood, if he could smell the approach of death. I wonder if he could already the crown of thorns being pushed into his skin.

The Word says that even with these images, even with the fear shaking in his limbs, Jesus Christ prayed, "But not my will, but Yours be done." And in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like drops of blood."

And then, he came to find his closest friends sleeping, exhausted by grief, and soon later, a mob, led by Judas came to arrest him. And he said to them, "This is your hour-- when darkness reigns." (Luke 22:53)

And so began Good Friday.

But as heavy as my heart is, when reading over these passages of Holy Week, I know Sunday waits on the horizon. Praise God!

Prayer Room 1

I'm surrounded by prayer. By cries of delight, by broken hearts, by hope and fear and faith. The prayer room, upstairs in the BCM house, is the site where 24/7 prayer is happening on my campus. This is my hour. I've listened to music, basking in the presence filling this small room. I've wandered around the perimeter, reading prayers, reading the Bible verses covering the walls, lifting them up. The need of my campus overwhelms me, but this room is filled with hope. There's a map, with pushpins, so we can see the international reach of God's love, there are drawings and pictures on the walls. There's a confession room, where burdens are cast. Music from my laptop fills my ears.

"Oh, no, you never let go!"
"You're all I want, You're all I need!"
"He took me in his arms, said my son's come home again..."

"How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?"

I can't be in this room and not be moved. It's Passion week; I'm preparing my soul for the happiest day of the year, and also, the worst day of the year. Easter weekend--the horror and anguish of Good Friday, the hopeless despondence of Saturday, and the absolute ecstasy of Easter.

God, consume me. Embrace this campus. Surround us, walk with us, pursue us, save us.

*
*
*
*
*

I can't shake the image of Christ lounging on the floor of this prayer room, resting his against a pillow, taking in all the prayers covering these walls and filling the air of this place. Some would make him smile, some would break his heart. But so many of the prayers are triumphs, are praises.

The glory of Christ is in this place.

Happy St. Pat's Day!

Man, I am so pumped to go to Ireland. A tad nervous about navigating airports alone, but so ready for the Emerald Isle. Since today is Irish Christmas, it's all I've been thinking about! I can't wait to walk the streets of Dublin, to breathe in the culture of my ancestors!! I want to see everything, and hopefully I can wrangle in a few other students to go on a weekend trip to London with me.

I'm a tad concerned that the other students won't be quite as dorky as me. Sure, I'll go live it up every now and then, but I want to go see the sights, explore the history, take in the culture! I'm not into furthering the Guiness-saturated stereotype. I want to remember my trip. ;-)

Man, but I'm pumped.

Palm Sunday

Song from Church This Morning:
Knowing you, Jesus, knowing you
there is no better thing!
You're my all, you're the best!
You're my joy, my righteousness!
And I love you, Lord.

So come on! Sing out!
Let our anthem grow loud!
There is one, great love!
Jesus

I think so many people skip over the significance of Palm Sunday. In the midst of all our spring fever, the beginnings of our panic about the ending of the school term, our trips to the beach for Spring Break. Though nothing can top the ecstasy of Easter, the celebration of Palm Sunday, only a week before, should catch our attention.

Palm Sunday starts Holy Week, or Passion Week. The week before the resurrection of Christ. In the Bible, this is called the "Triumphal Entry." The story says that Jesus came into the city of Jerusalem, and the people shouted, "Hosanna! Hosanna, Son of David! Glory to God in the Highest!" And the people took off their own coats and laid them along the path that Jesus' donkey would walk. And when the coats were spent, people tore palm branches from the trees, and lied them on the ground with the coats or waved them in celebration, shouting "Hosanna!" which means, "Save!"

We tell this story with excitement in our eyes and flush to our cheeks, don't we? We sing hymns of praise, we sing Hosanna, we tell the story of the donkey, the coats, the palm branches, and we smile, say Amen, and go home.

But immediately following this passage of the Bible (in Matthew 21) comes one that we approach with much more caution: Jesus driving out the moneychangers in the temple. This event probably occurred on the same day, if not directly after the Triumphal Entry. In a fit of righteous fury, Jesus accosted those men buying and selling, overthrowing their tables and casting them out of the tables, shouting, "My house is a house of prayer, but you have turned into a house of theives!"

How often do we want to approach this side Jesus, particularly on Palm Sunday? We want to see the gentle Christ, riding in on a donkey, serenity in his countenance, smiling at the children calling "Hosanna!" Not the indignant Jesus, throwing over tables, shouting, turning red with righteous anger.

How odd must that day have been for Jesus? Palm Sunday. He is coming into Jerusalem, the city he wept over, saying, "Oh, Jerusalem! How often I've ached to embrace your children, the way a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you wouldn't let me." Jesus is coming into this city to be murdered, to meet a prolonged and violent death, but people are celebrating, smiling, wavings palms, and crying "Glory to God!" I wonder, how must that have felt? Did their praise give him comfort, give him hope that his death would not be in vain? Or was the irony a dagger to his heart? The same smiling people lying down their cloaks on a dusty road to keep his colt's feet from getting too dirty would soon come in a mob to seize him from his prayer for arrest. The same joyous voices crying "Hosanna!" in the space of just a few days would cry "Crucify!"

The cruel burden of omniscience, the harsh irony might have weighed down on his shoulders, pushing him down like the cross soon would. Why then are we shocked to see him soon after this Triumphal Entry, on a furious rampage through a corrupted temple? Why do we skip over the passage where he commands curses the fig tree for being barren?

After all, Jesus was fully human, as well as fully God. As God, he knew what his fate would be, and as a human, he was frightened of it. The stress of knowing you are being welcomed into a city that will soon turn on you must have been massive.

Thanks to God-given quirks in the English language, Palm Sunday has a strange aura of foreshadowing. The word Palm, for the tree branches being waved in celebration, also means the underside of the hand, only centimeters from where Jesus's wrists would be impaled with stakes, nailing him to a cross in the ultimate sacrifice.



So, forgive me. Forgive me, because even though today is usually a day of celebration, the sky is bright blue without a single cloud obstructing the light and warmth of the sun, a cool breeze blows, and spring smiles all around me, I can't completely bring myself to be joyful on this Palm Sunday, not after really studying this passage of the Bible and really considering what this day must have been like for Christ.

Home

Being back in my hometown thanks to spring break has made me rethink the concept of "home."

My room back home hasn't changed much as I've gotten older. It's still decorated like it was when I was kid. The differences are more in what I bring to it. Now there's a guitar that I'm slowly learning to play. There are different pictures of different friends, new books on the bookshelf. There's a framed picture of my college's main building hanging over my bed.

My house is much the same. My parents and brother are still here, a constant. My dog still runs as fast as she can when I open the back door. In this town, my old friends are still friends, and some new ones have wandered in and out. I still call the church I grew up in "my home church."

But even though very little has changed about this town, this house, the people-- it feels different each time I find my way back. Like perhaps this town isn't always going to be my home.

My first year of college, my mother was incredibly affronted the first time I called my dorm "home." She still gets antsy when I refer to my school as "home." But then,
it's not exactly home either.

I'm coming to terms with this, that I've hit the period of my life that's almost "homeless." I'm in a transition time-- home isn't quite home though my family hasn't changed. School isn't home, though I sometimes call it that. These next few years, I'll be finding "home." I'll graduate in two years, and odds are, I'll still be planning my own days as a single woman. I'll go to grad school, and then it will really be time to go home. Wherever God puts me, that is. My hometown, or maybe on the other side of the state.

Home isn't necessarily where my parents are or where my friends are. We live in the twentieth century--they can call. They can visit. Home for me might not be chosen in conjunction with a husband... though, if I'm being honest, I hope that's the case. Home isn't just where the job is. I'm not sure where my home will be in five years. I'm not incredibly sure where it is now, since the idea is changing.

All I know for sure is that home is where God puts me. And right now he has me here. And as someone once said, "there's no place like home." ;-)