TWELFTH NIGHT/EPIPHANY
I read this
line in a interview with Christian Wiman in Christianity Today: "Jurgen Moltmann once wrote that all
theology, especially a theology of hope, had to be conducted 'in the earshot of
the dying Christ.'" Joy is what it
is because death--and suffering--is what it is too. The two are inseparable in theology and in
life.
I also read
NY Times Book Review about first time novelist Ayana Mathis. Her novel titled The
Twelve Tribes of Hattie, opens up the life of a black woman who came north
with the Great Migration. The reviewer
admires the book, but clearly doesn't love it because, by her estimation,
there's simply too much grief and sadness.
The Twelve
Tribes of Hattie is exactly the kind of novel I like, even love--historical
fiction that burrows into the lives of real human beings in a different--mostly
American--time and place. But I'm not
reading this one because I've come to the age where I don't want to indulge
sadness. I'm not interested in happy faces either, but long, depressing
literary work, no matter how glorious in style, simply doesn't hold much appeal
right now; I'm 61, and I've seen enough of that myself, and I'm going to see
more, I'm sure.
This weekend
is Epiphany. Today, even in our house,
the Christmas tree gets tossed out by the mailbox, and if it isn't windy, gets
picked up with the garbage and recycling.
It's a calendar date that we really can't avoid, even if we don't know
the tradition or the liturgy. Life
occurs always within the earshot of the dying Christ.
And we can't
avoid Twelfth Night because it is, for better or for worse, a significant
chapter in our own stories, as important and wonderful and promising as the day
that tree went up in early December.
Just as surely, it must come down, and it has.
Sounds awful,
I know--but think of it this way: Easter
is 'a'comin. Think of it
this way: there's always Easter.
