How does one measure a life?  Perhaps you've heard of the female emergency room physician in New York who, according to those who knew her, apparently felt so overwhelmed by the magnitude of the Covid-19 cases she was treating that she took her own life.  Her despair pushed her beyond her breaking point.  By all accounts, she was a lovely, energetic, committed, and deeply religious person who was passionate about her work on behalf of others.

Although for the spiritually minded among us, it is easy to say that this person now has her reward:  eternal, visible union with God.  While I do not dispute the truth of this eventuality, I nonetheless grapple with its starkness:  she is now forever gone from this planet.  And her loved ones mourn.
     I do not pretend to know the fullness of this woman's heart or the depth of God's activity in this world.  Yet I can say that, all things considered, I'm thankful that, because of the fact of a meaningful world, because of the fact of a world with intention and design, her life had a genuine point.
     As does the life of everyone else around the globe.  In this, we can be grateful, and in this we can move toward finding solace in all of our existential pain.

     Cloistering.  We hear this word much these days.  For many, it has a become a term of pain, a pain of not being able to work or go outside.  For others, it has become a way of slowing down and finding new ways of spending one's time.  For still others, it has become a road to starvation.
     Although the lessons drawn from cloistering are many and, depending on one's starting point and material circumstances, starkly dark, light, and conditional, they remain relevant.  In some cases, cloistering births generosity; in others, selfishness.
     Yet the essential point remains.  Though we humans are made to interact with each other, to be moral and social beings, we all equally made to be, at certain points, alone.  There is a reason why the great religious sages spent time in solitude.
    As we move forward together, and as, at least in the Northern Hemisphere, spring continues  to "spring," we find solace in our humanity, that though we grow in solitude, we find who we are in community.
     For this we are grateful, very grateful for the fact of personality, a implicitly transcendent personality, at the core of the universe.

     No doubt you're familiar with Leonardo da Vinci's painting "Mona Lisa."  It is, as you may know, perhaps the most famous piece of art in the world.  Thousands flock to the France's Louvre Museum each year to see it, and thousands more study and marvel over it in books and journals.  Although for some, the portrait of the wife of a nobleman of the Renaissance may seem decidedly ordinary and, though in a way it is, it is rather da Vinci's use of a host of innovative artistic techniques that have made it so famous.

     While I will not delve into these techniques too deeply here, I will note one or two.  These include da Vinci's decision to paint not on the basis of an outline, like a color by number coloring book, but rather to use light and shadow to delineate objects and set them apart.  The result is less a construct and more a tapestry, a river of color flowing together.  Also, in rendering the noblewoman's smile, the smile which has captivated millions around the globe, da Vinci made it simultaneously overt and vanishing, leaving the viewer struck with wonder and intrigue.  It seems as if there might be more to the picture, to the scene, but we're puzzled as to what it might be.  There's presentment, but there is mystery.
     And that's the point:  we may well affirm, as did the people of the Renaissance, the fact of God.  Yet we also do well to understand that, all things considered, who God most is is beyond our ken.  We live aware of God's love and presence, yet we also live aware of the immense befuddlement we encounter when we try to understand them fully.
     Thanks, da Vinci, for your artistic insights.  A belated, by about a week, happy birthday.

     Ramadan, one of the greatest events in the Muslim calendar, begins tonight.  Thirty days of fasting, culminating in the feast of Eid al Fitr, Ramadan is a time for every Muslim to take time to celebrate and reflect on his or her relationship with Allah and the world.  It's a season of hope, wonder, mourning, and contemplation, a slice of the year in which Muslims, like most people of faith, focus more intensely on why they live as they do.

     You may not agree with the tenets of Islam; you may not like the beliefs most Muslims hold; you may be uncomfortable with Islam in general; you may even be frightened of Islam.  Nonetheless, use the fact of Ramadan to remind yourself that we live this life as a gift, that we spend our days in the aegis of a God of sovereign love, a God who has sacrificed, immensely, for us, a God who longs for communion with his human creation.  We live in the umbra of a beautiful (and often exasperating) wave of experience, balancing what we see and what we cannot.  Ramadan tells us that we are not alone. It says to us that we live in a vision, an intensely personal vision in which all things find purpose and meaning, the full truth of what is.
     There's much more to believe.

     Today is Earth Day.  Established in 1970, Earth Day is a day on which we think anew about the wonder and fragility of the tiny globe on which we spin through this vast, vast cosmos. Earth Day is a call to attend to the ecological balance of the world.
    Many, however, deride Earth Day.  The reasons for their rejection are religious, political, and economic.  They draw from all corners of the human spectrum.


     Underlying all them, however, is human arrogance.  People who dissent from Earth Day do so ultimately because whether they know it or not, they are assuming that they, and only they are the most important thing on the planet.  They assume that nothing is more important than the human's "right" and capacity to fulfill his or her own needs above, in absolute fashion, all else.  Our desires reign supreme.
     Perhaps Earth Day opponents should learn from the Greek mythological character Narcissus. So obsessed was Narcissus with his own image that when he noticed himself reflected in a stream, he bent down to look.  Enraptured, he continued to look, getting closer and closer until he put his head in the water and drowned.
     We are living in a world which we in no way made and in which we will in no way control fully.  We are only human.  If we think otherwise, the world will drown us, metaphorically for sure, in actuality perhaps, in the effects of our ecological follies.  We will lose everything God has given to us.
     As the psalmist writes, "The earth is the Lord's and all in it" (Psalm 24:1).  Let's use our gift responsibly.

     A couple of weeks ago, the art world observed the birthday of the artist Domenikos Theotokopoulos, otherwise known as El Greco ("the Greek").  El Greco painted in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, standing on the edge of the early modern and modern world.  HIs paintings reflect this liminality.  They feature curiously shaped people, fantastical imagery, and unusual colors, blending, it seems, Eastern and Western religion and artistic styles, styles that would emerge in other forms in later centuries, among them the Cubism of Pablo Picasso.

     Many years ago, I took in an exhibit of El Greco at the Art Institute in Chicago.  I found it fascinating.  Quite apart from the religious imagery which I, of course, appreciated, I saw inklings of an immensely innovative and creative spirit, a spirit that, in the best traditions of modern art, spoke of transcendence in material terms.  The paintings I saw expressed a powerful awareness of the supernatural, transforming earthly sensibilities into metaphysical longing, even while they contained enough intimations of the chimerical present to keep us thinking.
     As it should:  we tread daily on the cusp of what we cannot see, but that which we sense, in a variety of ways, must be there. 

     Who comes first?  As Covid-19 continues its relentless march across the planet, I note with alarm that, from what I can see, it is becoming increasingly apparent that once those in the affluent West obtain what they need to counteract and deal with this virus, they will, almost immediately, close their hearts to everyone else.  More darkly, they will also close their hearts to those who are still living among them, the marginalized, the poor, the forgotten.
     Are we "first"?  Is America "first"?

     Hardly.  We of the West, particularly those most resourced, are just one more wave of materially blessed yet frequently spiritually impoverished (even if we insist that we believe in a God of love) expression of humanity.  It is an expression that has appeared countless times in world history, and it is an expression that will manifest itself countless more times in centuries to come.  We are so decidedly "unspecial," so frightfully temporal and evanescent.  Our relative wealth ultimately means nothing.
     Let us not be the rich fool of whom Jesus talks, the person who made so much money that he boasted of needing new places, new banks in which to keep it.  Not once did he think about giving it to help others.  He died that very night (see Luke 12).  Be whom God wants you to be:  a person who lives for others.  And see what happens.

     Is the resurrection, as some of my atheist friends have told me, parochial?  Is it really so small and insignificant that it affects only a very small corner of an infinitely large universe?  Is one itinerant Jewish preacher's return from death really that important?
     The resurrection is only important if it actually happened.  And the resurrection could only have happened if this vast universe is the creation, in some way, of a personal being.  Only personal beings experience life and death.  If we look at the universe as the product of impersonal forces, well, we will indeed consider the resurrection to be irrelevant.  Why would life be expected to continue after it is over?  Deciding that the universe is the result of personal intelligence and creativity, however, changes the equation, profoundly.  A necessarily eternal creator inserts a potential into the fabric of the cosmos that would not be there otherwise, the potential to experience, somehow, some way, eternity.

     In this light, the resurrection becomes anything but parochial.  Indeed, it comprises the sum of existence.  The resurrection means that life is more than itself, that life as we know and love it is not all there is to experience.  There is more to life than meets the eye.  Or the ear.  Or the heart.  The resurrection means that this present is only the beginning of a far greater present still, a present that will never end.
    There is life again.

     If you have read any of the biblical narratives about the trial and death of Jesus, you are likely familiar with the pericope (story) of the thief on the cross.  As Luke tells it, both of the two men crucified with Jesus were hurling insults at him.  After a time, however, one of them comes to see things differently.
     "This man," he tells the other thief, "has done nothing wrong.  He is suffering unjustly.  But we are not.  We deserve our punishment."
     Turning to Jesus, this thief then says, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
     "Today," Jesus replies, "you shall be with me in Paradise."
     


     It's a glorious promise.  The thief's present pain, body as well as soul, will this day, this very day, be totally vanquished.  He can look forward to a profoundly marvelous future.
     Though the thief's destination is central to this passage, I want to think more about his faith.  He knew about Jesus, he knew about Jesus' deeds.  He knew that Jesus had told his audiences that he was bringing a kingdom to earth.  It was not until the thief hung on the cross, however, that he came to realize, fully, the nature of this kingdom.  He saw that Jesus' promised kingdom is not one of material gain, but one of spirit and soul.  He knew that he would therefore need to trust in what he could not see in order to grasp what he knew he most needed:  forgiveness and new life.  He knew he needed internal change.
     And that, as we today remember Good Friday, is the point.  We remember the darkness, we ponder the pain.  And we trust.  We trust that in the suffering we cannot fathom is the message to our hearts, that, tangled as they are in the vexations of humanness and sin, we need more than ourselves to be eternally whole.

     Today is Maundy Thursday.  As we enter into the final days of Lent, the climatic days of Holy Week, we think about service.  Throughot his earthly life, Jesus told people that he had come as a servant.  He had not come to judge, he had not come to condemn; he had come to serve.  Jesus had come to serve his creation.  At the Last Supper (the event which Maundy Thursday commemorates), Jesus made clear that he was readying himself to give himself, to give his body, heart, and soul for the good of those whom he had made.  Even as the final hours of his life loomed, Jesus emphasized that he had come to serve.  His welfare was the last thing on his mind.

     Whether we believe in Jesus or not, we can learn from his example.  The world hardly needs more arrogant leaders.  The planet will do just fine without its rulers constantly striving to dominate one another.  When we, literally or metaphorically, wash one another's feet, as Jesus did at the Last Supper, we affirm the value of our fellow human beings.  We tell our fellow travelers that we regard them as more important than ourselves.  We state to the world that working to sustain everyone is greater than working to sustain oneself only.
     We let go of what we want for the good of others.
     Consider what you have, ponder what you have been given.  And sacrifice.  Give up your wonder, let go of your grace in order to create more of them for your neighbor. Make him/her more important than you.
     And see how you--and the world--changes.

     This year, due to the rhythms of the Jewish calendar, Passover and Easter occur only a few days apart from each other.  As you may know, Passover remembers and commemorates how many centuries past God liberated the Hebrews from a four hundred year captivity in Egypt, delivering them, eventually, into the promised land.  It begins at sundown tonight. Around the world, millions of Jewish families will be gathering for the seder, the meal whose various components point to the elements of captivity and liberation.  The structure of the seder has not changed since Moses instituted it over three millennia ago.  Passover is central to the Jewish tradition.
     When Moses laid out the instructions for Passover, he specified that it begin with the sacrifice of a lamb, a lamb whose blood would be spread on the doorposts of every Hebrew home in Egypt.  When God subsequently executed his final judgment on Egypt and its enslavement of the Hebrews, he would "pass over" the homes on which a lamb's blood had been placed.
     Enter Easter.  Christianity makes Jesus the ultimate Passover lamb.  It sets Jesus and his sacrifice of himself at the center of its understanding of God's ways with humanity.  It takes what was once a tradition of one tribe and extends its effects to all of humankind.  In effect, Christianity "universalizes" Passover.

      Remember our Jewish brethren tonight.  Remember their remembering of God's love for them.  And in a few days hence, remember Jesus, the Jew whose love for the world compelled him to die, and rise, for the liberation of all peoples.
     Remember the glory, the weight of glory, the glory of life, the glory of memory:  the glory of the love of God.

     Living in the American Midwest, I am only now beginning to see the first signs of Spring.  A flower here, a flower there, a few buds on the trees, birds, robins and sparrows in particular, emerging.  And the sun, rising ever farther in the northern horizon, proclaiming the new day.  It's all very glorious, glorious, indeed.
     Beyond the reverie, as we all know, suffering reigns.  And it's not just the pandemic.  Even amidst the deaths it is unleashing, every moment, people are, quite apart from the virus's effects, sadly, dying, taking their last breaths, leaving the world forever.
     Yet every moment, people are being born, too:  life continues.  And this we have hope.
     A few days ago, many people remembered the anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., in Memphis, Tennessee, in 1968.  It's a tragedy supernally difficult to undo.  To remember it, however, is to hope.  And to believe.  To believe in the human species, the fundamental point of the human being:  what wonder we are!  For justice we long, with love we long for it.
     And for this we are grateful there is a God.

     It's Holy Week.  Holy Week is about suffering, helplessness, and pain.  It's also about joy, pure and holy joy.  Holy Week takes us into the deepest of darknesses, yes, but it also  takes us into the most profound of all light.
     As our planet continues to reel from Covid-19, pain and disaster seem, more than ever, integral, inextricably integral to our lives.  Holy Week tells us that, yes, suffering is a part, an essential and unavoidable part of human existence.  Yet it also tells us that this is only the beginning of the story.  There's much more to the narrative, much more to the tale.
     Holy Week tells us that the end of the story is that on which we must focus most.  Indeed, pain is part and parcel of our lives.  But only part.  In Jesus' suffering, we see ourselves.  And he us.  But it is in Jesus' resurrection that we ought to see ourselves even more.  It is in that pivotal moment, that epochal moment in which God conquered death that we must look.  For it is in it that we see our future.
     For some, Holy Week is silly and parochial, a foolish invocation of presences and forces that do not exist.  Perhaps.  More broadly speaking, however, definitely not.  Consider the 

Modern Museum of Art's description of this painting:  "The Disaster Paintings eternalize the real-life modern events we are faced with daily in contemporary society yet quickly forget when the next catastrophe occurs."
     We crave security; we crave control.  We weep when we see our fellow humans in pain. We weep over the suffering, we weep over the events that led to it.  We weep over our fallen world.
     Yet in Holy Week we see that death is but the prelude to life.  It's not the end.  God is here, God is there.  Jesus' death presents a God who is bigger than disaster, a God who is bigger than the very darkest of pain.  Jesus died, yes, the Messiah slain, but God lives.  And Jesus rose.
     And God is God.  Though disaster fills this world, God's power fills it even more.

     Of course today is April 1:  April Fools Day.  It's also the the birthday of one of the greatest of the Romantic pianists:  Sergei Rachmaninoff.  Born in Russia, eventually emigrating to America and, shortly before his death in 1943, becoming an American citizen, Rachmaninoff (my wife's favorite musician) composed some of the richest music ever written for the piano. His work blends intense and mournful melody with powerful and intricate chords and keyboard movements, beautifully capturing the deepest spirit of the Romantics.  Rachmaninoff's musician gives us a window, a poignant window into our perennial struggle with the vast and unyielding import of sentient existence.  It shows us that however intellectual we may suppose ourselves to be, we are, in the end, creatures of heart and imagination.  We live as sensual beings.
     Rachmaninoff helps us realize that although reason is an essential part of who we are, we make our biggest decisions with our heart.  To put this in theological terms, although we may believe, as a matter of intellectual assent, that Jesus died and rose again (or any other religious tenet), we can only trust its truth for our lives with our heart.  Trust is the wellspring of rational belief.
     As much of Rachmaninoff's music tells us, though we live for the moment, we flourish in the eternal, however we conceive it to be.  We trust our spiritual visions with our heart.