I was talking with a clergyman recently about the meaning of communion (the Eucharist) in various Christian sects. There are a number of different views, including:
There are probably other views with differing degrees of subtlety that fall somewhere between these perspectives. As a practicing Christian on the fringe of the organized church, I acknowledge these points of view, and would never participate in this ancient but meaningful ritual without respect and devotion.
But for those who see the Divine most perfectly expressed in nature, the natural world itself is one big communion wafer. To enter the woods, is to enter the Holy of Holies, created by God, not Man. The light that streams from above through whispering trees is pure and unfiltered, unlike the muted light that glows through stained glass windows. The water of streams and rivulets sparkles more brilliantly than any monstrance crafted of gold and gems. The songs of birds and the soft cooing of forest creatures eclipse the calculated melodies of organ and choir.
The air itself is charged with divinity; as Thalo of Miletus, the preSocratic philosopher, taught, “All beings are full of gods.” Taking in this air, this sight, these sounds and scents, we ourselves are transformed into a divine body, a holy blood. This is not pantheism, but the recognition that Spirit is immanent. We have only to uncover our eyes, open our ears, unbind our hearts and step out from the box of preconceptions and rigid opinions into the merciful freedom of truth.
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“I can’t for the life of me imagine that God will say, ‘I will punish you because you are black, you should have been white; I will punish you because you are a woman, you should have been a man; I will punish you because you are homosexual, you ought to have been heterosexual.’ I can’t for the life of me believe that is how God sees things.”
—Desmond Tutu from the film, For the Bible Tells Me So
]]>Rarely are these motivations transparent and free of the complexity of intention. To translate is to have power over communication. To translate scripture is to have power over the deepest moral and spiritual understanding of people and institutions.
A number of subtexts underlie the translation of religious literature.
If the translation is by a political or religiously motivated organization, the motive may be "how can we best transmit what we want people to believe and do in this translation."
If it's a single scholar, he or she may want to present a text that is unflinchingly true to the original.
Or a literary individual may want to emphasize the poetic qualities of the text, the spirit of the text rather than the literal details.
A person or organization with a social agenda may want to undo some of the perceived harm that religions have done by seeming to endorse, say, slavery, prejudice against homosexuality, or sexism. This would drive their translation.
There are also heritage reasons for preferring a certain translation. I associate the incomparable cadences of the King James Version with my own childhood and earliest feelings of spirituality. While the text can be misleading and is sometimes incorrect, nothing touches my heart like this translation of the Christian Bible.
I think there is room for all these approaches, as long as we clearly know which is which. Together, in amalgam, they provide a context for reading and thinking about scriptures. But certainly, we must be aware of and know the factual, literal basis of works so variously translated. Otherwise, we wind up like the apocryphal country preacher who lamented all the new translations of the Bible appearing on the market by crying, “Why can’t they just leave it in the King James English the way Jesus talked it!”
Winter
When Winter comes, nests appear in trees,
Old elms bare their arms like young girls in spring,
Fresh rivers flow through forests filled with melting snow,
Blue herons, feathers tucked, take wing.
We shiver, never more alive;
Warmth is a distant dream
While icicles burst on snow-piled eaves,
And small fish hush beneath a frosty stream.
--Linda Brown Holt
]]>If only this consciousness would trickle down into daily life! I was sitting in Panera today about to dig into a handsome salad when a 30-something couple sat down beside me. I didn't have to look up to sense a whirlwind of rage, as though the Tasmanian Devil of cartoon fame had just spun into the seat.
This guy had, as my New Age friends would say, a really bad aura. He had barely landed when he launched into a loud tirade against his HR department's training program with a passion usually reserved for issues like gay marriage or the President's health care plan. It didn't sound like a serious problem to me, but when I looked up, I could see the veins standing out on his forehead and arms, and he was so tense he seemed to be levitating above the chair.
His hapless colleague, who appeared to be pregnant, nodded silently as Tasman (as we'll call him) continued to spew invective and grab the sides of the table as though about to throttle the HR director. Of course, every other word was an impolite synonym for excrement, though he did lower his voice slightly on repeated uses of the F word. (When did s—t become a synonym for stuff, or things? Why can't we say, “I'm not gonna take this stuff any more!” or “That's nonsense!”)
After a couple of minutes I could feel my stomach tightening into a knot, so I grabbed my piece of baguette and slipped away unobtrusively. Was it the offensive language or the anger that drove me away and doomed Tasman's co-worker to silence?
I thought about cultures where the breaking of bread is bless'd, where one says a prayer before eating, and of religions where eating or not eating is part of spiritual practice, as in the Lord's Supper, Passover, Ramadan. I thought of peace-loving secular humanists and atheists as well who dine with respect for food, each other, and the power of language.
Food transforms us, words and relationships transform us. They are intertwined. Right speech isn't a coercive “Thou shalt not.” It is an opportunity to be our best and give our best to others. Such a simple spiritual and civil practice that all can safely follow. For like sticks and stones, words can truly hurt us.
]]>http://www.cnn.com/2009/OPINION/11/09/iftikhar.fort.hood/index.html
]]>A thousand birds in that.
Why won’t she join the others in
Pre-migratory chat?
The thousand speak, but Nature
Around them lies unseen,
While Life reveals her secrets to
The Solitary Queen.
--Linda Brown Holt
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What's not to like about the Fall?
Walking through the crunchy woods,
Flaming leaves—scarlet, gold--
Underfoot in slippery soggy pads.
Avoid the sweet gum spikes
And chestnut burrs;
Grey squirrels wisely stick
To acorns round and smooth,
Sharp teeth firm on
The gleaming shell
As they ripple through the rustling trees
Into the Fall-dark dell.
Winter's not so near: all's alive,
There's last-chance harvest
Fever in the air.
Goldenrod and snakeroot pollen
Tickle the throat, and
Even deer, fat with winter's threat,
Sneeze and whistle
When we met.
And such a soughing
In the heavy maples' beat:
A wild declivity of falling leaves,
Confetti, at our feet.
We raise arms, leap
Onto parkbench seat,
And scramble back
Into a hidden cove
To catch the echo of
A flock of geese.
Frozen in time and
Fixed on the pond,
Before great splashing in
The lake beyond.
A dozen species—bird, geese,
Ducks—rock with noisy
Eagerness, then flutter in a rush
Of spray and sand,
Hurled to the deep blue sky
By the Lake Spirit's
Open hand.
I wrap a wool scarf tight
Around my neck,
And hurry home,
By the scent of
Hot apple cider and wafers met.
In the fireplace, the Fall's
First embers catch among the sparks
Of smoldering coal.
It's almost Halloween:
You can feel the magic
Thumping in your soul.
--Linda Brown Holt
Copyright 2009
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