Upon This Rock
It’s pretty much like clockwork at 3:30 a.m. around here. The Pomeranian growls in my ear, scratches my bald spot and tells me it’s time to move. I concede and go to my easy chair while the coffee pot gurgles.
Checking the headlines, I discover that the Pope has died; historical no matter how you choose to define the man and his office. I'm conflicted. Do I address the subject for an article this week or stay with the original intended piece? Theology is a minefield. Any step in the wrong direction could cause serious damage. I prefer to keep my limbs intact.
I did however give the thought its due diligence and began some research. During conversations from the past as well as the present with friends and acquaintances from a multitude of different denominations – mainstream and otherwise, I remain curious and will study more about each in the future.
Over the last several years through reading and browsing the web, the term ‘Christian apologist’ has troubled me for quite a while. I should have looked into the definition much sooner than I did, often wondering, "What exactly are we apologizing for?” A recent discussion with a good friend this past week ended the uneasiness.
"The term comes from the Greek work apologia," he tells me, "it's a formal defense of a belief or position. It’s got nothing to do with saying ‘I’m sorry.’” When I mentioned how I favor the quote by St. Augustine of Hippo, "The truth is like a lion, you don’t have to defend it, it will defend itself,” he agreed with Augustine's words and then added, "He's also the patron saint of brewers.” Good to know, I thought.
Forgive me, I’m rambling. I’ll pour another cup and put some Neosporin on my scalp before I continue.
There are greater, more complex definitions for Sunday church services, but for the simple laity such as myself it is: 1) To worship our Lord and Savior and 2) plead for the mercy and grace needed for the salvation of our souls.
My intentions during the Palm Sunday service was to give it my undivided attention and to better feel and understand the majesty of the Christ’s crucifixion and what it meant to me and for me. I thought I needed silence to focus on the Gospel, the music and the lessons from clergy. Jesus had a different methodology in mind. Earlier reflections during Lent and subsequently leading up to the Easter service were much the same, except of course we were glorifying His Resurrection.
What I originally thought I needed was incorrect – the quiet somber devote aura of His presence around me. Oh, it was there, but that’s something that’s inside our hearts, something personal on a level only we can attain if we ask for it and dig deep enough to allow it in.
The choir of angels began before the opening procession, and they continued throughout. The notes and chords and melodies came in every octave and decibel.
A hard plastic T-Rex toy bounced wildly down the pew like dice in a Vegas casino; the little boy laughs with joy repeating the roll again and again to the dismay of his father and the delight of other congregants.
The scream of a disgruntled little girl three rows back, unhappy with the scratchy pink headband strapped across her forehead by mom; cute in appearance, a metaphorical crown of thorns made of lace and elastic.
The hollow thud of some toddlers head bumping the wooden back rest, and the interval of time; one thousand one, one thousand two, before "WAHHH!" hits the airwaves.
Dozens scattered here, scattered there, they were everywhere, well positioned throughout; innocent fortresses of flesh and bone, squirming and wiggling, looking for higher ground, future soldiers for the cause.
This is the reason He suffered. Let ‘em sing. It’s beautiful. Nothing to apologize for.
