I-YOUniverse

Growing up Southern Baptist in El Paso, Texas, in the 1950s and -60s, my father converted from Catholicism, I was imbrued with dislike, suspicion, even hatred of all things Catholic. In seminary taking a class on the classics of Christian devotion, I discovered that the ancient churches of Rome and Byzantium held vast riches of devotion and spiritual formation next to which Baptists had few.

There was Pilgrim’s Progress, of course. Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners. That I didn’t find until grad school. Streams in the Desert, My Utmost for His Highest. Other than that, flat modern stuff from the denomination.

The Imitation of Christ, published by Moody Press, despite its publisher, was too medieval and sacramental for me. Now I can’t get enough of it.

Then, in seminary I took Classics of Christian Devotion with Glenn Hinson. Hinson has been hounded by fundamentalists as a heretic. May we have many, many more heretics. He wrote among many others a book called Seekers After A Mature Faith, which surveyed resources on spirituality. In the course I accepted the assignment of presenting Augustine’s Confessions.

The pastorate is not especially conducive to spiritual growth or depth. So now in exile, I’m playing catch up, reading, learning, praying.

Today, I think for the first time, I prayed the Stations of the Cross. I was perched on a stool in the kitchen, Celtic Daily Prayer, pp. 251-264, opened on the stove top, a cup of coffee in hand, beside a sink full of dishes to be washed.

I’m not much for devotion that lingers with masochistic delight over the torture Christ endured. I didn’t see Mel Gibson’s The Passion. That’s not based on the Gospels. An Aramaic original doesn’t exist. To create one is to claim more for the product than is merited, in my opinion.

As I read aloud the sections, I tried to slow down, let the reality sink in as much as possible. I broke up as I read:

Lord, you were stripped of the robes  You wore,
but You were the same—it didn’t change You.

I waited a moment until I could read more.

Crucifixion is so alien to us; we can’t fathom that kind of death. So celebrities pose in mockery. A chocolatier creates the crucifixion chocolate for Easter. We get our daughters fine gold crosses on gold chains.

I recall on my Emmaus Walk, they asked me to drive a nail into a cross. I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it. I was the last. Several men huddled around, explaining, encouraging. Finally, I caved to the social pressure. But I’ve always regretted that. For me.

The cross is unimaginable.

Think of the PTSD someone would experience who actually saw a human being nailed to a board, hanged, left to die a lingering death from exposure, suffocation.

What good does it do, to meditate on atrocity? What good does it do?

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