So I am back from Ensenada and have been for a couple of weeks. I regret not writing during this time, but I have been very busy, especially in regards to recovering from the trip, conducting interviews for next year’s intern at First Pres (my replacement), Holy Week preparation and the events this week (we have 12 services!!!), and interviews and applications for finding a ministry position for myself after First Pres. I will give updates on some of this in the coming days, but for now, all I offer is one of my favorite poems for Holy Week. This is to be a reflection on Good Friday… It is Four Quartets, 2. East Coker, IV, by T.S. Eliot:
The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
Have a blessed Easter weekend.
In Christ Jesus our Lord and Savior,