Restoration

"The postmodern context forces a kind
of continual fragmentation and spinning out from a center. It is indeed
a decentering experience. In this context, restoration, or the
exercise of baptismal and chrismal sacramentality, demands not so much a
removal from the fallen and decentered world, but an attentiveness to
the larger picture, the wider context, the metanarrative that holds all
the disparate parts together."

--Richard Valantasis, from "Centuries of Holiness: Ancient Spirituality Refracted for a Postmodern Age"

One
of the funny sidelights of owning a chiminea (and Facebooking about
making fires in it on a frequent basis) is that I have kind of become
the "Parish incinerator for holy objects." Things like slightly
"off-smelling" chrism, leftover blessed palm fronds, or worn out
corporals or altar linens seem to find their way into my chiminea to be
burned. I think part of it is folks in my parish know I love to burn
stuff, and they also know my fire-sitting spot is, at least to me, a
holy space. I have often used liturgies from the Book of Occasional
Services when burning these objects. They are holy objects that deserve
holy space and holy treatment of their being taken out of service.
They are items that served their purpose and their season of use is
over.

But I have come to realize I don't see this activity as
"destroying" these things, but rather, restoring them. Somehow, in my
mind, as they are reduced to ashes, they become unleashed prayers,
unspoken hopes now set free, and doors opened to new possibilities as we
close the doors on the old ones. They are restored to the sum total of
their spiritual glory by releasing them from their physical disrepair.

Recently,
I have been in a position to consider some other "old worn out holy
objects"--some of the traits that brought me to a place of relative
security and comfort in my world. After all, it is Lent. It's a time
to assess what within me is still "in season" and what is now "out of
season." What's viable, what's dead, what's worn and repairable, and
what's worn and probably not worth repairing.

Over the years, I
developed many traits that were, frankly, necessary for survival. There
were times in my life these traits literally kept me alive, or kept me
from going crazy. But since there's no such thing as a free lunch,
those things also created spiritual blind spots in me. They cultivated
"resigned hopelessness" to things I simply considered "my fate." They
stopped me from drawing close to others, or letting them close to me.
They were once a holy thing, and now they are past their season. It's
time to retire them in holiness, and allow them to be transformed into
other things.

Oh, don't get me wrong--I know there are basic
aspects of my personality that will never change--nor, probably, should
they. I think some of those things, I was just born with them, and
there they are. As we say around here, "leopards don't change their
spots." But that doesn't mean there aren't vast and infinite ways we
can be transformed wearing the same spots. That doesn't mean we can't
be restored. But what it does mean is we're not allowed to pick the
forms of restoration.

An old altar corporal, once thrown in my
chiminea, will never be an altar corporal again. But it can be
transformed into ash that can be put anywhere that a living, growing
thing needs a bit of a pH change--a patch of perennials near my house,
my asparagus bed, or the base of one of my trees. For that matter, even
dumping it in the yard and letting the wind take it where it may is
perfectly fine. There are no guarantees, but something already starting
to grow is liable to benefit from this transformation, and although the
odds are unpredictable, there is still a great deal of hope that something will be restored as a result of it. I just can't force or predict the "what" in it.

It's possible that corporal no longer needs
to be a corporal. After all, someone bought replacements. It's free
to be part of an infinite number of things once it becomes ash. It can
travel several states away. I remember when Mount St. Helens blew in
1977. A few days later, the cars in our driveway in Missouri were
covered with volcanic ash. I remember being in awe of "how far it had
come."

When I think about each of the people in my world, myself
included, I often marvel at how far each of us has come in some journey.
Being able to share those stories and observations takes the fear away
for me about the realization that things within me are being torn down
and unpredictable new things are being built up. Sometimes I grieve too
much over the things coming apart and sometimes not enough, but when I
can feel the growth, it feels powerful and so much bigger than me, than
just "me." In that, I can understand better the true meaning of
"restoration"--not just for my own restoration but for the idea that all
of us are being restored--even people I don't "get" or people I don't
particularly like or understand. I'm learning that everything in the
whole world doesn't require me to get into a fight to "make it happen"
and everything that seems unattainable doesn't require beating it to
shreds with a fire axe to create a hole in which I can slip through. I
can let things burn and trust to the power of the ashes to create
growth. I can let things stand and look for open doors and windows. I
can keep walking and see new and better realities that I would have
missed, had I become fixated on something seemingly unattainable.

But what's exiting is that all doesn't happen alone, and it's happening to others at the same time it is happening to me. That's restoration.

Originally posted at Kirkepiscatoid.