Jesus drives the money changers from the Temple.

Lent, that penitential season just before Easter Sunday, is a time to spring clean your soul. The purpose of giving something up or taking on some new discipline is to bring you closer to God.

In today’s Gospel reading (John 2:13-22), Jesus does something similar, his last act before he is arrested and executed. He purges the temple marketplace—that den of robbers—of the rampant commercialism, the price gouging, of those merchants exchanging the profane, unclean Roman currency for the only kind acceptable to spending in the temple precinct—the Jewish shekel. Jesus cried out for the entire practice to be abandoned.

The problem was that the money changers took advantage of people who had traveled a great distance with their ordinary money. The money changers had made money their god, instead of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The practice of changing one currency for another, while a necessary convenience because Israel was no longer an pastoral society, was a religiously-based capitalistic one in a sacred place, a mindset that Jesus decried repeatedly. While all things are possible with God, it was not easy—practically impossible, in fact—for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. The early Christians shared everything in common.

Jesus plans what might be construed as a violent act. He takes the time to weave a whip out of ropes (the Greek says rushes) to drive out the animals, probably flicking it over their heads to drive them out. He then overturns the tables where the corrupt business practices happened. He quotes relevant passages from Isaiah and Jeremiah. Note, the scripture doesn’t say he assaults anyone or commits violence against them. It’s a prophetic act. It’s meant to get his audience’s attention and convey a message. It foreshadows not only his death and resurrection, but his ascension.

Afterward, he and the Jewish authorities have a discussion. A pointless one, because they fail to understand him. His remarks about the temple refer to the death of his body and his resurrection. They think he’s referring to a brick-and-mortar structure, that took years to build: the temple Herod constructed. By the time the Gospel of John was written, the temple had had been destroyed by the Romans. Jesus’ prophecy, that he would die and rise again, had been fulfilled. The disciples’ belief had been confirmed and strengthened, enough so that they would die for it. If the temple symbolizes the location and presence of God, then Jesus is the literal presence of God. In Jesus, God is right in front of you, right here and right now.

What this passage means, something the disciples didn’t understand until much later, is that God promises that, if we pay attention and remember, our Lord and Scripture will be revealed as true and reliable, however mysterious and incomprehensible he seems. Things will come together to create an active and vibrant faith. The passage also reminds us that an expanding, deepening, maturing belief will come in a process of engaging, experiencing, and remembering. This is possible because God sent the prophets, whose words are Scripture, and Jesus, its fulfillment. This God continues to be among us as the Holy Spirit. The reliability is God's reliability, God's faithfulness.

What I'm doing now.

I am not a full-time writer.

I have a life, which involves things other than sitting at the keyboard for eight hours a day, most people's definition of doing something more than part-time.

I'm at roughly 50k words in my current project, a historical novel set during the Peloponnesian War. For non-history majors, that's ancient Greece, a generation or so after the events at Thermopylae, the setting of the movie 300. This war is an all-out one between the Athenian alliance and the Spartan one.

The protagonist is Owl, a rather strange name for a Theban, given that the "totem animal" of Athens is the owl. But that's what the Muse served up, so I have to go with it.

The idea for the story first happened when I was reading the massive series by Donald Kagan on the Peloponnesian War. I became inspired by reading of the exploits of Brasidas, a Spartan general who was most that most unSpartanly of traits: innovation. For more details, read my book, when it comes out, or better yet, read Thucydides' History.

The story starts with a "diplomatic mission" of three hundred armed Thebans to Plataea, which is midway between Thebes and Athens. Plataea was of strategic importance and the only Boeotian city not under Thebes' control. Following the massacre of most of the three hundred (city fighting is nasty) is a siege lasting two years, after which the men of fighting age are executed and the women are sold into slavery.

Then Owl goes to Sparta, where he enlists in Brasidas' forces. But first, Owl has to be knocked overboard during the invasion of Pylos. He serves Epitas, the commander of the forces at Sphacteria (south of Pylos). Sphacteria is well-known for a Spartan defeat, the first time they surrendered in living memory. The Spartans at Thermopylae, as everyone knows, died rather than do that.

Owl escapes that event and rejoins Brasidas' army, where they go to the Chalcidice, near Thrace. There they incite rebellion among cities subservient to Athens. Eventually, the Spartan general is killed in the battle of Amphipolis, a defeat for Athens.

Owl returns to Sparta, where he joins up with Agis, whom I slander unmercifully as a petulant child. How else to explain his sudden changes of course, militarily speaking?

At some point, at Decelea, within sight of Athens, Owl leaves Agis' company for Lysander's. He goes to Asia Minor and participates in various engagements there.

Eventually, some thirty years after the war began, Athens surrenders, having been starved into submission. Their Long Walls are pulled down to the music of flute girls.

I can see a few sequels, the details of which are fuzzy at the moment, involving Owl's children and grandchildren. Might even get into Alexander the Great.

Sing, O Holy Spirit!

Homer begins his Iliad by asking the Muse to sing of the wrath of Achilleus and its dreadful consequences for so many. - My discursive mind thinks of the opening word of Beowulf: hwæt (it has been variously translated as lo, listen, so (say what?), and (my own personal favorite) shut the fuck up!). Insert smileys to taste. - That goddess acted as memory aid, something I am much in need of. Winged words like (the Greek for) Zeus Who gathers the clouds, rosy-fingered dawn, and I forget the rest, and a numbered syllable line helped.

In some ways, I think of that third Person of the Trinity in similar ways. My acknowledged Arian upbringing remains with me, despite my best efforts to eradicate it. The JWs don't think of the Holy Spirit as a Person at all, let alone as part of a triune Godhead. In the opening lines of Genesis, ruach is translated as "active force": an impersonal emanation.

It's complex.

I sometimes think of being inspired by the Holy Spirit in the same way. Not that I expect to formally utter Epic Verse, although that would be nice. I get as far as Hwæt! We Gar-Dena / in yeardagum / sed gefrunon... and then run out of Anglo-Saxon (or is it Old English?). The cognoscenti will recognize yeardagum as misspelled.

But I do feel like I'm being nudged sometimes, like the "bright" ideas I get from time to time. It's always best to check with other people, because it could just be the crack-pot brain talking.

The nature of acedia

Like a frog slowly boiling in butter, acedia's victim sits, slowly churning in place. I ponder the metaphor, wondering if I've been too clever with phrasing, because I can't get past the imagery.

Acedia means, at root, lack of care. (The a-prefix means "not" , in Greek.) It explains to my satisfaction why depressed people "forget" to bathe. It's not that it takes too much energy (it does, sometimes), but that it is too hard to muster up the energy to care. Sometimes the kindest thing to do is to stand upwind.

I am trying, with only moderate success, to describe the experience of acedia. It is often translated "listlessness", but the restlessness happens first. You run in place, going nowhere, until you are exhausted. What does it matter? Entropy wins in the end, despite all this talk of resurrection, like a day forever a-dawning in the future. Right now, it is rainy, dismal night and anything else seems, at best, unrealistic and at worst, cruel.

Forever a day late, the dollar crumbles and public confidence erodes. What does it all mean? You see the difficulty I am in? You do? I can't see anything because my eyes are closed because of the futility of it all.

The visitor from Porlock has arrived at my door and I'm not sure where I was going, other than a Joycian discourse.

Indifferently attached

There are two things I've taken away from my experience with Ignatian spirituality: the concepts of indifference and the concept of disordered affections/attachments.

Indifference is quite similar to the classical pagan Stoic saying (Seneca?): I'd be equally happy on the rack. Ignatius says that one should be equally content to be rich or poor. Despite the alleged problem with the rich man (or woman) having difficulty with the needle's eye, I think it is better to have money. Now if I can only avoid pissing it away. If only I had made different choices with the money I have. Similar thoughts occur when you are balancing to the penny.

That leads to the next concept - disordered affections. I am unduly attached to, addicted to - not only to the substance but the thought of - the little pleasures that add up. Just one more snack: I could stand to lose a few. Actually, as I exercise my self-denial muscles, it does get easier, until I slip again. Perhaps it's a calculus (cute concept) of gradual debt-reduction.

I empathize with John Climachus (I am A, but then I am not A: oh what am I going to do with myself). St Paul said something similar. Maybe that's where grace comes in.

Post-retreat

I sit on the couch, drinking my first cup of press pot coffee, struggling against acedia. I realize that I've been absent, but my experiences do not lend themselves to easy description, which probably says more about my ability to talk about my inner life than it does about the experiences.

The two key elements of Ignatian spirituality are the daily examination of your actions (the Examen) and imaginative prayer (projecting yourself into the story). I got fairly adept at spending my time this way. Whether I was doing it correctly or just goofing off is a good question. I did my best to be real. Those of you who receive my Facebook rambling feed probably know how silly I often appear. This is a mask I wear, I realize now. Like many, I struggle with depression. Another day older; one day closer to death. Life appears pointless, the goal to accumulate things and fret about not having enough. Are we just trying to distract ourselves from the awful truth, from life's finite. My way to distract myself is to take pictures and be clever in online fora.

I thought this just a phase experienced during Holy Week, but it's something I seem to return to. Is there more to life than distracting ourselves with people and activities?

This spiritual discomfort is what I need resurrection from.

In chains

(The post title refers a boat having lost the wind and now sits idle in the water.)

I've failed my saving throw; I've gone adrift, I am forced to admit.

Those familiar with Dungeons & Dragons will recognize this as the statistical probability that a magical attack (in this case Sloth) will succeed. For the past three weeks or so, I've not written a thing in my spiritual journal. I've kept up with the readings, but only just. I've prayed, but haven't written about my experience.

The essence of the Ignatian method is colloquy--writing while praying. You are not supposed to use any other method, like mindfulness knitting, which I've been doing obsessively, therapeutically, for a couple of weeks.

My first girlfriend had a thing for balance--I've lost it. I have been more sociable with my family and have been more focused, when not knitting. This knitting is not an entire new thing; I learned when I was a teenager, at my mother's knee. Thus the practice of knitting is both soothing because it is a tactile experience, the occasional pressure of the needle points and the feel of the yarn, and because it is something positive to remember of my mother. It is something to remember. My memory plays me false. I fail to cue. It is not that I don't remember things, although that is the appearance. Once I am cued--whether by myself or others--I remember that I remember. That is the problem with my mother. She has dementia. My grandmother had it. Every time I forget something, I fear it.

The break in spiritual journalling started when I had a meltdown and was emotionally and physically exhausted for several days. Meltdown=psychiatric drama. Enough said. I've used enough energy having the (I hope) occasional temper fit.

Then we had bad weather and I was tired from having to prepare: wood on the deck (I am not the acme of fitness) and new shingles on the roof.

I lost the initiative, to use another phrase from D&D. That's my excuse.

Now the whole world knows.