What he said

WARNING: Anglican dorks only. All others, proceed at your peril.

The [insufficiency of the] Quadrilateral (as in, the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral, circa 1870).

This is a similar argument to my previous post, in a much more intellectual, historical way, by a much more studied, lettered, and established priest than moi (Warden of Trinity College, the University of Melbourne, a Canon of St Paul's Cathedral, Melbourne, author of numerous articles).

Thanks, Adam!

What is Anglicanism?

WARNING: This is a Anglican dork post... if this sort of thing bores you, please do not read on.

So, I was putting together a post for my church's website about the new movie, "Prince Caspian." I wrote something like, "this is a movie that comes out of our Anglican heritage." And I wanted to post a link to a site that might say a little more about that. Instead, I found a lot of really boring sites about Anglicanism. Like:

on The Episcopal Church website: What Makes Us Anglican?
(yawn.)

Wikipedia: Anglicanism
(booooring)

Church of England: What it means to be an Anglican
(all Christian jargon)

on The Anglican Communion website: Anglican Communion Information Service
(and you may think, in trying to prove a point, that I've selected the most boring page on the AC website... but THE WHOLE SITE IS LIKE THIS! It's: the Instruments of Communion, the Provinces, the Creeds, the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral, the Berkeley Statement, a dozen news services, blah blah blah)

I'm longing for something more than creeds, theological catechism, or dogmatic statements. I'm looking for something that might actually drawn someone in... that might make them fall in love with Anglicanism, the way I did. (Nice essay about such a falling in love here.)

Those are not unimportant -- but when I think of Anglicanism, I think of something Brian McLaren, the author of A Generous Orthodoxy, said about Anglicanism: that it is the expression of Christianity that celebrates the "beauty of God."

Where's the beauty, folks???

--Our church is centered around a book of beautiful, poetic prayers.

--Our church emerged in Tudor England, where the Benedictine monastery had been a center for spirituality, education, and community. Also from monastic life, we inherited an emphasis on the cycles of the day (morning prayer, noonday prayer, evening prayer) and the year (Advent, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost), still central to our worship life.

--We have more prominent poets (Donne, Herbert, Eliot), mystics (Julian of Norwich, Nicholas Ferrar), and fantasy writers (C.S. Lewis) than theologians. And even the theologians (Thomas Cranmer, Richard Hooker, Lancelot Andrewes, Jeremy Taylor, Joseph Butler) were more liturgists, preachers, and ethicists, than theologians per se. And all their books and essays were quite short!

--We're a church centered around the mystery of the bread and wine -- every Sunday, we lift up those things and share them together. We celebrate them as precious and sacred, ordinary things that become holy, extraordinary, and transcendent.

-- The student whose article I linked to above, about falling in love with Anglicanism describes feeling "[an] inclination towards an intuitive truth that is believed and understood rather than 'known' and towards a greater appreciation for uncertainty and grayness -- which is, of course, a defining characteristic of Anglicanism as a whole." (Although I don't want to say this isn't true of other mainline denominations, but I think it's more characteristic of Anglican theology historically than it is of say, Calvin, Luther, or Aquinas, for instance.)

And so, a movie like "Prince Caspian," that explains theology and the Christian life through a story -- a fantasy! -- set in a beautiful land, with fanciful creatures, with a theme of faith and perseverance, and WITHOUT a dogmatic message so thick you could choke on it, is essentially Anglican.

Hopefully, the movie won't be a dud.

Heidi in the news

Here's the link to the (front page!) story about yours truly. I'm flattered by it. Not everything is totally accurate (we have a Giving Sunday once a month to receive food for a local food pantry, but I'm not actually personally responsible for it), but for the most part, it's right on target!

http://www.suburbanchicagonews.com/bolingbrooksun/news/900791,6_1_NA18_PASTOR_S1.article"

(And that's Peg, one of my faithful blog readers, holding the gospel book in the photo! Go Peg!)

Front page news?

Gosh, I made the front page of the local paper -- the Bolingbrook Sun. I was interviewed and photographed back in December... and I thought they'd forgotten about me. Now suddenly, I'm a headline. (Must've been a slow newsweek?)

I can't find a weblink, or I'd post it. I actually haven't even seen the article yet, just heard about it from a parishioner and our church secretary. I haven't been in the paper since I was Jesus in the Passion Play at my church in 6th grade.

But I'm excited to share the mission of the Church of St. Benedict with the community!

A haircut and a wedding mag

I got my hair cut yesterday... picture forthcoming! I went to one of those cheap chain places, and had a fun and chatty woman tell me about putting off school so she can raise her little girls, and all trials and drama she's had with her own hair.

I read a wedding magazine while I was there, which always is delightfully shocking: the opulence, the obsession with details (a whole wedding done in 1940s South Florida colors and themes!), the fairy-tale princess-ness of it all. But then I always start to get a stomachache. I don't understand how this is a foundation for a marriage. What does it mean that your wedding theme is 1940s South Florida? What does that have to do with marriage?

Morning coffee and color

Ok, so I'm addicted to images. Maybe you've noticed, if you've been reading this blog.

And slowly, perhaps, to coffee. I'm amazed how good coffee makes me feel in the morning. Surprisingly, it makes me feel mellow. I have a theory that this is because it reminds me of my mother, who is Scandinavian by birth. Coffee is an intimate activity that brings people together. Even when I'm by myself in the morning, I feel connected and grounded in my cup of coffee. And half-and-half just makes it all the better.

Oh, and I like to look out the window in the morning, to pray and reflect. This is what the view was, not too long ago:
ALL WHITE... it got depressing. But now:

Color! And see the big fat red buds in the maple tree in the foreground? I wish that red and the blue of the river in the back left was brighter.

Ok, I need to go get ready for work.

At home on my day off

There are many ways pastors may choose to rejuvenate themselves on their sabbath day. So, a few methods I am learning are listed below, since frantic housework, errands, and too many social visits with friends (much as I love them), haven't been doing the trick. Some rambling commentary is included.

Sunset watching. Despite power lines. (Adam and I will probably get a two-bedroom together when we get married, but if I lose this view...! I hope we can get another forest-preserve-facing place.)

Sliced orange. (I've been trying to eat more fruit... it's just I have this personal problem with not eating toast with honey and coffee for breakfast. Cereal, sometimes. So, maybe fruit in the afternoon/evening could work. And sometimes with peanut butter?)

Knitting. This is acrylic yarn. I used to be a wool yarn snob. But I finished a scarf at the conference in Vancouver, and didn't have enough wool to start another one. So my dear Aunt Beth, who lives out there, gave me some yarn from an unfinished sweater... I thought the texture was pretty cool-looking. She meant it to look like the ocean. And I've probably become an acrylic-convert. (Anyone want some wool yarn?)

Did some tidying up, but not too much. I actually find it relaxing to wash floors, so I washed the kitchen and bathroom floors (the bathroom is the size of a Manhattan apartment, I swear -- it takes 5 minutes to walk from the door to the toilet! That floor took me the whole of Marketplace on NPR.) I was going to vacuum, but then I found I needed to sit and do nothing some more. Another day.

Advice for Sabbath-keeping (clergy or otherwise!): sit, be quiet, and make sure you have enough silence stored up inside yourself to be a sane and compassionate person during the week.

A walk on my day off

Whalon Marsh (I think this is its name) is right across the Des Plaines River from my apartment. But it takes about ten minutes to drive there, because there is no bridge across for a few miles in either direction. There's my apartment complex, right there -- I can even pick out my bedroom window. I started walking, in gorgeous sunshine...

WHAT?!?
Whatever. Not to be deterred, after walking for only about 8 minutes, I decided to bushwhack a little -- someone else had the same idea, because there was a board set across the trickle of a creek just past the end of the asphault. I found a few footpaths through the thicket in the background, there. I picked one...

And found myself in another open area, totally deserted, and huge... spread out under the powerlines. (Power lines are a theme in my life in Bolingbrook, I tell you! See here.) I love wide-open spaces -- for some reason, my mild agoraphobia does not play out here -- and being alone in a lot of quiet openness is just what I've been needing lately, after all that travel, conferences, and making wedding invitations for eight hours (more on this to come).

Green leaves! A sight for sore eyes, let me tell you.
How come bramble bushes turn green first?

More green. Leaves, curled up like tiny fists! In wet ground...

Whalon Marsh is part of the floodplain of the Des Plaines River.
The water hasn't entirely dried up since our last flooding, last week -- so there's both brown, dry grass and wet, muddy green patches. But it's wet deep down, even under the dry grass.

I got my feet wet, more than once.

Here's the Des Plaines, a low, brown, muddy, Midwestern river. Classic Midwest spring ugly, too. But it smells like dirt and life. It's swollen with rainwater, and it's good to walk along...

especially all by yourself.

A church welcome, done by another vicar...

The last line is the best...

The problem of evil

This from an article forwarded to me by Episcopal News Service:

"'If art is the language of the soul,' as Robert Redford said at the Sundance Film Festival this year, 'I look at the "souls" of most of the Academy Award nominees for best picture and see dead people.' ... All five nominees portray human capacity for evil and fallenness, and explore, in a way, whether there is reason for hope. With one exception, these films reveal a sense of inevitable doom and a pervasive pessimism about the human condition."

I remember noticing that during the Oscars this year. All the top pictures were about deep dark evil, with very little redemption or hope. It is somewhat worrisome, in a world where public killings (Columbine, Virginia Tech, NIU, and random shopping malls) are becoming more and more common. I haven't seen "Juno" yet, but it sounds like a good antidote to all that -- a counter to irresponsibility, selfishness, violence, and even nihilism. Funny that teen pregnancy could do that!

"If these films reveal the soul of today's filmmakers, it is clear that their souls are troubled with the pervasiveness of evil. None offers an easy way out; as a matter of fact, only 'Juno' really offers any way out at all.

They generally seem to have concluded that darkness has prevailed over light, good over evil, and this pattern is unbreakable.

Based on these films it would be fair to conclude that the human race needs good news."

Some more photos from Vancouver

A suspension bridge over a deep ravine, that I crossed with friends from Washington state, Victoria BC, and Manchester, England.

A group of Sikhs hiking alongside the skiers on Grouse Mountain.

A view of Grouse Mountain from the gondola that you have to take to get to the top (for $34! locals buy a seasonal pass for $47).

There are a lot of folks who commute, even daily, by seaplane! They take off and land regularly, filling the waterside park with the smell of plane fuel.

Start Up! Start Over! is a good program, but I've jumped right into another conference, here in the diocese of Chicago, with Kennon Callahan. He seems much more intuitive about church growth, where as SUSO is based more on research and statistics. Both are important, but it's interesting to observe the differences in their advice and values for church growth. Callahan is more positive about small churches, and even says they will be the places people gravitate this century -- there are so much immensity around us -- stadium seating, huge theaters, large corporations, globalization -- that people are drawn to places like Starbucks, with less than 50 seats a store. He says the same is true for small churches. I think that's interesting.

A few Vancouver photos

Waiting in line at the border -- we flew into Seattle and drove up from there.

An interesting sculpture in downtown Vancouver, near our hotel. Is an upsidedown church an elegant and beautiful thing? Disturbing? Whimsical? Dizzying? Disrespectful?

Mountain views behind the stoplights -- not something we see much of in Chicago.

Most of the Chicago posse... three priests, five laypeople!

More soon!

P.S. I didn't get all braggy about being a priest on the plane -- I was right and fatigue settled in soon enough, and all punchiness dissolved into knitting, reading, and napping.

Off to Vancouver!

I'm going to a conference about small churches and growth called "Start Up! Start Over!" in Vancouver today. We're flying to Seattle, then driving across the border. What a journey.

For some reason, I'm feeling punchy about potential airplane conversations... you know, if someone asks me what I do, I just might tell them. Young, blond woman -- "that's right, I'm a PRIEST. I have my oil stock* right here -- do you need to be anointed? Confession? Advice on your marriage? Theological interpretation?" On the other hand, it's 5:48am and I'm always punchy this early in the morning. In a few hours, I will probably come to my senses (and my body will realize it's exhausted) and just tell people I'm a dental hygienist.

I'm hoping to have internet there, so look for photos and updates this week...

*oil stock: Episcopal word for a little brass contained of chrism, or blessed oil.

Earth Hour

This is the opera house and a bridge in Sydney, Australia... in the lower photo, any unnecessary lights have been turned off. This was taken last night, from 8-9pm local time. Check out Earth Hour's website for more.

I think this is a cool idea. Not only because our world has so much light pollution that no one can see the stars anymore -- or has any faith in their ability to see in the dark (insert spiritual metaphor here) -- but because we use a lot of energy.

Usually, I don't get into this big "sweep across the world" movements, or on FaceBook, "1 million for xyz cause." I'm an activist sceptic. But seeing a whole city choose to turn its lights off, even just for an hour, makes a powerful statement.

Even Google is joining in.

And I'm a big fan of nighttime darkness -- so turn off your lights from 8-9pm tonight. Think about energy use. Maybe next year, some US cities will turn some big lights off too...

Spring sunshine ain't pretty

The forest preserves aren't especially attractive this time of year.
(That's a little viewing deck in the middle distance.)

Adam and I thought this sign was pretty funny... I mean, the place looks like a wasteland. But then, this is March is the upper Midwest. Not a pretty sight, anyway you look at it. But the power lines just add a special touch to the whole "restoration" idea. (These are the same power lines that run past my apartment -- the world IS connected, by power lines if nothing else.)

This one I took earlier in March. Yes, sunshine is nice;
but snow covers up some of the ugliness.

One of my parishioners, Peg, said something to me a week or two ago about the angst and danger inherent in spring (correct me, here, Peg, please): that it's about emerging from the grip of death.

Sunshine uncovers all the dead things hiding under the snow. This ain't pretty. Spring is a painful time, in these climes. Even fall, when everything is dying, has beauty; changing leaves, many shades of brown and beige, the late harvest of pumpkins, turnips, kale... But spring = raw and mud and all that's been rotting and fading under the snow and ice, all winter. Still, spring is necessary, obviously. The revealing of death, to make the transition again to new life! (Anyone recognize the resurrection here?)

Maybe this is also true in human life: sunshine (friendship? sharing our secrets? exercise? prayer?) uncovers some of the ugliness in us -- melts away the defenses we use to hide our wounds. It may get ugly for a while, but over time, sunshine is better. Dries out wounds and opens them to the air. Warms the soil of our hearts for new growth. Seek it out, people -- inside and out!

Report on Easter and Holy Week

I find it hard to blog about significant worship experiences. They're usually so profound that they're difficult to put effectively into words. But I will try.

Holy Week and Easter were great. They were not without stress for me, certainly: this is my first Holy Week as a priest, and believe me, all my perfectionist tendencies came out in full force! However, by Friday night, I had pretty much spent all my stress. I plumb ran out of anxiety, like an empty gumball machine.

Maundy Thursday was quiet and lovely. (Although at times, I thought it was a little slow. But I probably have A.D.D. -- others have told me it was great.)

Good Friday was contemplative and haunting. (Lots of amazing silence, and I did a sermon of images and scripture via a digital projector which I hope to get up here or on the St. Benedict's website sometime soon.)

Holy Saturday was pretty relaxed (since my anxiety was all spent). I worked. I did a quiet, spoken liturgy with the lovely folks who fill our sanctuary with flowers. I took a long walk. I wrote my Easter sermon.

Easter was joyous. We had incense, sprinkling with holy water ("asperging" in Episcopalese), champagne at Eucharist, the heady small of all those flowers, fantabulous music, and it was the first year St. B's had an Easter Brunch -- and it was packed! The energy of PEOPLE is the most important ingredient of good worship... and it was full and strong on Sunday.

Hallelujah!

(Those photos were taken by one of my parishioners, Bob Ostravecky. Thanks, Bob!)

Shopping with Mom

Mom and I went shopping for her mother-of-the-bride/groom dress today. We started locally, at the Promenade in Bolingbrook. I've found lots of great stuff there, at J.Jill, Ann Taylor Loft, and H&M, mostly. But J.Jill was a little too casual, Mom's size is one larger than what Ann Taylor Loft carries (argh), and H&M is almost too young for me, much less my dear mother. We ended up driving all the way to Oak Brook, because we just weren't seeing anything. But still, we had a terrible time finding anything: Talbots, Coldwater Creek, Brooks Brothers (!), and at Macy's: Anne Klein, Charter Club... and all their clothes were just so bright, nautical, and preppy looking. We kept saying to each other, "These look like clothes you're supposed to wear on a yacht."

The ONLY thing we saw that we liked was a nice pants/fancy blouse combo at Eileen Fisher. We could've waited and kept shopping over these next five months, but I think we're both of the school, in shopping, "Why shop tomorrow for what you can buy today?" Anyway, Eileen Fisher it was! I didn't want Mom to wear black and white (colors she likes!), but we ended up with black and ecru. Oh well. It's a beautiful outfit, nonetheless. I didn't get a picture. You'll just have to wait for the wedding photos.

...Adam has been encouraging me to take more photos in places where there are people. I tend to photograph objects or places. So, I started on Mom today. She laughingly observed, "So, you're taking a picture of your mother spending money?" She was buying a few things at the Clinique counter. (Isn't she cute?)

Headlines

Living in the suburbs is growing on me. I take walks every other day or so, in the forest preserves around here (watch for posts to come!). I shop easily and at will (for better or worse). There's always a place to park. I like the wide-open space.

However, some things about the suburbs still feel like culture shock. Including these two headlines, seen next to each other outside a local restaurant this morning:


On the left is the Chicago Sun-Times: "GRANDMOTHER GUNNED DOWN."
On the right is the Naperville Sun: "SAFE AND HOUND: STOLEN PUPPY SAFELY RETURNED; SUSPECT AT LARGE."

Easter snow and fog

The second earliest possible Easter of the year, and of course, in Chicago, that means cold, snow, rain, fog, you name it. When I was little, my mom took me to Marshall Field's every year to buy an Easter dress and hat, usually with an elastic band that would go under my chin (ouch), probably until I was 7 or 8. Easter hats and dresses always seem a little out of place in Chicago. I've thought about buying some pastel skirt to wear with my collar shirt this year, but somehow, I just can't picture it.

But I suppose that's what Easter is all about. Wearing your pastels when the sleet is coming down. With boots and long underwear, of course. A little glimpse of the kingdom of God.

One more monologue sermon

This one is by my friend Ian Twiss, who I knew at Seabury. He's one of my inspirations for writing a monologue sermon (the other is my friend, More Cows, her sermon is here and was mentioned in this blog here.) This one is Lazarus' journal, after Jesus raises him from the dead. Ian is rector of Lutheran-Episcopal church in Michigan - Holy Faith Church.

Day 1
It was a muffled sound. A call or a cry. By the time I recognized it, I knew that I had been listening to it for some time. I also remember rock under my back, a stink of rot cutting through perfumed ointments, gauzy light as if from behind curtains. I got up and stumbled toward the call, and then fingers were pulling linen from my eyes and my limbs tingled with the new pulse of blood. I blinked. Immediately I saw the one whose voice had stirred me out of that place. His eyes were wet with tears, and I had the immediate and odd intuition that he would not live long.
I’m not sure what happened next. My memory is still fuzzy. We went back home a while later, I know. I passed into the hut in which I had lived my former life. In my room was a bed, two wool tunics, some pots and jars, and my loom, the tool of my trade. It all seemed both profoundly beautiful and totally unimportant. I almost felt as if I could smell my old life in that room and the smell was as distant and unfamiliar to me as if it belonged to another person. In the hearth room I could hear Martha beginning to stoke the fire for the meal, Mary humming one of her distracted tunes. I sat down on my bed. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Day 2
This morning I woke early when the light was still dusty and gentle. I slipped out of the house and followed the path up to the olive groves on the hill. I wandered for an hour or more, the fallen olives squishing beneath my feet.
On my way back I met a boy and I remembered who he was—one of the clearest memories I’ve had from my old life: the son of a Samaritan who lives up in the hills in a sort of cave. The boy was herding his sheep and didn’t meet my eyes. We don’t mix with Samaritans because they are not true Jews and the rabbis who study scripture say they make us unclean. But I remembered this boy because I once saw a grown man spit on him in the marketplace. The boy wanted to buy some dates the man was selling. He asked the man a question, and without a second’s pause to consider, the man spat. The boy could not have been more than eight. As the gob slid down his black hair towards his ear, the man turned away to serve someone else, a real Jew.
Anyway, when I got back from my walk in the olive groves, the sun was starting to hammer the cool out of the air. Martha was sweeping ashes from the oven.
“I got up to get you your breakfast,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Walking,” I told her.
She raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s a new development.”

Day 5
At first I thought I might live out my days like a leper, rotting skin falling off of me, but my body seems to be quietly repairing itself. I can almost feel the fibers of my muscles growing firm. The smell of unction and dead flesh has faded some too, though every once in a while I still get a surprising whiff, often as I pass in through the doorway of my house.
The truth is that in my previous life, I spent a lot of time in there. Too much time, really. Long hours in my room. It wasn’t always so, but somewhere along the way I lost interest in going out much. For hours and hours I wove blankets and fabrics at the loom to support our household. None of us was married, so Martha and Mary were happy to have me around. I think I provided Martha with someone to focus on, truth be told, someone to mother and manage. Not that I’m complaining. She runs an orderly household and makes better bread than our own mother did.
But now, I don’t know, there’s just an urgency driving me away from all that. Each day I go out early into the new sunshine, as if I were looking for something. It’s not just that I was dead and am now alive. It’s that, even before that, I think I was asleep. So tragically asleep, while the beggars starved and the young spouses made love and figs ripened and the tenant farmers lost their land and the sweet rain fell or failed to fall. All the gifts and losses of the world! All the love to be shared, while I bent over that loom in my dogged unwillingness to wake up!

Day 8
I saw the Samaritan boy again today, over by the well in the heat when no one else was there. He was drawing up a bowl of water, and when he saw me he froze in place. I stood still and didn’t advance. The boy had bad skin, some kind of rash along his neck. He sucked on his upper teeth and watched me. Slowly I raised my hand in greeting. The boy dropped the bowl and backed away from the well, then turned and ran.

Day 9
Some details of the day of my miraculous return are still lost to me. There was a crowd there, that I know—some day laborers and children. I remember the Messiah’s cry, but not his words. What did he say to me? What was he calling out? All I can bring to mind is the quality of that voice, muted and urgent.
Before that, there is just a gap in my mind, a nothing.
Before that, the last moments of my previous life: how I had been turned on my side, how breathing felt like shoving rocks around in my lungs, how Martha passed in and out with wet rags and wine and liniments and candles, always hovering and fluttering, while Mary sat quietly at the foot of the bed. I grew dizzy toward the end. The room filled with a slow thudding sound. Martha was crying, wailing really, as she paced the floor, and I remember thinking “Too much, too much.”

Day 11
“You sure are spending a lot of time away from the house,” Martha said.
“Does it bother you?”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying. Up so early, gone so long.”
“Well, I guess mornings have a new meaning for me.”
Mary came into the room, doing some kind of little dance. We watched her twinkle across the hearth. Then Martha poured a measure of wheat grains in her bowl and began to grind them for flour, her pestle hammering its quick, practiced rhythm.
“What about the word ‘Samaritan,’” she said. “Does that have a new meaning for you too?”
“Ah,” I said. “The village rumor mill.”
“Lazarus, this is not a joke. Do you know how much trouble you’re going to cause us? The rabbi’s wife is giving me looks. What has happened to you anyway?”
“Well, I died. Remember? Then I was given a new life.”
Still jabbing at the wheat, Martha shook her head. “To think it’s what I was praying for.”
Then Mary stopped dancing and stood still. She just stood still.

Day 12
This morning there was a small warm breeze coming across the valley, and the smell of the olive groves thickened the air like oil. It was still dark out. I was awake even earlier than usual. All the things of my old life rose up like shadows around the room, and I couldn’t believe how many years I had shut myself up in there, just tending to my own business, just being the bachelor brother and the weaver and letting the rest of the world riot past my window. I rose quickly and went out, grabbing a pear on my way.
It was on my way back an hour later that I encountered the Samaritan boy, sitting under a scrub tree near the edge of town where the chief Pharisee lives. Several times I’ve passed the boy with his herd out on the hills during my morning walks, but we have still never spoken. Of course, we are both aware of the rules. I sat by the boy to remove a pebble from my sandal. He didn’t get up to leave. I could see that he was eyeing the pear, which I was still carrying and had put on the ground beside me. I rubbed it on my shirt and held it out to him. He hesitated. Then he took the fruit and ate, chewing and slurping hastily. We sat together there, in front of the Pharisee’s house of all places, watching the dawn creep over the world, daring someone to notice us.
And that was when I remembered the words that had called me into this new life. They came back to me, sudden and clear, reaching through all that linen, all that entombed air: Lazarus, come out!