Erbarme dich, mein Gott

Erbarme dich from Bach’s St Matthew Passion. Erbarme dich, mein Gott, um meiner Zähren willen ‘Have mercy, my God, for the sake of my tears.’ As you sit here now, what are the sorrows and pains you are carrying? Today’s reading is from the Gospel of Matthew 18:21-35.19:1: Peter approached Jesus and asked him, "Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive him? As many as seven times?" Jesus answered, "I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times. That is why the kingdom of heaven may be likened to a king who decided to settle accounts with his servants. When he began the accounting, a debtor was brought before him who owed him a huge amount. Since he had no way of paying it back, his master ordered him to be sold, along with his wife, his children, and all his property, in payment of the debt. At that, the servant fell down, did him homage, and said, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back in full.' Moved with compassion the master of that servant let him go and forgave him the loan. When that servant had left, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a much smaller amount. He seized him and started to choke him, demanding, 'Pay back what you owe.' Falling to his knees, his fellow servant begged him, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.' But he refused. Instead, he had him put in prison until he paid back the debt. Now when his fellow servants saw what had happened, they were deeply disturbed, and went to their master and reported the whole affair. His master summoned him and said to him, 'You wicked servant! I forgave you your entire debt because you begged me to. Should you not have had pity on your fellow servant, as I had pity on you?' Then in anger his master handed him over to the torturers until he should pay back the whole debt. So will my heavenly Father do to you, unless each of you forgives his brother from his heart." When Jesus finished these words, he left Galilee and went to the district of Judea across the Jordan. Jesus speaks bluntly in this passage of the pain of being unforgiven, and even of punishment, in a way that might seem threatening. But the underlying message here is about forgiveness, about the need for forgiveness. For a few moments, can you call to mind what un-forgiveness there is in your life? - hurts you have suffered from other people that you haven't got over, or lingering guilt you might feel about things you've done to others that you wish you hadn't? Now think of those first words Jesus utters in this passage, that Peter should forgive "not seven times, but seventy-seven times", and for a moment, imagine him saying this to you. When you apply this to your situation, how does it make you feel? More at ease? ... or perhaps inadequate? ... or does it stir in you some desire for a change of heart? Read again to the first part of the reading, noticing how you feel at the moment when the king has pity and forgives. Unforgiven pains and resentments hurt the person who won't forgive as much as the person who is not forgiven. Speak to the Lord now about any guilt or resentment you need to be liberated from. Sometimes you can only honestly say, "I would like to forgive, but I can't at the moment." That desire may be enough for now.

"The days that we have seen."

Ao rever, uma vez mais, ainda uma vez mais, os planos iniciais de Badaladas da Meia-Noite, e ao ouvir de novo as palavras de Master Shallow - "The days that we have seen" - para Falstaff, e a réplica deste - "We've heard the chimes at midnight", veio-me à ideia um dia, algures na segunda metade da década de 70, em que eu e um colega de Filosofia, o Marcello, nos sentámos na relva (na altura ainda se lhe podia chamar relva), encostados a uma árvore, junto ao ironicamente chamado Pavilhão Novo, na Faculdade de Letras, cada um com a sua cerveja na mão, e o Marcello me disse: "um dia, quando formos velhos, hei-de lembrar-me de estar aqui sentado consigo [o tratamento por "você" não era snobismo, devia-se, sim, ao facto de o Marcello ser brasileiro], a beber uma cerveja, e a dizer como o Pablo Neruda, 'confesso que vivi'." É verdade, Marcello, "the days that we have seen..."

Quando há uns vinte e tal anos escrevi estes versos

que encerram a "Meditação I" de Seduções do infante foi sob o impulso e a memória deste plano no início de Citizen Kane: "O halo dilui-se em torno do Senhor/ da Serra, a neve dança sobre a casa/ na campânula, presa nas mãos do infante." Ainda a propósito de Citizen Kane, e destes planos iniciais, escreveu André Bazin: "essa inclinação recorrente pele neve, característica de uma fantasia infantil (as bolas de neve em Les enfants terribles, de Jean-Pierre Melville). A nostalgia da neve está associada às nossas primeiras brincadeiras (a que provavelmente deveríamos acrescentar um simbolismo específico da neve, cuja alvura ameaçada, promessa de lama, convém particularmente à inocência culpada da infância)". [negrito meu, e acrescento: Touché!]

Um "Twin Peaks" à francesa?

De qualquer modo, um filme hilariante, considerado pela redacção dos Cahiers du Cinéma o melhor filme do ano. Tem vindo a ser exibido num canal por cabo. Aqui fica o que,a propósito dele, escreveu Stéphane Delorme, director dos Cahiers:"Parfois, devant un film, les seuls mots qui viennent à l’esprit sont : « c’est pas possible ». La dernière fois c’était devant Holy Motors de Leos Carax. Maintenant il y a P’tit Quinquin. Non, ce n’est pas possible qu’un cinéaste aussi sérieux que Bruno Dumont réalise le film le plus drôle depuis des années. Pas possible qu’un cinéaste accomplisse son œuvre en changeant totalement de registre, comme s’il suffisait de ce pas de côté pour que tout passe à un niveau supérieur – on rêve soudain de voir un film comique de Bergman, d’Antonioni, de Dreyer, de Tarkovski. Pas possible de faire rire à ce point de personnages ancrés dans la France profonde sans que cela passe pour une moquerie mal placée – mais le cinéaste l’a dit à Cannes, où le film était montré à la Quinzaine : « Riez de bon cœur ! » Pas possible que ce cinéma souvent mutique engendre un texte si fou et surréaliste qu’on s’en souvient par cœur. Pas possible que le meilleur acteur comique jamais vu sur cette planète soit un inconnu du nom de Bernard Pruvost, encore jardinier il y a quelques mois, qui multiplie les instants de jeu de son plein gré ou à son corps défendant, sans qu’on puisse départager l’un de l’autre. C’est n’importe quoi, ce n’est pas possible, et c’est tout ce qu’on veut. P’tit Quinquin est une bombe, pas seulement par son comique explosif, irrésistible, mais parce qu’il dynamite toute posture d’auteur, ridiculise tous les roitelets gérant leur fonds de commerce, toutes les fausses audaces et les timidités feintes que l’on s’empresse de porter aux nues. P’tit Quinquin est un geste radical, définitif, par un cinéaste qui sait qu’il n’a plus rien à prouver. Quelle confiance en soi il faut pour s’aventurer dans pareil projet ! Bravo à Arte d’avoir suivi le cinéaste dans un pari si excentrique. P’tit Quinquin est une série de 3 h 20 à découvrir en quatre épisodes à la télévision, mais, bémol, on aurait aimé que la version cinéma (seule différence : le format Cinémascope) sorte dans la foulée, tant l’expérience de le voir d’une traite, au milieu des rires du public, a été le plus beau souvenir du dernier Festival de Cannes. Il y a un an tout juste, les Cahiers faisaient la couverture sur une autre série audacieuse, Platane d’Éric Judor, portée cette fois par Canal + : pourvu que la télévision continue à donner naissance à des projets aussi farfelus. Plus encore, on voit à quel point le cinéma français dans son ensemble, souvent enclin à l’académisme, est aussi le terreau des projets les plus invraisemblables. Il est probable que pour la troisième année de suite le meilleur film de l’année pour la rédaction soit un film français, après Holy Motors et L’Inconnu du lac. On voit mal qui pourrait détrôner c’t hallucinant P’tit Quinquin. Quant à Bruno Dumont, après avoir tenté et réussi l’an passé son premier film « avec star », Camille Claudel 1915, il semble avoir découvert un nouveau continent, et son prochain film sera encore une comédie. Dans P’tit Quinquin il garde son sens inouï du cadre, du paysage, ces raccords regard à tomber par terre, et son attention merveilleuse aux comédiens. Et il s’est débarrassé d’un certain volontarisme qui pouvait plomber ses films en appuyant ou soulignant trop : il avait besoin de légèreté. Mais au fond rien n’a changé : comme ses autres films la série se dirige vers un tragique (de plus en plus apaisé) qui replace l’humanité dans le monde et affronte ­l’absurdité du mal. Il est aujourd’hui notre seul cinéaste métaphysique. Même Brisseau ou Guiraudie replient leurs récits vers les rapports humains. Chez Dumont il y a toujours un moment où le visage est ouvert : il est une promesse de paysage. Et l’homme ne peut faire signe que vers la terre. D’où cette figure désarmante, la plus belle de son cinéma, où un personnage regarde le monde devant lui. La caméra montre ensuite ce qu’il voit dans un point de vue subjectif qui dit la beauté du monde, le mystère du monde, mais aussi la beauté et le mystère de ce regard. Dans les trois derniers plans de P’tit Quinquin, deux visages regardent tour à tour dans la même direction et on ne sait plus qui des deux regarde ce que l’on voit. Peu importe ils regardent ensemble, et nous avec eux. Ce n’est pas possible, on y est, on le voit, on est « au cœur du mal », c’est-à-dire nulle part, et n’importe où sur la Terre."

«Quem é este homem, que até o vento e o mar Lhe obedecem?».

Comentário de São Cirilo de Jerusalém (313-350), bispo de Jerusalém, a este passo de Mateus 8,27: "«Ele é chamado Cristo» (Mt 1,16), que quer dizer ungido, um Cristo que não recebeu a sua unção de mãos humanas, mas que foi ungido desde toda a eternidade pelo Pai, para exercer em favor dos homens o sacerdócio supremo. [...] É chamado «Filho do Homem», não porque tenha a sua origem na terra, como nós, mas porque há-de vir sobre as nuvens para julgar os vivos e os mortos (Mt 24,30). É chamado «Senhor», não abusivamente como os senhores humanos, mas porque o senhorio Lhe pertence por natureza desde toda a eternidade. É chamado, muito correctamente, «Jesus», que quer dizer «o Senhor salva» (Mt 1,21), pois Ele salva curando. É chamado «Filho», não porque uma adopção O tenha elevado a esse título, mas porque foi gerado segundo a sua natureza. Há ainda muitas outras denominações do nosso Salvador. [...] No interesse de cada um, Cristo mostra-Se sob diversos aspectos. Para os que precisam de alegria, faz-Se «videira» (Jo 15,1), para os que precisam de entrar, é «a porta» (Jo 10,7); e, para os que querem apresentar as suas orações, aí está Ele, «Sumo Sacerdote» (Heb 7,26) e «Mediador» (1Tim 2,5). Para os pecadores, fez-Se também «cordeiro» (Act 8,32), para ser imolado por eles. Faz-se «tudo para todos» (1Cor 9,22), permanecendo Ele mesmo aquilo que é por natureza."

Today’s reading is from the Gospel of Matthew.

“And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think that they will be heard for their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. This, then, is how you should pray: ‘Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, 10 your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. 11 Give us today our daily bread. 12 And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. 13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.’” 'Do not heap up empty phrases'--are there ever times when religious language just seems empty to you? Where do you think God is in that sort of experience? Now listen again to the familiar prayer (even if the words are slightly altered). Notice how it starts with God: with praise, with longing for the Kingdom, and with an acceptance of what God desires. Only secondly does it focus on our needs for food, for forgiveness and for protection. Luke's Gospel tells us that the Our Father is Jesus’ answer to the disciples' request: 'Lord, teach us to pray'. Perhaps you might spend a few minutes now making that same request--'teach me to pray'- and try to listen in case the Lord is inviting you to make a shift. (retirado de http://pray-as-you-go.org/home/)

"O lado português dos espanhóis"

Num dossier a que lhe consagrou os Cahiers du Cinéma, no seu mais recente número, encontramos algumas pérolas de e sobre Manoel de Oliveira. Apreciei, em particular, a entrevista que o Mestre concedeu a Serge Daney e Raymond Bellour em 1991. Dela deixo-vos este excerto que, não tendo a ver directamente com o cinema, afinal acaba por nos reenviar para ele, visto ser a nossa identidade um dos núcleos da sua obra. Lede: "Nous sommes complètement différents des Espagnols: masi nous avons aussi des choses qui se rejoignent... Regardez le Christ de Vélasquez... Vélasquez a un côté portugais. Les Christ espagnols sont crispés, sanglants, tandis que celui de Vèlasquez est doux. C'est un Christ portugais, souriant, attentif, patient." Nova pergunta/comentário de Daney e segue-se a resposta: "Quelquefois je pense que le Portugal est comme le Christ doux, patient et résigné dont je viens de parler. Il a cet air de bouc émissaire. Il n'est par révolté vraiment. Les Portugais sont soumis à leur destin, au désespoir. Le Portugal est un pays ou l'on n'a pas trop d'illusions; le peuple se méfie de tous les grands personnages qui prometent de grandes choses."