A Litany at Atlanta

O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears an-hungered in these fearful days--

Hear us, good Lord! 

Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery of in Thy Sanctuary.  With uplifted hands we front Thy Heaven, O God, crying:

We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

We are not better than our fellows, Lord; we are but weak and human men.  When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed, --curse them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home.

Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!

And yet, whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils?  Who nursed them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their mothers and their grandmothers?  Who bought and sold their crime and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity?

Thou knowest, good God!

Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence and the innocent be crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?

Justice, O Judge of men!

Wherefore do we pray?  Is not the God of the Fathers dead?  Have not seers seen in Heaven’s halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of the endless dead?

Awake, Thou that sleepest!

Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, through blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women strong and free—far from cozenage, black hypocrisy, and chaste prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!

Turn again, O Lord; leave us not to perish in our sin!

A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder and Black hate.  Red was the midnight; clang, crack, and cry of death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the starts where church spires pointed silently to Thee.  And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance. 

Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!

In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed.  We stopped our ears and held our leaping hands, but they – did they not wag their heads and leer and cry with bloody jaws: Cease from Crime! The word was mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.

Turn again our captivity, O Lord.

Behold this maimed and broken thing, dear God; it was an humble black man, who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him.  They told him: Work and Rise!  He worked.  Did this man sin?  Nay, but someone told how someone said another did –one whom he had never seen nor known.  Yet for that man’s crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife naked to shame, his children to poverty and evil.

Hear us, O heavenly Father!

Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God?  How long shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for vengeance?  Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes, who do such deeds, high on Thine Altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever and forever!

Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!

Bewildered we are and passion-tossed, mad with the madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth this? Tell us the plan; give us the sign!

Keep not Thou silent, O God!

Sit not longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb suffering.  Surely Thou, too, art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing!

Ah! Christ of all the Pities!

Forgive the thought!  Forgive these wild, blasphemous words!  Thou art still the God of our black fathers and in Thy Soul’s Soul sit some soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.

But whisper –speak –call, great God, show us the way and point us the path!  Whither?  North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and without, the liar.  Whither?  To death?

Amen!  Welcome dark sleep!

Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this.  Let the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we must –and it is red.  Ah! God!  It is a red and awful shape. 

Selah!

In yonder East trembles a star

Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!

Thy Will, O Lord, be done!

Kyrie Eleison!

Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words.

We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little children.

We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

Our voices sink in silence and in night.

Hear us, good Lord!

In night, O God of a godless land!

Amen!

In silence, O Silent God.

Selah!

The Hungering Dark

When I grabbed this book from the shelf and added it to my beach pile, I noticed it was bookmarked where I had stopped reading it previously, and wondered why I didn't finish as I'm usually committed to doing so.

Today when I picked it up and glanced through my underlinings in the first half, I remembered why.  It had been too much for me to take in at once.  It would have been gluttonous to keep devouring Buechner's words when I was sated and couldn't actually absorb any more.  There was nothing to be gained from continuing.  

I had the appetite to finish it today.  Buechner puts words to thoughts I have felt, but have been unable to articulate.  The way he sees, processes, evaluates, and speaks into the world resonates deeply with me.  I commend his meditative writings to you.  (I specify his meditative writings because I have not yet read his novels, but hope to do so before too long.  Per my friend Serena's recommendation, I'll likely begin with The Return of Ansel Gibbs.)  

For your enjoyment, a brief passage from The Hungering Dark: Pontifex

"'No man is an island,' wrote Dr. Donne...'for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.'  ...any man's death reminds us of our common destiny...our lives are linked together.  But there is another truth...that every man IS an island.  We sit in silence with one another, each of us reluctant to speak, for fear that he may sound like a fool. And beneath that  there is of course the deeper fear...that maybe the truth of it is that indeed he is a fool.  So either we do not speak, or we speak not to reveal who we are, but to CONCEAL who we are.  Instead of showing ourselves as we truly are, we show ourselves as we believe others want us to be.  We wear masks, and with practice we do it better and better, and they serve us well--except that it gets very lonely inside the mask, because inside the mask there is a person who both longs to be known and fears to be known.  In this sense every man IS an island separated from every other man by fathoms of distrust and duplicity.  

"We need each other greatly, you and I, more than much of the time we dare to imagine, more than most of the time we dare to admit.  Island calls to island across the silence and once, in trust , the real words come, a bridge is built and love is done - not sentimental, emotional love, but love that is pontifex: bridge-builder.  The islands become an archipelago, a continent, a kingdom whose name is the Kingdom of God."

The Wounded Healer

The modern generations, says Nouwen, feel themselves dislocated from history and in possession of a fragmented belief system in which nothing is "always and everywhere true and valid."  Coupled with a lack of confidence that any life exists beyond death, these generations experience a deep, intolerable loneliness and hopelessness that lead to cries for revolution.  Nouwen succinctly evaluates how this lack of rootedness affects the heart and mind, then suggests how Christians might frame the Good News in ways that it can be meaningfully heard.  

First, because these are inward generations, we have to be willing to explore the depths of our own inner life and articulate that experience as a means of establishing genuine connection...we must learn to "name the space where joy and sorrow touch each other."  Second, compassion must become the essence and core of our leadership as they are seeking to exchange dominating authority for true fatherhood.  And thirdly, in response to their inclination to revolt, we should act as contemplative critics who can stand outside of the narrative and speak critically while also infusing hope. 

This work can only be done through embodied presence marked by genuine personal concern and shared suffering, in a context of hospitality where "sufferings can be understood as wounds integral to our human condition" and as openings for healing and hope as we and they begin to understand that just as Christ's wounds were for the healing of the nations, so too our wounds are an occasion for the healing of others. 

Remembering

A very brief novel of Port William in which Andy Catlett wrestles with the loss of his hand.  

"His right hand had been the one with which he reached out to the world and attached himself to it.  When he lost his hand, he lost his hold.  It was as though his hand still clutched all that was dear to him --and was gone."

Andy is literally and figuratively alone with his inner turmoil.  One particular moment of that struggle comes while, away from his family and the farm, he roams the streets of San Francisco in the early morning hours:  

"Andy is filled with a yearning toward this place.  He imagines himself living here.  He would have a small apartment up here on the hillside looking out over the bay.  He would live alone and slowly he would come to know a peacefulness and gentleness in his own character, having nobody to quarrel with.  He would have a job he could walk to in the morning and walk home from in the evening.  It would be a job that would pay him well and give him nothing to worry about before he went to it or after he left it.  In his spare time he would visit the museums.  His apartment would be a place of refuge, quiet and orderly, full of beautiful things.  But he reminds himself of himself.  For the flaw in all that dream is himself, the little hell of himself alone." 

With his characteristic poetical poignance, Berry reveals the inner life of this very human character as no one else can do so well as he, I think.  We become Andy as he gets lost in his loss and struggles to find his way back home.

On Being Mortal

Scientific advances, says Dr. Gawande, have turned the process of aging and dying into a medical experience to be managed by healthcare professionals. 

The waning days of our lives are given over to treatments that addle our brains and sap our bodies for a sliver's chance of benefit. They are spent in institutions...where regimented, anonymous routines cut us off from all the things that matter to us in life.  

Gawande deftly lays out the path by which we arrived at our current "continuum of care" model - the route from independent living to assisted living to nursing home care to dementia care.  In theory, it's a nice enough idea but, in reality, it has created a medical environment focused on safety and survival that strips individuals of the dignity of autonomy, removing them from the known and familiar, which are so crucial for maintaining meaning and equilibrium as faculties begin to dull.  They are left floundering in a world of strange confusion in which they have little if any control over the simplest daily routines such as when and what they eat, whether they get dressed and what they wear, whether they take a walk outdoors or stay in bed for half a day, whether they accept or reject a specific treatment. 

Dr. Gawande provides a helpful service in tracing the history of and highlighting various efforts to shift our approach - and therefore our model - of eldercare, but his greatest service is in addressing the fundamental reasons why we are getting it wrong. 

The problem with medicine and the institutions it has spawned for the care of the sick and the old is not that they have had an incorrect view of what makes life significant.  The problem is that they have had almost no view at all.  Medicine's focus is narrow...concentrating on repair of health, not sustenance of the soul. Yet...they are the ones who largely define how we live in our waning days.  ...we have treated the trial of sickness, aging, and mortality as medical concerns.  It's been an experiment in social engineering putting our fates in the hands of people valued for their technical prowess...and that experiment has failed.  If safety and protection were all we sought in life, we might conclude differently.  But because we seek a life of worth and purpose, and yet are routinely denied the conditions that might make it possible, there is no other way to see what modern society has done."

We unwittingly set our loved ones on a trajectory of unstoppable momentum of medical treatment that, ultimately, controls their narrative.  We remove their agency, making decisions on their behalf and imposing treatments and solutions "for their own good" whether or not they want it.  In so doing, we wrest from them the ability to author their own stories, the freedom to shape their lives in ways consistent with their character and loyalties.  

The battle of being mortal is the battle to maintain the integrity of one's life - to avoid becoming so diminished or dissipated or subjugated that who you are becomes disconnected from who you were or who you want to be.

Our mortality is certain and for most of us, that end will be reached through a prolonged process of aging and dying.  We don't get to control the circumstances of that process, but we ought to be able to choose what we do with those circumstances.

I commend to you Being Mortal - Medicine and What Matters in the End as a worthwhile read.  Dr. Gawande not only tracks where we've come from and where we are today, but he also proposes options for where we go from here, and how - with some thought and intention - we can transform the process of aging and dying into a more wholistic and human one.  Because after all, he affirms, every life is a story and in stories, ENDINGS MATTER.  

The Bearded Man

He had 2 of his own young children to entertain and look out for, and with whom he was exploring the wonders of shore life.  But within a very brief span, he became the Universal Father to about a dozen children who appeared to be ages 5 to 11...none of whom had a father present on the beach.  They approached him at first to watch what he was doing with that net and bucket, but soon they wanted to participate.  And every single one of them was not only allowed, but welcomed into the fray by this soft-spoken gentle giant.

Though it may not seem like a big deal, the truth is, not all would have been so open-hearted and hospitable.  He had no obligation to engage with them, to answer and feed their sense of wonder, to invite them to join in the adventure, to even acknowledge them at all.  Yet each one of those children - and probably their mothers too - were enriched by the kindness of a stranger acting as a benevolent father to the fatherless.  

I was reminded how little it sometimes requires to propagate joy in the world, and how much I want to show up in the world like that Bearded Man.  

Well Done, Faithful Servant

I slip my arms into the blue paper robe, let a stranger tie it in back, strap the N95 over fresh curls, and follow my young escorts through double security doors into the sterile hall. They motion toward the first door on the right.  So she's still in her old room.  I give thanks for that...at least something is familiar to her.  

She's been in isolation for 12 days now based on a positive viral test result.  Even though a subsequent test returned a negative result, she remains alone.  The isolation seems to have stolen her will to live and she has taken "a turn for the worse" as we say.  So much so, that she was placed under hospice care yesterday.  This is the only reason I'm allowed in to see her...and I'm thankful for the unexpected blessing to be present with her one more time.  

When we chatted last week, the conversation went much as it has for the past year...long pauses where she has nothing to say and where I struggle to engage her in a way that doesn't leave her frustrated by her failing memory.  I'd reach for a name or topic until I hit one that struck a chord of recognition.  Even then, the conversation was brief because the memory would evaporate as quickly as it had come.  But that's ok...there were moments of connection and she'd always assure me that "it's so good to hear your voice" - a longtime familiar phrase of hers.  Nothing much seemed out of the ordinary other than her parting words: "I hope you have a good life, Lori.  And I hope you'll be good."  I chuckled and cringed because those sweet but unfamiliar words felt very final.  

As we enter the room, my escorts assure me Gma has refused the dinner that sits untouched at her bedside, then they close the door and leave us.  I am thankful for that too.  No admonitions to keep my distance.  No restrictions on time.  No hovering to hear our "conversation."  Just the two of us alone together.

I pull the institutional chair as close to her beside as I can.  She lies quiet and largely unresponsive, either unaware of or unable to acknowledge my presence, so I strike up a rather lengthy one-sided conversation about summers spent living in her home, of finding her every single day without fail sitting on the couch with her Bible open, of discovering her marked up copy of The Letters of John Newton.  When she passed that book on to me, I added my own markings to hers, reading it so many times it fell apart.   Our lives are bound up together in that disheveled little paperback full of amazing graces.  

We humans surmise much about what does and doesn't happen in our loved ones' final hours but, truth is, it remains - like so much in this earthbound experience - a mystery.  Are my words for her or for me?  I don't know.  But I imagine what might comfort her if she can actually hear me.  I reassure her that her 4 sons are strong and healthy and will be fine...that they love her and they love Jesus because she taught them to and showed them how.  That of her 48 grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren, all who are old enough to know her, love and admire her.  And of course, I remind her that her Sweet Daughter Riesa is already safe in Jesus' "big beautiful house"  and she will soon be joining her there in the presence of the Lord.  I tell her it is OK to go now...to enter into that joy...that she has done everything she has been called to do, that her work here is finished, and that Jesus will receive her with open arms and "Well done, good and faithful servant." 

I recite Psalms of comfort and hope (23, 27, 91, 121) and sing old hymns, sometimes knowing, sometimes guessing at the ones she loves.  Though she never fixes her gaze on me, there are moments I sense she is aware of my presence and hears.  I am beyond grateful for those 2 hours.  For the opportunity to hold her hands, to speak words of gratitude for her life, to kiss her forehead, and to say goodbye.  It is a great and unexpected gift.

As I doff my PPE at the exit, I'm reminded that though Grandma will soon shed her perishable earthly garment, she will be raised with an imperishable, immortal garment.  "Therefore, stand firm.  Let nothing move you.  Give yourself fully to the work of the Lord because your labor is not in vain."

Rest in Peace, Shirley Ann Waggoner.  May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Doubt, Illusions, Pooh Bear, and Crowns

I've been questioning God more than usual the last two weeks.  (Don't worry...he can take it. He's a wee bit bigger than my doubt.) The only way I know to express my angst is by outright asking him "why?" and "how long?" and "what are you trying to accomplish?"  Recently, these questions have centered around the prolonging of my Grandma's life.  She's 97.  She's lived a beautiful painful life as a flawed saint and servant. She's tired. She's ready. 

And..she's ALONE.  

She's alone because we are afraid and illogical and silly.  And because we fear Death,  we separate those nearest it from all that is familiar and known...from the remaining fragments of their history that give meaning to their existence.    

It's true that I only visit my Grandma about 3 times a year - which always feels inadequate - but I haven't seen her for almost 7 months now, and it's too long.  

Today, I was notified that she (and several other residents) tested positive for COVID (in spite of rigid adherence to the protocols).  She's currently asymptomatic and if anyone is stubborn enough to kick this thing to the curb, it would be Shirley Waggoner.   

I am grateful for her health and long life.

I am grateful that her memory is weak, so she may not feel our absence as fully as she otherwise would.  

I give thanks for psychotropic meds that probably make her feel pretty darn happy at times.

I'm thankful that, today at least, she's Unworried.  Unaware.  And many of her basic needs are met. 

I'm thankful for wise words from Pooh Bear ;-)

But I'm also angry.  Not punch-the-wall-angry, but sad-angry.  I'm sad that, whether or not COVID takes her, THIS is how it ends for her and for us.  This madness of fear.  This illusion that we can control something we can't even see and clearly don't understand.  I suspect that the Lord who sits in the heavens chuckles much like we would at a toddler who thinks he can perform the impossible. "Awww....isn't that cute?"  But I digress...

Grandma didn't answer my call today, but had the wherewithal to listen to my voicemail and call me back.  She called me by name and even seemed to know who I was, though she didn't recognize my sons - or even her own - when I named them.  She sounded "chipper" and described her monotonous days and nursing home food as "not so bad!"  

It was a sweet, brief chat that ended with words that undid me.  "I love you, Lori.  I hope you have a good life."  It sounded like goodbye.

She has run a good race. She has kept the faith. If we can't at least share a final hug, I hope her finish line is near.  She will wear the Crown of Righteousness with the dignity befitting a daughter of The King.   

Through New Eyes: Part 1

There was a time not so long ago when I would have rolled my eyes at the current conversation around racism.  It pains me to admit that, but it's the truth.  It wasn't because I hated black people or thought their lives didn't matter, but because my view of the world, my knowledge, my framework, and my experiences were even more limited than they are today.  Should I be ashamed of that?  I don't know...my life experiences were what they were and had left me without any context for understanding.  

Those experiences are STILL limited.  The framework is still being built.  I have not arrived.  But my knowledge is growing, and I have a lens of new experiences through which I can see more clearly and listen with greater empathy.  

So, what exactly changed?  How did I move from a place of indifference and scorn to a place of interest and engagement?  There's only 1 answer to that question...and shocking as it may be, it was not through a piece of profound journalism, or an activist's speech, or some compelling political platform, or even through a social media rant.  I KNOW?!?!  What else IS there??

The change in me came through RELATIONSHIPS.  Plain and simple.  Real relationships with real people.

The first of those was a friendship that developed only 6 years ago with a gentleman I'll call W.  W was a smart, articulate, funny, insightful, and deeply caring coworker.  Because he was also full of confidence - ok for real...he's a retired Air Force pilot so I might as well call it what it was - because he was full of swagger, he wasn't put off by my strong personality and we became fast friends.   

As you may recall, 6 years ago (2014) brought us Michael Brown and soon after, Colin Kaepernick (and other very public racially-charged incidents, but these were the two we talked of most).  For the first time in my life I had a black friend who wasn't afraid of my very sheltered white perspective.  Nor did he write me off as a lost cause simply because I didn't "get it."    Because we liked, loved, and trusted each other enough to reveal our truths and to hear each other, I could ask blunt questions without fear of offending, and I could listen to him because his experiences, his life, and his actions were 100% aligned with his words.  Those words worked on me...hell...they STILL work on me today.  I'm still changing because of his words...words that I couldn't truly hear from a stranger but COULD hear from a friend. As much as I imagine my perspective pained him, W was winsome and thoughtful in challenging me.  If he had shouted angry words in my face or demeaned me in his refutations, I'd be the same person today I was then.  Relationship doesn't allow us to shout one another down...distance does.  Relationship demands that we speak with regard for the other's history and humanity...screens allow us to depersonalize the conversation.  Relationship demands patience.  My perspective didn't change overnight, but W planted seeds that with time and watering and light, have begun to grow and produce fruit.  

The next influence was a set of relationships that began in 2017 when I worked for a brief, but impactful, time at the Christian Activity Center in East St. Louis.  The 30-year veteran leader at this youth center was a dedicated man who immediately began schooling me on the history of East STL.  It became abundantly clear that if I wanted to work effectively in this atmosphere, I had to listen to, read, watch, and otherwise immerse myself in the history of this people and their place.  The desire to grow in these genuine relationships sent me on an educational pursuit to connect these beautiful, resilient people to their tortured past and painful present.  

That education peeled the scales from my eyes and collapsed walls around my heart.  It demanded that I no longer avert my eyes from the ugly truths of how this city, these neighborhoods, these former "Samuel Gompers" homes, and their inhabitants have come to be what they are today.   In this process of education, I began to see for the first time how SYSTEMS create and/or sustain prejudice.  I began to see how we build systems that inherently favor me and mine, whether unconsciously (due to limited perspective or our natural bent toward self-preservation) or consciously (with the known intent of holding back, stopping, or eliminating the progress of The Other); whether overtly (by crushing him to the ground with burdens too heavy to bear) or covertly (by ensuring he feels small and unworthy of questioning the way things are).  

I began to see how my old ways of thinking were not only naive, but misguided and passively reinforcing the brokenness.  I began to understand the power of symbols in honoring the painful narratives of the past to the hurt and detriment of my brothers and sisters...my neighbors.  I had to start letting go of long-held ideas and assumptions and BELIEFS.  My worldview had to be dismantled.  As I've addressed previously, that is always an uncomfortable place.  Certainty *feels* much safer, but living in untruth is never a safe place to be, no matter how secure it FEELS. 

Another change happened in my life leading up to the development of these relationships.  I went through an experience of deep suffering that included injustices perpetrated by a church system in which men are valued more highly than women.  (I have been largely silent on this, because until recently, I still cared how I was perceived and was afraid of the consequences...I am no longer bound by those fears.  I also know these men are adept at justifying - even moralizing - their unjust actions, and in doing so have no qualms about manipulating partial truths into convincing arguments that are easily digested by those who need to believe them.  But distance and long years of wrestling have freed me to see clearly and name actions for what they were/are.)  The point: experiencing systemic injustice which not only sustains but guards the status quo, and watching those with authority circle the wagons to protect existing power structures and control the narrative, not only opened my eyes to the REALITY of unjust systems, but also allowed me to enter the arena with a new kind of empathy I may not otherwise have known.  I suppose I owe a debt of gratitude to those men who inadvertently gave me a beautiful gift...the gift of open eyes which then led to an open heart.  Pain and rejection be damned - I wouldn't trade that for anything. (note added: for the sake of people I love, let me clarify that this did not involve Covenant Presbyterian Church!)

While that experience informed my current viewpoint, the bottom line is, it probably would not have not have translated in application to racial injustice APART FROM THE RELATIONSHIPS I mentioned above. The experience was a *gateway* that put me on a path to hearing with understanding.  

For my friends who are in the place I was a few years ago: I still have "what about" questions that remain unanswered to this day, and the more I listen to loud public voices who address these questions, the more conflicted I become ...UNTIL, I talk to real everyday people in real everyday life...UNTIL I reengage in RELATIONSHIP.  The voices that matter most are those without a larger agenda...and I mean ANY larger agenda!  I don't just mean the Marxists or the social justice warriors, I also mean the Constitutionalists and the self-reliance warriors.  These voices want us to choose a side, support a cause, click a link, bolster a movement, or dig our heels in where we've always stood and call it principled conviction. ALWAYS ask yourself what the speaker, organization, or movement stands to gain from his/her position, even when - no...ESPECIALLY when - their position matches your own.  

You see, when the conversation turns ugly and everyone is hurling hatred and anger, it's tempting to abandon the conversation, to throw our hands in the air and give up.  It's too hard or too violent or not getting us anywhere except further away from each other.  BUT...when I turn off the voices "out there" and I talk to Joe Coworker, his interest is not an ideology.  His interest isn't power or money.  His interest is his own and his children's dignity...their ability to move through the world as FULLY human...without judgement, assumptions, suspicion, scorn, or contempt.  He simply wants the privilege of being given the benefit of the doubt.  That is a conversation I cannot abandon...nor do I want to.  The voice of Joe Coworker grounds me and focuses the conversation where it ought to be.  It wrests it from the sphere of public discourse marked by incivility, to the very personal realm of loving my flesh-n-blood, looking-me-in-the-eyes neighbor.    

I firmly believe the only life-altering way forward is not education, civil discourse, politics, voting, protests, or laws - these can all be helpful pieces of the puzzle, but real change will only grow out of RELATIONSHIPS.  It's in the daily, intentional, unspectacular, ordinary, unsung sharing of ourselves with one another; the willingness to reveal ourselves; to see, hear, and embrace The Other with open hearts; and to move forward together in brotherly love.   

Everything Is Going To Be All Right

Everything Is Going To Be All Right

Author: Derek Mahon, Selected Poems 2012

Recitation: Andrew Scott

How should I not be glad to contemplate

the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window

and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?

There will be dying, there will be dying, 

but there is no need to go into that.

The poems flow from the hand unbidden

and the hidden source is the watchful heart.

The sun rises in spite of everything

and the far cities are beautiful and bright.

I lie here in a riot of sunlight

watching the day break and the clouds flying.

Everything is going to be all right.

The Myth of "The Science"

There is no such thing as "The Science."  Science is not Facts and it is not Truth.  Science is a continuous series of inquiries that are both prompted and aided by observation, experimentation, and analysis.  The gathered information is subsequently interpreted through a grid of perspectives, experiences, and assumptions (both acknowledged and unacknowledged), and influenced by the purpose of the inquiry.  This exercise of inquiry sometimes leads to the formation of a hypothesis.   When a hypothesis is supported over time through repeatable results by inquirers with differing perspectives, experiences, assumptions, and motives, the scientist may propose a Theory. 

It seems to me that we have begun to speak of science as something altogether different from the description above which, as recently as my childhood, was a commonly shared understanding (perhaps not the exact definition which is expressed in my own words, but the foundational elements).  While I would expect hypotheses and theories to be constantly morphing,  I would not expect the definition of the discipline itself to change, nor would I expect new theories to quickly displace long-standing ones.  Yet we've moved away from science as inquiry and theory toward science as absolute, authoritative dogma. 

In our disputatious time, we wield the "ignoring the science" sword as if science is a codified, agreed upon, permanent Fact or Truth...which, of course, it is not.  One very obvious demonstration of that in our current climate is that a variety of scientists whose bodies of work are held in high esteem, are drawing disparate conclusions about the nature of The Illness and our responses to it.  There are limited explanations on how this could be.  Either the variables of observation, experimentation, and analysis are producing conflicting data, or the grid through which the data is being interpreted, or the purpose of the inquiry are different.

I find it particularly curious how a person might exalt the opinion of one body of physicians or scientists as authoritative while labeling those who exalt the opinion of an opposing body of physicians or scientists as "ignoring the science."  Both sides are educated.  Both have inherent biases.  Both have varying motivations.  Both have expertise.  Neither has a corner on Fact or Truth.

If it wouldn't be "better," it would at least be more honest if we ALL acknowledged that not only we, but those voices (learned and otherwise) that resonate with us are not purely objective, and  "The Science" is merely informed speculation and not a justification for shame-based insults.

Reconciliation in Shakespeare

Several of Shakespeare's plays "end with elaborate scenes of reconciliation that all of them are designed from the first act to bring about.  This is to say, reconciliation is their subject.  And what happens in these scenes is no sorting out of grievances, no putting of things right.  Justice as that word is normally understood has no part in them.  They are about forgiveness that is unmerited, unexpected, unasked, unconditional.  In other words, they are about grace." 

--Marilynne Robinson, The Givenness of Things 

If prayers
Could alter high decrees, I to that place
Would speed before thee, and be louder heard,
That on my head all might be visited...
To me committed and by me expos'd.

But rise. Let us no more contend, nor blame

Each other, blam'd enough elsewhere, but strive
In offices of love how we may light'n
Each other's burden in our share of woe,
Since this day's death denounc'd, if aught I see,
Will prove no sudden, but a slow-pac'd evil,
A long day's dying, to augment our pain...

--Milton, Paradise Lost

Unbinding the Fist

We ran headlong into hiding...out of cowardice.  Some feared The Illness, others the stigma or political suicide of not following the international trend. Nevertheless, we dove in with no real proof that our measures would actually make a difference (this was NOT the strategy of those countries who have been most successful in stemming the tide), and we did so with little regard for how many people we were hurting in our attempt to help others and, above all, without a sound exit strategy.  Actually, we don't even have an UNsound exit strategy.

In our distorted belief that when trouble arises, it is the federal government’s duty to DO SOMETHING to extract us from the pains of life in a broken world, we pined, harangued, bashed, and begged until they responded...some reluctantly and some all too readily.  They didn't create the virus, but their response created more problems that they then felt compelled to fix.

Their “fix” has strapped us with additional astronomical generational debt.  And it’s motivated by politicians' own fear, greed, and desperate grasps for power and relevance. (I’m not assuming none have a genuine concern for human well-being, but if they do, their solutions create nothing more than a short term feeling of well-being...).

Their “fix” also builds on a foundational assumption that nothing could be worse than an economic downturn (or implosion). We all know that anything built on a faulty foundation will not stand the test of time.   The Families First and CARES Acts are fraught with contradictory initiatives (even the NAMES are intended to manipulate how we feel about these additional 975 pages of legislation...No really...975 pages.  I know this b/c I've read much of it.) They attempt to sustain small business by offering forgivable loans of 2.5x eight weeks of payroll if these businesses keep their people on the books - while simultaneously increasing unemployment benefits by $600/week (which just so happens to come out to $15/hour...coincidence?  I think not.)  In so doing, they make it impossible for those same small businesses to keep their  $10-13/hour folks employed. After all, why work for $10 when you can NOT work for $15 + a percentage of your lost wages?  The only way to get all these unemployed folks back to work is for employers to raise their wage to $15/hour. When will we learn that politics is a world powered by power where strengthening that grip demands weakening human resolve through magnanimous acts that erode dignity and fray the fabric of self-reliance?  

Side note 1: I have never understood the hypnotic appeal of raising the minimum wage.  The *intent* of shortening the gap between the wealthy and the not wealthy SOUNDS good, but this legislation results in the raised price of goods thereby negating any benefit of that "raise."  It doesn't bring the upper and lower classes closer together.  Only one thing will bridge that gap: changed hearts.  Hearts at both ends of the spectrum that shed their entitlements and care more for one another than for personal rights and personal prosperity.

Side note 2: Our debt-based economy is a house of cards that must inevitably topple.  When our attempts to artificially prop it up finally fail, it will be painful - perhaps devastatingly so - but it will create the possibility for something new founded on principles of creativity and community rather than excessivity, consumption, and wealth generation.  (Don't hear what I'm NOT saying: wealth is not evil...UNLESS, of course, it is motivated by greed and acquired on the backs of the oppressed.  That's not a socialistic, anti-capitalist mindset.  I believe it is the economy of the Trinitarian God who shares continually with us out of his abundance.  He shares his creativity, his counsel, his material wealth, his everything with us.  His generosity is fueled by his self-giving nature, not the acquisition of power over us.  His intent is our flourishing, not our groveling dependence.

Side note 3: It is perhaps un-American to say so, but I do not believe self-reliance is, in and of itself, a virtue.  The independent spirit we so admire (and of which I have more than my fair share!) when coupled with self-focus, becomes insidious.  Taking care of me and mine and the rest of you fend for yourselves, is no more admirable than sitting idly with hands open, demanding they be filled.  Self-reliance, when fueled by the desire not to burden others with my needs and  when tempered by a desire to generously bolster those whose burden is overly heavy, both confirms dignity in the self and creates bonds of love in the community.  And, I think, reaches toward a truly Christian idea of communal life.

Side note 4: I am not an unequivocal apologist for capitalism.  So, while I'm critical of the stay-at-home orders partly because of the economic implications, it's not because I believe that economic prosperity, as we view it today, is the ultimate good. Shalom is the ultimate societal good...but that's a whole other topic!  I also suspect that a complete economic meltdown could lead to a simplification - a resetting, if you will - of our perceived material needs.  It might force an examination of our priorities, our desires, our wantonness, our way of devouring-because-we-can.  Even though that is my perspective, I see little wisdom in shutting everything down.  Singapore kept life moving while making strategic, rational, data-based decisions on how to shield the most vulnerable while keeping the rest of society functioning.  That was a loving approach.

Back to the issue at hand: Our Response to The Illness.  

Our collective response appears emotional and reactionary.  We are basing our actions on public perception of risk and data that is skewed by multiple factors, including a very limited data set and our choice to present the data in the most sensationalized way.  We choose # of cases and # of deaths.  Why?  Because they present the most terrifying picture that then justifies our decisions?  We could just as easily present the % of population who have been tested, % of those returning a positive, % of untested population, % of deaths among those without pre-existing conditions.  We could frame our presentation with adjustments for population health, adjustments for lifestyles, etc., etc., etc.  We could present the data in all kinds of ways, but we choose the most dramatic...WHY?  To keep people tuned in and to keep them begging for solutions?  Because we're too lazy to unearth better options?  Because we're not systems thinkers?  I don't KNOW why, so I speculate.

In the meantime, our reactions have left those who are dying to do so apart from those who love them.  Somehow we protect our healthcare workers enough to allow them to be in the hospitals day in and day out, but we cannot protect family members well enough to attend the bedsides of the dying?  I cannot find the sense in this no matter how hard I try.  We are NOT out of PPE...every day in the grocery store, I see average citizens galore wearing surgical masks and N95s!  How can we not provide protected means for visits to happen? In an age marked by agility, creativity, ingenuity...how have we not found a way to dignify the dying with presence...mere presence??? It's a grievous choice.

Another aspect that baffles me is our seeming inability to think clearly, even consistently, within our own declared belief systems.  Our flexible moral compass allows us to pick and choose what we believe according to the zeitgeist or emotion of the moment.  If I adhere to a survival of the fittest theory, why would I not view this as the inevitable sloughing off of those too weak to survive?  It is nature doing what nature does and strengthening the human race.  Should I not be at peace with it, instead of panicked by it?  If I'm ok with a mother and doctor deciding which fetal life is worth saving, why am I freaked out about a doctor deciding which COVID patient does and doesn't get a ventilator?  Why is that life decision more weighty in one situation than the other?  How is that decided? I ask a dozen questions along these lines and across the spectrum of beliefs...including my own! Are we reacting consistently with our dogma?  If not, why not?

And then, of course, we have a smorgasbord of conspiracy theorists positing how this whole virus was concocted to enact someone's agenda.  I don't lend credence to any of them (not b/c I think no one is capable of such heinous acts.  History clearly proves otherwise...I just don't believe that's what has happened here); however, I am absolutely enough of a cynic to believe that many opportunists have seized this to advance their personal, corporate, political, religious, or  other agenda.  Fearful people are pliable people. And pliable people in the hands of powerful people can be fashioned into almost any image.

So...what is the point of this whole rambling rant?  I'm not entirely sure.  It's not to imply that The Illness is nothing.  It's not to be an armchair quarterback suggesting that I know which plays should have been called. I suppose it's primarily a conversation with myself.  It's my way of processing thousands of swirling thoughts about how we arrived at this place...how we lost the resilience of our fathers and grandfathers.  (I mean...we've read The Hiding Place, yes?  And Unbroken?  And The Long Walk?)  How our lives of ease have made us soft...how our ways of anesthetizing death have made its horror foreign to us.  How the relative nonchalance with which we navigate, not only our daily lives, but also the globe, leave us shocked at our sudden immobility...how our running to and fro makes us kick against the stillness.  And how...HOW...do we bring forth the best of our individual and collective selves in this strange place we now inhabit? 

How do the fearful understand the stoic? Those who run toward danger with noble resolve understand those who shrink from it?  Those who shift with agility understand those who stubbornly fight change?  Those who believe in the goodness of shared resources understand those who defend the goodness of autonomy?  Those who laugh understand those who weep?  

I suppose understanding is found first in not fearing one another's perspectives.  By listening to and dignifying my fellow man.  By lending credibility to his thoughts and feelings as arising from his particular experiences (which are likely different than mine).  By speaking my own position, not from a desire to intimidate or to assert my superiority, but from a desire to genuinely engage.  By reining in my propensity to judge, to condescend, to berate any perspective other than my own. 

This is hard work.  But it is the hard work of loving my neighbor...and is that not the great healing balm we all need?  Whether our efforts to slow The Illness work or don't...whether we suffer long and deep or whether some great discovery springs forth to snuff it out.  Whatever happens, the best salve for our loss, our grief, our anger, our suspicion, our arrogance, our stubbornness, is really rather mundane - to unbind our fists and extend our hands to serve and love one another well.