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.