I’ve been reading alot about funerary customs lately. In ancient Rome, the funeral party would walk long, public processions to the pyre. Buddhists observe a period of offerings to the poor as part of their bereavement. The Jewish people hold shiva, a week-long gathering wherein relatives congregate in one house to mourn and pray. They receive visitors, who bring food. They cover mirrors and refuse to attend to the regular patterns of hygiene: nobody bathes or shaves. They confront grief face-to-face: they submit to it, immersing themselves in pain and loss. For many Jews, shiva requires silence and absolute isolation from meaningful human interaction.
In a way, I envy this: a tremendous dedication to the memory of the deceased; a kind of slow, laborious grieving; full surrender to the pain and numbness of tragedy. My body doesn’t work this when. In the last two weeks, I’ve made every effort to keep moving at full steam: working, eating, cooking, cleaning, biking, distracting myself with books and movies and even the occasional reality television show. I hold other people, mourn with them, listen to their memories and laments. It helps me to help them. Hearing their stories remind me of my own, which is my form of lament, my form of remembrance.
In the midst of it all, though, we persevere. Like it or not, the sun rises and sets and work accumulates. There are weeds to be pulled and articles to be written. People celebrate birthdays; babies are born. We get good news; we get bad news. The ebb and flow of life continues its undulating rhythms. In spite of all that is wretched and heartbreaking, life goes on. For now, we keep shuffling through the days, our rubber soles squeaking on the parquet. As the poet once said, if we can’t manage any forward motion, the best we can do is keep buzzing.
They call it a wake, apparently, because in its ancient origins the word meant “to be active.” We gather together and combat the stunning, paralyzing effects of grief with intentional acts of distraction. We cook. We clean. We refill glasses of water. We move constantly, vigilantly. We press against the overwhelming sense of loss even if, at times, we feel like Sisyphus fighting earth’s natural rhythms. This weekend, we came together in the purest way: as fragile, emotional creatures, uninhibited and unvarnished. We cried and prayed and searched frantically for wisdom and comfort. This weekend, we held a wake. We watched one another and guarded one another—or gave it our best shot, at the very least. We shared memories the same way we shared platefuls of spaghetti: in heaps. There was no resolution, no remedy, no salve. The yoke of loss did not disappear but, spread across the shoulders of the community, became a much more manageable burden.
We’ve been diligently documenting the goings-on at General Conference. You can read about it here, and check out our photos below. (Click on the badge to see the whole photostream.)
Yesterday, the team from the BIC General Church spent ten hours in a van with too many Type A personalities. Last night, we ate dinner at a gloriously gimmicky Italian buffet. Today we woke up early, got tea from Tim Horton’s, stuffed bags, and watched Bible quizzing. Nate, Kristine, and I have established our Multimedia Information and Communications Hub (MICH) and we’re currently loading pictures onto our Flickr account. Later, we’ll write on our blog. And much later we’ll stream some live video from General Conference’s opening service.
Last night, after dinner, Nate and I went back to the room and, perhaps intuitively, discovered that Canada has Gideons, too. (They’re the folks who put Bibles in hotel rooms.) Paging through the formerly-untouched book, we found an index completely devoted to How the Bible Can Help You in Troubled Times. Folks struggling with alcoholism, for instance, were helpfully directed to 1 Corinthians 3:11 (”For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ”) and Ephesians 5:18 (”Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit.”).
Across the room, Nate and I found a minibar stocked with tons of booze. Oh, the irony.
(For the next couple of days, you can also read me here. Brethren in Christ General Conference in Toronto is June 27-30.)
Apologies to those of you who have bookmarked this page and (as I do with many of the blogs I frequent) checked every-day-or-so for an update. I’ve been remiss.
In the two weeks since last I wrote, I’ve packed up the majority of my worldly possessions and moved them back to my parents’ house in Gardners. I’ve returned to my isolated-yet-sweet cubicle at the Brethren in Christ church offices, where I spend copious portions of the day researching compassion issues, writing about Toronto, and getting frustrated about this guy, who is frustrating and often incoherent but also belongs to my church family. I’ve spent time with Sasha, who I haven’t seen in a while, and was surprised at work by Charlie and Andrew. I’ve gone to Arts Fest, an IMAX theatre, and Pizza Grille. I’ve enjoyed a picnic by the Breeches and played softball with my family. And I’ve been able to see Katie every day, which is an unexpected blessing fortuitously dispensed by the good folks in the Admissions Office.
I’ve been watching The Book of Daniel, a canceled television series about a liberal Episcopal minister who talks with Jesus (he’s an actual character in the show—and a Caucasian, which is perhaps the most offensive bit of the series, at least to me). Of course, the rest of the show was offensive to the important people in Christianity, who got Daniel off the airwaves within four episodes of the mid-season debut. Watching the series—which includes a openly gay Republican character, a couple whose anti-Asian sentiments preclude their daughter from dating Daniel’s adopted son, and a female bishop—reminds me how much I’ve changed from my days at Bethel Christian Academy, where the “ludicrous” notions of loving your gay son and allowing female church leadership would have made me laugh with haughty self-righteousness.
I’ve been reading Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, which is challenging and astonishing and totally captivating. It follows the lives of the Price family as missionaries in Congo: Nathan, a Baptist minister and the iron-fisted patriarch; Orleanna, the submissive wife; Rachel, the prissy eldest daughter wrenched against her will from a life of sleepovers and sweet sixteen parties; Leah, the tomboy; Adah, physically handicapped, terribly perceptive, extremely articulate, and completely misunderstood (a la Darl Bundren in Faulkner’s classic As I Lay Dying); and Ruth May, the wide-eyed youngest daughter. As affecting as Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and as disconcerting as Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (depending on how you read it, of course).
I’ve been listening to a lot, but I’ve especially enjoyed reconnecting with Old Crow Medicine Show’s Big Iron World and growing in my appreciation of Bruce Springsteen’s latest, Magic. Definitely albums to pick up for the summer.
And things are just getting underway. I’m not promising my regular once-a-week postings over the summer months, but I do guarantee regular updates on how things are going: musings on church, work, family, friends, entertainment, literature, religion, school—the things that will continue to define my last summer of freedom and my last year as a student at Messiah College.
Poets, I believe, are some of the most comforting people that exist. I’m talking not just about real poets like Billy Collins, wordsmiths whose verse welcomes like a freshly brewed cup of tea or a familiar cardigan sweater, but poets of all kinds: songwriters, filmmakers, actors—thinkers and feelers, magicians and alchemists, translators and tour guides.
I’m reflective tonight. So much has changed in the last twenty-four hours—all for the best, I’m sure—but as the pinpricks of changed plans tickle and tap against the back of my neck, I find that the oft-quoted biblical aphorism about God working in mysterious ways turns out to be true all too often. If only we could peel back that divine shroud and discover the whys and hows.
Fourteenth century Christian mystic Julian of Norwich has a rather famous quotation: All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. In white-knuckled entreaty, I beg for this to be true.
Tonight, I’m really thankful for Bob Dylan, for his righteous indignation and raw, ravaged voice; I’m thankful for Anne Lamott, whose wisdom is vulnerable and who comforts by hugging and haranguing simultaneously; I’m thankful for the uneven silence rising in waves from the sidewalks of Broad Street; I’m thankful for my favorite prayer, words originally penned by Garrison Keillor: thank you, dear Lord, for this good life and forgive us if we do not enjoy it enough.
With only four days left in the City of Brotherly Love, I wanted to slowly look back on the semester that was with a collection of photos. In compiling this list, I realized that what I’ll take away when I leave this place in mere days are the unexpected blessings from the last two semesters: actually enjoying physical labor at the Uber Street garden; finding myself in a relationship with a wonderful girl whom I do not deserve; learning to comprehend the words of Edward Soja; befriending people who offend my sensibilities and make me socially uncomfortable, people who have taught me—in ways subtle and quite obvious—that life is not about always saying the right thing or conforming to a rigidly assigned set of social mores.
For these simple blessings, I am thankful.
EDIT: These aren’t all my pictures. Thanks to Jeff, Emily, Katie, and Messiah College Provost Randy Basinger for taking/posting some of these pics, which I then stole and combined with my own.
Every so often, I take the opportunity to close myself up in my room—often dressed in pajamas (as I am now)—while I crank up the quiet acoustic stuff, brew a big cup of tea, and allow myself to get properly sentimental. I’ll flip through old Facebook albums or read lyrics or meditate on wise sayings. And then at the end, I’ll curl up in bed and cry big, wet, sloppy tears and feel so, so good.
Usually these moments accompany a major change in my life: that time Charlie left Messiah, the close of my first-year summer. Tonight it’s all about the end of my time in Philadelphia, a period of my life marked by important lectures, good concerts, life choices, new directions, plenty of learning, renewal, revision, and lots and lots of reading and (occasionally) writing. Right now I’m properly maudlin, thinking of people—friends and acquaintances alike—who have played even a small role in making me the person that I am at this moment.
At times like this, I really cherish the words in the title above, and whisper them as a quiet prayer. I’m not sure if they’re enough, but sometimes they’re the most I can muster in this life of unearned blessings.
Al Gore—speaking tonight before a crowd of PennFuture benefators, supporters, and activists—told a story from his recent speech at the United Nations: after discussing the role of all nations in stemming the consequences of global warming and requesting the immediate need for countries to ratify a treaty toward sustainability, Gore was shocked when the delegates from the United States said, “We object to this legislation.”
The room erupted in boos and shouts and, while Gore tried to take it all in, he saw a young representative from Papua New Guinea—a small, poor Pacific island nation wherein many of the indigenous tribes, those living in extreme isolation in the country’s mountains, still live literally in the Stone Age—step up to the microphone. The room grew quiet. And then this young man said, “Delegates from the United States: When it comes to climate change initiatives, you can either lead, follow, or get out of the way.”
When Gore finished this story tonight, the crowd in the ballroom at the Philadelphia Sheraton erupted in applause. Gore spoke at the event celebrating PennFuture’s tenth anniversary, an event taglined with the phrase “victories to celebrate, challenges to meet.” The organization, which has championed a number of environmental causes over its last decade of existence, has sought to reduce Pennsylvania’s mercury pollution, to build our commitment to wind and solar energy (with over 200,000 Commonwealth homes currently fueled by these energy resources), and to adopt the cleanest tailpipe standards for new cars.
But Gore’s speech tonight was about more than just small steps toward a greater goal. The former vice president of the United States touched on a more powerful truth I’ve been realizing throughout my year in Philadelphia: the recognition that we live not in a series of nations seeking our individual happinesses, but that we are citizens of the earth, participants in an ecological system that ignores borders and supersedes political allegiances. We have responsibilities— especially those of us who call ourselves Christians—to care for the resources we’ve been given. On a practical level these responsibilities take the shape of more energy-conscious solutions—changing to compact florescent lightbulbs and remembering to unplug our electronics when they’re not in use—but they also require a somewhat greater commitment to pursuing and advocating a public policy that ensures that future generations will inherit an earth that is functional, sustainable, and comfortable.
Sometimes, walking down Broad Street, I see the trash trapped in storm drains, entwined in chain-link fences, littering the rare patches of green space. I watch cars speed down the street belching invisible toxins. In his movie An Inconvenient Truth, Gore refers to this kind of apocalyptic constitutional as “a nature walk through the Book of Revelation.” No wonder it’s so easy to become jaded. Sure, my roommate and I keep the temperature down in our room and try to use less electricity whenever possible. But how can these small, everyday solutions take hold not only in individual spaces but in neighborhoods? Cities? Counties? States? Nations? How do they add up to cleaner streets and cleaner air? How do they refocus our cultural paradigm away from what Gore called the “easy wrongs” and toward the “hard rights”? All too often, these questions seem overwhelming.
I remind myself that living in this world means accepting its faults, its flaws, its inconsistencies. I remind myself that I can do no great things, only small things with great care. So when my floormates unthinkingly leave the bathroom lights on, or use the electric-powered bathroom fan instead of merely opening a window, I first get frustrated; I react poorly; I maybe yell a little bit, too. But in the end I flick off the light switch or crack open the window and, in doing so, hopefully encourage others to do the same. It’s not much, but—in some ways—it’s the best that I can do.
Leaving Philadelphia has me feeling particularly melancholy. Today, describing to Dr. Peterson a wonderful encounter I had on the City Hall bus, my favorite Messiah professor said to me, “See, those are experiences you just can’t have in Harrisburg.”
“What are you doing to me!?” I exclaimed. “Don’t say that! I have to go back and live there!”
Right as he was, it’s still painful to hear—after May 16, it’ll be at least 365 days until Philadelphia is once again my home. This fact makes me rightfully despondent.
There are glimmers of hope. The return to BIC this summer will be epic. (And by epic, I mean full of deep belly laughs, much eye-rolling, skipped staff devotions, a trip to Canada, and copious amounts of fun with people I love.) I’m really looking forward to living with my parents again; our relationship is so good right now, and I’m absolutely thrilled to see them again on a regular basis and have chats about important things. And working at the library will be, as always, an adventure in musty books, hearty laughter, irritating patrons, and cardigan sweaters.
While we inhabit and wait for the day to come, enjoy this. I certainly have. I think it speaks to so much of why I love Philadelphia, love the people in this place, love the richness of its possibilities, and look forward to making it my permanent home.
