Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the author of the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner (“Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”) was known to his contemporaries as a literary critic. He wrote reviews of poems and novels and stories and essays. He also wrote essays on how to write. He said in one of those essays that good fiction is that which “…creates a willing suspension of disbelief.”
I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to understand the world and all its amazing intricacies, let alone people and all of their various behaviors. Then there’s myself. I know me pretty well, and I still don’t get it sometimes when I react to this or that. Life really is a mystery, so far transcending my feeble perspective as to make me feel down right childish every time I consider “…the moon and the stars which God has ordained. What are we that Thou art mindful of us or our children that you care for us.” The writer of the 8th Psalm had the same problem I do. The size and complexity of the universe is stunning.
I remember, not that long ago, not that far away, I felt daunted by this, almost crushed. It was all too much for me. But at the time so was life. Right now, my life is a good place to be. I am very blessed with family and friends and meaningful work. But this ‘good life,’ this sense that my life is meaningful and blessed is not founded on these delightful accidents. If these were life’s secrets there would be no mystery involved. All we would need is a nice place to live and a good car and a few tolerant people around us and we’d be happy as clams. No, I think we are called to more than comfort.
This is where STC comes in. I think his guidance about fiction has something to do with finding meaning in life and our place in it. If we can’t suspend our disbelief, there is no reason to help anybody, to feed the hungry, to forgive, to be generous, to appreciate, or to learn. We will live locked behind defenses of opinion and prejudice, excluding anything that doesn’t fit into our neat and tidy systems. And when we are challenged, we’ll either get mad or we’ll be dismissive, much as the smart ones were when a few weirdo’s said the Earth might not be flat.
Maybe we all need to dream a bit more. What could be? Ya’ never know…
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Solitary Confinement
Psalm 22: 1-15
There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.
I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the “normalities” of prison. Affectionately known as the hole or the cooler solitary confinement is seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counter productive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word torture comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But,others of the wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. And the wardens don’t want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts. It is counter productive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.
So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what’s the problem? The answer is simple. Voters and therefore politicians want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn’t seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.
The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants. Taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.
This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes down hill from there. With few glimmers during the free-fall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.
There are few things I fear, truly fear. I’m not courageous. It’s just that I’ve lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt, but here I am, still cheering for the N Y Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment, Abby for short, that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.
I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can’t rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I’d like to hear Jesus’ comment on that one. I wonder what He’d say to us.
There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.
I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the “normalities” of prison. Affectionately known as the hole or the cooler solitary confinement is seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counter productive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word torture comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But,others of the wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. And the wardens don’t want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts. It is counter productive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.
So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what’s the problem? The answer is simple. Voters and therefore politicians want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn’t seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.
The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants. Taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.
This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes down hill from there. With few glimmers during the free-fall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.
There are few things I fear, truly fear. I’m not courageous. It’s just that I’ve lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt, but here I am, still cheering for the N Y Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment, Abby for short, that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.
I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can’t rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I’d like to hear Jesus’ comment on that one. I wonder what He’d say to us.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
the Rev.
We just came down to Florida to visit my Mother and Father in law. This is a vacation of the first order. Down here we are taken care of. She knows I like espresso, so she bought a machine, so I wouldn’t have to “…put up with regular coffee.” By the time we go home, we’re relaxed. Who wouldn’t be?
One of the questions my father-in-law asked me before the two of us when out to visit a friend of his was, “How do you like to be addressed?”
I told him, “Your-imperial-highness, ruler-of-the-known-universe-and-monarch-of-all-that-is would be nice.” He laughed, thank God. The whole thing had to do with Reverend. I told him that we don’t usually introduce lawyers with “esquire” after their name, I’m a professional, just use my name unless we’re in a professional setting and then call me “David.” I told him I’ve been using that name for over 60 years, it will do fine.
The whole priestly role thing is an interesting nut to crack. I’m very privileged to be part of the profession that represents something far beyond myself or my own agenda. I like being the shaman of the community. I like comforting, proclaiming, leading, reminding, teaching… etc. I like the role. I even like taking care of the worship space and doing stuff that draws boundaries in time and space to consecrate moments and places for the consideration of power and depth beyond us. If calling me, “The Reverend” is an acknowledgement of respect for the office, the role and thus the power and depth that it represents, fine. But every time somebody says it, I feel like having a class, affirming their willingness to acknowledge me, but also cautioning them not to consider me as a locus of holiness.
That’s a great way to be a wet blanket at social gatherings. So, most of the time I roll with it. I don’t know. Maybe we need to label the shaman. On the other hand, there are different gifts but it is the same spirit who gives them. I think I’ll stick with David. But I’d settle for ruler-of-the- known-universe. Has a nice ring to it.
One of the questions my father-in-law asked me before the two of us when out to visit a friend of his was, “How do you like to be addressed?”
I told him, “Your-imperial-highness, ruler-of-the-known-universe-and-monarch-of-all-that-is would be nice.” He laughed, thank God. The whole thing had to do with Reverend. I told him that we don’t usually introduce lawyers with “esquire” after their name, I’m a professional, just use my name unless we’re in a professional setting and then call me “David.” I told him I’ve been using that name for over 60 years, it will do fine.
The whole priestly role thing is an interesting nut to crack. I’m very privileged to be part of the profession that represents something far beyond myself or my own agenda. I like being the shaman of the community. I like comforting, proclaiming, leading, reminding, teaching… etc. I like the role. I even like taking care of the worship space and doing stuff that draws boundaries in time and space to consecrate moments and places for the consideration of power and depth beyond us. If calling me, “The Reverend” is an acknowledgement of respect for the office, the role and thus the power and depth that it represents, fine. But every time somebody says it, I feel like having a class, affirming their willingness to acknowledge me, but also cautioning them not to consider me as a locus of holiness.
That’s a great way to be a wet blanket at social gatherings. So, most of the time I roll with it. I don’t know. Maybe we need to label the shaman. On the other hand, there are different gifts but it is the same spirit who gives them. I think I’ll stick with David. But I’d settle for ruler-of-the- known-universe. Has a nice ring to it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
I’d like to thank…
I’m receiving an award tonight. That may seem like small change to most of you, but other than my degrees, a bronze medal in the Mid Atlantic Conference, and some thank you’s, I’ve never received an award. I didn’t really notice that bit of trivia until I realized I had to write an acceptance speech. I’ve written books, sermons, lectures, essays, poems, eulogies, research papers, treatises, and songs, but I’ve never written an acceptance speech. That’s when it occurred to me, I’d never been given an award.
“I’d like to thank the judges and my wife and my mom…” Some how the models that I’d gleaned from the few times I’d stumbled or been pulled into the Oscar show didn’t seem to fill the bill. I was puzzled and nonpulsed.
This award is from the American Conference on Diversity. The Rabbi and I are both getting it for our work in “…championing the cause of encouraging, facilitating, enhancing, and helping to create inclusive communities.” There’s no mention of eating, drinking, laughing, supporting, sharing family ties, or being human together. But we’re getting the award anyway.
I want to say something about our shared faith. I want to say something about the power and relevance of communities of faith. We get such bad press, admittedly some of it deserved. But in spite of all the negetivity and dismissivism (how's that for a new word?) I really believe we've got something to offer. So, here's what I came up with.
“Three years ago, I got married. I learned that being different from each other is good. I’m a slow learner. My wife’s an excellent teacher.
If communities of faith are to have any authenticity or integrity in this post modern age, we must reach toward something more than a recitation of our version of history or sad litanies of dogma. We must remember that faith is an affirmation of something far beyond our understanding or our limitations. We represent the presence of something that can never be limited or boxed. These two communities of faith have had a close relationship for decades. They will never be the same. But because of their relationship and because of their difference, they learn. And because of our learning, and in the midst of it, we rejoice. And I know that our God does too. Thank you.”
It's not Lincoln, but it'll float.
“I’d like to thank the judges and my wife and my mom…” Some how the models that I’d gleaned from the few times I’d stumbled or been pulled into the Oscar show didn’t seem to fill the bill. I was puzzled and nonpulsed.
This award is from the American Conference on Diversity. The Rabbi and I are both getting it for our work in “…championing the cause of encouraging, facilitating, enhancing, and helping to create inclusive communities.” There’s no mention of eating, drinking, laughing, supporting, sharing family ties, or being human together. But we’re getting the award anyway.
I want to say something about our shared faith. I want to say something about the power and relevance of communities of faith. We get such bad press, admittedly some of it deserved. But in spite of all the negetivity and dismissivism (how's that for a new word?) I really believe we've got something to offer. So, here's what I came up with.
“Three years ago, I got married. I learned that being different from each other is good. I’m a slow learner. My wife’s an excellent teacher.
If communities of faith are to have any authenticity or integrity in this post modern age, we must reach toward something more than a recitation of our version of history or sad litanies of dogma. We must remember that faith is an affirmation of something far beyond our understanding or our limitations. We represent the presence of something that can never be limited or boxed. These two communities of faith have had a close relationship for decades. They will never be the same. But because of their relationship and because of their difference, they learn. And because of our learning, and in the midst of it, we rejoice. And I know that our God does too. Thank you.”
It's not Lincoln, but it'll float.
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