News reached me this week that an old friend had died. Trey was someone I hadn't spoken to him in many years. Growing up, we lived a few houses apart, and in high school, we ran in the same social circles. He died too young and entirely unexpectedly, before he had even half-begun what he hoped and dreamed to accomplish.
Wanting to know more about where his life had taken him, I did a bit of cyber-stalking. I poured over an old MySpace page, through some old articles and notes. How strange, it seems to me, the way that the internet inadvertently becomes a cemetery. There's no one to pull the plug, and so sometimes, for years, "social networking" links us with those who have died. Dare we 'unfriend' someone who has died, fearing a kind of zombie? But perhaps the internet is simply teaching a dreaded truth: we are always connected directly connected to the dead. Unfriending makes no difference.
The most difficult emotion to face, at least for me, in the death of someone in their young adult years is the possibility of failure. By dying, through no fault of his own, my friend failed to achieve everything he wanted to accomplish. His vocation is, in an important sense, unfulfilled. Surely he contributed much to the world--my mother commented that she had been sure that Trey would become a senator, with his ability to befriend a whole room in moments. And surely in (literally) billions of other ways he contributed to our world, altering it, at least in my experience, significantly for the better. But surely Trey feels that his vocation is unfulfilled. Surely, if we asked him, he would have a thing or two to say about the terrible injustice of death come too soon. I would certainly feel that way.
There is something primal and terrifying about failing to fulfill a vocation because it is 'tragedy' in the truest sense of the word. It is real and absolute loss. I myself fear that loss not out of some sense that God, a cruel-taskmaster, demands a certain list of things accomplished for each of us. Rather, I fear it because the loss of an incomplete vocation is as real as the loss of a limb, a pain over a healthy object no longer there. I mourn the loss of Trey's vocation, its failure to come to fruition; and I fear the same loss for myself.
Rowan Williams reflects on this topic in his book on Dostoevsky. The freedom of our world means that inherent in it is the possibility of failure. Any of us may fail at our vocations--and even more than that, we may fail through no fault of our own. Living in this world of mutual dependence means both that we might fail, and that it may not be our fault. What a terrible truth this speaks to us in America: not only may we fail at doing what brings us peace and joy, but it might be someone else's fault. This would be no surprise to anyone who has ever been truly oppressed, but to so many of us, it's damn surprising.
However, we should also see one other thing, also discussed by both Williams and Dostoevsky. In Christ, in the possibility of eternal life, the promise is made to us that any of our actions may serve to change what the past actions meant. A confession, while only the first step, is a real change of life. A gift freely shared with a stranger becomes the climax of our past, turning a whole story about selfishness into one where we learned to give.
I believe in resurrection for all the reasons that have inspired me to do so, but what it means to me practically is the possibility that a failed vocation in this life is, perhaps even now, being brought into line by later action. Even now Trey continues his work and vocation as an artist and counselor, even if we won't see its fruits till the fullness of the kingdom. Even now the love of his family and friends takes that partially complete vocation and redeems it. Neither resurrection erases the loss, but both show it to be one stage on a fuller journey, a story that has room for both cross and empty tomb.
In memory of Trey and Adam
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Holy space, with salmon
It's been a tough week for buildings so far this week--or at least a few of the buildings in my life. One burned, and now a Presiding Bishop who is suggesting, somewhat brilliantly, that perhaps marriage to an overpriced office building in Manhattan was the way of operations for the 1950s, and not in our own day. If I worked at 815, my heart would be in my throat, but as someone who simply wants our church to succeed, I have to say that once again, our PB is on to something.
When Lauren heard that the chapel burned, she went through the modern five stages of grief, rather than the traditional Kubler-Ross five stages: 1. phone calls, 2. website, 3. local news, 4. press releases, and 5. facebook, trying desperately to find out what was happening, what it meant, how the institution was responding. At the same time Lauren was making these frantic connections, she happened to catch a friend of ours on the phone, another graduate of "The Seminary", who, when asked to comment, said: "oh, that's only a building."
I am probably closer to the 'only a building' opinion than to Lauren's. While I can sympathize with those for whom a building is a loss, and even recognize the reality of the emotional loss, for me, it's just a building. I too buried friends from that space, and I too was ordained there. But for me, it's a building--it comes, it goes.
How we react to the loss of a building, whether it is a church or a home, has to do with how we pre-reflectively conceptualize "holy space." Exactly what we mean by that term can be a little fluid, both in the sense that we think 'holy space' is probably subjective rather than objective (the mountains, or a gothic cathedral, or a white-washed Protestant prayer hall might equally be holy spaces, depending on the person), and in the sense the word 'holy' might mean anything from "liminal" to "a place where I remember a powerful thing happened to me." If anything, it seems to me that 'holy space' has grown more important in our own suburban, industrialized world--a thin space that links to the beyond.
For me, 'holy space' in a traditional sense is of minimal importance--which is probably nigh-heresy for an Episcopalian. I long neither for the great outdoors nor for some particular building. Maybe it's the nomad plains where I grew up, all dead grass and blowing sky, or maybe it's my general restlessness. But for me, the holiest space happens at about 9:30am on a Saturday, alone in front of a computer, drinking Keemun black tea, and eating smoked salmon on a perfectly toasted bagel. Now that's holy, a time of communion beyond myself, a small glimpse of the heavenly places.
When Lauren heard that the chapel burned, she went through the modern five stages of grief, rather than the traditional Kubler-Ross five stages: 1. phone calls, 2. website, 3. local news, 4. press releases, and 5. facebook, trying desperately to find out what was happening, what it meant, how the institution was responding. At the same time Lauren was making these frantic connections, she happened to catch a friend of ours on the phone, another graduate of "The Seminary", who, when asked to comment, said: "oh, that's only a building."
I am probably closer to the 'only a building' opinion than to Lauren's. While I can sympathize with those for whom a building is a loss, and even recognize the reality of the emotional loss, for me, it's just a building. I too buried friends from that space, and I too was ordained there. But for me, it's a building--it comes, it goes.
How we react to the loss of a building, whether it is a church or a home, has to do with how we pre-reflectively conceptualize "holy space." Exactly what we mean by that term can be a little fluid, both in the sense that we think 'holy space' is probably subjective rather than objective (the mountains, or a gothic cathedral, or a white-washed Protestant prayer hall might equally be holy spaces, depending on the person), and in the sense the word 'holy' might mean anything from "liminal" to "a place where I remember a powerful thing happened to me." If anything, it seems to me that 'holy space' has grown more important in our own suburban, industrialized world--a thin space that links to the beyond.
For me, 'holy space' in a traditional sense is of minimal importance--which is probably nigh-heresy for an Episcopalian. I long neither for the great outdoors nor for some particular building. Maybe it's the nomad plains where I grew up, all dead grass and blowing sky, or maybe it's my general restlessness. But for me, the holiest space happens at about 9:30am on a Saturday, alone in front of a computer, drinking Keemun black tea, and eating smoked salmon on a perfectly toasted bagel. Now that's holy, a time of communion beyond myself, a small glimpse of the heavenly places.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Rummage sales
For those who like schedules, I imagine I'll be updating this page on Tuesdays and Thursdays. For those of you who don't like schedules, come by sporadically or click 'follow.' That's what I do.
Phyllis Tickle's idea that Christianity has entered the stage of "rummage sale" in its history has a funny resonance when reading stories like this one. I wonder what kind of rummage will appear at that sale?
It's hard to read stories like this and not feel some schadenfreude. For years, megachurches have offered an informal and occasionally overt critique of other churches, as if to say: "we megachurches are the future (or the present). You all will accomplish nothing like we do." I've always wondered if, over time, they would turn out to be exactly what they look like, namely, churches, and therefore subject to all the fits and starts of economy and attendance and soccer and a commercialized public. Seeing one of the original megachurches run itself 55 million in debt seems like exactly the kind of evidence I thought might one day appear. The head pastor's claim that God has led them to be 55 million in debt, and then write it off through bankruptcy seems to me a little, um, ... well, let's just say that praising the Divine for your poor business decisions, while leaping to place red-tape in front of you to protect you from creditors, seems ridiculous as a theology.
So, if Tickle is right and we are in The Great Emergence, rummage sale and rebirth of our faith tradition, what does that look like? What does that mean? Certainly, and I think this is important to say, it may mean that some of what's going to happen is what we might class as 'material rummage sales,' like the one that comes when you go belly up. One way to answer the question, and perhaps the best, is to attend one of the quote/unquote "emergent" groups, perhaps even of our particular denomination. The future may indeed be mystic, practical, life-commitment-oriented, down-to-earth, and afraid of real estate
But more and more, I think the future might still be being written even more radically than 'emergence' language might lead us to believe. In part, as someone with an academic bent, I think this is because Tickle's suggestion that history moves in 500 year increments is terrible and untrue--I'm not much for idealistic stages of history, and something about the very idea of 'stages of history' smacks exactly counter to the sense I have of postmodernism and emergent church, two concepts inevitably bound together. But more, what if, in fact, the future is not always knowable from the past?
I wonder if the metaphor for the 'emergence' should be part rummage sale, sure. But shouldn't it have a counter-metaphor, one that doesn't involve consumerism, materiality, modernist stages of history, and an eternal-return-of-the-same as necessary parts of the metaphor? Perhaps we need a metaphor like that of Saint Francis, stripping naked before his father in refusal of his birthright, and wandering into the forest with only a sense of vocation, one that that said "this past life ain't it"?
Phyllis Tickle's idea that Christianity has entered the stage of "rummage sale" in its history has a funny resonance when reading stories like this one. I wonder what kind of rummage will appear at that sale?
It's hard to read stories like this and not feel some schadenfreude. For years, megachurches have offered an informal and occasionally overt critique of other churches, as if to say: "we megachurches are the future (or the present). You all will accomplish nothing like we do." I've always wondered if, over time, they would turn out to be exactly what they look like, namely, churches, and therefore subject to all the fits and starts of economy and attendance and soccer and a commercialized public. Seeing one of the original megachurches run itself 55 million in debt seems like exactly the kind of evidence I thought might one day appear. The head pastor's claim that God has led them to be 55 million in debt, and then write it off through bankruptcy seems to me a little, um, ... well, let's just say that praising the Divine for your poor business decisions, while leaping to place red-tape in front of you to protect you from creditors, seems ridiculous as a theology.
So, if Tickle is right and we are in The Great Emergence, rummage sale and rebirth of our faith tradition, what does that look like? What does that mean? Certainly, and I think this is important to say, it may mean that some of what's going to happen is what we might class as 'material rummage sales,' like the one that comes when you go belly up. One way to answer the question, and perhaps the best, is to attend one of the quote/unquote "emergent" groups, perhaps even of our particular denomination. The future may indeed be mystic, practical, life-commitment-oriented, down-to-earth, and afraid of real estate
But more and more, I think the future might still be being written even more radically than 'emergence' language might lead us to believe. In part, as someone with an academic bent, I think this is because Tickle's suggestion that history moves in 500 year increments is terrible and untrue--I'm not much for idealistic stages of history, and something about the very idea of 'stages of history' smacks exactly counter to the sense I have of postmodernism and emergent church, two concepts inevitably bound together. But more, what if, in fact, the future is not always knowable from the past?
I wonder if the metaphor for the 'emergence' should be part rummage sale, sure. But shouldn't it have a counter-metaphor, one that doesn't involve consumerism, materiality, modernist stages of history, and an eternal-return-of-the-same as necessary parts of the metaphor? Perhaps we need a metaphor like that of Saint Francis, stripping naked before his father in refusal of his birthright, and wandering into the forest with only a sense of vocation, one that that said "this past life ain't it"?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
A Practice for Owen Meany
This space has lingered blank a while, but it's time has returned.
I recently completed, by superb audio book, A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. I picked it up purely because Ira Glass told me to, and if anything, I am surprised that I had never before crossed its path. Its distinctly religious character is doubtless evident from its title, but I was still surprised when only a few minutes in the narrator proclaims his connection and affinity for the Episcopal Church. It's not every novel that begins in such a way. It manages to be a highly fascinating religious apology from a non-religious writer, simultaneously deep (the ambiguities of religious life and symbols) and also slightly wooden (surely the miraculous must precede faith!).
Reading it in this time and place, what leaps from the page, or rather mp3 file, is a whole mess of still-poignant observations about being faithful in an unjust world--a topic perhaps for another time--and the question about how we come to faith. (In point of fact, with the free interview that came with the book, Irving and the interviewer seem to think that what leaps forth is the frustrated homosexual relationship, so your own experience may vary.). I've always been unduly fond of the Phillips Brooks response about how we come to faith--he replied that it had to do with his aunt--but the book revolves around the question of the miraculous, and in particular, how our practices do or do not remember in us the miraculous past, be it Jesus' birth or a friendship from our childhood.
Is "remembering" the purpose of ritual, of practice, of meditation, of prayer, of Eucharist? Surely these things have a memory-function that is involved, a-calling-to-mind of a more numinous reality. Perhaps they even transport us to those miraculous events--mangers, crosses, or even pilgrimage sites we visited long ago. Perhaps they "remember into the future" as I heard an SSJE brother argue last year.
But it seems to me that as powerful a role as memory plays in shaping our religious practice, the more powerful orientation must come from imagination, from hoping that God is present when we cannot see God, from believing that God will act in our future. And even though memory is not so separate from imagination, our ritual opens us up to what we cannot put together from fragments of memory, what cannot be assembled from past actions. Somehow, I think, our religious practice must always leave in it a powerful vacancy for what we do not yet have.
I recently completed, by superb audio book, A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. I picked it up purely because Ira Glass told me to, and if anything, I am surprised that I had never before crossed its path. Its distinctly religious character is doubtless evident from its title, but I was still surprised when only a few minutes in the narrator proclaims his connection and affinity for the Episcopal Church. It's not every novel that begins in such a way. It manages to be a highly fascinating religious apology from a non-religious writer, simultaneously deep (the ambiguities of religious life and symbols) and also slightly wooden (surely the miraculous must precede faith!).
Reading it in this time and place, what leaps from the page, or rather mp3 file, is a whole mess of still-poignant observations about being faithful in an unjust world--a topic perhaps for another time--and the question about how we come to faith. (In point of fact, with the free interview that came with the book, Irving and the interviewer seem to think that what leaps forth is the frustrated homosexual relationship, so your own experience may vary.). I've always been unduly fond of the Phillips Brooks response about how we come to faith--he replied that it had to do with his aunt--but the book revolves around the question of the miraculous, and in particular, how our practices do or do not remember in us the miraculous past, be it Jesus' birth or a friendship from our childhood.
Is "remembering" the purpose of ritual, of practice, of meditation, of prayer, of Eucharist? Surely these things have a memory-function that is involved, a-calling-to-mind of a more numinous reality. Perhaps they even transport us to those miraculous events--mangers, crosses, or even pilgrimage sites we visited long ago. Perhaps they "remember into the future" as I heard an SSJE brother argue last year.
But it seems to me that as powerful a role as memory plays in shaping our religious practice, the more powerful orientation must come from imagination, from hoping that God is present when we cannot see God, from believing that God will act in our future. And even though memory is not so separate from imagination, our ritual opens us up to what we cannot put together from fragments of memory, what cannot be assembled from past actions. Somehow, I think, our religious practice must always leave in it a powerful vacancy for what we do not yet have.
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