Yesterday I did something I hadn’t done in five years. I was pouring a bowl of cereal and a piece fell on the kitchen floor and I had to pick it up myself. Because, suddenly, I find myself bereft of the opportunistic canine who always helped keep the kitchen floor clean. 

In the first week of April, the Saturday after Easter actually, my sweet dog Fritz was diagnosed with lymphoma. He died two weeks ago, less than two months later. It’s been a rough time. In the five years since I adopted him from my brother’s friend, he’s been my constant companion, my sidekick through the ups and downs of life in Grand Rapids, Boston, and now Nashville. And I know I’m biased, but he really was an awesome dog, the kind of dog loved even by people who don’t like dogs. One of those calm, wise souls. He was a creature who truly never misbehaved and was always ready for the next adventure. I miss him dearly, and I miss seeing the way he brought smiles and delight to other people--who could resist grinning upon pulling up at a stoplight next to this face?

Here I pause to answer the questions I always got: He was a Shar-Pei and Greyhound mix. 65 pounds. 11 years old, but had a perpetual youthful energy and enthusiasm about him.

I could go on with endless anecdotes about the joy and comfort he’s brought me, how he effortlessly and continually reminded me that there really is such a thing as unconditional love. But for now I just want to tell you about his last few hours on this earth. It was two Sunday nights ago, and he’d been getting rapidly worse all weekend, ever since I had returned home from the trip out West I had fretted over whether to take at all. His decline started as soon as I got home; he stopped eating and started having more trouble breathing, and was getting weaker and more unsteady on his feet by the hour. By early Sunday evening I decided to let another chaplain take over the hospital pager I was supposed to be carrying overnight, and as soon as I got off the phone, I noticed that Fritz, instead of coming back inside after peeing, was ever so slowly ambling west, into the field next to my house, past the trees, until he reached a clearing where he wobbled his way to a flat patch to lie down. It was the furthest I’d seen him walk in three days, and it seemed so purposeful, especially since he’d never seemed to go out that far, especially not to lie down in the sweltering summer heat. Silently, I followed behind him, and then sat in the grass beside him, looking at what he was looking at: the horizon, with a beautiful sunset brewing, and the light already at that wonderfully low evening angle. Fritz’s breathing became very calm, and he just laid there, content as could be, for over an hour, feeling the sun on his soft furry face and the grass on his belly, sniffing the breeze, watching birds fly past and a couple other dogs run by.

Here’s an 11 second glimpse:

He seemed so utterly himself, so content. I had agonized over whether and how I’d know what was the next right thing to do for him, how I could minimize his suffering and maximize his quality of life for whatever time he had left. Gradually it sunk in that this was it. I had been on the phone with a hospice veterinarian that afternoon, discussing symptoms and next steps, and trying to imagine how I could possibly make that final trip to the vet. The longer I sat with Fritz and watered the grass with my tears, the more I realized beyond a doubt that Fritz had come out here to watch the fading of the light on the last day of his life. He just knew. It was so clear. I didn’t have to fret over how I’d know when it was the right time--sure enough, he was showing me, just as I’d been assured he would by friends who have been through the end-of-life experience with their own pets. 

I really can’t describe how profound it was, not only to feel freed from the question of  “what to do next,” but also to simply accept Fritz’s wordless invitation to sit and stay awhile and watch the sunset with him. When is the last time I sat still for over an hour and watched a sunset, let alone in my own backyard? What a gift.

Every evening since, as I look out at the field and the sunset, I remember how peaceful Fritz was, and how peaceful he stayed right up until about midnight when a friend and I took him to the vet’s office, where I held his head in the crook of my arm for the last time and just couldn’t stop saying thank you, thank you Fritz, thank you God for giving me this buddy for five years, thank you for a sunset I will never forget, thank you for the reminder to sit still and breathe and cry and lay my worries down for a bit, thank you for the promise of a sunrise and even for the sunset that I can count on tomorrow, when I will be beside myself with grief, the dog food still in the bowl, the apartment way too quiet. Fritz, you dearly departed dog you, thank you.

Last week, after an “Auntie Jessica” visit to San Francisco, I visited the Arches National Park in Moab, Utah, with my friend Stefanie. It had been years since I’d spent any time in a desert environment. Watching out the car window as we drove south from Salt Lake City, I saw the sharp, snow-capped mountains and lush greens gradually give way to myriad shades of tan, red, and shrubby sage green. The dry heat was a contrast to the California ocean breezes; both climates were welcome changes from Nashville’s sticky humidity.

As I adjusted to the time zone, elevation, and temperature, I absorbed the landscape’s grandeur. Immersing myself in the breathtakingly unique landscape of the Arches for a couple days was as invigorating as I hoped it would be. I’d never seen anything quite like the arches and the rock formations that dominate the horizon there. The expansiveness of the scenery stretched my thoughts and seemed to summon my whole being to rapt attention.

Delicate Arch (National Park Service Photo)

Beyond how visually stunning they are, the arches bear witness to the long, gradual changes wrought over time by the forces of water and wind. Some 65 million years ago, deep shifts in the mile-thick rock and the mile-thick salt deposits below it caused areas of rock to jut up or sink down dramatically. The raining and freezing and blowing to which the emerging rock was subjected eventually created “fins” of rock, many of which stand intact today, along with towers of rock capped by precarious-looking massive boulders. The arches themselves are not formed by a constant force like flowing water, but rather result when enough of the “glue” of the sandstone fins erodes away as time and the elements slowly and repeatedly combine forces; the bottom falls out and an arch remains. The arches vary -- there are over 2,000 of them in the Park currently -- some are thick and sturdy, others improbably fragile, like the famed Delicate Arch or the 306-foot wide Landscape Arch.

Landscape Arch (National Park Service Photo)

It’s tempting to think that the scenery is static, that what we see today is the endpoint of the 300-odd million years’ worth of changes, but in truth it’s dynamic. Occasional drastic and sudden changes, like the thunderous fall of a huge slab from the Landscape Arch in September 1991, are a reminder that the arches are continuing to evolve. New ones are formed; others weaken and collapse. The graceful arch that you and all the other tourists are photographing may not be there in five, ten, or twenty years.

The other seemingly static but actually quite dynamic component of the landscape is the soil. Or more precisely, the biological soil crust. It looks like clumps of brown dirt scattered across the rock, but it’s made up of a rich cocktail of cyanobacteria, algae, moss, lichens, and microfungi that allows soil to resist erosion and cling to the rock enough for things to grow. It helps plants optimize what little water remains available between rainfalls. It’s a complex and sophisticated system unto itself, one that has evolved to withstand flash floods and strong winds, but which suffers such damage under the weight of a human footstep that it takes decades or even centuries to be restored.

Biological soil crust (National Park Service Photo)

As I hiked, it seemed like the desert was trying to teach me things that are so easy to forget or ignore in most of daily life. I thought of all those early Christians who took to the desert, finding an ascetic lifestyle most conducive to practicing their faith. While I didn’t feel the urge to pick up and move to such a harsh environment, I did find myself hoping I could retain some desert wisdom as I returned to civilization.

The landforms, along with their flora and fauna, emit some reminders that humans would do well to heed, inviting us...

...To keep perspective -- around the next bend, this looming monolith will look radically different. And the dusty, sweaty distance you’re steadily covering will amaze you when a look over your shoulder reveals how far you’ve actually come. Keep going. And watch your step. But don’t forget to look up too.

...To appreciate not only the spectacular and the sensational but also the persistent behind the scenes work of algae and lichens, the under-the-scenes timeline of salt deposits and tectonic plates.

...To see how even that which seems solid and permanent is steadily changing, even if it's shifting imperceptibly.

...To take caution before trampling on whatever might seem benign underfoot; what appears mundane may in fact be teeming with vitality.

Claret Cup cactus flower

...To remember that resources are precious -- and even when they seem scarce, they might just  be sufficient. The cactus flowers that emerge after rationing every last molecule of water are as abundantly beautiful as any well-fertilized garden blossom. We can get by with less than we might think we need.

...To trust that thriving is possible even in harsh circumstances, that remarkable adaptability to new environments can foster enough hardiness to endure the droughts, along with enough resilience to welcome the rain without fear of being swept away.

Graphic by Timothy Aivazian (http://timothyaivazian.com)

I hope and pray today that the Spirit who animates and transforms our lives may keep us utterly aflame (and highly contagious!) with possibility, with love, and with trust. 

"Many people can do more than they think they can. Why?  We are afraid of attempting things because we are afraid of failing.  ‘If you don’t try, you can’t fail’ we tell ourselves.  But people who withdraw into themselves and creep into their shells out of fear of defeat, or because they are anxious about the way other people will react, or because they are afraid of losing some personal relationship, will never get to know their own potentialities.  They are not living in all the opportunities life is offering them.  But to do this is never to learn one’s own limitations either.  It is only when we try to get beyond our limitations that we learn what they are, and accept them.

There are people who think everything is impossible from the outset.  ‘It’s pointless,’ they say.  ‘Nothing will come of it in any case,’ and ‘I can’t.’  In this way they save themselves a lot of conflicts, but they experience very little about true life either.  And they learn least of all about themselves.  To themselves they remain anonymous.

But there are also people who believe in the possible.  That is the way believers are described in the synoptic gospels:  ‘All things are possible with God.’  The people who trust to that then sense that ‘All things are possible to him who believes.’  Of course this faith in the possible brings them some defeats, but they also experience the strength to get up again after their setbacks. The person who believes becomes a person full of possibilities.  People like this do not restrict themselves to the social roles laid down for them, and do not allow themselves to be tied to these roles.  They believe they are capable of more.  And they do not tie other people down to their own preconceived ideas.  They do not imprison others in what they are at present.  They see them together with their future, and keep their potentialities open for them.  ‘Love frees us from every image,’ said Max Frisch.  Love does not pin people down.  It sets them free.  If love gives trust, the other person can grasp his own potentialities for good.  Our charismatic potentialities are awakened by trust: trust in God, trust in ourselves, and trust in our neighbor.  And in this free space of trust we can trust ourselves to do something too."

-Jurgen Moltmann, The Spirit of Life: A Universal Affirmation (1992), p. 186-187

My dad, Ken Bratt, is retiring this year. He's been a Classics professor and director of the Honors program at Calvin College for decades, so I thought I'd ask him to share a bit with The Twelve. I wish I could be on campus for his retirement reception this afternoon; if any of you are around, please stop by! 

Thank you, Dad, for cooperating with this request! And thank you for all that you've taught and shared with so many over the years. Sending love from Nashville, the "Athens of the South"! 

After Dad's commencement address, 2009

Jessica: When did you start teaching at Calvin? (You had an offer from Hope at the same time, correct?)

Ken: 1977; yes, and Jack Nyenhuis (the chair at Hope) was also a good friend, so it was hard to disappoint him.

J: What are some of the biggest changes you've seen at Calvin over the years?

K: Demographically, the student body is much less CRC and more ecumenical; we have more ethnic and international diversity, more women on the faculty. Pedagogically, the communication revolution has had profound effects on teaching and learning. I've gone from  the mimeo machine (what’s that?) to computers on every desk and smart phones in almost every pocket. It allows students to be “connected” to the world and disconnected from what’s happening in their presence simultaneously. It prioritizes digital and visual information over printed books and contributes to the dominance of a youth culture -- the last trip to Greece was the first time I’ve seen most students internationally wired. It no longer seems possible to experience genuine culture shock in a short visit.

Another big change: increasing pragmatism among our students (and their parents), who don’t seem to value college for the old reasons (a time to expand horizons, discover gifts, explore possibilities, read and think), but instead have their eye on jobs and potential income.

J: What has been one of your favorite courses to teach and why?

K: Classical art and architecture – because the “material culture” is a window into the past that often raises questions about the literary evidence, and gives a voice to all the silent actors of the past, including those of the biblical world. Plus, the monuments of Greece and Rome are not just trophies of the past, but part of the present living cultures of the Mediterranean.

J: What are some of your favorite New Testament passages to read in Greek? 

K: Acts 17, Philippians 2, Revelation 22 – one of my best classes ever was an advanced Greek seminar in which we read Revelation 22 on the last day of the last semester for three seniors in the group.

J: When you teach Greek or Latin, what are you hoping your students will take from it into their vocational lives?   

K: Love of language and the intricacy of grammar, awareness of how it shapes thought and imagination, delight in good writing, sensitivity to what doesn’t translate from one time or language to another.

With Mom at celebration dinner for receiving the Presidential Award for Exemplary Teaching, 2006

J: How many years have you directed the Honors program? What have been your hopes for the Honors program as it has evolved and grown over the years?

K: 20 years. Wanted (and largely achieved) full participation by departments, intentional institutional support and celebration of our best student scholars, making academic achievement more prominent on the local map.

J: Why do you suppose there have been so many teachers in the Bratt family?   

K: What’s the old saying – “those who can’t do, teach?” No, I think it’s because we’ve had great models and can’t imagine anything more fun than reading, writing, discussing, and helping others explore the wonders of the world for life.

J: We joke about it, but really, how many slides and photographs of ancient sites and art DO you really have?

K:  At least 40,000 from 20 trips, but half of them are obsolete slides, so I still have to take thousands more digital images!  Only took 3,700 on my last trip to Greece.

Dad reading to us in our Athens apartment during his 1987 sabbatical...a very formative time in my life!  

J: Tell us about the interim trips to Greece and Italy you've led over the years, and any highlights or funny moments that stand out. You could even tell the story about having to talk your young female student out of marrying the Greek tour bus driver she'd fallen in love with.

K: 17 trips to Italy, Greece, and Turkey with at least 400 students, plus a wonderful semester in Britain with Laurel and 27 students. Most vivid memories (other than rescuing 4 students from unpromising romantic encounters) are leaving students behind at rest stops – twice! The daughter of one of them is a current student and tells me her father remembers - and is glad I still feel guilty.

J: I hear my fellow The Twelve writer Jennifer Holberg may be "roasting" you this afternoon at the reception. Want to get in the first word? Perhaps a pre-emptive rebuttal?   

K: Everyone should remember that my friend Jennifer specializes in fiction. “Verbum sapientibus sat” (a word to the wise is sufficient).

J: I'm finishing up my first year of a PhD program. Definitely a different era than when you were at that stage - tell us what had happened by the end of your first year of doctoral work at Princeton and how that changed things for the next few years.  

K: I was drafted during my first semester of grad school, which (in retrospect) was God's good timing. The interlude gave me a chance to teach at the Army Chaplain School (Fort Hamilton, NY). It taught me patience, how diverse the church of Christ is, and how much I really did want to live an academic life. When I got back to grad school, I was better prepared and motivated for the rest of the challenge.

J: How many CRC (and other) pastors out there do you think you've taught Greek to?

K: I didn't teach Greek every year and not all Greek students became pastors, but there have to be at least 500 of them out there, and every now and then they write to say thanks - which is very gratifying.

I confess: as the woman in front of me kept stopping to take pictures of the various statues and historical markers throughout Kelly Ingram Park, I found myself increasingly annoyed. While I understood her impulse to “capture the moment,” I found it distracting—we were in the middle of a prayer walk for crying out loud!

Now, lest you think that I am a perfectly pious prayer walker, I am the first to admit: prayer walks can be weird, particularly prayer walks that involve Official News Media. As much as one might try, it is challenging to equate the hovering boom microphones with the presence of the Holy Spirit. The woman in front of me, however, was not a part of the news media. She was simply doing what many of us do these days: capturing a moment, immediately reviewing said moment on a tiny screen, and with a couple more quick clicks, sending out the image and, in theory, inviting others to be virtually a part of the moment.

This particular moment was a Christian Churches Together (CCT) gathering to offer a response to Dr. King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail. Fifty years have passed since Dr. King’s letter, which was written in response to a letter eight White Clergymen had written to Dr. King, which had implored him to stop taking “extreme measures,” and to “observe the principles of law and order and common sense.” Dr. King wrote his response in the margins of newspapers that were smuggled out of his jail cell. King’s words were later pieced together to from his iconic letter, which includes the famous phrase, “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  Given that CCT’s response is the first official institutional response to Dr. King’s letter, it was indeed an historical moment. (CCT’s response can be read online in its entirety here.

 At this gathering, we had the opportunity to hear from Civil Rights activists Dr. Virgil Wood, Dr. Dorothy Cotton, and Representative John Lewis. CCT’s response was signed by the heads of Church Communions and then presented to Dr. Bernice King, Dr. King’s daughter, who was a mere 19 days old when he was locked up in Birmingham. Dr. Bernice King, a powerful speaker in her own right, prayed that the words penned in CCT’s response would not simply remain words on a page but that they would be “given flesh.” 

At worst, CCT’s Response to Dr. King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail will simply be remembered some words shared at an event—an event that gathered a bit of media buzz, a flurry of tweets, and numerous digital pictures collecting virtual dust. At best, the response will be seen as an invitation to participate in a movement—a movement that propels the Church to continue to work for justice, to speak truth to power, and confess its continued, complicated relationship with systemic racism.

Pictures can spark movements. It was, after all, the iconic pictures from the Children’s Crusade (organized by Dr. Dorothy Cotton) that grabbed the nation’s attention and helped push the Civil Rights Acts into law. As Jim Wallis reminded us the first night we were together, however, the difference between an event and a movement is one of sacrifice. Movements require sacrifice, while events simply require you show up.

We all long to be a part of something, to show and tell that “we were there when… .” I left Birmingham, however, with a renewed sense that at times the tools and technology we have to prove that we “were there” can distract us from truly “being there.” More than this, they can trick us into believing that being present at an event is the same thing as being part of a movement.

As Christians, we believe that the Word becoming flesh was not merely an event, but the continuation of a movement: God’s redemption of this world. God’s movement of redemption does not depend on our ability to “capture the moment,” but rather our attentiveness to the work of Spirit in each moment, of every single day.

A few weeks ago, the day after Pope Francis’ election, actually, a chaplain colleague and I greeted a troop of Girl Scouts in the children’s hospital chapel; they wanted to do a service project and decided it would be a smart idea to come and tour the hospital first to find out how best to direct their efforts. (No, if you’re wondering, they did not have cookies with them. But if they did, Samoas would be my first choice. Just saying.) 

“Hey, I was a Girl Scout too!” my colleague said, “so Girl Scouts can grow up to be pastors and chaplains too!” We proceeded to show them around the chapel and answer their eager questions. Behind the gaggle of girls was a ring of women; their moms and leaders, I suppose.  After they departed, I wondered if their moms and leaders would be facing some awkward questions about whether Girl Scouts really can grow up to be in ministry. Chances are good that a number of them are part of churches that don’t ordain women-- Catholics, most Baptists, lots of evangelical and independent churches, the Church of Christ (plenteous here in the “buckle” of the Bible Belt). Maybe my colleague and I inadvertently set them up for some cognitive dissonance. Oh well, it’s bound to happen at some point, just as it’s often happened for most of us women who have ended up in some sort of ministry capacity--deacon, elder, minister, et cetera. (How many of us who are former Calvinettes knew women pastors when we were young girls?).

Just over nine months ago, the RCA’s 2012 General Synod delegates voted in favor of removing the three conscience clauses that have been in the RCA’s Book of Church Order since 1980. The RCA began ordaining women to the offices of elder, deacon, and minister of Word and Sacrament in 1979, and the conscience clauses were created to ensure that those who disagreed with such ordinations would neither be compelled to participate nor be allowed to obstruct the proceedings. Originally intended as a measure to maintain unity, they have been used and misused in various ways. I’m sure there are some who have been relieved to have a form of “constitutional backup” when they’ve felt led to act on their convictions that only men ought to be ordained. However, there are also plenty who have experienced the clauses as roadblocks--a 2012 survey conducted by the RCA’s Commission for Women found that a quarter of ordained RCA women felt the conscience clauses had been used inappropriately to obstruct the ordination process.

Last summer’s vote was an affirmation that the clauses have run their functional course, that it’s time to retire them in order to live more fully into the reality that the RCA is a denomination that ordains women. To remove them, however, 2/3 of our classes, or 30 classes, need to approve of the change to the Book of Church Order. Many women in the RCA have been watching very, very closely as the process unfolds, and have been sharing stories about conversations they’re hearing at classis meetings. Some of these discussions, unfortunately, seem to be returning to the matter of whether women should be ordained in the RCA -- as though this wasn’t firmly established back in 1979-1980 when I was in diapers.

The results aren’t official yet, but as of last week it looks as though 30 classes will indeed affirm the removal of the clauses. It’s been a much tighter margin than many of us hoped for, though. In a handful of classes, the outcome came down to one or two votes. I don’t claim to speak for all RCA women, but I feel like this past nine months has been marked by nearly equal amounts of affirmation and trepidation.

Some discussions take on the tone of, “if we remove the conscience clauses, will there be a place for me in the RCA?,” a concern expressed by those who continue to believe women shouldn’t be ordained. I guess I can empathize with the opinions of those brothers and sisters (mostly brothers) who are worried about the RCA being a Place Where You Don’t Know Whether Your Voice Will be Heard or Even Welcome. The best I can offer is to say that I would be happy to put you in touch with a lot of women who have managed to navigate that territory with patience and grace, and who could offer some wise advice about how to dwell there.

The outcome of the votes doesn’t create or take away current ministry positions, of course, nor does it automatically generate the kind of support, mentoring, and open doors that are needed. I am encouraged by the voices of women in the RCA who support each other and celebrate together. I also long for the men in the RCA who support women in ministry to be as vocal in their support as those who are opposed are vocal in their opposition. 

Nine months from now we celebrate Christmas; Catholics mark this with the Feast of the Annunciation, typically on March 25, nine months to the day before Christmas. On years like this one where March 25 falls during Holy Week, the Annunciation gets moved back til after Easter. This year it’s observed today, April 8. Mary’s gestational calendar waits for the Paschal mystery, so to speak. She who ponders, and waits, and accommodates.

Jim Janknegt, "Mystery #1 - Annunciation"
I like this depiction of the Annunciation by Catholic artist Jim Janknegt; somehow all of Gabriel’s doves and flowers just feel so invitational and generative, whereas most paintings of this scene tend to evoke more of a feeling of “you will bear Jesus, because God said so.” Today, we consider the risky and unprecedented events that resulted when an ordinary woman responded to God’s call by assenting -- no, asserting -- “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your Word” (Luke 1:37). Her conscience aligned with what was being brought forth in her; it moved from being an abstract sense of agreement and quickly became an embodied reality. May all of us who seek to bear forth a word from the Lord, men and women alike, be nurtured and sustained in the journey of discipleship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

T. Coleman, "Funeral Procession"

April 19, 2011

Mark 15:40-47

I looked around the room. I was in the company of a few hundred other clergy, chaplains, hospice workers, funeral directors and mortuary school students -- all gathered to hear Tom Long and Thomas Lynch speak on "The Good Death, Good Grief, Good Funerals." 

Long, a theologian, and Lynch, a writer and undertaker, invited us to reflect with them on the shifts taking place in how Americans handle their dead. Not death -- the dead. Because, as they explained, the human species deals with the idea of death by dealing with the thing itself: the dead person. What we do with one who has died speaks volumes about how we understand death in our culture.

Throughout history, humans have recognized that the body of one who dies can no longer remain among the living. It must be moved in some way and to some resting place. This basic reality is a constant across all societies, and how it unfolds in any particular place or time is never perfunctory.

The basic metaphor, Lynch and Long suggested, is that a community accompanies a sacred person on a journey from the land of the living to the great mystery. We process the death by processing with the body from one place to another; in moving it, we are moved. (Picture, for instance, the processional of a presidential casket in Washington, D.C.)

This metaphor is in jeopardy, they contend, for a number of reasons: the breakdown of community, at least as it was understood in past centuries; the transience of our lives and scattered nature of our roots; the gradual erosion of our culture’s adherence to larger narratives, religious or otherwise sacred.

Honoring the dead seems to have less and less to do with their place within a community or narrative of shared beliefs and values and more to do with their individual hobbies and interests. “We used to bury Lutherans and Catholics,” Lynch noted. “Now we bury bowlers and golfers.” Call it secularism or whatever you want, but the growing absence of living by a sacred narrative, in a group and a story that transcends one’s own, can leave people at a loss to interpret the death of their loved ones.

It makes me think of the phone call I had recently from the mother whose infant died several months ago. I was the chaplain who performed the baptism. Her husband was Christian, and she herself had absolutely no religious background, but she was starting to think she wanted to have herself and her other children baptized, because she wanted to make sure they would all be together someday. “Do you know someone who could do that for me?” she asked.

I was struck by whatever was stirring deeply within her, but also compelled to have a bigger conversation about community, sacrament and so on, because her longings are about the here and now, not just about the hereafter.

There is no quick fix for healing anyone’s grief, but it was heart-wrenching to listen to someone who was aching for some language, some larger framework, some bigger story through which her grief might have meaning. Some of her child’s ashes are contained in a pendant on a necklace she wears, but her sorrow was uncontained when she asked me, “Will I see my child again?”

As our culture begins to divest itself of sacred narratives, Long said, we start doubting that the dead are really going anywhere, and we put our energy into venerating the next-best sacred story -- the biography of the deceased.

On top of this, our cultural aversion to aging and death leads us to favor practices that focus less on the death that has occurred and more on the task of helping the bereaved move on. More interested in therapeutic healing than in redemption or salvation, we work hard to celebrate the deceased’s life but leave little space to sit communally with the darkness of grief and loss.

The ages-old metaphor of moving the dead from one place and realm to another seems to be taking a back seat to the emerging metaphor in which we busy ourselves with moving as swiftly as possible from sorrow to stability. Perhaps, Lynch says, this is why bodies and remains are increasingly unwelcome at their own funerals; they impede the mourners’ trajectory toward stability.

The “sacred community theater,” as Long called it, in which we enact cultural scripts to move the dead in stages from the land of the living to their final resting place, is losing traction as we forgo the social customs that provide a script for the bereaved and that teach us why we do what we do when someone has died. The schedules and demands of the living do not yield to the dead as they used to. But it’s time, Lynch says, that we think about our obligations to the dead beyond just memorializing them.

What is at stake in addressing all this? What does it matter to society that we figure this out? It matters because a society that cares honorably and tenderly for the bodies of the dead is a society that can care honorably and tenderly for the bodies of the living.

Continue reading here.

The first season of Louie contains an episode entitled “God.”  Bookended by bits from the title character’s stand-up routine, the episode takes place in 1977.  A pre-adolescent Louie attends catholic school.  While the nun relays the story of Christ’s passion, Louie’s smart-mouthed friend Nick whispers to him some joke.  The nun, who’d had her back to the class, interrupts her description of Christ’s passion and turns abruptly.  “Who finds this funny?”

Nick raises his hand, “Sister Carson, if Jesus did for all my sins, isn’t it a waste if I don’t sin a lot?”  A nervous, titter of laughter.  Sister Carson barely masks her outrage by speaking with great solemnity. “I can see I have not done my job.  I can see I have not imparted to you the true nature of Christ’s suffering.  Tomorrow you’ll know.”

In the next scene, the class fills three rows of pews.  Sister Carson introduces them to Dr. Hatherford. Dressed in a coat and tie and carrying a large medical bag, the doctor strides to the front of the sanctuary.  “You,” he says calmly, pointing to Nick, “You’ll be our Jesus.”  Nick happily obliges.  He positions Nick so that he’s holding the Christ candle like a whipping post, pulls a scourge from his bag, and describes the trauma a centurion’s lashes would inflict on Jesus.

While talking in an intense but matter-of-fact tone, he places a paper crown on Nick’s head and with a red marker draws blood drips on the boy’s forehead.  He pulls a mallet and a small spike from his bag.  He calls Louie to the front, places the mallet in his hand. Then, holding up Nick’s hand and placing the spike to his palm, he invites Louie to pound it in.  Louie looks at him, confused. 

“Go ahead.  Pound it in.” 

“What?”

“Pound it in.  You did it to the Son of God.  Why not him?”

It is a bit of an exaggeration-- even for 1977.  But only a bit.  It rings true enough that one senses that this scene arose out of, if not Louie’s, then someone’s connected to the writing of the episode.  This bears resemblance to the way we teach the atonement.  We, after all, rented theaters to evangelize friends and neighbors by showing Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ.  Dr. Hatherford presents a kid-friendly equivalent.  Well, he presents it to kids anyway.  I don’t know that it’s “friendly.”

That evening nightmares haunt Louie’s fitful sleep.  A dream sequence quick cuts between images of the crucifix, Louie crucifying Nick, Louie reading a Playboy and performing other disobedient acts.  Eventually he wakes up, rifles through his father’s tool box, and, though still late at night, runs back to the sanctuary.  Approaching the crucifix in tears, he looks up at Jesus, apologizing profusely.  Then he leans the cross slowly to the floor, takes a pair of pliers from his pocket and pulls the nails out of Jesus’ hands.

This scene cuts to the next morning.  Sister Carson stands with Louie’s mother in the sanctuary.  “I trust that he will be punished for this when he gets home,” says the nun.  Louie’s mother assures her that he will be.

In the car with Louie slouched in the front seat, she asks her son, “What happened in there?” 

Louie unloads his guilt, interspersing confessions of specific sins with references to how he severed Jesus’ nerves, cut his flesh to ribbons-- how he killed Jesus. 

“Wait,” says his mother.  “Is that what they’re teaching you in there?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“No, it’s not true.  Look at me, Louie, it’s not true.”  She then assures him that he’s a good kid, that he makes mistakes, but that’s because she’s not through raising him yet.

“But Jesus came back.”

“No, he didn’t.  Think about.  It’s malarky.”

Their conversation concludes by determining he should attend public school and they should go get donuts.  (But then the car won’t start.)

Among the remarkable things about this episode is its affirmation that we desperately need what the church, ostensibly at least, strives to offer.  We need freedom from our guilt.  We sense that early on.  There are times I am sure my own children are psychopaths, incapable of genuine remorse.  At others, often as they’re being tucked in for the night, this guilt and shame and tears just pours out of them.  The load they were carrying-- it nearly overwhelms me.

Sister Carson calls on Dr. Hatherford assuming she is trying to get through to psychopaths. She is wrong.  His presentation and many of our presentations of Christ’s suffering and death do not alert us to our guilt as much as they complicate it, make it seem insurmountable.  We assume that the distinction between “he did this for you” and “you did this to him” should be clear. 

For Louie, it is not the resurrection that offers promise of salvation.  It’s the denial of the resurrection.  It’s the fact that the resurrection is “malarky.”  That saves him from his guilt and shame.

I suspect that this too rings true for a lot of people.  They don’t leave the church because they suffer from psychopathology.  They carry their share of guilt and shame.  But they find salvation from it not in Jesus Christ but in learning to put Jesus Christ in perspective-- according to Louie’s mom, “a good man who wanted people to love each other.  And, boy, did he get his for it.” 

Learning to read resembles learning to ride a bike.  In the beginning it feels impossible.  You can’t imagine how people zip down a page full of words or around a neighborhood.  They never even wobble-- not when flying off curbs or encountering silent letters.  It’s as easy as breathing.

As my daughter struggled to read, I would remind her of this.  “Remember how frustrated you became?  How you’d want me to let you go and, as soon as I did, want to grab on again before you’d fall?  When is the last time I’ve had to do that?”  It offered some consolation, I think. 

But reading has not come like pedaling or breathing.  In fact, as she sat with a book, her breathing became like her reading-- halting and labored.  Reading with her was like running alongside the bicycle.  You could never just release your grip on the back of the seat and watch her go.  This past summer, the summer before her third grade year, she still wobbled through books for first graders.

So we had some testing done.  As part of the process, we were told to schedule an appointment with a doctor in St. Joseph, Michigan-- forty-five minutes north of us.  He would check her visual processing.  This seemed silly.  We had just taken her for an eye exam.  She had perfect eyesight. 

The optometrist attended our church so I gave him a call, hoping he could write a note indicating that such tests were unnecessary.  Instead Dr. Rhodes assured me that they were not prescribing an eye exam.  Visual processing is different than vision.  He then reminded me how complicated a task reading is.  Parallels to Eden aside, we evolved eyesight to detect snakes hidden in high grass and to distinguish ripe fruit from unripe.  Staring intently for sustained periods of time at a close object covered in small, intricate markings-- that’s complicated, foreign to most species and relatively new to our own. To read you don’t need to simply see well, you need to be able to process what you see well.  All the neurological cables have to be plugged in properly.

So we saw the doctor in St. Joseph.  In fact, we have made trips back up there twice a week for the last couple of months and will continue to do so into next month.  Between trips there are exercises she must do every day.  In one, for example, we tape to the wall in front of her a sheet with rows of p’s and q’s, b’s and d’s.  Then each hand tosses and catches a scarf while she reads the letters to a metronome’s beat. 

This hasn’t transformed her into the Lance Armstrong of reading-- and not just because we have yet to dope her blood.  But her reading has improved.  She picks up books and reads-- sometimes just because.  The way some one just decides to go for a bike ride.  That is new.

I have thought about this in terms of Lent. Throughout the year we proclaim the truth of the gospel.  In Lent, however, we confess the fact proclaiming the truth is not enough.  We have truth-processing deficiencies.  To phrase it biblically, we hear but do not understand.  Our efforts to embody the truth are wobbly.  And so in Lent we do therapy, we engage in exercises intended to correct those deficiencies.  Giving up something for Lent, fasting, praying the hours-- these are less about hearing the truth than about developing minds more receptive to the truth, being better able to process it.  It’s about getting those truths into our hard wiring.  Brains quick to operate in ways that are self-serving, learn over time things like self-sacrifice.  

In this we follow the example of Jesus.  Jesus begins his ministry with a forty-day fast, each of those forty days an opportunity to process the truth that one does not live by bread alone.  By the end of that stretch of time, the wiring is in place.  As Mark Buchanan writes, “Jesus actually stood at his strongest when his belly was empty. Jesus is in peak condition, a fighter who has been training hard.”  The lies of Satan fall on ears not deaf so much as fine-tuned.  Hard-wired for the truth.

...and if you don't have five minutes to reflect (which itself might merit some reflection), here's a tidbit in the form of Mary Oliver's poem "Mindful," from Why I Wake Early. 

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It was what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant -

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these -

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean's shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?