Light Where There Is Darkness

We have the ability to choose our attitude even in the worst moments of life. This truth was affirmed by Viktor Frankl who suffered interment at Auschwitz and other concentration camps. He lost his wife and parents while a prisoner in these places yet he found that the ‘salvation of man is through love and in love’. Viktor reached this conclusion, in part, by experiencing other prisoners who would walk through the barracks giving up their last piece of bread and offering kind words and hope. This powerful testimony to love helped him survive that which was practically unsurvivable.  Dr. Frankl became a renowned psychiatrist and author of at least 32 books (among them "Man's Search For Meaning").

We are given sparkling little glimmers of unselfish love and grace in everyday life as well. My dear life-long friend lost his father this week. Harry Cox was a great guy.  He was a high school and college track star whose records still stand.  More importantly, he was delightful company with a ready laugh, humble heart and gracious spirit.  There was no long suffering illness that had preceded his death and it was certainly unexpected. I called his son, my friend Gary, to offer the comfort of our friendship and to connect with him in his time of need. It was not long into our conversation that Gary began to tell me stories about my own father and mother and how grateful he was for their love and kindness. He talked about how welcomed he felt in our home and how much this meant to him.  He recounted the powerful impact of their generosity.  I suddenly realized that this wonderful friend was actually consoling me. He was sharing the joys of our childhood and ministering with compassion even at his own hour of deep personal grief.

This choice of attitude is not an acquired behavior or ‘second nature’ but rather comes from a broken heart that remains unselfish and called to love. It demonstrates that brokenness is the common bond. It is from our brokenness that we can offer hope. Gary’s closing words on the phone to me were “You are a blessing.” May we all find ways to share such light in the darkness.

The Easter Vigil

Penn Family Memorial at North Lawn Cemetery, Utica, Ohio

The morose truth that we learn to forget is that death is our common experience.  This forgetting is a kind of saving grace in our day to day life. But death is at the core of our being.  It is exposed at extreme intervals and faced when someone we love is taken from us.  The grief is not only overwhelming but contains a kind of personal expectation.

I remember my father's funeral.  The family was gathered in the little room adjacent to the casket and just out of sight from the other mourners.  It was quiet as we waited for the service to begin.  One of my aunts turned to her sister and whispered "I wonder who will be next."  The words, though quiet, echoed in my heart.  What an ominous thought!  She was referring to herself, her sisters and brother...my dear aunts and uncle.  Two had passed before my Dad.  Five remained.  Someone would be next.  One day they would all be gone.  And of course, it came to pass. The emptiness that follows death seems unbearable.  We have been left alone and abandoned.  The time that follows the ceremonies and burial are dark.  We are numbed and seem to be just going through the motions.  There is little consolation.

These are the experiences of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and the Easter Vigil.  The church enters into death.  We stop our rush to the future and sit in collective sorrow.  We can the imagine the grief, fear and hopelessness of Jesus' family, friends and followers.  We can do this because we too have experienced the death of a loved one.  No one is spared.

It is, however, at the darkest hour on Holy Saturday that the unexpected happens and continues to happen.

Grief and Celebration

"I have always been alone, and I have never been alone.
What I used to call the self is a winnowing of light
in the flood plain of the boundless."
~ Margaret Gibson

Grief and Celebration are never far apart. We are guests at a wedding party and are swept over by a sudden sadness. An aspect of our life-long friendship with the groom is irreversibly changed now that he has given himself to his bride. We attend a funeral and there is a gathering at a restaurant afterwards where funny stories of the departed are traded among friends with drinks and toasts.

Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week and, in a way, the end of Lent. It has always been interesting to me that all four gospels give us the image of God coming to us on a donkey. Here is celebration and grief in obvious coexistence. Christ is usually depicted as detached while the crowds of people are spreading palms in his path and shouting their greetings. He seems to be aware of both happiness and sadness. There is a peaceful acceptance here.

Our lives are often driven. We expect celebration and avoid grief. This is really impossible. The two are inseparable and we are called to the dance. Everything becomes more genuine, and our journey is enriched when we accept and embrace this reality.

Holy Saturday ~ Developing An Ability To Grieve

I wrote last year about the darkness of pathless places. Holy Saturday brings us here, as it always does, to look into the depth of emptiness. Why? Most of the contemporary Christian churches diminish or just ignore this day. We crowd it in to a passion play and move quickly to the happy ending. It is hard enough to deal with the tragedy of death and horror of the ordeal of Jesus’ path. It makes it even worse to have to sit and wait, in the unrelenting darkness of grief that comes with Holy Saturday. We just can’t seem to come to terms with it.

Our culture cannot tolerate or honor sustained grief. We demand that the business of it move along and get done. Our patience with those who suffer wears thin and we want them to “get over it”. This inability to allow grief to process is powerful force that plays a major role in much of the depression and chemical dependence that I treat every day in our outpatient clinic. It lies at the bottom of unresolved emotions and unfulfilled actions that have been repressed in a desire to make people believe that “everything is okay”.

We do not always have to be left with comforting words. Sometimes we have to be joined in silence and allowed to wail. There comes a time when the harsh reality of pain, loss and suffering must be experienced. Lincoln understood this as he gave his address at Gettysburg. Whitman grasped it as he wrote “O Captain! My Captain!” A writer named Adolofo Quezada lost a young adult son and lamented his “dreams forever unfulfilled”. After a near breakdown, he came to believe that if he allowed himself to let go and experience all that comes of grief, then and only then, would he find the comfort of new life.

Keeping Quiet ~ by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), "Keeping Quiet"
Extravagaria (translated by Alastair Reid)
Jonathan Cape, London, 1972, pp.27-29