Deer at Dawn

     This morning's walk almost didn't get more than a few steps out the door. I started out walking, tripped and twisted my ankle. Thoughts of turning back immediately flooded into my brain, but a calmer part of me said to keep walking gently and see -- sure enough, within a couple of minutes I was walking freely and able to take in the beautiful, cool spring morning.

    I spotted my 6:18 bellweather train just visible across a field recently turned over for spring planting. A few rabbits hopped down long driveways, while all kinds of birds announced various bits of news in their world, most of which probably had to do with mating, it being spring and all.

     I had just reached the turn around point in this walk when I came to an opening into those plowed fields. In the beautiful dawn sunlight, two deer dashed away from me, kicking up dust and ground moisture as they moved away. Each jumping step made a big puff of floating sparkle in that light. What a grace note!

     Back closer to home, I had to cross one busy road, crowded with the Trade Parade of workers' trucks and cars, hurrying to hundreds of home renovations and construction sites. Despite the ongoing building, there's still a fair amount of woods and ponds and meadows in this area of eastern Long Island, home to uncounted numbers of birds, insects, smaller and larger animals, including those deer.

     Less familiar to me and seeming more out of place in this past week has been a solitary wild turkey, hanging around the small downtown area of our hamlet, Water Mill. He's been poking about the village green and dodging traffic as he crossed an even busier highway than the road I negotiated this morning. So far, he's made it with only a few close calls. I spotted one of his brother birds up island who had an unfortunate encounter with a fast car and was sitting stunned by the side of the highway facing a most uncertain future.

     In my busy life, it's all too easy to go through life with blinders on, oblivious to the wonders of life in front of us every day. Bugs, mice, raccoons, deer, turkeys and even twisted ankles are small reminders to me to pay attention and pause to take it all in. I can be all rattled and separate, or occasionally, at least, quiet and connected in this life we share.

     Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits, invited us to see and do all of life, Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, to the greater glory of God. That's a good invitation.  

Boston

     The events yesterday at the finish line of the Boston Marathon sickened me and brought me to tears. The story of the little guy, Martin Richard, who ran out to congratulate his Dad finishing the race, then ran back to where the explosion happened and was killed, took the heart out of me. When any kid dies, it's sad. When any kid dies as part of some lunatic act of terror, no matter what the cause, it's an abomination. God bless his family in their grief and anger and confusion at such a senseless act. Bless the families of the others killed and  bless the wounded and their families. Bless all the people of greater Boston and their marathon guests from around the world whose wonderful day was so marred by the act of terror.

     Many people have mentioned the First Responders as shining lights on a dark day. Once again, cops, firefighters and emergency medical personnel run toward the danger and the awful suffering, joined by numerous Boston Athletic Association race volunteers and brave spectators who joined in the rescue efforts. Class acts, all of them. That's where I look for the clear signs of a loving God who has to walk with us, his poor creatures, through the worst that this world can deal.
    
     More than once when I've tried to congratulate a First Responder, they somewhat indignantly informed me that it was "no big deal, that's our job!" Some job, guys and gals, some job. You teach us so much more than you realize. Thanks are due.

The Slaughter of the Innocents

     It's been said so often this last week, "There are no words........." The gun murder of 20 young children and some very wonderful school staff so beggars our little minds' ability to cope with the unspeakable that words can seem futile and intrusive. But we're human, and we need words to cope and connect with each other. Breaking the sacred silence of our grieving and our horror is imperative, it seems to me, if we are to draw something decent out of something so indecent.

     The president and many other citizens, famous and not so famous, have said it would dishonor those beautiful lives that were lost if we didn't do something to stem the tide of gun violence that keeps covering our shores. No citizen needs the weapons and specialized ammunition that only a soldier or a police officer should legally employ. No hunter needs to shoot thirty or fifty or a hundred hollow point bullets in a few seconds at a deer or a duck. Does a homeowner  truly need an assault or semi-automatic weapon to protect his family? We've made mass killing too easy and also made it too easy for the deranged and evil among us to access these weapons of overkill. We'll never stop all of it, but can make a big dent in slowing much of it.

     In the time of Jesus' birth, which we celebrate at Christmastime, a tradition grew up that King Herod was so threatened by the prospect of a baby born who was destined to be the "king of the Jews" that he ordered his temple police and soldiers to kill all the recently born boy children around Bethlehem. Such casual brutality was not uncommon in Roman society, especially in the occupied lands of the Empire to keep the local population docile and  properly afraid of the state. In the midrash-like (embellished for teaching purposes) story recounted in Matthew 2:1-23, Jesus escapes to Egypt  in the arms of his mother and father and later returns to the land of Israel much like Moses in the days of old. God's power is greater than any human atrocity seems to be a clear teaching point of the story. The blood of those innnocents in the ancient story was not shed in vain -- one would come after who would comfort the sorrowful and call out the wicked, turning his voluntary endurance of violence into a great sign of love... "a man can have no greater love than to lay down his life for his friends [John 15:13]"

     One ray of hope I took from this terrible week past was the great role the First Responders  played in saving numerous kids and adults, and in caring for the families of the fallen afterwards. The assigned family liaison for the Pozner family was  state trooper Sean Hickey, a beautiful bit of interreligious and culturally diverse mixing -- this is us as Americans at our best. I'm sure Trooper Hickey's good service was repeated over and over by by his fellow First Responders and so many other good people.

     Shame on us if we let this moment pass without attempting some meaningful change. Shame on us, too, if we take this spirit of this season and limit it to our own family's experience of peace and closeness. Yes, "we need a little Christmas, right this very minute, we need a little Christmas now." And we need it to be the Christmas where we not only vowed, but acted on our pledge to stop enabling the slaughter of our children all over this country and this world. It's way past time for that.

     Merciful God, give us the strength to turn things around this time.

East on Shinnecock Bay

     It's a hot, breezy day on Long Island. Partly cloudy, but  brilliantly blue skies and a challenging chop on the water made for a good workout. It's the first time this summer I've spent any time in my own boat, and it felt really good. My form is a little off, and my old instructor would have faulted me on posture and stroke, but I got into rhythm several times and hit a sweet spot a few times where everything just flowed. The Olympic athletes inspired me enough to get out and push it a little, and I'm grateful for the inspiration.

     My route today is probably my favorite paddle -- along the shore of the Shinnecock reservation. If I ignore the big mansions along one side of the bay, it's easy to imagine myself back several centuries because only a few homes on the rez show through the gorgeous shoreline of woods, marsh grasses and a waterside habitat for birds that is remarkable. I watched a pair of osprey hunt the waters of the bay to find fish for their young. I saw majestic and elegant snowy egrets wade the grasses. I disturbed a convention of 25 cormorants bobbing on the water, and they let me know their displeasure as they took off together to avoid my kayak passing nearby.

     Yesterday I visited the Shinnecock Cultural Museum, getting a guided tour of the main exhibits by a board member, Elizabeth "Princess Chee Chee" Haille. Chee Chee proudly and easily talked of the 10,000 year history of her ancestors, especially how complex and adaptive was the way of life developed by the Shinnecock, "people of the shore." It  was her ancestors who taught the Europeans such important things as the technologies needed to become whalers. David Martine, director of the museum, reminded us that the taking of whales so important to Shinnecock and later, English and American peoples was a spiritual act -- part of a vision of life wherein the creatures used by men and women were gratefully received as gifts. All the sustaining gifts of nature, meat, fish and plants, were understood to be of God and meant to be used well and thoughtfully. (Cf.www.shinnecockmuseum.com)

     I sampled some of the delicious oysters cultivated by a current Shinnecock resident, and some of the beans and corn staple, "samp" that sustained people through many hard times. The current members of the tribe are proud of their history and culture. Of special pride to Chee Chee and other leaders is a corps of young tribal members being trained in some of the ancient crafts and skills like wigwam and canoe construction, all in preparation for a demonstration Shinnecock village set to open next year. A friend,  Metauqus Tarrant, is among the teachers of these ancient skills to young people and showed me a throwing stick he crafted, used in hunting, along with some of the long arrows formerly used to bring down game to feed the people.

     All in all, it was a rich and full weekend. My body is pleasantly tired out. My mind is full of powerful and moving moments of connection with some really good people. My heart is grateful.

    

Finding Real at the Olympics

     Like a lot of people, I get Olympics fever the first several days of the sports spectacle. The wonderful mix of noble and silly, grand and petty provides me hours of watchable television that eventually will grab me less and less -- but these first few days are addicting!

     NBC has been criticized roundly for packaging the games -- they are, after all, a lucrative platform for  pricey commercials. But I have to admit, the package is compelling: athletes, mostly young, all earnest and in great shape, putting their best efforts on the line in some engaging and exciting ways -- what's not to like?

      I find myself cheering hard and exhorting this or that man or woman to stick it or dig or push just a little harder,  even though I know the event I'm getting excited about may have already finished and the arena is now actually dark! I sometimes cheat the TV illusion of live competition by going online for the scores --but I can still get caught up in the emotions of the moment whether I know the results or not. Sports can do that to us, getting us jazzed up and caring about the outcomes.

     What I care most about, I find, are the human moments. The cliches don't lose their power, like grace under pressure, courage in the dark moments, and composure in defeat. A great set of examples came in the womens' gymnastics. The "Fabulous Five" U.S. team were amazing in victory in the team competition -- but this happened after some disappointing performances a few days ago in the all-around competition. What touched me even more than the girls' comeback was the response of their Russian counterparts who had collapsed in their efforts -- wining a medal, but faltering badly doing it. The Russian girls' faces were warm and respectful, downright gracious, as they shook the hands of the American girls -- a class act. They cared about winning as much as anyone, I'm sure -- but in the end, human being to human being, warrior to warrior if you will, there's warm respect and even affection for strong, successful opponents who called out the best in them.

     I think we play and watch sports because they afford us an experience in which life gets cranked up a notch and we get to care about something as fleeting as whether a ball or a foot is inside or outside a line. The amazing shape these athletes embody remind us of the great gifts like strength, agility, speed and balance available to us as human animals. The shared experience of caring about a game's outcome or whether or not someone got a medal connects us with thousands, indeed millions of fellow human beings in something fun and decent.

     We could be doing much worse than caring about how our young Olympians are doing. Our lives get enlarged by theirs -- their sterling efforts can inspire us and hearten us. They remind us that the human family is wondrous and full of life. In the midst of how venal and violent we can be with one another, these are some good moments. And that's something.

    

    

The Great "In Spite Of" - Reflections on the Death of My Mother

     It's been over a month since we buried my mother. I'm not proud to admit it, but it's taken me all this time to even think of writing something about the experience of her dying and her funeral. In recent years especially, I've become aware of how much anger at her I've carried for most of my life. And I want to tell you what's happened to that anger and how my relationship with her has been changed.

     My mother was many things, but chief among them was the fact that she had a major problem with alcohol much of her adult life, and she regularly practiced the attitudes and behaviors that go with that problem. What her last day on earth and the experience of her wake and funeral taught me was this: however true the alcohol piece was about her life, it didn't define her and my response to it doesn't have to be the main fact of our relationship. I can't tell you how liberating it feels to say that.

    Somewhere in my young childhood, alcohol and other chemicals began to become a major way for my mother to cope with what she called her "nerves." She herself had grown up with alcohol problems being a major part of her extended family life. The social life of lower middle class Boston suburban families often revolved around occasions when alcohol was at the center of things. When we moved to Milton into our first single family home, my father re-did the basement in knotty pine, including a carefully designed home bar for parties -- and there were plenty of parties. Every day, as time went on, the excuse of a party was not needed for my mother to consume enough alcohol to pass out (or "fall asleep" as we euphemized) every night. The run ups to those moments were some of the worst hours of my life. Sarcasm. Loud fights. Outrageous demands. Habits and and occurences too embarrassing to risk friends visiting -- I learned to get out of the house as soon and as often as I could. What I carried out of the house was my own mostly buried anger and a huge chip on my shoulder I didn't even have a clue was there. 

      When I began to live more away from Boston, starting with my college years, I was unconsciously fleeing chaos, pain, rage and a boatload of sadness and grief over what had gone down in my family home that I didn't have a clue as to how to deal with or even that I needed to deal with. Not surprisingly, I developed my own disordered relationship with alcohol and cut my own swath of chaos,  internal and external. Just a few years after my mother entered an often rocky relationship with recovery, I began my own recovery journey to deal with my very own alcohol problem.

      Years of recovery, therapy and painful acceptance of my own flaws led me to a place where my anger surfaced and made me very impatient with my mother. And then something shifted. On the last day of her life, my mother was aware and troubled enough to ask my sister and I, "Was I a good mother?" with such genuine and sincere regret that we could only answer, "Yes, you were." She smiled hesitantly, and visibly relaxed. That moment opened me to be able to hear the wonderful things my children and others said about my mother as the wake and funeral unfolded. Her gifts of warmth, humor, hospitality and fierce loyalty to her own became crystal clear.

     Dr. Ira Byock, end of life specialist, quotes theologian Paul Tillich:
             "Forgiveness presupposes remembering. And it creates a forgetting, not in the natural way we forget yesterday's weather, but in the way of the great "in spite of" that says: I forget although I remember. Without this kind of forgetting no human relationship can endure healthily."
          (THE FOUR THINGS THAT MATTER MOST: A Book About Living)

     Thanks be to God for Margaret Agnes Lawless. Her legacy lives on in the lives of the people she shaped and touched, especially her children, grandchildren and friends. We remember. And we forget. Go with God, Mother.


    

Signs and Metaphors II

     A lot of people my age take health issues more seriously than the bigger moral, political and religious issues. The prospect of mortality will do that. When I or someone I love gets a serious diagnosis, I typically go into survival mode and try to soldier on regardless -- but that's followed sooner or later by cold fear and deep anxiety, and it takes a lot to shift out of those places. What helps? In my experience, three things help: information, time, and perspective. The more information I have, the more powerful I feel, especially if the knowledge comes with options. As to time, even bad news loses some of its punch as time passes. Perspective? Viewpoint can be everything sometimes; the day before my 82 year-old Irish grandmother died, my mother told her to hurry up and get well, "so we can take a trip to Paris." Not missing a beat, my grandmother replied, "Sure, and I can buy a bikini!" Her wit and attitude seriously helped us cope with our grief and sadness.

     Does faith help? I think so. Experience suggests to many of us that bad things pass. Good may come out of bad. And, sadness diminishes (even if only bit by bit). Is there good reason for our faith and hope that losses aren't the last word? In the late 1990's and early 2000's, I taught a class at Fordham entitled, "Faith and Critical Reason." I used to tell each new group of students that my personal governing asumption for the course was, "faith is not non-sense." Together we read Plato, Thomas Aquinas, Descartes, Nietszche and Bertrand Russell and The Humanist Manifesto -- that latter document a powerful and creditable path of belief although it unecessarily caricatured "the supernatural" in an effort to promote a vigorous appreciation of the natural world. In the course, I didn't grade for opinions, but for intellectual honesty and courage in tackling the Big Questions. Tackling the conversation at all without caricaturing people of different views seems a rare commodity in this age of instant messaging and debate by sound bite. And I wanted the students to consider giving theism as much weight as atheism and agnosticism as intellectual choices.

     A college course is a bit of a hot house environment, rareified in atmosphere and tone, not quite like the booming, buzzy stuff of everyday life. I think we can get closer to our daily experience to look at faith and belief as viable options. Here's one of my favorite stories:

          An exhausted father is awakened in the wee hours of the morning by his crying and frantic 5 year-old son coming out of a kiddie nightmare."Everything's going to be all right," the father says soothingly as he hugs the distraught child and rubs his back gently. After a few minutes, the father, desperate to return to bed, says, "OK, now, son... time to go back to sleep. I'm going to tuck you in, turn out the light, and go back to bed." The boy immediately bursts back into tears and says, "No! No! Don't shut off the light -- I'm afraid of the dark! I don't want to be alone!" Near the end of his patience and definitely on his last nerve, the father pulls out one of the Big Guns of parental rhetoric: "You're not alone son... God is with you." The little boy looks up at his father and says, "Where's God? I don't see God!" Praying for patience and hoping against hope, the father says. "Of course you can't see God, son... He's invisible." The boy looks skeptically up at his Dad and says, "I want a God with skin on!"

     To be continued.