Bob Massie

Archive for the ‘Theology and Spirituality’ Category

Overturning the Tables

In Business and Sustainability, Education, Politics, Theology and Spirituality on March 17, 2009 at 2:03 pm

Some of you have perhaps been wondering what happened to me over the last few weeks – did he simply stop writing? The answer is no – I transferred my writing to a few other listservs and also to the Massachusetts blog known as “Blue Mass Group” where I have been making the case against some very foolish policies in the state under the name of “bmass”. You can look those up if you like – and comment on them. Some of this debate came to a head when I had the opportunity to preach at St. James in Cambridge, my wonderful home parish, and I discovered the readings were from Exodus and John. I haven’t preached in nearly two years, so it was a challenge and a joy. This is what I said.

A sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Robert Kinloch Massie at St. James’s Episcopal Church, Cambridge, Massachusetts, on March 15, 2009

I. Introduction: The Daily Struggle To Remember

Every week or so at my house Anne and I endure an abrupt ritual of panic. We are about to go out the door and suddenly …. I can’t find my wallet! I know I had it somewhere, in a pair of pants, but those pants seem to have jumped up and run off to a dark corner. So for a few minutes Anne and I have to rush around, playing hide and seek with a pair of trousers.

Other times it is the car keys. I have noticed that car keys seem to anticipate when I am about to leave? Just before I need them, they quickly slide under a pile of old magazines and again, Anne and I get to play hide and seek.

Has that ever happened to you? I am always pleased to read when such very human problems pop up in the Bible. One sheep wanders off, and the shepherd has to leave the ninety-nine and go running after it. [Matthew 18:12] A woman loses a coin in her house, and she has to turn everything upside down and sweep the whole place out until she finds it. [Luke 15:8]

We lose important things all the time. Why do you suppose that is?

Three reasons. We get distracted, we forget, and we lose what is important under a pile of junk.

Today, I want to propose that just as we often lose physically important things we can also lose spiritually important things. We do this all the time… and for the same reasons. We get distracted, we forget, and lose what is important under piles of junk.

Jesus knew this and spent a lot of time trying to point it out to people. In the Sermon on the Mount, for example, he suggested that people spend too much time worrying about the details of daily life – and by the way, in a community far less affluent than ours. “Do not be anxious about what you shall eat or what you shall drink … [or] what you shall put on.” [Matthew 6:25] “Seek first the realm of God and the righteousness of God, and the other things will be yours as well.” [Matthew 6:33]

To the spiritual pundits he said: you are worrying so much about appearing more holy than other people that you have forgotten what holiness is really about. Forget the long prayers, he said, use few simple words and even better, do it in secret. [Matthew 6: 5-14]

In Jesus’ day people worried a lot about what they had done wrong, so they spent a lot of time and money calculating how to please God with exactly the right behavior. And out of those anxieties arose a whole God-pleasing-calculation industry, much of it built on animal sacrifice. Those things don’t matter, Jesus said; what God wants is mercy, and not sacrifice.” [Matthew 12: 1-7]

II. The Demons of Mess

In pointing this out, Jesus was not inventing something new – he was drawing attention to the gems that existed in Hebrew scripture. “I desire mercy and not sacrifice” is a quote from the prophet Hosea [6:6]. His message was: don’t get distracted, don’t forget, don’t lose what is important under a pile of junk.

And today, in this season of Lent 2009, we need to hear that lesson again, more than ever, in both our personal and our public lives.

Anne and I don’t watch a lot of TV but some months ago we came across an remarkable program called “Clean House.” How many of you have seen that?

For those of you who don’t know this show, this is how it works. A crew of specialists shows up to rescue a family whose lives are being wrecked by the demons of consumption and disorder. Their houses and their lives are a mess.

And when I say “mess,” you have to multiply whatever is in your head by fifty. One small house had boxes to the ceiling in every room. The parents were losing tempers, their minds, and their marriages. One sad eight year old son was reduced to trying to do his homework on the only remaining tiny patch of clear real estate on the dining room table that was not covered with junk.

In another show, a woman who had gained a lot of weight after having children had filled not just her closet but most of her bedroom with hundreds of shoes. And not just any shoes. She had hundreds of pairs of expensive designer shoes, that her husband bought on his slim salary to express his love and she was hoarding them in the hope that one day they would fit.

Some of the men in these families filled up rooms and garages with golf clubs, ancient magazines, weight equipment, sports memorabilia, and old appliances that reminded them of their dads.

And by the way I just want you to know that when you all come over to our house, none of you is allowed to go into the basement.

What makes these shows so fascinating?

1) They tempt us to judge, so that we can feel superior just like the Pharisee in the Temple, “Lord I thank thee that my house isn’t as cluttered as that family of messy tax collectors.” [Luke 18: 9-14]

2) They attract our sympathy, because the physical and emotional transformations that take place as the TV team persuades the owners to give up their stuff, sell it at a yard sale, and then use the money to remake the home – are often fascinating and deeply moving.

3) And finally they signal something we know but can’t express: the physical mess in these people’s lives is an outward and visible warning about inward and spiritual chaos.

Like many of us, the people are in a kind of bondage both to their memories and their dreams, they are anchored to illusions about the past and the future. They have been captured by the absurd mixture of insecurity and greed create by a consumption economy run amok. Watching one of these shows, Anne turned to me and said, “we turn to stuff to fill the empty places in our hearts.”

In others words, we get distracted, we forget, we lose what is important gets buried beneath a pile of junk.

So how do we fix this? Our readings today give us an idea.

One way to stop losing the wallet and the car keys is to keep putting them, day after day, in the same place.

And one way not to lose ourselves spiritually is keep ourselves and each other of what is important, every morning, every Sunday, in the same place.

This isn’t easy. Today’s first reading gives us an example. You would think that the people who had followed Moses into the desert would be able to keep track of what was important. After all, God had helped them escape from soul-stifling, bone-crushing slavery in Egypt – and they were on their way, if they could stay focused, to the Promised Land.

But what happens? Moses goes up the mountain for a little facetime with God — and the next thing you know, when he had been gone a short time, his followers get distracted. They forget about Egypt, they forget about Moses, they forget pretty much about everything. They tell Moses’ brother, “Get up, and make us some new gods who shall go before us. As for this Moses, who brought us up out of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.” [Exodus 32: 1] They gave all their jewelry to Aaron who melts it into the shape of a golden calf, which, when you think about it, is kind of the ultimate symbol of meaningless junk.

This is one of the earliest management problems on record. And so God tries to simplify things by sending Moses back with a two page memo, although the memo wasn’t on paper, it was stone. He says, okay, I understand that living together can get complicated, so I am going to distill what is important into a few basic rules. Four of them are about our relationship with God. Six of them are about our relationship with other. Ten in all. One for each finger.

And, as we know from human history, that pretty much solved the problem, we know those Ten Commandments by heart. Right?

Well, the truth is – they are not that easy to remember. I mean, ten things is a lot , especially when some are long and others are short, especially when some say you should do this and should do that. But years ago, when I was a chaplain at Grace Church School, a wonderful teacher taught me the easy version in verse. So this is the congregational participation part. Repeat after me:

Above all else, love God alone
Bow down to neither wood nor stone
God’ name refuse to take in vain
The Sabbath rest with care maintain
Respect your parents all your days
Hold sacred human life always
Be loyal to your chosen mate
Steal nothing neither small nor great
Report with truth your neighbor’s deed
And rid your mind of selfish greed.

The kids in my fourth grade loved this. We used to do speed trials. I think the record was 12 seconds for 10 commandments. I will post it on the webpage, and we will see if anyone can beat that.

III. Frustration, Repentance, and “Godly Grief”

But you know, despite the simplicity of these Ten Commandments, in Jesus’s day people still got distracted and forgot. In fact, they asked Jesus if he could give them an edited version. Ten’s too much, give us two.

So Jesus did: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and mind and strength and love your neighbor as yourself,” [Luke 10:27]

Maybe we begin to see why Jesus occasionally got frustrated. We sometimes gloss over this aspect of Jesus’s ministry – because his core message was one of endurance and patience and love — but to me those flashes of annoyance make him seem fully human.

He explains things, repeatedly, in the most vivid way, with the most memorable stories and parables, and people still look at him blankly and say, in essence, what do you mean by that?

And so he tries again, with a new story, or a new angle. But sometimes he says, “you have eyes, but you do not see, ears but you do not hear.” [Mark 8:18]

On another occasion he shakes his head and says:

“To what shall I compare this generation? You are like children, sitting in the marketplace and calling to each other, “We piped to you and you would not dance, we wailed for you and you would not mourn.”[Matthew 11:16-18]

No matter what approach we try, no matter how we try to draw your attention to what is important underneath the pile of junk, you get distracted. What will you listen to?

And every now and then Jesus’ frustration boils over into anger, an anger designed to produce what St. Paul called “godly grief.” [2 Corinthians 7: 9-10] That’s a great phrase for Lent. Godly grief is when we are reminded of something a bit painful in a way that produces repentance.

The gospel passage from today is an example of Jesus acting in a way that was designed to induce godly grief. We know that these actions were centrally important to his followers because it appears in all four gospels.

It is hard for us to appreciate the power of the Temple today or the shocking nature of Jesus’ behavior. The Temple of Solomon was not just a place of national reverence. It was a place of immense spiritual power. For at the center of the Temple was a hidden room, called the Holy of Holies, which only one person could enter only once a year. In this room, in total darkness, sat the Ark of the Covenant. The Ark of the Covenant, as you know from your Bible and from Raider’s of the Lost Ark, was said to contain the original tables described in Exodus. According to Jewish tradition, in and around this object and this room, hovered the actual power of God.

It was sort of like the core of a nuclear reactor combined – times a million. Think about it. The creative force of God, who brought forth not only humanity, not only this world, but God “who stretched the spangled heavens infinite in time and place and flung the suns in burning radiance through the silent fields of space” could be encountered there.

But what did Jesus see when he arrived there in the courtyard surrounding this place?

It has become the Temple Livestock Exchange. When Jesus approached this immensely powerful place, what he saw was disturbing. Inside the courtyard was a market where people bought and sold animals in order to slit their throats, drain their blood, and burn their bodies in the hope this would earn them spiritual points. A place where some leaders paraded around to show off who was more important, more holy, more special, more deserving than whom. A place where you had to change regular money into Temple money, at high rates, at the table of a money-changer. In the version in Matthew he quotes both Isaiah and Jeremiah: “My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.” [Matthew 21:21, Isaiah 56:7, Jeremiah 7:11] So he drew together some cords into a whip, scattered the coins, turned the tables over, and drove the changers out.

We don’t use animal sacrifice any more — in fact we despise it — so it seems as though what Jesus doing makes sense. But this act was probably the single most direct political and economic act of disruption in his ministry. Some scholars feel it was the principal reason that the religious authorities began to plot his death. It is as though Jesus had been offered a public tour of the White House, and then taken the opportunity to run into the Oval Office and shove the President’s desk through the smashed windows and right out into the Rose Garden.

Jesus did this to make a point. In his view, in his zeal of the moment, the people of faith had followed too much the devices and desires of their own hearts, and in his view the whole spiritual enterprise had become buried under a huge, horrific pile of junk. It was time to clean house. So he did.

But the question for us in this Lenten season is not whether the people in the Temple courtyard had gone off track. The question is in what manner we – not only individually but collectively – are going off track.

IV. The Modern Moneychangers

I could suggest a number of ways, but I am going to close by zeroing in on one. In this state we have reached a level of despair, dishonesty, and denial so severe that our elected officials are about to approve a proposal that says, in essence, in order to save some of us, others of us must be destroyed. Holly’s email signature line quotes the wonderful phrase from Paul Farmer, “the idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong with the world.” I agree with that. I fear that many leaders are about to act as though they do not.

What do I mean? Our frightened, confused, and avaricious officials have are about to expand predatory gambling in order to cover a budget short fall. There is no sugar coating this. They believe that because we are experiencing temporary financial difficulties we should permanently crush tens of thousands — if not hundreds of thousands — of people.

Many of you may not have not given this a second’s thought, but if not, I would like you both to trust me and to find out for yourself. I have been down this path of raising concerns before they were not commonly recognized many times before. I began fighting the outrage of South African apartheid more than 35 years ago, before many Americans had ever heard of that country. I spoke out on climate change more than 20 years ago, before many Americans knew anything about the dangers of greenhouse gases.

And now, in 2009, I want to tell you that we are facing one of the worst decisions that will be made in this generation, that makes a mockery of the very word Commonwealth. This decision is being supported uncritically by many members of the Senate, the House, by cabinet secretaries, by the unions – most disgracefully by the teacher’s union — by the Globe, by the Herald, by Treasurer Tim Cahill . It is even being supported by my friend, Deval Patrick, the governor for whom we pray, as we should, each week.

What would we have thought of Franklin Roosevelt if he had proposed that the solution to the Great Depression was to set up a million one-armed bandits all across the United States to “raise public revenues” at the very moment that people were plunging into financial despair? Yet nearly a million for more sophisticated and dangerous machines have already been scattered around our nation today.

What should we think that after a decade of casino capitalism in which our savings were destroyed by the equivalent of high tech slots on Wall Street our leaders are proposing to hurl many of our brothers and sisters into even deeper financial ruin?

What are we thinking when, after telling our teens to work hard and to save, we encourage them to slide effortlessly from the video games of their youth to the tens of thousands of video slot machines and video lottery terminals that they are planning right now to drop all across this state?

Do not be deceived. This is not about fun or free choice.

This is not about social gambling, or playing poker with your friends, or having an office pool over basketball.

This is the deliberate exploitation of poor and middle-income people dressed up as fiscal salvation.

Gambling is our modern golden calf. Our dance around it is the idolatry of “something for nothing.” Slot machine manufacturers are like 1950s cigarette companies. They are lying about the addictive nature of their product, even as they exploit the research showing how the lights and sounds and near-misses of slots cause our brains to emit the euphoria inducing neuro-transmitter of dopamine. This is why a national commission called these devices the “crack cocaine” of gambling.

The actual phrase that the slot industry uses for what they hope will happen is that a person will “play to extinction,” that is, will drain their financial assets. These machines are reverse ATMs, designed to remove money from your account as fast as you can push a button. Many addicts – including young people – now rely on adult diapers so that they don’t have to get up from a “hot” machine.

This is a sleeper social justice issue, and today I am asking you to wake up. I know that at St. James we are busy with many challenges – real challenges, worthy challenges — to serve the hungry and to help prisoners, to rebuild our space and to save our planet and to remember, and always to remember to love our neighbors as ourselves. But if we do not awaken to this danger in time, isn’t it also true that our food lines will grow longer, our prisons fuller, and our democracy more vulnerable to its addiction to the golden calf?

I started this sermon on a light note, about wallets and car keys and cleaning the junk out of our houses. What Jesus told us is that sometimes the junk in our collective life gets piled so high that the divine light by which we are intended to see each our begins to falter, and we are at risk of losing what we most value about our communities.

In Lent we are called to examine our lives, in peace if possible, in godly grief if necessary, and then to follow Jesus. We are to follow even unto to the contemporary courtyards of power, right up to the tables of flashing lights and spinning dials of the mechanical moneychangers.

They are deceptive and cruel.

They are immoral and unjust.

And it is our responsibility – acting with the humility and the strength that only the Spirit can provide – to insure that they are swiftly overturned.

AMEN

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Jonah and the “Wail”: The Prophet as Coward, Doomsayer, or Fool

In Theology and Spirituality on February 19, 2009 at 1:41 pm

As someone who has spent a good part of my life trying to rouse others to tackle unwelcome new challenges, I have a special love for the Book of Jonah. It is one of the shortest in Scripture – only four chapters long. It is simple enough to be told as a bedtime story, sly enough to be recounted as humor.

It also has a profound spiritual side, not only for people wounded by the divine compulsion to speak out about the destructive consequences of human behavior – the deepest meaning of the word “prophet” – but also for anyone who needs greater instruction (as we all do) in the meaning and practice of humility. What we do know about the story of Jonah? Generally not too much. We might remember that early in his travels he was swallowed by a “big fish”, or, as it is usually translated, a whale.

Once released into human culture this story, as they would say in Hollywood, had legs. Jesus made passing reference to it in the gospel of Matthew. The concept made into the story of Pinnochio. The Maine children’s author Robert McCloskey, who wrote Make Way for Ducklings, penned a book about the early 20th century Maine sea-faring man Burt Dow (someone I actually knew as a very little boy). The real Dow told the story of being out in his fishing dory and hooking a whale who towed him all the way out to sea. McCloskey expanded on the story and threw him down the whale’s throat for dramatic effect. Then, for good measure, the good people at Pixar poured Marlin, the fish-father in Finding Nemo, down yet another whale gullet. There’s some deep and memorable archetype at work here.

But few stop to ask: why was Jonah swallowed by the whale?

Because, the story suggests, he was being disobedient – or cowardly. He was running away from what he was supposed to be doing.

So let me review the story in brief: God notices that the people of the great city of Nineveh (modern day Mosul in Iraq) are behaving badly. He summons Jonah, an Israelite prophet, to go there and preach that unless they change their ways, bad things will happen to them. Jonah listens to this request, ponders the idea of heading eastward toward Nineveh, and then chooses instead to do exactly the opposite – to head west on a ship towards Spain. Enter the prophet as coward.

During the voyage a storm arises and the sailors suspect that the tempest might be evidence of God’s displeasure with their passenger, so they throw him overboard. The whale swallows Jonah both to save him from drowning and to give him some time to reconsider his destination. After Jonah has spent three uncomfortable days in the dark, grumbling and praying, the whale vomits him up on to dry land.

At this point, the soaked, wrinkled, and grumpy prophet having apparently having learned his lesson heads back in the direction he was supposed to go, that is to the city of Nineveh. As soon as he arrives he marches up and down the streets of the city, predicting that unless the king and everyone else stops cold in their tracks, expresses regret for their behavior, and mends their ways, they are going to be wiped out. Nineveh was large for its time – the Bible makes clear that it took “three days” to walk from one side to other. One can imagine the popularity of this angry foreigner, who smelled like old fish, as he stomped up and down, denouncing everyone and everything, and predicting that soon the whole town was going to be obliterated. As he did so, he fulfilled the second unattractive choice open to the prophet: the doomsayer.

Whether in Biblical times or today, people don’t usually embrace prophets. Most people are busy, tired, and defensive, and they don’t like to be told that they are doing anything wrong. As a result, prophets are usually ignored, laughed at, run out of town, or stoned to death. This accounts for that initial impulse towards cowardice.

In the book of Jonah, however, there is an unexpected plot twist: the people of the city actually listen to him. They come to believe that they are in immediate danger of destruction, and they take instant corrective action. The king himself announces that he will immediately begin a fast and changes into scratchy and unfashionable sackcloth. He insists that all his nobles and people do the same. They all promise to discontinue their thoughtless ways and they humbly ask God not to obliterate the city from the face of the earth. Watching this display of contrition, God is impressed and informs Jonah that this display of repentance is sufficient. Nineveh will be spared. Everyone is happy — God, the king, and all the residents. Everyone, that is, except Jonah.

The next twist in the story reveals the deeply human insight of some parts of the Bible. In a Disney film the townspeople would have carried Jonah off on their shoulders. There would have been a feast and fireworks and praise. Jonah would have smiled and said modestly that he had really done nothing – the appreciation should go to the people for their wise and mature actions and to God for God’s divine mercy. And after all the back-slapping and expressions of relief, everyone would have gone home and lived happily ever after.

But the Bible has a much more realistic view of human behavior. Jonah is not pleased that God has changed course, because, from Jonah’s standpoint, God has made Jonah look like an idiot. Day after day, the prophet had loudly foretold the downfall of Nineveh. He had endured – we can imagine — dismay, defiance, derision, and outright danger. Nonetheless, he had persisted. After all that hard work, his predictions turned out to be flat wrong. First, Jonah had fled as a coward. Then he reluctantly became a doomsayer. Now he had been proven a fool.

Jonah’s reaction to God’s mercy is both sharply comical and psychologically revealing. He stomps up to the top of an overlooking mountain, hoping against hope that God will go ahead with the original plan and reduce the city to rubble. To us – and apparently to God – Jonah’s massively self-centered ego is ridiculous, even offensive. But to Jonah this is no laughing matter: I didn’t want to come, I didn’t want to do this, and now, at the very least, I should be proven right.

Instead of arguing with Jonah, God discovers a means of revealing the absurdity of his fury. As Jonah waits beneath the throbbing Iraqi sun, sweating and swearing as he awaits the fulfillment of his prediction, a tall plant grows up to give Jonah a little shade. Jonah is delighted with the plant – finally, something is going right! Then, equally quickly, the plant dies, and Jonah again vents his anger at God. Why did you kill of this plant, which was helping me? God’s ironic answer comes shooting straight back. Let me get this straight: you pity a plant that has been in existence for less than twenty-four hours, and you think it is wrong for me to have destroyed it, yet you have no sympathy for a huge city of more than 120,000 confused and ignorant human beings, some of whom, as the Hebrew scripture memorably puts it, don’t even “know their right hand from their left?”

The story stops right there, with the question hanging in the air, a brilliant punchline. Every listener had a lesson to take away and ponder.

But there is an implied, though unspoken additional question, one which in our day and age we made need to make explicit. The question to Jonah – and to us – might be expressed in this manner: is your self-importance, is your self-identity, is your lack of compassion so great that you would rather be right than that others would be forgiven?

Buried in the children’s story, in the ancient and slightly mocking tale lies one of the most important moral and political questions for any individual and for any society in any age. It strikes in every direction, at every form of hard-heartedness.

We can see how the story points most particularly at the problem of prophet: are you willing to risk being seen as a coward (if you choose to do nothing); or being shunned (for speaking out against something unpopular); or being proven wrong? This is a real risk for anyone foolish or pig-headed enough – as I have sometimes been – to point out distressing facts about the world. Human moral somnolence and inertia are powerful forces. It is for this reason that Jesus, in his prophetic role, spoke in frustration and wonderment at people who have “eyes but they do not see, ears but they do not hear.”

Over the last three or four decades I have seen people resist the prophetic word. I have done so myself.

I observed the blind eye which conservatives turned toward human rights violations in Central America because such authoritarian regimes suited America’s need for allies against Communism. I have also witnessed the left’s refusal to listen to or speak of the brutalities of Castro’s Cuba or Soviet tyranny.

I remember how hard it was to get anyone to care about a distant country in which whites who made up only 10% of the population exercised absolute political and economic control over the 90% black majority.

I recall how bored and impatient or angry people became when early advocates raised the possibility of planetary damage because carbon dioxide emissions might lead to something called “climate change.” And how resistant Wall Street was to thinking about sustainability, because they were certain that if something were truly important they would already have taken it into account.

Today I am battling the skepticism and fatigue – all understandable — of people who are so busy with the problems of today that they have little room for concern about tomorrow. So I am constantly pondering my own sometimes unattractive prophetic choices: should I become a coward, doomsayer, or fool? Often I plunge ahead anyway, hoping that if I am headed in the wrong direction, a whale will redirect me.

Right this minute I am sounding the alarm about how intensive neurological research is being used to entrap and fleece the poor through gambling addiction. Companies that design and build slot machines are like 21st century cigarette companies, exploring the profit potential of technological heroin and selling it to state legislatures – and poor people — as a solution to their financial problems. But the awareness of such abuses – and the necessary public outrage to stop them – is not yet common.

Even as I pursue something like this, I know that there are many topics – too many – that I shamefully ignore, unconsciously mimicking the priest on the road to Jericho who is too busy and self-important to notice all those who are lying beaten by the side of road.

I can tell sometimes, as I launch into another litany of concerns – blurting out a statistic in the middle of a dinner party or depositing some stark fact among the chirpy exclamations on Facebook – that I am at risk of running down my own Jonah-like pathway of coward, doomsayer, or fool. I would just as soon not bring this up. And I would, on balance, prefer people to like me. And I have no desire to be shown as having sounded a false alarm. The intensity of the prophetic life is such that I recognize – even as I describe it here that — I might also be tempted to want to be proven right rather than be laughed at as a person who worries and cares just a bit too much.

The story of Jonah, as powerful as it is for the person tempted to the arduous path of prophecy, also contains a caution for others who, in stating their views with self-confidence, might be looking for recognition of their superiority.

It asks of the harsh fundamentalist: are you so sure that you understand the inner nature of God that you can state with complete certainty that two people of the same gender cannot be married?

It asks of the smug economist: are you so convinced of the universality of self-interest that you feel it necessary to make light of the transformative power of self-sacrificial love and forgiveness?

It asks of the confident rationalist: are you so well informed about the nature of a universe stocked with billions upon billions of yet-to-be revealed secrets that you can affirm with absolute conviction that we are the highest form of consciousness ever to have existed or currently existing in the entire cosmos?

It asks of the romantic idealist: are you so persuaded that the studious avoidance of unhappy thoughts, the awkward denial of discomfort, the breezy superficiality of modern culture are a credible match for the ancient and ever-present realities of grief, evil, and death?

The story of Jonah is one of the great literary accomplishments of the human race, for in four short chapters in teaches us both the necessity and the dangers of prophetic courage, it laughs at our foibles, even as it unlocks our hearts.

In short, it gives us more than enough to ponder if we ever find ourselves with a little extra time in the belly of a dark whale.

A Eulogy for Catherine Elizabeth Osgood Chanock

In Theology and Spirituality on January 24, 2009 at 11:42 pm

On Thursday, January 15, Beth Chanock, the mother of my closest friend, Stephen, died abruptly and unexpectedly of heart failure at the age of 80 in Maryland.  Anne, Kate, and I flew down the next day.   When we arrived Stephen picked us up at the airport and asked me to deliver the eulogy at the memorial service the next day. I wrote this late that night and early the next morning, and I am posting it here in Beth’s honor and in gratitude for everything that the Chanock family has meant to me — and to hundreds of others. 


If we know one thing about love, it is that in this world love takes many forms.

And if we know one thing about love in a single person’s life, it is that love is made manifest in many ways.

We are all here because we loved Beth Chanock.  And we are all here because we were loved by Beth Chanock.

I would like each of you to pick an image of her in your mind, and to hold that image for a few minutes while I speak about her.  

I would be willing to bet that most of you have chosen an image that includes her beautiful smile.  I see her whole face glowing with delight, with the remarkable widow’s peak that crowned her dark and then grey hair and her sparkling eyes crinkled with amusement – a face animated by the generous laughter that bubbled out of her when she thought something was funny. 

And she thought a lot of things were funny.  

Over the last two days, as people have learned of her death and have reached out to her family, Stephen and Lizette have noticed how many people use the metaphor of family to describe their bond to Beth. 

She “made me feel like a member of her family,” so many people have said.

“She was another sister to me.”

“She was a second mother to me.”

“She was a grandmother to me and to my circle of friends.” 

And we were all family to her.

Each of us has our own particular memories, our own stories about how she changed us.  Each of us can point to a moment when she entered our lives and how our lives were never again the same.

For some, like Bob or Stephen or Lizette, or Nicholas or Christopher or Alexander or Sabrina, Beth’s presence and Beth’s gifts quite literally give birth to a whole new universe of life and joy.

For others, like me, like so many of you, Beth swirled into view with the brilliant energy of the dancer that she always was.   It was almost like being seated on the edge of a party, and having this fantastic woman sweep out of nowhere and grab your hand, and tug you with laughter on to the dance floor.

From the moment I met Beth Chanock she embraced me unconditionally.  Then she drew me – as did all of us — round and round, through her humor, and her delight, and her absolutely inexhaustible generosity, pulling us, no matter how clumsy or resistant we might at first be, through new steps and new places on the dance floor of own lives.

Each of us has our own memories.  Mine include those first moments when I met the astonishing Stephen Chanock and – was it possible? – his equally astonishing brother and mother and father.   They all welcomed me with magnetic warmth.  Bob gave me a nickname and told me funny stories and opened new doors to palaces of the mind and of culture.  Foster teased me with some wry comment and challenged me always to be better than I thought I could be.    Beth met me at the door with food, and books, and towels to protect my lap from the drool of their four St. Bernards.

And what a patient family they were.   More than thirty years ago, when Stephen and Foster were going to be away for a summer, and Beth found I needed a place to stay, she placed me into their rooms – for three months.  

I never found out whether they had been informed of this in advance.  

Around this time I was taking Chinese and Vietnamese cooking lessons and knowing of Bob and Beth’s love for these cuisines, I decided to express my appreciation through an eight course meal.   I think it is fair to say that in launching on this project, in almost every sense including the literal one, I had “bitten off more than I could chew.” 

In the course of my preparations I used every single bowl and pot and plate and platter in the house.  I wore out the blade of every knife and fired up the oven and every burner on the stove and the grill on the porch.  I emptied and filled and re-emptied and re-filled the refrigerator with concoctions.   I covered every inch of Chanock kitchen with evidence of my culinary genius. 

I think I splattered enough sesame oil and minced ginger and chopped vegetables and marinated meats and exotic spices on myself and on the counters, floors, and some even say the ceiling of Beth’s kitchen to have served at least twice the number of people who came that night.   But even as her amusement – and horror – mounted as she witnessed the well-intentioned devastation being visited on her own home, she offered me nothing but encouragement.

When at about 11 PM – four hours late — I finally presented them with my hot and sour soup, my shrimp toasts and spring rolls, my salted black bean spiced chicken, my five spiced marinated drumsticks with apricot sauce, and my beef with oyster sauce all accompanied by mountains of singed rice and some colossally inedible failure of a dessert she complimented me on this stupendously foolhardy project.  I beamed with pride as Bob and Beth ate.  

I did not learn until much later that it took Beth and a small army of cleaners about a week to put that kitchen back into shape.  She knew that my errors flowed from my impossible aspiration to offer a proportional response to their unending generosity.

We all have our memories.  At some later moment, when the transmission of my crumbling 1971 Buick Skylark finally fell abruptly out on to the ground not far from her house, she drove over to meet me, parked her car a block away, and then phoned AAA, a service to which I could not afford to subscribe.  She calmly told them that she had been driving her friend’s car and something seemed to be wrong with it, and would they mind towing it to a service station?   They agreed,  thus saving me the $150 that would have represented  a week of my salary if I had had it in the bank.  

And that same summer, Beth sat by my bedside for most of two nights and three days as I battled a fever that shot up to 103 degrees.  She calmed my hallucinations, reassuring me in her gentle, deep, soft voice, all the while stroking my head with a cold cloth and offering me timely medication and fluids.

And so it went, in large ways and small, through the thirty-five years I knew her.   Through such experiences – and hundreds of others – that Beth manifested her love to me, a love disconnected from my own worthiness to receive it and my impoverished capacity to return in kind.

As Stephen reminded me last night, when I graduated from college, she gave me the key to her house so that I would know that the welcome that had been mine in the past would remain forever mine in the future.  She did the same thing literally and figuratively to many of us here.

There is a secret here.   Somewhere in her life Beth discovered how to drill right down through the bedrock that seems to limit many of our individual capacities to love.   Unlike many of us she drew from some unlimited aquifer of compassion, and that enabled her to water and tend and feed such a huge botanical garden of human specimens that she discovered and collected throughout her life.   

What a magnificent parade of people came through her house, many of them drooping and parched when they arrived but blooming with new strength and vitality when they left her presence and her care.  

At the center of her garden was her husband Bob, into whose arms she threw herself with characteristic abandon as a young woman, and to whom she devoted a full lifetime of passion and attention.  

And also at the center were her sons, first Foster and then Stephen.  And then the daughters that her sons brought home, Dorie and Lizette, and then her grandchildren, for whom she felt the most expansive and thrilling joy and pride, and in whose honor I believe the verb “to dote” was invented.

Our lives seem to be bounded and organized by chronological time.  We enter the flow of each other’s lives at particular moments, and we float together as the unstoppable currents of time carry us downstream, a great tubing party through the canyons of decades. 

But in a rare moment like this, we are permitted to step off on to the bank, and to climb to some higher point, and from there we can suddenly see the canyons, rivers and tributaries from a distance – where they came from, how they intertwine.  Time falls away and we can experience the unity of a person’s life. 

We can think about Beth’s life from beginning to end, from her days in Massachusetts, to her time in California and Ohio and Japan and Maryland, all in one piece.   We can feel, simultaneously, the joy of having known her and the sorrow of having lost her.  

And if we climb a little higher, we can see how her the light from her life illuminates our own, not only in the past, but in the future, as we carry forward the gifts she gave to us and as we commit ourselves, in her name, to passing similar gifts on to others. 

And if we rise higher still, we can see what a truly stupendous world we live in, all these lives bound together, through interconnections in time and space, held in unfathomable unity — from the most infinitely small pieces of life all the way out past our own world to the riotous galaxies in whose midst we are all swirling, at this very moment, and in this very place.

We navigate our lives in comfortable vessels of familiarity that are themselves floating across an ocean of mystery.  

We don’t know the boundaries or limits of love, or whether such boundaries or limits even exist.  We receive glimpses of the infinite from the intricacies that lie within and around us, from the songs of interwoven happiness and the light-filled rhythm of human lives, but at some point these eventually draw us out to the vast and silent expanses — beyond our experience and even our existence. 

All seems bound together by a power and continuity that we do not comprehend and cannot master, and about which we can only speak through the limits of our language and the depths of our faith.

But if there is one thing we know about love, it is that in this world it takes many forms.   And it has many names. 

And one of those names was Beth. 

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