I get off the overnight ferry from Hong Kong to Macao. It’s still early and I want to arrive at the Lutheran school there in time to observe our pre-8:00 a.m. breakfast feeding program. After riding in the pedicab for about 10 minutes I am aware that I am being tailed. It’s neither the first nor the last time this happens to me on my monthly trip to (at the time) the oldest European colony in the Orient.
There could be any number of reasons I’m being followed. On a recent trip I sat in a refugee hut being shown a packet of heroin. The owner was pleading for me to help him get a visa to the USA - or else, regretfully, he would need to support his wife and three small children through drug trafficking.
Or it could be related to the fate of a gentleman who was a regular attendee at our Introduction to Christianity down at our church. He seemed genuinely interested and appeared to be asking deeply spiritual questions. Then one night as he stepped out of our church after class he was shot dead and left lying at the entrance.
Maybe there was even something suspicious about our free breakfast program. I knew that we were not strictly following the rules. All the care sacks had the USA government message clearly printed on them: “Not to be sold, bartered, traded or exchanged.” In spite of all my rationalization I knew that technically we were in violation.
The USA-supplied baking flour was of high quality coming in 50-pound bags. Southern Chinese are not much into eating wheat products; their staple is rice. The homes of our care recipients didn’t have ovens or baking pans. So we’d made a deal.
We would supply the local baker with relief flour. Each morning he’d provide freshly baked products for our school. The hungry school children enjoyed them. I could see them gain weight. The baker did not charge us for his efforts. We were not overly exact in our accounting for how many bags of flour came back to our school in the form of breakfast-sized buns for our now thriving children.
Feeding the hungry, distributing relief goods, offering a cup of cold water even in the name of Jesus is not a piece of cake. Malnourished refugees who’ve never drunk cows’ milk swear it gives them diarrhea. A pig farmer on the edge of the refugee squatter area says his hogs love cows’ milk. Why not convert some of that good USA milk into Chinese pork? Some would be shared with the families who qualified for the milk, which they refused to drink anyway because their system just wouldn’t tolerate it.
Or a food distribution center for the poor is set up in a church owned property. Who wouldn’t assume that people who have some stake in that property might not get some advantage at distribution time? Joining that group (or religion) may bring tangible benefits. Relief goods distribution problems are as old as first century Biblical widows, nineteenth century rice Christians or 21st century Islamic students in Khartoum.
Relief goods to one African country may be a key factor in keeping a despot in power. Hospital supplies to the Sudan fuel the civil war because it keeps alive some of the injured who return to the battlefield.
Yet it’s also clear that to ignore the hungry, the naked or the prisoner is to hear the judgment voice, “I was hungry and you gave me no food” etc.
So I continue to support relief efforts, especially Lutheran World Relief which is considered to be about the best in the world. And if some of those clothes or a bit of flour or a shot of tetanus is distributed contrary to strict protocol I’m not going to worry about possible complicity with conspirators.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Refugees
I have, it seems, been confronted by images and experiences of refugees all my life. As a young child I heard the stories and saw the photos of “refugees” from sand storms, Okies seeking refuge in California. In my late teens, war refugees in Europe came to the USA labeled DP’s, displaced persons. In my late 20’s I worked in Hong Kong among the hundreds of thousands fleeing Mao’s Liberation Army. In more recent decades I have read about, walked among, ministered to and been ministered to by refugees from every corner of the globe: Vietnamese boat people, Lutheran Liberians fleeing slaughter even in their own church sanctuary, Albanian refugees fleeing from Kosova, surviving and then returning to drive these same Serbs into refugee camps.
A very small humanitarian group called “Survivors of Torture International” ministers near my home in San Diego. The director informs me that with only word-of-mouth publicity her office gets appeal after appeal for help from the more than 11,000 survivors of international torture just in our county. They’ve fled here from Iran, Iraq, China, San Salvador, Columbia, the Sudan, Sri Lanka, Chile, Afghanistan, Turkey - the list goes on and on.
It’s disheartening, but not surprising. The first-born Cain fled as a refugee - east of Eden. Moses fled to Midian. David escaped to caves. Our Lord was a political refugee in a distant land before he was two. Many of our ancestors came to this country as refugees from political, economic and religious oppression. Among the saddest of all refugees are those even today being sold and bought into slavery and Native Americans forced into “refugee status” by later arriving refugees.
How to respond to refugees is one of the major political and moral issues of the day. The U.S. government, for example, will admit a limited number of “political refugees” and how can it adequately discriminate between “political” and “non-political” refugees? The persecution of Christians may well be at its highest ever level. Do I as a Christian advocate special treatment for my Christian brother or sister, knowing that my brother in the Sudan is being persecuted into refugee status because he is an animist, not a Muslim?
Refugee and immigration issues are closely intertwined. Is the poor Mexican peasant sneaking into California across the Mojave Desert an economic refugee, an illegal alien, both of the above or neither? What is my personal, political, ethical response to this, my brother and his family?
Do I support the Dali Llama and his claim to be a religious refugee from Tibet? Should I urge my senator to supply and support the Kurds in Iraq in their opposition to Sadaam Hussein? How can I best respond to the Christian in India who writes to tell that she’s a “refugee” fleeing for her life from her Hindu oppressor? Can I do anything about the 150,000 Hindu and Pandit refugees fleeing for their lives from the Muslims in Kashmir?
I ponder these ambiguities and moral dilemmas even as I sit comfortably and write memoirs in an idyllic Mexican resort overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I reflect upon the reality of our common humanity, our shared complicity in evil and the eternal destiny facing each one of us. I pray for compassion, wisdom and forgiveness and for the courage to continue to reflect, care, and act.
A very small humanitarian group called “Survivors of Torture International” ministers near my home in San Diego. The director informs me that with only word-of-mouth publicity her office gets appeal after appeal for help from the more than 11,000 survivors of international torture just in our county. They’ve fled here from Iran, Iraq, China, San Salvador, Columbia, the Sudan, Sri Lanka, Chile, Afghanistan, Turkey - the list goes on and on.
It’s disheartening, but not surprising. The first-born Cain fled as a refugee - east of Eden. Moses fled to Midian. David escaped to caves. Our Lord was a political refugee in a distant land before he was two. Many of our ancestors came to this country as refugees from political, economic and religious oppression. Among the saddest of all refugees are those even today being sold and bought into slavery and Native Americans forced into “refugee status” by later arriving refugees.
How to respond to refugees is one of the major political and moral issues of the day. The U.S. government, for example, will admit a limited number of “political refugees” and how can it adequately discriminate between “political” and “non-political” refugees? The persecution of Christians may well be at its highest ever level. Do I as a Christian advocate special treatment for my Christian brother or sister, knowing that my brother in the Sudan is being persecuted into refugee status because he is an animist, not a Muslim?
Refugee and immigration issues are closely intertwined. Is the poor Mexican peasant sneaking into California across the Mojave Desert an economic refugee, an illegal alien, both of the above or neither? What is my personal, political, ethical response to this, my brother and his family?
Do I support the Dali Llama and his claim to be a religious refugee from Tibet? Should I urge my senator to supply and support the Kurds in Iraq in their opposition to Sadaam Hussein? How can I best respond to the Christian in India who writes to tell that she’s a “refugee” fleeing for her life from her Hindu oppressor? Can I do anything about the 150,000 Hindu and Pandit refugees fleeing for their lives from the Muslims in Kashmir?
I ponder these ambiguities and moral dilemmas even as I sit comfortably and write memoirs in an idyllic Mexican resort overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I reflect upon the reality of our common humanity, our shared complicity in evil and the eternal destiny facing each one of us. I pray for compassion, wisdom and forgiveness and for the courage to continue to reflect, care, and act.
Gracious Host
Jane and I are in Barcelona. It’s wonderful visiting our son, his beautiful Spanish wife and our, of course, exceptional grandchildren. Spanish hospitality envelops us, especially through the efforts of Ana.
She’s not family. Met our son and family only a few months ago. She exudes acceptance, hospitality, graciousness.
She has taken us on a personal tour of the city. She loves the place, knows its history and gives details about its architecture. She exudes a love for and an admiration of the people of her city. She serves us a dinner with refinement. We sit together in the ornate Gaudi’-inspired Music Hall and listen to a powerful performance of Haydn’s “Creation". As we part she presents me with a marvelous picture book on the exotic architecture of her city.
After Ana drops us off at our son’s home, I ask him to tell me more about our marvelous host. He gives the usual data re marriage, children, and employment history. He concludes: Her father and mother, you know, were executed by the fascist dictator Francisco Franco who ruthlessly killed any opposition leaders, often dumping their bodies into mass graves. Ana’s dad was the former mayor of Barcelona and it cost him his life.
How does a child survive the execution of her parents? How can bitterness be mitigated? What resources can strengthen the soul to enjoy beauty and reach out with tenderness and affirmation to strangers?
She’s not family. Met our son and family only a few months ago. She exudes acceptance, hospitality, graciousness.
She has taken us on a personal tour of the city. She loves the place, knows its history and gives details about its architecture. She exudes a love for and an admiration of the people of her city. She serves us a dinner with refinement. We sit together in the ornate Gaudi’-inspired Music Hall and listen to a powerful performance of Haydn’s “Creation". As we part she presents me with a marvelous picture book on the exotic architecture of her city.
After Ana drops us off at our son’s home, I ask him to tell me more about our marvelous host. He gives the usual data re marriage, children, and employment history. He concludes: Her father and mother, you know, were executed by the fascist dictator Francisco Franco who ruthlessly killed any opposition leaders, often dumping their bodies into mass graves. Ana’s dad was the former mayor of Barcelona and it cost him his life.
How does a child survive the execution of her parents? How can bitterness be mitigated? What resources can strengthen the soul to enjoy beauty and reach out with tenderness and affirmation to strangers?
Dinner's Ready! Come Eat!
Among the most memorable and most pleasant memories of my childhood are the warm and wonderful daily welcome words of my Mom, “Dinner’s ready! Come eat!” Those words epitomize my Mom. Sometimes it must have been tough on her. I am one of nine kids. Enough said. She had to manage on a parochial school teacher’s salary- throughout the depression, even in those months when the congregation could not pay Dad’s salary. Then there were guests. I brought them by the baseball teamful from Concordia in Austin. Even if our whole crew showed up unannounced Mom would still manage those beautiful words, “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” I remember when the church where dad was the organist had a new pipe organ installed. We lived on church property so when the organ installer arrived there was never any question. For two solid weeks each evening the invitation went to him, “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” We kidded that potatoes and gravy were so essential for dinner that in the rare event they were not there we did not need to say grace because without them the repast could hardly be considered a meal… and Mom always had a meal.
In her old age Mom still trekked on her heavy and slow- moving legs to the Handy Andy store down the street to lug home whatever it took to feed children, in-laws, grandchildren, drop-ins, one and all.
My Mother’s words “Dinner’s ready! Come eat!” hit me this past week when we had our family devotions focused on the words of the Lord’s prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.” I recalled Jesus’ proclamation that dinner is ready for all, and his heart longs for the day when all the children of the world will hear the words “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” It must hurt the very heart of God when that invitation is not heard by millions.
My thoughts went further. In this Lenten season I recall the special Supper Jesus instituted. I have the radical thought that He still invites “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” and I believe that invitation goes out with even less restrictions than my Mother may have had. It is an invitation to all. Of course, I know well the rules that have been set up by us later day children. Rules about who can come to that meal. One must qualify by belief, by membership in the appropriate church, by making proper preparations, by being of a certain age - all that stuff.
I recall with shame the thoughts I had some years ago on a Sunday morning in Hong Kong. It was during the Viet Nam war. Some service people on R&R from Nam had gone to all the trouble to actually locate a church in Kowloon and to get there. As they sat there I suddenly had the thought, “I hope we do not have Holy Communion today.” In my officially authorized understanding of my church’s teaching in that day I would first have to check their credentials. Were they rightly confirmed in the right church? Did they have the right answers to the doctrinal questions etc.? Only if they could pass those requirements dare we include them in the invitation, “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” At that time I was afraid that they might have to be excluded and so I was glad that the meal was not to be served at all!
I have changed since that day. Today I would be bold to say to them and to all who might want to dine, “Come eat! Dinner’s ready!”
In her old age Mom still trekked on her heavy and slow- moving legs to the Handy Andy store down the street to lug home whatever it took to feed children, in-laws, grandchildren, drop-ins, one and all.
My Mother’s words “Dinner’s ready! Come eat!” hit me this past week when we had our family devotions focused on the words of the Lord’s prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.” I recalled Jesus’ proclamation that dinner is ready for all, and his heart longs for the day when all the children of the world will hear the words “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” It must hurt the very heart of God when that invitation is not heard by millions.
My thoughts went further. In this Lenten season I recall the special Supper Jesus instituted. I have the radical thought that He still invites “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” and I believe that invitation goes out with even less restrictions than my Mother may have had. It is an invitation to all. Of course, I know well the rules that have been set up by us later day children. Rules about who can come to that meal. One must qualify by belief, by membership in the appropriate church, by making proper preparations, by being of a certain age - all that stuff.
I recall with shame the thoughts I had some years ago on a Sunday morning in Hong Kong. It was during the Viet Nam war. Some service people on R&R from Nam had gone to all the trouble to actually locate a church in Kowloon and to get there. As they sat there I suddenly had the thought, “I hope we do not have Holy Communion today.” In my officially authorized understanding of my church’s teaching in that day I would first have to check their credentials. Were they rightly confirmed in the right church? Did they have the right answers to the doctrinal questions etc.? Only if they could pass those requirements dare we include them in the invitation, “Dinner’s ready! Come Eat!” At that time I was afraid that they might have to be excluded and so I was glad that the meal was not to be served at all!
I have changed since that day. Today I would be bold to say to them and to all who might want to dine, “Come eat! Dinner’s ready!”
Thursday, March 5, 2009
FINE DINING
I am enjoying the Epicurean delight of a marvelous dinner at Gaddi’s in the Peninsula Hotel Hong Kong. This is dining at its glorious best. In the midst of the late 1990’s economic downturn in Asia, the number of diners a Gaddi’s tonight is limited. Our candle lit table for seven in the prime spot of the restaurant is the center of meticulous service. The peach champagne cocktail is chilled to just the right temperature. The bisque is perfectly ladled over the artfully arranged pieces of lobster in the monogrammed tureens. The salad seems to have come directly from garden to table with only a stop for its presentation to be enhanced. Entrées, whether from the kitchen or flamed tableside, are even more delicious than their Pulitzer worthy descriptions by the maitre-de. The wine is age and vintage appropriate. The soufflé is so light and fluffy it fails to float only because it is held down by the texture of the perfectly melted chocolate.
The dining companions are articulate, interested in topics of substance and gracious in manner.
I’m not responsible for picking up the outrageous tab. It is a fine dining experience and I relish it.
Fine dining is, however, by no means restricted to Michelin starred restaurants. A modest farmhouse with Formica topped dining table can be a gourmet’s dream come true. The menu: french-fried, never been frozen chicken, cream gravy on mashed potatoes, freshly picked garden beans with homemade bread just out of the oven and finished off with cobbler made from peaches picked that morning.
Or how can it get any better than a full Cantonese style Chinese feast with shrimp on toast, roast suckling pig, sharks fin soup, salt baked chicken, etc. etc. until all 12 courses are served?
This list could go on for pages: the jaegerschnitzel and spaetzel in Switzerland, marvelous all vegetarian food in Bombay, outdoor just off the pit bar-b-cue in Texas, grilled salmon beside a stream in Idaho. Name your favorites!
Fine dining: for a newborn it comes from the mother’s breast; for the poor it’s anything that puts bulk into the stomach; for the recovering patient it’s anything that stays down. For the Christian it’s a sip of wine and a wafer of Eucharistic bread.
While eating is a common need and/or pleasure it is also something that separates the human family. Vegetarians from those who eat meat. Those who love pork from those who find this unspiritual. Those who eat around supportive families and those who eat in silent groups or in lonely solitude. Those who eat until sated or those multitudes who wait in vain for any morsel of nourishment.
Fine dining. May we hasten the day when an entire human family enjoys the answer to their simple prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.”
The dining companions are articulate, interested in topics of substance and gracious in manner.
I’m not responsible for picking up the outrageous tab. It is a fine dining experience and I relish it.
Fine dining is, however, by no means restricted to Michelin starred restaurants. A modest farmhouse with Formica topped dining table can be a gourmet’s dream come true. The menu: french-fried, never been frozen chicken, cream gravy on mashed potatoes, freshly picked garden beans with homemade bread just out of the oven and finished off with cobbler made from peaches picked that morning.
Or how can it get any better than a full Cantonese style Chinese feast with shrimp on toast, roast suckling pig, sharks fin soup, salt baked chicken, etc. etc. until all 12 courses are served?
This list could go on for pages: the jaegerschnitzel and spaetzel in Switzerland, marvelous all vegetarian food in Bombay, outdoor just off the pit bar-b-cue in Texas, grilled salmon beside a stream in Idaho. Name your favorites!
Fine dining: for a newborn it comes from the mother’s breast; for the poor it’s anything that puts bulk into the stomach; for the recovering patient it’s anything that stays down. For the Christian it’s a sip of wine and a wafer of Eucharistic bread.
While eating is a common need and/or pleasure it is also something that separates the human family. Vegetarians from those who eat meat. Those who love pork from those who find this unspiritual. Those who eat around supportive families and those who eat in silent groups or in lonely solitude. Those who eat until sated or those multitudes who wait in vain for any morsel of nourishment.
Fine dining. May we hasten the day when an entire human family enjoys the answer to their simple prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.”
SISTERS AND BROTHERS
I experience it all again now, decades after the event. My wife Jane’s mind struggled to focus as she lay in the Chinese hospital in Hong Kong after weeks of splitting headaches and blackouts. Neither her doctors nor 1965 available technology offered an appropriate diagnosis.
The doctor at the foot of her bed was the personal physician of Madam Chiang Kai Shek. “Sounds like a cerebral aneurysm to me,” he said. “Get her to America for arteriography and treatment immediately.”
Within two hours buds of help and hope started blooming everywhere.
An un-named civil servant granted an exit visa on the spot.
A hero in the battle against the Communist take-over in China telephoned. “You don’t really know me, but I heard about your situation. You’ll need plane tickets. I can get them. If there’s a financial problem, let me know.”
A Jewish businessman phoned. “I have connections with the world’s best neuro-surgeon at Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York. I’ll ask him to take care of Jane. Don’t worry about the money.”
At our home things were frantic. How does one pack up 5 young children to accompany a barely conscious mother for a flight across the Pacific in 3 days time. Neighbors and friends from several countries and religious faiths came to pray, pack and wipe away tears.
Our home was just two blocks away from refugee squatter huts built of scrap lumber, cardboard and tin. From one of them a little girl was dispatched. “Here’s an orange for the sick lady and a bottle of beer for her husband.”
We carried Jane up the plane’s loading ramp. Our five young children followed. We paused for prayer as the jet lifted off.
The moment the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign was turned off a well-dressed woman approached the patient. “You need to recline further,” she said. “I’m putting you in my first class seat. I’ll help here with the kids.” She never even gave me her name.
Strong headwinds forced an unscheduled stop in Alaska. Finally came the descent into San Antonio where arrangements had been made for care. While Jane was being carried from the plane to a waiting ambulance a couple appeared. “We’ll take the kids home with us for the night. Don’t worry.”
The neurosurgeon doubted the accuracy of the Chinese diagnosis and ordered arteriography. Watching the monitor he exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be! There it is! An aneurysm in the right carotid next to the brain.”
Additional specialists were consulted. A silver clip around the bulge might not hold. Brain surgery seemed problematic. A conservative non-surgical drug-assisted approach was agreed upon.
The recovery period was long, but the line of people offering assistance was longer. From New Guinea to New York prayers were offered. A car was loaned. Meals were provided. Children’s clothes were bought. Dolls were given. And Jane was healed.
Thirty-five years later the aneurysm lies mute, but Jane’s’ voice is loud and clear as we affirm together the ancient Chinese saying, “Within the four seas all people are sisters and brothers.” And there is one God who loves and looks over us all.
The doctor at the foot of her bed was the personal physician of Madam Chiang Kai Shek. “Sounds like a cerebral aneurysm to me,” he said. “Get her to America for arteriography and treatment immediately.”
Within two hours buds of help and hope started blooming everywhere.
An un-named civil servant granted an exit visa on the spot.
A hero in the battle against the Communist take-over in China telephoned. “You don’t really know me, but I heard about your situation. You’ll need plane tickets. I can get them. If there’s a financial problem, let me know.”
A Jewish businessman phoned. “I have connections with the world’s best neuro-surgeon at Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York. I’ll ask him to take care of Jane. Don’t worry about the money.”
At our home things were frantic. How does one pack up 5 young children to accompany a barely conscious mother for a flight across the Pacific in 3 days time. Neighbors and friends from several countries and religious faiths came to pray, pack and wipe away tears.
Our home was just two blocks away from refugee squatter huts built of scrap lumber, cardboard and tin. From one of them a little girl was dispatched. “Here’s an orange for the sick lady and a bottle of beer for her husband.”
We carried Jane up the plane’s loading ramp. Our five young children followed. We paused for prayer as the jet lifted off.
The moment the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign was turned off a well-dressed woman approached the patient. “You need to recline further,” she said. “I’m putting you in my first class seat. I’ll help here with the kids.” She never even gave me her name.
Strong headwinds forced an unscheduled stop in Alaska. Finally came the descent into San Antonio where arrangements had been made for care. While Jane was being carried from the plane to a waiting ambulance a couple appeared. “We’ll take the kids home with us for the night. Don’t worry.”
The neurosurgeon doubted the accuracy of the Chinese diagnosis and ordered arteriography. Watching the monitor he exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be! There it is! An aneurysm in the right carotid next to the brain.”
Additional specialists were consulted. A silver clip around the bulge might not hold. Brain surgery seemed problematic. A conservative non-surgical drug-assisted approach was agreed upon.
The recovery period was long, but the line of people offering assistance was longer. From New Guinea to New York prayers were offered. A car was loaned. Meals were provided. Children’s clothes were bought. Dolls were given. And Jane was healed.
Thirty-five years later the aneurysm lies mute, but Jane’s’ voice is loud and clear as we affirm together the ancient Chinese saying, “Within the four seas all people are sisters and brothers.” And there is one God who loves and looks over us all.
SANDRA
It was my first year of teaching, probably as close to hell as one can get this side of eternity. Grades one to four, forty-five students in one classroom. They were ordinary growing kids. I was inexperienced and not very competent. Among the 45 were Sandra Swain and her sister. Sandra was articulate and exuberant and in no way lethargic.
One morning before school Mrs. Swain told me this story. She said, “Last night I’d had it with Sandra and I exclaimed, 'Sandra, Shut Up!’
‘Mom, you shouldn’t say Shut Up! Mr. Kieschnick says that’s a sin.’
‘Now wait a minute, Sandra. I know Mr. Kieschnick and I know you kids. I’ll bet that when things get out of hand in your classroom sometimes Mr. Kieschnick, too, does shout Kids, Shut Up!’
‘Oh yes, he does’, said Sandra. ‘But God forgives Mr. Kieschnick!’”
It’s more than 50 years since Sandra made that declaration. I hope that even if she has forgotten all about how to add common fractions, she still believes that God forgives Mr. Kieschnick - and all the Sandras too.
One morning before school Mrs. Swain told me this story. She said, “Last night I’d had it with Sandra and I exclaimed, 'Sandra, Shut Up!’
‘Mom, you shouldn’t say Shut Up! Mr. Kieschnick says that’s a sin.’
‘Now wait a minute, Sandra. I know Mr. Kieschnick and I know you kids. I’ll bet that when things get out of hand in your classroom sometimes Mr. Kieschnick, too, does shout Kids, Shut Up!’
‘Oh yes, he does’, said Sandra. ‘But God forgives Mr. Kieschnick!’”
It’s more than 50 years since Sandra made that declaration. I hope that even if she has forgotten all about how to add common fractions, she still believes that God forgives Mr. Kieschnick - and all the Sandras too.
ASH WEDNESDAY
It is over a week since we observed Ash Wednesday. Its message continues to linger gently on my mind. I have been observing Ash Wednesday for some 81 years. My assumption is that I was in a church service on at least 80 of those years. Yet as I try to recall early memories of those observances my mind goes blank for about the first 60 years! I wonder why. I do not attribute it to repressed memories because of the Ash Wednesday focus on mortality. I do not fear death. Nor can my lack of memory (I think) result from the fact that for many years Ash Wednesday marked the day I stopped all alcohol consumption for those 40 sacred days. For whatever reason, those earlier memories refuse to come up.
All that changed for me, however, some 20 years ago. Then I was introduced to what was for me a new liturgical tradition: that is the imposition of ashes. In this ritual the presiding minister uses ashes to make the sign of the cross on each person’s forehead and pronounces upon each individual the solemn fact, “Remember that you are dust; and to dust you will return.”
For me this is neither frightening nor upsetting. I embrace my mortality believing that even after physical death I will have an abundant life with Christ, which is far better.
The long slow procession of persons to the minister for ashes does provide a wonderful time for introspection and reflection. One of the streams that flow through my mind is the recollection of those who were with us last year, but not this year. Last Wednesday my mind immediately went to my brother Hal who died in January. I was again struck by the fact that we are nine children; he is number six in birth order, yet was the first to die. That helps me recall especially those who have experienced the death of a younger sibling or more specifically the death of a child. While death is normal, we expect it to follow some normal patterns. When it doesn’t, we try to cope with that apparent break in the natural order of things.
After noting those who are not in the procession this year because they have gone before us, I look at my fellow members and think of other loses they are going through. There is Becky mourning the loss of her spouse because of divorce. There is Harry whose teen-age son has not spoken to him since last Ash Wednesday. I look at Sandra whose mother’s Alzheimer’s-vacant eyes can no longer identify her child. There is Larry, laid off from his job for the first time in his 23 year career. And I surely do not expect slow- walking Martha to still be with us next Ash Wednesday. Losses, finitude, dust.
Of course it does get very personal. I too shall return to dust. I recall the words of recently deceased writer John Updike, former Lutheran Christian. His poem “Requiem:” with its easy meter and simple rhythm seems to almost trivialize death; yet it touches my soul.
REQUIEM
It came to me the other day.
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full,
Of promise, depth unplumbable! “
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise.
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
But my thoughts do not stop there. Instead they direct me to the end of Lent: to Easter
All that changed for me, however, some 20 years ago. Then I was introduced to what was for me a new liturgical tradition: that is the imposition of ashes. In this ritual the presiding minister uses ashes to make the sign of the cross on each person’s forehead and pronounces upon each individual the solemn fact, “Remember that you are dust; and to dust you will return.”
For me this is neither frightening nor upsetting. I embrace my mortality believing that even after physical death I will have an abundant life with Christ, which is far better.
The long slow procession of persons to the minister for ashes does provide a wonderful time for introspection and reflection. One of the streams that flow through my mind is the recollection of those who were with us last year, but not this year. Last Wednesday my mind immediately went to my brother Hal who died in January. I was again struck by the fact that we are nine children; he is number six in birth order, yet was the first to die. That helps me recall especially those who have experienced the death of a younger sibling or more specifically the death of a child. While death is normal, we expect it to follow some normal patterns. When it doesn’t, we try to cope with that apparent break in the natural order of things.
After noting those who are not in the procession this year because they have gone before us, I look at my fellow members and think of other loses they are going through. There is Becky mourning the loss of her spouse because of divorce. There is Harry whose teen-age son has not spoken to him since last Ash Wednesday. I look at Sandra whose mother’s Alzheimer’s-vacant eyes can no longer identify her child. There is Larry, laid off from his job for the first time in his 23 year career. And I surely do not expect slow- walking Martha to still be with us next Ash Wednesday. Losses, finitude, dust.
Of course it does get very personal. I too shall return to dust. I recall the words of recently deceased writer John Updike, former Lutheran Christian. His poem “Requiem:” with its easy meter and simple rhythm seems to almost trivialize death; yet it touches my soul.
REQUIEM
It came to me the other day.
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full,
Of promise, depth unplumbable! “
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise.
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
But my thoughts do not stop there. Instead they direct me to the end of Lent: to Easter
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