Transcendence

I do possess.
I must posses.
A transcendence.
Of spirit and heart and love.

Not to escape history.
Because that's just plain nuts.
To want something good.
Without seeing just how horrible stuff can be.
Is just plain nuts.

No. Not to escape.
But to believe.
To live within the maelstrom.
To hope.
To trust.

That the tortured cries of humanity.
Like the children of Israel in Egypt.
Have a hearing.
And will not endlessly be forgotten.

A transcendence to see better.
The dim outlines of hope.
Often obscured in the harsh glare of greed.

The bright lights of fame and fortune.
Towers of steel and cement.
White houses of shame and deceit.

Hard to see hope in the glare of greed.
In the blinding light of lies and lechery.

Transcendence is no fool's errand.
No widow's blind rage against death.
No momentary escape from reality.
But reality itself.
The living heart of creation.
History's machinery runs on human folly.
And transcendence, too.

Transcendence has teeth.
Spit and spine.
Piss and vinegar.
And is not to be trifled with.

Transcendence reminds me of the rising sun.
The cloud of unknowing.
The majesty of a late-night moth.
Headed toward the flame.

Because the flame is hope.
Home.
Heart.
Everything.

So it goes.
History howls in pain and anger.
Cruel people have their day.
Death reigns its malignant poison.

And that's where I live.
In history.
With its late-night sobs.
And day-light despair.

Transcendence is no escape.
But my strength - to not fall into the darkness.
But into the light.
Like a moth to the flame.

The light of the world, said He.
And many laughed for his want of realism.
But it's his realty that transcends.
Not to escape, but to transform.

To endure, if nothing else.
Until that day when death meets its match.
When greed has exhausted itself and lies dying.
In its own debris of broken promises and poisoned water.

To endure.
To engage.
To enlarge.
To energize.

Faith, hope and love.
Grace, mercy and peace.
Beauty, justice and mercy.

The arsenal of transcendence.
Armed not with might but with right.
Love, not lust.
Generosity, not greed.

Transcendence.
The Lord is great.
And greatly to be praised.
Hallelujah and Amen!

It Happened on a Sunday Afternoon

Thelma called, panic in her voice - something strange and quite beyond words: “George shot himself. He’s upstairs.”

A quiet man who gave no evidence of distress … no sign of anything at all … I think in his late 50s at the time … so who knows what pain danced around him.

I walked over to the house, just a block away … one of those large, three-story affairs, a central Pennsylvania railroad town … 

Thelma answered the door … I don’t recall if anyone else was there yet … the police, an ambulance - I have no idea.

I went upstairs … did I go alone?

But in my mind’s eye, there I stand by the bed … George on his back, head on a pillow … lots of blood … where’s the gun? I don’t know … I don’t recall seeing it … lost in the folds of the bed?

I suppose Thelma thought he’d gone up for a Sunday afternoon nap.

But with a gun in hand, George ended his life instead …

That day, for the first time in my life, I wondered about suicide.

Like most folks, I had easily thought that suicide was a sin. Period! I had never dealt with it, never known of anyone in the family or in our circle of friends who took their own life. 

I remember thinking that George, a gentle soul, was certainly no sinner in this case, and certainly not deserving of eternal hellfire, or whatever grim punishments the church conjures up to keep wandering souls in line.

Did George shake his fist in the face of God?

Did George heroically assert his independence and end his life in some kind of ironic rebellion against God?

Was he guilty of some supreme cowardice?

I’m 28 at the time, and hurriedly thinking it through because the funeral is three days away.

It was then and there that I became clear - whatever suicide may be, it’s no sin … neither pride nor arrogance. It’s a moment of desperation, as the mind cannot see any other way out, of whatever the dilemma is. 

And no condemnation for the broken-hearted. No condemnation for those lost in sorrow, entangled in whatever heartache has come their way, either of their doing, or simply the circumstances of life … who knows just how tangled the pathways are for anyone. And when the moment comes, it all must make sense to them, even as it leave us bewildered as we try to figure out what will never make any sense to the living.

So, there it was for me … my first suicide funeral … and I spoke about the kindness and mercy and love of God for George … I remember saying something about our own struggles, and whatever hope I might offer, it’s not an encouragement to end our lives. But it is to say: None of the living can fathom the darkness that drove George to take a gun, load it, hold it in hand, place it to his head …

Did he take a deep breath?

Was he crying?

Was he thinking of Thelma?

Did it take long to decide?

I’ll never forget that Sunday afternoon and the funeral that followed.

It was a moment to decide.

I made the right choice, at least for me.

In subsequent years, other suicides would follow … amazing how people take their lives … some gave no hint whatsoever; others were clearly on a troubled road heading downward. Some do it in the home; others by a tree with a rifle … or in the car on the roadside. Maybe a note is left; in most cases, no note at all.

I’ve always remembered that moment when I had to decide. 

On a Sunday afternoon!

Praise God?

Psalm 146.
1 Praise the LORD! Praise the LORD, O my soul!
2 I will praise the LORD as long as I live; I will sing praises to my God all my life long.

Praise.

What a bitter word ... sometimes.

Since we are often are led to think of praise as something joyful, exuberant, exultant - woo hoo, whoopee ding dang, and ain’t God’s love just the most wonderful thing in the world?”

But such is not the case with my good friend, Jeremiah the Prophet.

Nor is it the case with another good friend, Job.

Or, for that matter, my Savior, Jesus ... who certainly isn’t jumping up and down, waving his arms, and shouting Hosanna in the Garden of Gethsemane.

So, the question: does “praise” include the darker notes of despair, sorrow, bitterness, rage, disappointment? Does “praise” include the dark moments of a Jeremiah, a Job and a Jesus?

I believe so.

To turn toward God in despair, to lament the times, or one’s situation ... to level the charges of doubt ... to question God’s integrity ... to get totally pissed off at God ... to lay before God all the complaints of life ...

That, too, is praise ... 

It speaks the truth of the moment ... it’s honest and forthright ... and in a curious way, expresses confidence that God will hear, that God deserves to hear, that God can be trusted even when I’m expressing my gravest doubts - accusing God, questioning God, ready to walk away from God and never look back!

It helps empty the soul of darkness ... and heaven knows, and so do I, that the soul needs a good shaking out now and then, to empty it, of all things, good and bad, to make room for another day.

Whatever is has to be admitted, confronted, expressed ... repression is the servant of despair ... free expression is the consort of love ... “a love that will not let me go” ... because “there is a wideness in God’s mercy” ...

So, on those bitter days when God’s love seems more like a cruel joke than a blessing, this, too, is a part of our journey ... a chapter among many other such chapters ... so let God have it, express the darkness of despair, the Dark Night of the Soul, and such is, in its own curious way, a form of praise.

And I dare say, that God welcomes, above all else, honesty ... honesty is the first virtue of praise! ... the exultant expression, or the moment soaked in tears and bitterness, the dance of joy or the dirge of despair.

Praise the LORD ... all my life long.

The Cry of Despair - Psalm 25

This caught my eye ... from today's Lectionary: Psalm 25 -

16 Turn to me and be gracious to me,
          for I am lonely and afflicted.
17 Relieve the troubles of my heart,
          and bring me out of my distress.
18 Consider my affliction and my trouble,
          and forgive all my sins.

19 Consider how many are my foes,
          and with what violent hatred they hate me.
20 O guard my life, and deliver me;
          do not let me be put to shame, for I take refuge in you.
21 May integrity and uprightness preserve me,
          for I wait for you.

Who hasn't been reduced in means and threatened with want?

Who hasn't had hope shattered and dreams scattered?

Who hasn't failed themselves and others, perhaps unintentionally, or even intentionally?

Who hasn't felt the sting of adversity, the judgement of others, the hatred/rejection of former friends?

Whatever is going on for the Psalmist, it's a cry filled with pain ... and pleading ... pleading with God who, for the Psalmist, can make a difference, can adjust the flow of time, the pace of history, the outcome of some events.

I suspect we've all been here, in one way or the other.

Alone, if not in reality, at least in perception.

Frightened of what may come our way.

Without hope in any predictable frame.

The cry of pain ... is often the beginning of rebuilding.

When we give up, sort of, and seek the ways of God, anew.

Life is full of dead ends and disappointments, struggle and strife.

Surely, punctuated by sweetness and joy and delight and peace.

How quickly the beauty fads in the moment of breaking.

For the Psalmist, it's all fallen, and she cries out in desperation.

Cries out for help.

And with hope that her integrity and uprightness, which are a part of her life, will be evident.

For none is without integrity and uprightness.

We all have such things ... and she prays that these things will anchor her character.

And may that be true for us all.

And the last word, mostly, finally, sort of .... "I wait for you!"

Haunted by "Casino" - Auden, 1936

Casino

Only their hands are living, to the wheel attracted,
Are moved, as deer trek desperately towards a creek
   Through the dust and scrub of a desert, or gently,
   As sunflowers turn to the light,

And, as night takes up the cries of feverish children,
The cravings of lions in dens, the loves of dons,
   Gathers them all and remains the night, the
   Great room is full of their prayers.

To a last feast of isolation self-invited,
They flock, and in a rite of disbelief are joined;
   From numbers all their stars are recreated,
   The enchanted, the worldly, the sad.

Without, calm rivers flow among the wholly living
Quite near their trysts, and mountains part them, and birds,
   Deep in the greens and moistures of summer,
   Sing towards their work.

But here no nymph comes naked to the youngest shepherd,
The fountain is deserted, the laurel will not grow;
   The labyrinth is safe but endless, and broken
   Is Ariadne’s thread,

As deeper in these hands is grooved their fortune: 'lucky
Were few, and it is possible that none was loved,
   And what was god-like in this generation
   Was never to be born.'

-W. H. Auden, 1936