Conversation with Jesus on the Cross

I get off the bus at the wrong stop

and walk two blocks of tough neighborhood,
see you tied to a post in a vacant lot,
I can’t help it—come up close
to see if you’re dead.
You are not dead, but only God knows
what they’ve done to you;
blood still seeps, some of it sticky in your hair.
Your eyes are open and see me.
 
“Did you ask to be here," I ask,
"on this spot, or here in general? I mean,
is this precise torture part of the plan?
Was this a mistake?
Is it what you wanted?”
I ask questions because I cannot
figure out how to free or comfort you.
 
You answer, “Why not here, and now?
I entered the fray, this glittering life
that moans and mourns.
Why are you here?
You could have kept walking.”

I say, “All of it feels wrong.
Atonement, propitiation—what do they mean
and how could they be necessary?
This is no formula of sin and hope, but nonsense;
it is—pardon the expression—overkill.”

Your gaze burns though I know you are dying,

slipping while I watch, leaving without anxiety
as though turning loose of a handrail to get a better view.
I throb with rage you seem to have missed;
are you not violently disappointed
that this death has not stopped all others?
Are you not disturbed
that the world’s architecture is destroyed,
its virtues twisted like melted beams
and its straight, tall doors torn agape
at the vulnerable space of death?

“You have undone everything,” I say,

but my tears betray bone-deep relief.
My hollow places ring dark praise.
You smile through blood and broken teeth.
My knees buckle and I kneel, resisting,
on the stained grass.

“It needed undoing,” you say,

then cry with me quietly, so lovely.
I grasp your swollen purple hand and say,
“Thank you.”

—VHWright, 11/11/11, revised 4/7/14

Lost Weekends and Rage in the World

I've gone a long stretch--since before Christmas, really--of missing weekend time off. When I say "time off," I, the classic introvert, mean "time when I don't have to be with people or go to any appointments or events." I enjoy the holidays in spite of their lack of solitude because my family is easy to be with and I can almost completely relax on those visits. Just almost.

The holidays fill all spare time with preparation for the cooking and the eating and the shopping and gifting, and I have learned to do so much but no more. I expect those lost weekends and evenings.

But someone close to us was in the hospital over the holiday, and I will write more about this at another time. But after the New Year, matters worsened. During the last weekend of January, she died, and the first weekend of February we buried her. Of course I would not have been any place else in the world than at the hospital and the church and the cemetery.

Then freelance projects ran late; if you are a freelance writer or freelance anything, perhaps you understand that it is impossible to relax completely when deadlines are looming and especially when they are past due.

Then speaking engagements, it seems they came every other weekend. I enjoy those events and hope to keep helping others do their writing workshops or their prayer retreats. But to fly to another state and be on task and surrounded by people for one or two days, and then have to deal with flights and connecting flights to arrive home Sunday afternoon or evening . . .

Suddenly it is spring, and this past weekend was the first that felt like a weekend in a long time. I allowed myself to sleep a bit longer. The pets and I went outdoors for awhile because the sun was out and the temperature not warm but getting warmer.

Still I face lists of undone tasks and at least half of them should have been accomplished but aren't. The weekend zipped by and left me feeling pitiful and a bit resentful.

Then I remembered that so many people never have weekends. They work two or three jobs or they live in a country or situation that never lets up on its demands. They don't get weekends, and their weekdays are a lot longer than mine. They go months without feeling rested; some of them probably go years without feeling rested and relaxed.

When I consider how cranky I become when I miss a weekend, when I think of how, lacking that rest, I go into the workday without my best energy and go into my problems and trials with depleted resources, when I consider how the absence of rest and true relaxation compromise me on so many levels, it helps me understand a little bit better why there is so much rage in the world.

When people are weary and see no end in sight, they find it easy to despair, to resent those who have what they do not, to drag through their days half-heartedly and anxiously. When people are weary, the whole world changes for them, and not in a good way.

God, please help us give to one another the means to sit down, be quiet, take some deep breaths, feel relief, sleep an hour longer, do less, and hope more.

Faith's Shadow Side

I read a long article in the Atlantic recently, about what ISIS really is about. If you're interested, here's the link: http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2015/02/what-isis-really-wants/384980/

It took awhile to read, and probably I will read it again because, as a Christian, it's important for me to struggle at understanding this. The writer makes a good case for saying that ISIS is in fact rooted in Islam, and its motives are not just political but quite religious. This organization does not represent most practicing Muslims, but its philosophy--and yes, there is a philosophy here--relies on a certain interpretation of certain passages of the Quran.

Does this sound familiar, Christians? Members of ISIS believe that the time has come for the world to return to a state in which the caliph rules, and this rule includes vanquishing the enemies of the Prophet. This rule would take the world back to an earlier time and a system of law as it was in the days of Muhammad.

Again, I ask, does this sound familiar? How often do I hear certain Christians who speak as if what they really want is for the whole world to revert to Old Testament law? In their loyalty to, say, the demands found in the book of Leviticus, they support capital punishment and oppress homosexuals. They try to keep women in their proper place. For some reason, they don't try to go out and buy slaves. And, unlike ISIS followers who are trying to fulfill a very similar kind of system, they don't seem to condone cutting off the hands of thieves. Selective reading, I guess.

It gets even scarier. Christians who are rooting for a "back to the O. T. basics" sort of faith are generally the same people who pledge their support to Israel regardless of how its government behaves. They are waiting for a literal fulfillment of history as found in the book of Revelation. In fact, they long for the Apocalypse because it will bring Jesus back in triumphant glory. It's quite interesting when we try to shape the world--and foreign policy--to fulfill to the letter not only ancient law but also a highly symbolic mystical vision.

ISIS longs for the Apocalypse because it will bring back the rule of the Prophet once for all. In fact, Jesus will help the prophet in this final, horrible cleansing and reaping of the world.

This is a shadow side of religion, and it's dangerous no matter whose religion we're talking about. When believers focus on a few sacred texts and ignore the rest, when they refuse to listen to the counsel of those who disagree with their interpretation, when they decide that God is on their side and only their side, and when they believe that the real answer is to kill off all their opponents--well, what should we expect?

We Christians should read our Bibles thoroughly on a regular basis. We should know what passages we are choosing to follow--and acknowledge the ones we conveniently ignore. We need to wrestle with the difficult words until we understand how they express the heart of our faith. Ignorance and denial will not help us. And digging in our heels will only make things worse.

As a follower of Jesus, I understand that he said some very weird things, and he made some statements I may never understand. But the heart of his message is that we are to love God and our neighbor. Everything else must be measured against that standard. Otherwise, I might swerve off into some shadowy place in which my faith warps into something else and I end up hurting others. When belief is not tempered by love, anything can happen.

Functioning While Fragile

Recently I led a women's retreat that began Friday evening and ended Sunday mid-morning. The theme, chosen by the women of this particular parish: "Reflect, Refresh, and Rejoice." I arrived at the retreat center prepared, on time, and ready to be the person at the center of attention. A retreat leader really does not want to be the center of attention, but you are, at least at key moments when you're trying to read the room, establish the direction of things, and set a tone that will make or break the experience.

But prior to my arrival, early Friday morning when my husband was driving me to the airport, I wept in the pre-dawn darkness. I was prepared to do the work commissioned me, but I was not well. I had not been sleeping. A freelance project was running late, which is a huge failure in my book, never mind that there were reasonable causes. Another project was exploding in my face, thanks to a seeming disconnect between the agreed-upon concept of a book I had written and the new editor's reaction to it, including a tone of e-mail messages that came across as abrupt and simply mean.

A mere three weeks before this, we had buried an eighteen-year-old, a young woman not my daughter but with whom I had been involved in several capacities for more than a decade. I had not had the time or space to grieve--in fact, I still haven't.

And so I arrived to function as a leader of sorts, knowing that I was quite empty and unable to recharge any part of myself. I did not feel that I was overflowing with good gifts for these women. I hoped that the gifts would come from elsewhere and maybe travel through my body and voice.

It's best to come clean in these situations, if you can do so without blurting out all your personal angst. In the initial meeting Friday evening, I gave the group very basic information about my state but added that this was probably to their advantage. When you are hurting and tired, your ego is less likely to drive the agenda. You rely on grace--I mean, really rely on grace--because you know you can't pull magic out of the air or fabricate wisdom and poise you do not have.

Maybe we should feel our fragility more often and more acutely. I do my best to come to these events well-rested and well-nourished, so that I'm in a good place physically and emotionally, capable of listening and being present. Sometimes my best efforts fail and yet I face a room full of people who hope I can encourage them, inspire their wisdom, and help their prayers. What's wonderful is that I do those things. The work happens, and because I feel how fragile I am, my faith in the wonder and the work is probably more authentic than at any other time.

The weekend went very well. I returned to Chicago and the missed deadline and the other stresses and the brutal absence of a person I wish had lived until old age. I returned to more winter and to endless tasks running late and hurried. Still fragile. But still intact.

Making My Lunch for Ash Wednesday

I'm feeling rather stoic this morning because I took the time to make a salad from scratch and take it in a jar to work. Other than that, my food will be liquid today, and although that hardly makes it a true Ash Wednesday fast, it is significant enough for me. I hope to use the weeks of Lent to work toward spiritual freedom when it comes to food.

Growing food, preserving food, cooking food, and eating food were major components of my early life. Our family had little money, and I don't recall a single vacation taken away from home. But we feasted all the time. Food was our habit and solace, our celebration and creative work. I can't remember a time when eating was not an experience for me--whether I was living at home or abroad, alone in an apartment or sharing a house with others.

I believe that many women make shifts during middle age to compensate for lost sensuality. For many of us, there are no longer babies to cuddle and caress or small children to hold on laps, little-girl hair to brush and braid, afternoon projects involving cookie dough or clay or crayons. Our sex life has probably diminished, too, thanks to hormonal changes, health issues, relationships ending through death or divorce. For all the hottie middle-aged and senior models that smile across our TV and computer screens advertising sexual aids and dating sites for the mature, I see a lot more women in my age group who are in fact ill or tired or without sexual companionship.

But there's always food. At least, for those of us fortunate to have resources, there is lots of food. My nation is food-obsessed, with fast-food chains thinking up new ways every week to add one more layer of cheese or meat or sweet-salty sauce or fried bread-stuff. My husband and I made our first visit to the new Marianno's that opened on 95th St., and it was grand and clean and stocked to the rafters with everything imaginable. I stood there in awe but also horror. It is obscene how much food gets sold and bought and loaded by bagsful and then half-eaten or thrown away. It is somehow anti-justice how abundantly the food tumbles and flows in a country where so many starve for nutrition.

When you're in the middle of your life, or further in, and you have racked up many disappointments, and the worries are multiplying with the years, and you long for something to stimulate your whole self, a gourmet cupcake can provide a fantastic few moments, can it not? Bliss on a Wednesday afternoon that might help you be a little more hopeful through Thursday and Friday.

I am that woman too much of the time. I plan my week around where to find a scone and tea, or coffee and pecan roll, or a Turkish lunch or extravagant Whole Foods salad. There's the sweet on Friday after work, a reward for the week. There's the other sweet late one afternoon because it's been such a stressful, nonstop day. And could I sit through this week's episode of Downton Abbey without a pot of the best tea and something perfectly sweet to go with it? No, really, I couldn't.

I dare to wonder what aspects of abundant life I miss because I follow cravings for mere food. It's time to try to wrest myself from this spiritual yet physical kind of bondage. I don't expect to exit the Lenten season twenty pounds lighter (although that would be nice) or converted to veganism or liberated from my love of sweets. But I have to see where this goes. I will eat less of certain things, eat smaller portions of most things, and donate some of the money I save to Chicago Food Depository. It's a start.

A Countermove to Diving Down

I just finished reading Walter J. Ciszek's story of being a priest in Soviet prisons and Siberian labor camps for twenty-three years. The book is With God in Russia, and I highly recommend it. A real page turner and an inspiration to those of us tempted to falter in our faith or our humanity.

At one point Ciszek mentions that when he was moved to a place with better conditions--meaning that they weren't starving, were able to stay somewhat warm, and could sleep sometimes--other problems emerged. People who were not constantly obsessed with finding food and avoiding frostbite now had the luxury of reflecting on their situation. Thus there was a higher incidence of emotional disturbance, depression, and misbehavior. I guess when you are just trying to survive, you have no resources for experiencing life at any other level.

I often say that I have First-World problems. My "bad" day involves a messed-up train schedule or a blossoming sinus infection or a dangerously low bank balance. I have good problems such as writer's block or a boring workday. Sometimes I think that I get depressed because I have the luxury of sitting around and thinking about myself too much. Clinical depression is a condition of physiological as well as psychological imbalance, and I respect the seriousness of it. I'm just not at all sure that my frequent (some days I would say constant) state of depression is really that. It can be a dangerous thing to go deep into one's life. Perhaps some days it's better to live in an intentionally shallow and appetite-driven way.

My work life for just about all of my adult life has revolved around people's spiritual welfare. If I was not teaching ESL in a mission school overseas I was trying to help teenagers appreciate the art and joy of music. Since those early days, my only job has been editing books for the religion market. Is it healthy to be in that diving-down-into-the-soul place all the time? Honestly, it can become a weariness to think about divine life day in and day out. No wonder I've taken up knitting and watching too much television. I would probably drink more except that alcoholic intake exceeding two drinks makes me sick, puts me to sleep, and depresses me further still. I have used food to break up the monotony of trying to live with meaning and purpose, but that adds pounds to my hips and thighs, and let's not even go to the body-image region of depressive episodes.

While complaining about the constant badgering of a purposeful life, I know that I wouldn't last five minutes in a life that did not dive regularly into that deep-down inner place of eternal something-or-other. I'm just not built for a trivial sort of existence, even when I act, speak, and think in trivial ways. Temperament-wise, I have always needed to reflect and communicate.

Life circumstances have also pushed me toward the more contemplative life. There were no babies and small children to distract me for days at a time and prevent prayer or spiritual reading and other interior activities. I married an introvert, which makes for a comfortable life when you, yourself, are an introvert, but it also enables some of the introvert's less healthy habits, such as sitting at home rather than being engaged with life "out there" at least sometimes. We are polite introverts, so we do ask each other, "How are you?" and mean it, but of course we never press for an answer, and there are times when you need an extravert in the room to yank you into a standing position and interrogate you until you finally say out loud what's really going on in that damned deep-down region of meaning.

The mystics tell us that everything we're looking for is already here, and much of the time "here" means that personal interior place where God speaks and you listen, where you look and God hides. But it's a frustrating, devastating day when you dwell in that interior place of wonder and divine wisdom and discover that there's a lot of emptiness in there, too, And it can be an echo chamber that blasts your own stupid thoughts back to you. The deep-down place isn't enough. In fact, sometimes it's too much.

So here's the mystery. Without the diving-down practices of reflection, contemplation, prayer, and conversation, life is reduced to finding the food and staying warm. But it seems that the diving down needs a countermove, and that countermove should probably be a practice, something we do regularly. How do we break the surface? What does a good eruption look like--you know, the kind of bursting forth that releases the pent-up energies of prayer and love?

You Look Like Your Mother!

In recent years, various people have told me, with great enthusiasm, how much I look like my mother. It's taken me awhile to settle into this fact. When I was a child, everyone agreed that I looked just like Dad, so I became accustomed to thinking of myself in that way. Now there's a new reality to which I must adjust, and it's been interesting to observe my own reaction to this.

Mom has always looked young for her years, and she's always been attractive. I've never considered myself attractive, just passable, and so I did not consider that I bore any resemblance to my mother. Now that she's in her seventies and looks older--although still attractive, in my opinion--when people say I look like her, I don't know if they're noticing my signs of aging or if I do in fact have some of her innate characteristics. There are moments when I'm quite proud to be seen as resembling her. But other moments, not so much. Why is that?

I know that I'm not the only woman to feel uneasy about being identified closely with her mother. It goes much deeper than looks. A friend and I were talking about how we have tended to wear clothes like those our mothers wear, and how embarrassed we are when we realize this, especially if someone else points it out. On Mom's recent visit, I found myself attentive to her gestures or the way she placed her arms across her lap, and I checked my own gestures and positioning to see if I mirrored her; at times I did. I would adjust immediately, all the while asking myself, Why does this even bother me?

And how many of us have been somewhat horrified to hear, coming out of our mouths, the phrases, verbatim, that we used to hear our mothers say?

Perhaps a daughter is especially and naturally critical of her mother, who is her first model of womanhood. As children we accept that model without question. But when we become older and attach ourselves to peer groups, one of the first people to suffer our newly formed judgments is Mom. We are desperate to fit in, and Mom represents our earlier forms, our baby-ness and our dependence. We may feel very close to Mom, but we also feel obligated to put distance in that relationship; otherwise, how can we become ourselves?

Well, I'm fifty-six years old now; I don't think Mom is going to embarrass me in front of my friends. Yet, I'm not sure I want to look like her. Maybe I'm afraid that if outward appearance is any indication, I will become like her in other ways, too. That wouldn't be a bad thing, because Mom's a wonderful person. But the insecure adolescent who still lives inside me wants to be her own person. The need to be special takes a lifetime to die, I guess.

And is it possible that my life is so easily predetermined and predictable, that so much of what I do and say and believe is the result of my years in close proximity to this particular adult? Do I fear that, thanks to my mother, my father, and others, my fate was decided long ago and I don't really determine much about who I am? Can people look at Mom and know immediately what I will be like in a few years?

Another possibility: seeing my mother age reminds me that I, too, will grow old if I don't die first. I cannot avoid this progression any more than I can avoid the physical resemblance.

I made sure Jim took this photo while Mom was visiting last week. Despite my ambivalence about looking like my mother, I want everyone to see.