Nor return by the way you came

“You are to eat or drink nothing,

nor to return by the way you came.”

1 Kings 13:9

I walked home from the park by a different way this morning.  Not a big change; just Conrad Sauer instead of Shadowdale.  And on my way home I met a man I rarely see anymore.  He is a neighbor of ours, but lives toward the east end of the street and works nights, so he isn’t out during the day much and I guess he has already gone to work when we are out for an evening stroll.  I used to see him in he early mornings when he was coming home from work.  Around 5:30 or 6am he’d come pulling into his driveway usually just as I was pausing to put Mrs. V’s newspaper by her front door.  She lives across the street from him.  Normally we would wave, say good morning. Things like that. Maybe get as far as the weather if we were feeling chatty.  Rarely, but on occasion, he would ask about the kids. After his divorce, the conversation got even more stoic.  We would nod, raise a hand, at most our socializing would extend as far as a greeting.  Nothing more.

Now, usually my walking path is very routine.  I go east to Conrad Sauer and then turn on Londonderry back to Shadowdale and head to the park. The way home is straight Shadowdale. Basically, I pretty much return the way I came.  But this morning I was reading 1 Kings 13 about the “man of God” who was given the order not to eat or drink or return by the way he came, and when he disobeys things don’t go so well for him. So, I thought –let me try it. I will change my route a little.  See what happens.

Coming home, I noticed that the recycle truck must have come. The lids to the green bins were open and there were a few messes in the street where recycled paper and plastic and cans had spilled.   If you read my post about my red pants and picking up trash, you’ll know I am one of those neighbors who doesn’t like to just walk past a mess.  Especially when there is an open can so nearby.  So, coming around the corner I don’t normally return by I saw a few plastic bottles and cans in front of the driveway of the corner house. And a tipped over recycle bin. Without too much hesitation, I picked up the bin and started picking up the mess.  And when I finished I was feeling pretty good about myself.  I’d done my walk –burned enough calories to enjoy a croissant, I hoped—and even done a good deed for a neighbor.  This Bible stuff, it’s not so bad, I thought.

And then I saw my neighbor’s car zip into his driveway, and he hopped out wearing workout clothes that made him look like he could handle a few croissants and a jelly doughnut or two!  I have to say, he’s getting a little buff (if that’s the right word). Anyway he hops out of his car in his skintight workout pants and t-shirt and points to the street, where the truck had spilled beer cans and water bottles and shredded paper from his bin. And he starts cursing. I don’t mean calling on the gods to smite someone with a rain of fire and brimstone or frogs and locus or skin lesions and boils…eegads!  But serious drunken sailor/hammer to the thumb type cursing! He’s cursing the recycle truck and the [expletive deleted] idiots who drive it.  He was standing there, basically yelling some of the most creative expletives deleted I have ever heard outside of a Joe Pesci movie. And in his skin-tight workout pants and t-shirt he starts grabbing up beer cans and plastic bottles and throwing them violently into his recycle bin.

My gut reaction was to bend down and start helping him, but I hesitated. Anger frightens me. But, I was also a little worried that if I started helping things would only get worse.  So, I nodded my head and said, “What can you do?”  It’s a classic non-committal comment that allows an impression of sympathy and compassion without affirming the actual behavior.  I think I learned that one with my kids.

I stood there for a few seconds watching him work. Wishing that I had the spine to just bend over and pick something up.  But before I could summon the gumption, he slammed the lid of his bin closed and wheeled it away cursing again –but a little more quietly this time.

In the story, the “man of God” fails to follow God’s directions; he is tempted by another prophet to come and share a meal. And because he disobeys the Lord, on his way home he is killed by a lion.  But, oddly enough, the lion doesn’t eat him, it just mauls and kills him --then stands guard over his body (cf. 1 Kings 13:24-28) without harming the man’s donkey. In the end, when the body is found, the lion and the donkey are standing either side of it—just waiting. It is a strange and fearful ending to an odd story.

In my version, I guess there is a lion, but instead of killing me he yelled at his recycle bin and walked away. Walking home, I was a little shook up. I had this strange feeling of fear and shame haunting me. I think I was ashamed of our shared moment there. It was such an oddly intimate moment. That was certainly part of it. But also, I think I felt ashamed of my hesitation to help. Why had not just stooped down and begun helping him? But even more, I think I was ashamed because I’ve lived down the street from this man for almost 17 years and I have no idea who he really is.   

And the fear… Well, I’m not good with anger. I have struggled with that fear all my life. When people get angry they lose control.  Situations get out of control.  I think I fear that loss of control most of all.  I think I fear being not only other people losing control, but  that somehow their loss of control will envelop me as well.  It is --I think-- a fear of being completely and utterly vulnerable.  That morning I returned I let go of my habitual route, and came home by a way I had not gone. And in doing so, I saw things –my neighborhood, my neighbor and myself—in a different way. 

Every once in a while, it is important to do that, to break your habits, change your way of thinking, take a different route home.  It may not be easy, and you may start to feel vulnerable, but do it anyway. Even if you are afraid.  Perhaps, especially if you are.  

God didn't make death

“God did not make death…” –Wisdom 1:13

A meditation for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

This past Sunday we had that interesting reading from Wisdom.  It tells us with striking simplicity that “God did not make death…” And yet there it is. What are we supposed to do with such a statement?   We might have the urge to rush to some kind of allegorical understanding (for instance something involving Paul’s comment about the wages of sin… cf..Romans 6:23) but before we do, I think it is always best to spend a little time contemplating the actuality of what is said.  What if it actually means what it says? What are the implications about death, about God, perhaps even about sin?  And yet, I am unable to let go of the actuality of death itself; the death of an actual person and the repercussions that follow. I wonder what these words might mean in the light of that.

About a year and a half ago, my brother Bobby died.  He had lung cancer and was sure it was caused by working in old attics filled with asbestos insulation. He was an a/c repairman.  When he found out about the cancer, he started paying attention to those TV lawyer commercials; certain that someone owed him something for this.  But, on the other hand, he bragged that before he started coughing up blood, he hadn’t been to a doctor in close to 30 years.   He had no insurance and never had.  Instead his medical plan was to self-medicate –in every meaning of that term. And most of the time, it worked well enough for him.  But if it didn’t, he turned away from the world and handled the problem as best he could on his own.  I imagine him even doing his own dental work when necessary.  That was the kind of guy he was.

The last day I spent with him we sat in an emergency exam room in Galveston waiting to hear if he was getting checked into the hospital next door or sent home.  Most of the time we sat in silence broken only by moments of awkward conversation. Before the cancer, we had not seen much of each other over the past 25 years.  And sitting there waiting to find out how soon he would die, it was an odd time and place to catch up.  Mostly our talk turned back to the subject of his dog and how much he wanted to get back to her.  At one point, after a long silence, he suddenly announced that he was done with all this. He couldn’t do the hospital stuff anymore. All he wanted was to go home and sit with his dog. 

Up to that moment, what conversations we’d had dealt mainly with survival: money issues and oxygen tanks, plans for what his life would look like with only one lung (or less).  At that moment, though, it seemed that he understood his problems were more serious than finding somebody to buy him groceries. Yet, when a doctor came in and told him that tests showed the cancer had spread and then asked him about a DNR. Bob seemed stunned.  He looked at me. He didn’t seem to know what to say. The doctor explained: “We just need to know. If something happens, do you want us to attempt to resuscitate you or not?”

Still looking at me instead of the doctor, Bob said, “Well, hell[1], of course, I want to be resuscitated.”

The doctor looked at me, also. He seemed as confused as I was.  Up to that moment, I think we were thinking the patient was done with all this medical stuff… but clearly not.  After some silence, he noted something on his clipboard and left.

We sat there in more silence, Bob looking away; his head shaking, like he was still saying no to something he couldn’t understand.  Until that moment, I don’t think I had ever seen my brother cry.  He had been a hard boy and had grown into a hard man.  But there were tears falling on his jeans as he stared at the floor and kept shaking his head. Finally, he spoke: “Well (something colorful) [2] now, I don’t know whether to shit or wind my watch.”  That little paraphrase from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was one of the last things I heard my brother say.  He was moved to the hospital right after that.  And I was out of town when he died at home just a few days later. 

Bob had lived hard and worked hard and played hard and rarely seemed to consider the consequences, unless beer (or his dog) was involved. And at the end that was where he got to be. Home with his dog (Shirley) and his beer. He was there on the couch with both nearby when he died. 

I’ve been thinking about my brother a lot lately. Praying for him in my Rosary. Asking him to pray for me.  And thinking about how it must have felt to know you were dying… not theoretically, but imminently. It is a hard thought.

Then, yesterday morning, as I came out for my morning walk, I met a neighbor I rarely see anymore. She was entangled in the leashes of her three dogs when we greeted each other. But instead of just going on her way, she came toward me, because she had something she needed to tell me. Her son had died. He was 42 years old, married to his college sweetheart, two children; they were living in England; and there was a motorcycle accident. Just like that she knew the terrible sadness of a mother who outlives her son. As we stood there in the street, she told me she knew I was someone who prayed and she wanted me to pray for her and for her son and for her daughter in law.  I was standing there with my Rosary in my hand and said of course. I would love to.  In fact, I have to say, I was honored that she asked.

Lead by the dogs, we started down the street together toward her house –not my normal direction, but…  As we walked, she told me about the funeral. How many people were there and how loved her son had been –by so many people. Pausing to untangle herself from the leashes, she smiled and told me how she had been asked to speak at her son’s funeral. At first, she was shocked that they asked. And she was certain she wouldn’t be able to do it. That would be impossible. Too much. And yet –in the end—she did, and how glad she was that she had.  How good she felt afterwards.

That morning, she was going back to work for the first time since she returned from England. And her main concern right then was the people at work who would be nervous and wouldn’t know what to say. But, she shrugged, she was kind of amazed that she didn’t really feel that bad. Maybe it’s the prayers, she speculated. “A lot of people are praying for me.” 

Death frightens us –all of us. Despite all the science and the inevitability, it seems a little unnatural.  This life, whether it is a happy one or a hard one –it’s all we know. It’s what we know.  And change is hard… even just the direction of your morning walk (for some of us)…

Change is hard and death is about as big a change as we can imagine. Last night, I learned of the death of a friend’s husband.  Change is hard and it just keeps coming.  And I don’t know what to say or do or write…  But I keep thinking about my brother, and my neighbor, and my friend and I keep asking: why.

I don’t have an answer.  St. Paul says that death is the wages of sin (cf. Romans 6:23).  Possibly. I think the temptation story in Genesis would support that (cf. 2:17). But there is solace in the fact that death is not part of God’s creation; it is not something that brings Him delight.  In fact, the Love of God overcomes it.  As Paul also says, through Jesus Christ, God conquered death (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:55-57).   If we look at the Gospels, I think we see that could easily be the only thing Jesus actually does during His entire public ministry; He goes from one kind of death to another and brings only life: to the blind, to the hungry, to the outcast, to the sinner, to the sick, to the widow’s son, to Lazarus, and to the little girl –the daughter of Jairus—he brings life. I remember how I have always been struck by what Jesus says to the little girl: Talitha koum –Little girl, arise (cf. Mk 5:41). 

Its as if death were no more than a moment’s sleep.  And the Lord calls us to wake up.  Come to think of it, that’s what I saw in my neighbor’s smile even as she talked of her pain and sadness, I saw the simple beauty of someone fully alive; someone fully awake. And that’s what I pray my brother found as he fell asleep not alone in a hospital bed, but at home on his couch with his dog by his side.  I pray that what he heard as he drifted off was the sound of love calling to him: my beloved son, arise. 

---

[1] I’m writing “hell,” but he really said something much more colorful. 

[2] During the Watergate trials this would have been replaced by [expletive deleted]

Toiling in vain --just like John the Baptist?

“Though I thought I had toiled in vain

and for nothing, senselessly, spent

my strength, yet my reward is with

the Lord, my recompense with my God.”

--Isaiah 49: 4

 

Listen to this message.  One of our greatest voices, one of the most important prophetic figures in scripture; and he feared his work, his life, had been in vain.  Is this not the proper response to anyone who feels their life has gone unnoticed?  Most of us, I imagine, looking back on our lives see missed opportunities, unfulfilled promise; years of unrecognized effort, uncelebrated worth.  Who hasn’t felt the fear and the pain and the neglect envisioned in the first half of this verse? We had promise, we had opportunities, and amounted to nothing.  We toiled in vain, spent our strength uselessly and our lives have gone without note or success; our dreams and our promise unrealized.  Or we feel unseen; no one seems to care (or notice) that we exist.

Today we celebrate the nativity of John the Baptist, a man who on most any earthly scale would be deemed a failure; someone who “toiled in vain.” He goes out to the wilderness and lives like a homeless man, becomes something of a public spectacle with his ranting against sin, then goes too far and is arrested and put to death due to a party game gone awry.  And if it wasn’t for this other guy (his cousin) whose earthly ministry also ends kind of badly, we probably wouldn’t even remember John.  He would have faded into history; just another forgotten misfit with dreams and promise who lived and died without notice by the Caesars of the world. At best, an annoying mosquito to be swatted away and forgotten.

I know people who never seem to receive their moment of glory.  I’ve worked in universities and schools almost all of my adult life and witnessed time and again how some people repeatedly are singled out for praise (often very deserved) while others (also very deserving) year after year go unnoticed. I’m thinking of a particularly dedicated teacher I know who shows up every day, works long hours, loves and nurtures her students, yet when it comes time to single out people for hard work or extra praise, she is never mentioned; never singled out; apparently never noticed, while the same English teachers or Science teachers or Math teachers are honored and praised time and again.  Is it because the one teacher constantly goes beyond, exceeds expectations and the other simply doesn’t have that extra skill or talent or charm?  Possibly.  But that doesn’t change the fact that a capable and dedicated teacher might feel exactly as Isaiah does in this passage.  That she/he has toiled in vain, uselessly spent her life’s energy doing work that goes unnoticed and unappreciated.  Yet, what Isaiah is also saying is: Don’t look to earthly honors and awards as the measure of your real worth. 

Today, as we remember the nativity of John the Baptist, we are called to remember that our reward, our true worth isn’t found in the praise of Caesar or by the number of “likes” we get or the number of times we are singled out for praise, but in the Lord; our recompense is with God; our true worth is measured not in man’s eyes, but in God’s glory.  We are His servant, and we must remember we are working for His glory. Not our own.

A couple of weeks back we had the Gospel in which Jesus said that a house divided against itself cannot stand (Mk 3:25).  I hear reverberations of that great truth here as well. Perhaps that is why this reading from Isaiah spoke to me so profoundly.  What I hear in Isaiah is a message about division of the heart.  I hear an echo of a division that rears its ugly head inside me most every day.  When I am writing a poem or working on my novel –if I am in the zone, so to speak-- I write single mindedly. The words, the story, the image, the work itself is all I care about. But, when I am distracted, or things aren’t coming easily I will begin to doubt myself and question myself –I will second guess.  And often when I hear of some young author who just published a first book to great acclaim, I will grow a little sour with envy as I recall my drawer full of rejection slips.  I begin to doubt my worth, to suspect my efforts have been in vain, my strength senselessly spent, because instead of doing my work the best I can, for the glory of God, I’m doing it for myself; for my glory, my rewards, my recompense, and in my selfishness, I am becoming a house divided against itself.  I’m seeking not what is my true reward but something like a shadow of it. In fact, by seeking an earthly reward I am serving Caesar; but as the prophet tells us, we were made for God and our true glory comes from serving Him. 

If fact, whether we are called on stage to be honored or we toil in humble anonymity isn’t really our concern.  We are not servants of the Academy or of the Nobel Prize Committee or even of the NY Times (or the Whitehouse), we are servants of God. Our work is done not to bring us glory, but God.  There are teachers I know who become legends (at least for a time) and others who retire and are quickly forgotten, but the key to being a successful servant of God isn’t found in earthly acclaim.  In fact, the important work we do for God may be found as much in our anonymity as in our efforts. As Mother Teresa said, “We are not called to be successful, we are called to be faithful.” Or as John the Baptist said:

“What do you suppose that I am? I am not he.

No, but behold, after me one is coming, the sandals

of whose feet I am not worthy to untie.” (Acts 13:25)

The work we do isn’t about us; it’s about Him.  And the reward, the recompense, isn’t found in certificates or trophies or acclaim, it’s found in being a faithful servant.  Don't be divided; be true, faithful, united in purpose with the One who created you. Grow where you are planted, bear fruit where and when you can, and leave the rest to God.  Do your best, not for praise or honor or glory (or a raise) but because you are serving God. We must remember that any work done for God’s glory is never in vain. 

Plus, if you want to contemplate the value of earthly success, consider when was the last time you heard anyone talk about the movie: Cavalcade (1933).  Academy award for best picture and a money maker for Fox Studios.  But…