Commuting home to Pennsylvania most weekends means that I miss a lot of weekend events that I might otherwise attend - concerts, shows, sports events. I don't mind. It's part of the commitment to preserve and tend my marriage during my three years of divinity school education. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, "God did not call me into ministry to sacrifice my marriage." So, for the most part, going home is good.
However, today I attended Chapel on the Green for the first time and realized that this is something I'd like not to miss, at least not every week. Today marked the third anniversary of this ministry on New Haven's Green. That's three years of Eucharist and lunch every Sunday, rain or snow or sleet notwithstanding (except for hurricanes - there was no chapel on that one Sunday). All are welcome to the rather organized chaos of this worship event, even my dogs and me, and there were many from the divinity school and various New Haven churches, but the majority were those who call the Green their home, every day and every night.
Chapel actually begins with a drum line half an hour before 2:00, and we could hear it blocks away. It was a clear signal that there was something happening on the Green. Boudreau and Satchel strolled first through the Occupy tent area then on toward the gathering behind Trinity Church, meeting and greeting folks along the way who flocked to meet these giant beasts! These furry kids of mine are fabulous ministers - they don't seem to notice that most of the people were dressed in shabby, dirty clothes and many had alcohol-breath that could knock me over, but their tails wagged just as hard for these residents of New Haven's outdoors as they did for the clergy who welcomed them to worship.
Understanding that not everyone is enamored of dogs, large ones in particular, we situated ourselves on the outer edge of the gathering worshippers, but visitors continued to come visit, to pet the dogs, comment on them, envy their warm coats, and laugh as their petting was rewarded with tail wags and smiles (yes, my pups do smile). It was sometimes difficult to hear what was being said by the clergy, but there was no missing the Gospel reading of the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:1-11):
When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.
We were surrounded by the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the persecuted, and the reviled. On this observance of All Saints Day (transferred), the Gospel was brought to life right before our eyes. And each of them had a name. Of course, you say, they have names. But here, we knew their names. Everyone receives a name tag, so when we passed the peace, we could do so while naming each person. These were not nameless, faceless, easily ignored homeless people. They were Mike and Rebecca and John. They were all of us, our brothers and sisters.
Except for the distribution of the sacrament when the clergy walked into the crowd to give the broken body and blood to those gathered around, the Prayers of the People may have been the best part. Episcopalians will know that in most of our churches, we use a fairly uniform liturgy read in prayerful tones by an intercessor. Not here. A man who appeared to be a regular attendee was invited forward to read a brief intercession, and he then invited prayers from the people. And the prayers came. And came some more. Prayers for the addicted. Prayers for those who don't know Jesus. Prayers for their children. The prayers poured forth in a gushing stream as all responded to each one, "Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer." These were truly prayers of the people.
On this special anniversary day, the service was followed by a cookout. Donated socks were free for the taking. Flu shots were offered. People from all walks of life were meeting and greeting each other like old friends. This was the Gospel in action.
I hope to attend Chapel on the Green more times in the future. It is a gift to the whole New Haven community and bears witness to the love of Christ for all people. What a blessing, especially today for the kids and me.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Murder on Edwards Street
A week ago yesterday, there was a shooting death about 100 yards down the street from my apartment. I was on my way to South Carolina and only learned of it from and e-mail from the ubiquitous Chief Ronnell Higgins of the Yale Police. There are a lot of murders annually for a city the size of New Haven - this was the 29th - and they hardly pierce the consciousness of those not directly involved in the victim's life or neighborhood.
The thing that makes this murder on Edwards Street so remarkable is that these things don't happen in East Rock, my section of town. It's a neighborhood of wide, tree-lined streets with beautiful old mansions, many of them subdivided into apartments for students of the university. This violent incident apparently spilled over from somewhere else, a gang fight or groups of rivals, whose cars met on this street in this neighborhood, erupting in a fistfight in the street until someone pulled a gun. When the young men realized that one of them had been shot, they jumped in their cars and sped away, leaving a 23-year-old man to die in the street.
That's the part that has been haunting me. He was left face-down in the street. I've searched the papers and Internet for his name but have not been able to find it. I haven't been able to find any additional information that has been released publicly. So I mourn for a nameless young man who, along with some friends, got into a fight with another group of men and ended up shot, lying in the street with no family or friends around to hold onto him or pray over him as the life drained out of him into the asphalt of Edwards Street.
And it happens in neighborhoods throughout this country with alarming regularity, and I stand convicted of reading about it in the paper or hearing it on the news and remarking about how sad or tragic it is, and then I move on. Yet the killing continues, and, except for family and friends, no one seems to notice or care enough to try to change it. Me included. Until it hits my own street, and my heart now aches for a nameless young man whose life was cut short who undoubtedly left behind a grieving mother and father and siblings and friends who wonder what he was doing on Edwards Street in broad daylight on a beautiful fall afternoon.
I think maybe I'll give Ronnell Higgins a call on Monday and ask him the name of this young man. I know that God knows who he was, but I need a name to attach to this tragedy so that I can continue to pray for him by name as well as for all the other nameless ones who die in the war on our streets. Miserere nobis.
(His name was Kashon Douglas. Thanks to my friend, Lisa, for letting me know. Requiescat in pace, Kashon.)
The thing that makes this murder on Edwards Street so remarkable is that these things don't happen in East Rock, my section of town. It's a neighborhood of wide, tree-lined streets with beautiful old mansions, many of them subdivided into apartments for students of the university. This violent incident apparently spilled over from somewhere else, a gang fight or groups of rivals, whose cars met on this street in this neighborhood, erupting in a fistfight in the street until someone pulled a gun. When the young men realized that one of them had been shot, they jumped in their cars and sped away, leaving a 23-year-old man to die in the street.
That's the part that has been haunting me. He was left face-down in the street. I've searched the papers and Internet for his name but have not been able to find it. I haven't been able to find any additional information that has been released publicly. So I mourn for a nameless young man who, along with some friends, got into a fight with another group of men and ended up shot, lying in the street with no family or friends around to hold onto him or pray over him as the life drained out of him into the asphalt of Edwards Street.
And it happens in neighborhoods throughout this country with alarming regularity, and I stand convicted of reading about it in the paper or hearing it on the news and remarking about how sad or tragic it is, and then I move on. Yet the killing continues, and, except for family and friends, no one seems to notice or care enough to try to change it. Me included. Until it hits my own street, and my heart now aches for a nameless young man whose life was cut short who undoubtedly left behind a grieving mother and father and siblings and friends who wonder what he was doing on Edwards Street in broad daylight on a beautiful fall afternoon.
I think maybe I'll give Ronnell Higgins a call on Monday and ask him the name of this young man. I know that God knows who he was, but I need a name to attach to this tragedy so that I can continue to pray for him by name as well as for all the other nameless ones who die in the war on our streets. Miserere nobis.
(His name was Kashon Douglas. Thanks to my friend, Lisa, for letting me know. Requiescat in pace, Kashon.)
Friday, November 4, 2011
YDS Day of Service
You'd think we'd be all over this at Yale Divinity School, getting out into the community and making ourselves useful to those in need. For those of you not familiar with the divinity school at Yale, we are situated at the top of a hill in the rarefied air that overlooks the rest of the town (literally, when the leaves are off the trees). It's a lovely setting, but it certainly isolates and insulates us from the often-grim reality of life in New Haven. Granted, the study load for a theological education can be daunting, if not often overwhelming. Papers to write, tons of reading to do, classes to attend, discussions to prepare for, Greek or Hebrew grammar to learn - I don't know about everyone else, but I could spend every waking minute of every day doing school work and it still would not be enough time.
The problem with this is that is tends to separate us from the vocation that brought us here in the first place. I can't speak for those getting academic, rather than divinity, degrees, but for those of us heading toward ordained ministry, serving the poor and oppressed is central to our faith. Jesus spent an awful lot of time talking about loving neighbors, and those neighbors are not just the ones living on our block. He told Peter to tend lambs and feed sheep, and he wasn't talking about livestock.
So it should follow, I would think, that those of us preparing for ministry in the church would jump at a ready-made opportunity to volunteer for an afternoon once a semester to go into the community to do some work, visit with some elderly folk, play games with children, whatever our local partner agencies need to have done. And a number of us do. But an even larger number do not. I know that many have unavoidable conflicts, so maybe they participate by supporting us with prayers or by providing some toiletries for the residents of Columbus House, New Haven's largest shelter services provider. I couldn't participate last year, and I understand that the only reason I could this time is because Tim is in the UK so I didn't go home this weekend. I just can't help wondering about all the rest - the ones too busy or overwhelmed or disinterested. What would it take to reach every last one of my fellow students? I wonder.
Happily, I was with a group of five others who painted an apartment at an emergency shelter in the city that had just been vacated by a family with 11 children. I don't know how they all fit, but they did, and the apartment was in need of a fresh coat of paint. We didn't quite finish it, but we made a good dent in the work. The facilities man, Danny, was overjoyed at our work, because it is normally his job to prepare the apartments for new residents. It would have taken him a few days to complete, and he already has the rest of the building in need of his attention. That six of us could accomplish a good chunk of it in four hours was a gift for him, and that, in itself, was quite satisfying even before considering the next family that would need that apartment because they found themselves suddenly homeless. The six of us also benefited simply by the fellowship we shared during the time that we worked together (and enjoyed a pitcher of beer together afterwards as we debriefed!).
Today was a far different experience than my bi-weekly volunteering dates at a temporary shelter for men in recovery from addiction, many of whom have criminal histories. I do employment coaching, mock interviews, résumé preparation, and general cheerleading to encourage the residents as they search for work. It's difficult enough to find a job with a college degree and a good work record, but if you've been in jail and have gaps in your work history, the challenge is huge. However, for each of them that is successful in finding and keeping a job, the easier they make it for the next guy in that situation, so I urge them to see themselves as trailblazers. Anything I can do to help them present themselves in the most compelling light for a potential employer might make it a bit easier for them as they work on their recovery and their housing situation. Do I have time to do this? Not really. Is it worth my time to do it? Without question.
I'm very proud of all of my classmates who came off the hill today to be a part of their New Haven community. It's hard to believe that one of the world's most prestigious universities in one of the wealthiest states in the country is located in one of the poorest cities. Homelessness, poverty, and unemployment plague the most vulnerable residents. My work group discussed the frustration of doing work that simply plugs holes in the dam of seemingly insurmountable obstacles for the residents of this city. Until structural changes are made in the way we address the needs of the poor, all the apartment painting in the world won't provide permanent solutions. But that work is for another day. Today we did the job put before us, and we did it well, reminded anew of our calling and the love we share in Jesus. Thanks be to God.
The problem with this is that is tends to separate us from the vocation that brought us here in the first place. I can't speak for those getting academic, rather than divinity, degrees, but for those of us heading toward ordained ministry, serving the poor and oppressed is central to our faith. Jesus spent an awful lot of time talking about loving neighbors, and those neighbors are not just the ones living on our block. He told Peter to tend lambs and feed sheep, and he wasn't talking about livestock.
So it should follow, I would think, that those of us preparing for ministry in the church would jump at a ready-made opportunity to volunteer for an afternoon once a semester to go into the community to do some work, visit with some elderly folk, play games with children, whatever our local partner agencies need to have done. And a number of us do. But an even larger number do not. I know that many have unavoidable conflicts, so maybe they participate by supporting us with prayers or by providing some toiletries for the residents of Columbus House, New Haven's largest shelter services provider. I couldn't participate last year, and I understand that the only reason I could this time is because Tim is in the UK so I didn't go home this weekend. I just can't help wondering about all the rest - the ones too busy or overwhelmed or disinterested. What would it take to reach every last one of my fellow students? I wonder.
Happily, I was with a group of five others who painted an apartment at an emergency shelter in the city that had just been vacated by a family with 11 children. I don't know how they all fit, but they did, and the apartment was in need of a fresh coat of paint. We didn't quite finish it, but we made a good dent in the work. The facilities man, Danny, was overjoyed at our work, because it is normally his job to prepare the apartments for new residents. It would have taken him a few days to complete, and he already has the rest of the building in need of his attention. That six of us could accomplish a good chunk of it in four hours was a gift for him, and that, in itself, was quite satisfying even before considering the next family that would need that apartment because they found themselves suddenly homeless. The six of us also benefited simply by the fellowship we shared during the time that we worked together (and enjoyed a pitcher of beer together afterwards as we debriefed!).
Today was a far different experience than my bi-weekly volunteering dates at a temporary shelter for men in recovery from addiction, many of whom have criminal histories. I do employment coaching, mock interviews, résumé preparation, and general cheerleading to encourage the residents as they search for work. It's difficult enough to find a job with a college degree and a good work record, but if you've been in jail and have gaps in your work history, the challenge is huge. However, for each of them that is successful in finding and keeping a job, the easier they make it for the next guy in that situation, so I urge them to see themselves as trailblazers. Anything I can do to help them present themselves in the most compelling light for a potential employer might make it a bit easier for them as they work on their recovery and their housing situation. Do I have time to do this? Not really. Is it worth my time to do it? Without question.
I'm very proud of all of my classmates who came off the hill today to be a part of their New Haven community. It's hard to believe that one of the world's most prestigious universities in one of the wealthiest states in the country is located in one of the poorest cities. Homelessness, poverty, and unemployment plague the most vulnerable residents. My work group discussed the frustration of doing work that simply plugs holes in the dam of seemingly insurmountable obstacles for the residents of this city. Until structural changes are made in the way we address the needs of the poor, all the apartment painting in the world won't provide permanent solutions. But that work is for another day. Today we did the job put before us, and we did it well, reminded anew of our calling and the love we share in Jesus. Thanks be to God.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Luke the Physician
The patron saint of Berkeley Chapel is St. Luke, so tonight, we celebrated our patronal feast with Bishop Abraham Nhial of the Diocese of Aweil in the new nation of South Sudan as celebrant. In recognition of Luke not only as evangelist but as healer, we had healing stations during communion for those who were so inclined to go for healing and anointing. Since Seth died, I have avoided this, knowing how sensitive I am emotionally in contemplating that enormous loss and how difficult it would be for me to ask for healing for something I am not at all sure can be healed. However, tonight, I did go forward to our Associate Dean of Students, The Rev. Julie Kelsey, and told her I would really like for my broken heart to be healed. And she said a beautiful prayer and blessed me and anointed me with oil, and the tears came, as I knew they would.
I returned to my seat and prayed, and the tears stopped. But when I opened my eyes, there was a line of people waiting for healing, and directly in front of me was a woman who battled cancer all last year standing with her teenaged son. And as they waited in line, she was hugging him from behind or they had their hands intertwined, and it was such a beautiful and loving scene. And then my heart felt torn apart once again because I can't hold Seth or hug him or hold his hand or sing with him as this woman was doing. I don't know if the flood of tears that drenched my face had any healing power in them at all, but the warmth of the hand of the woman next to me and the shared tears of the one on the other side of me and the prayers that enveloped me at least let me know that I am loved and not alone. Although no one can know for sure how this death of my beloved son feels to me, that can at least walk with me in my grief, and that is an immeasurable gift.
At the end of our Wednesday Eucharist, our Dean, Joseph Britton, usually makes a slew of announcements or invites them from the congregation. Realizing that the atmosphere in the chapel this evening was charged with emotion and a healing presence, he dismissed with those announcements altogether. It was a remarkable display of sensitivity and grace.
Thank you to all of those who weep with me, who pray for me even when I am not aware of your prayers, and who love me in my sorrow as well as my joy. And thanks to Luke the Physician for being able to work healing in unexpected ways. Even when the heartbreak itself is beyond repair, grace abounds in the love we share in this community of faith. Thanks be to God.
I returned to my seat and prayed, and the tears stopped. But when I opened my eyes, there was a line of people waiting for healing, and directly in front of me was a woman who battled cancer all last year standing with her teenaged son. And as they waited in line, she was hugging him from behind or they had their hands intertwined, and it was such a beautiful and loving scene. And then my heart felt torn apart once again because I can't hold Seth or hug him or hold his hand or sing with him as this woman was doing. I don't know if the flood of tears that drenched my face had any healing power in them at all, but the warmth of the hand of the woman next to me and the shared tears of the one on the other side of me and the prayers that enveloped me at least let me know that I am loved and not alone. Although no one can know for sure how this death of my beloved son feels to me, that can at least walk with me in my grief, and that is an immeasurable gift.
At the end of our Wednesday Eucharist, our Dean, Joseph Britton, usually makes a slew of announcements or invites them from the congregation. Realizing that the atmosphere in the chapel this evening was charged with emotion and a healing presence, he dismissed with those announcements altogether. It was a remarkable display of sensitivity and grace.
Thank you to all of those who weep with me, who pray for me even when I am not aware of your prayers, and who love me in my sorrow as well as my joy. And thanks to Luke the Physician for being able to work healing in unexpected ways. Even when the heartbreak itself is beyond repair, grace abounds in the love we share in this community of faith. Thanks be to God.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
On Thursday, a 29-year-old Yale alum who oversaw the Music in the Schools program jumped to his death from the 4th floor of one of the buildings belonging to the school of music. I immediately went back two years and seven months to the moment I learned that Seth had attempted suicide, not yet knowing that he had succeeded. This young man's parents had to make the same drive from Poughkeepsie to New Haven that Tim and I made from Downingtown to Brooklyn. It was the worst night of my life, as I'm sure it was the worst day for them. And their nightmare has only just begun. At least I have had some time for the grief to be less acute, the memories not all painful, but I remember so well the questioning and the guilt and the regrets. So I wrote a piece for the Yale Daily News and submitted it this afternoon. It may or may not be published, but I felt compelled to write it anyway. It would seem that the new story of my life that has arisen out of the old is to reach out in whatever way I can. For now, that is the best that I can do. May John Miller rest in peace.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I did not know John Miller. Judging by the accounts I’ve read, he was extremely talented and, given the work he did in New Haven schools, I imagine he was also full of life, funny and fun, and self-giving to a fault. My son, Seth Alan Peterson, was like that, too. He was also like John in another way. He too committed suicide, dying at age 24 two years and seven months ago. Finishing up his theater studies at NYU and living in Brooklyn, he had a bright future ahead of him. In the summer of 2008, he was chosen as one of Broadway’s Rising Stars, performing on stage at Broadway’s Town Hall, demonstrating his extraordinary voice and acting talent. Seven months later he was dead.
Suicide brings on a very particular and peculiar kind of grief. The guilt and second-guessing and pure horror that someone could end one’s own life cause excruciating pain for family and friends. I have learned more about this than I care to know in the time since Seth died, and I thought it might be helpful to share some of that hard-earned knowledge.
You could not have prevented it. Even if you think that you could have on that particular occasion, there is no guarantee that it would not have happened some other time. If you are wondering why you didn’t go with John or ask him to come over if he seemed out of sorts, don’t take the blame on yourself. Seth’s roommate was in an adjoining room when he died. Having someone nearby made no difference at all.
If you’re trying to make rational sense of how something like this could happen to someone with such talent and such a bright future, you really can’t think about it rationally because there is no rational explanation. Normal people, those who are not sick in some way, do not kill themselves. Our most basic human instinct is for survival, so to cause one’s own demise subverts that in ways our healthy intellects can’t imagine.
If you’re thinking that John made a choice to end his life, I don’t really buy that. Whatever was tormenting him – depression, mental illness, some event that threw his mental wiring off kilter – that is what killed him. As I said before, it isn’t a rational choice. Suicides are committed by people driven to it by their own distorted mental and emotional reality. It isn’t really a choice.
The best way to come to terms with the death of someone who simply did not wish to live any more is to talk with others who have lived through it. I could not have survived my son’s death without the support of family and friends, my church community, and the care of others who have lost loved ones to suicide. It won’t make the pain go away, but it does help to know that you’re not the only one asking crazy questions and having morbid thoughts and trying to figure out the inexplicable.
I knew that Seth had contemplated suicide. I knew that he already decided how he would carry it out. At the time of his death, however, he was on an upswing, not a danger to himself according to his therapist. So even though he had a plan, the act itself was impulsive. In that moment, I don’t think that any thought of those he would leave behind in broken grief even occurred to him. Nor did my making a pact with him to call me if he reached that point. This is the nasty reality of suicide prevention. People have to be reached before they get to that point of no return. There is help available both here on campus, through your own health care professional, or through organizations such as The National Alliance on Mental Illness or The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Raise your awareness. Talk to someone. And know that those worst moments do pass.
When I heard the news of John Miller’s death, I was taken back to the interminable car ride my husband and I made to Brooklyn in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that Seth was still alive up to the moment we received a phone call from a police detective telling us he didn’t make it. John’s parents made a similar car ride from Poughkeepsie. That horror, that unimaginable grief, however, was not the end of the story. There is life after death. While I still don’t fully understand how I am supposed to make some good out of the tragedy of my son’s death, at the least I can bear witness that, even in its worst times, life is good and worth living.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I did not know John Miller. Judging by the accounts I’ve read, he was extremely talented and, given the work he did in New Haven schools, I imagine he was also full of life, funny and fun, and self-giving to a fault. My son, Seth Alan Peterson, was like that, too. He was also like John in another way. He too committed suicide, dying at age 24 two years and seven months ago. Finishing up his theater studies at NYU and living in Brooklyn, he had a bright future ahead of him. In the summer of 2008, he was chosen as one of Broadway’s Rising Stars, performing on stage at Broadway’s Town Hall, demonstrating his extraordinary voice and acting talent. Seven months later he was dead.
Suicide brings on a very particular and peculiar kind of grief. The guilt and second-guessing and pure horror that someone could end one’s own life cause excruciating pain for family and friends. I have learned more about this than I care to know in the time since Seth died, and I thought it might be helpful to share some of that hard-earned knowledge.
You could not have prevented it. Even if you think that you could have on that particular occasion, there is no guarantee that it would not have happened some other time. If you are wondering why you didn’t go with John or ask him to come over if he seemed out of sorts, don’t take the blame on yourself. Seth’s roommate was in an adjoining room when he died. Having someone nearby made no difference at all.
If you’re trying to make rational sense of how something like this could happen to someone with such talent and such a bright future, you really can’t think about it rationally because there is no rational explanation. Normal people, those who are not sick in some way, do not kill themselves. Our most basic human instinct is for survival, so to cause one’s own demise subverts that in ways our healthy intellects can’t imagine.
If you’re thinking that John made a choice to end his life, I don’t really buy that. Whatever was tormenting him – depression, mental illness, some event that threw his mental wiring off kilter – that is what killed him. As I said before, it isn’t a rational choice. Suicides are committed by people driven to it by their own distorted mental and emotional reality. It isn’t really a choice.
The best way to come to terms with the death of someone who simply did not wish to live any more is to talk with others who have lived through it. I could not have survived my son’s death without the support of family and friends, my church community, and the care of others who have lost loved ones to suicide. It won’t make the pain go away, but it does help to know that you’re not the only one asking crazy questions and having morbid thoughts and trying to figure out the inexplicable.
I knew that Seth had contemplated suicide. I knew that he already decided how he would carry it out. At the time of his death, however, he was on an upswing, not a danger to himself according to his therapist. So even though he had a plan, the act itself was impulsive. In that moment, I don’t think that any thought of those he would leave behind in broken grief even occurred to him. Nor did my making a pact with him to call me if he reached that point. This is the nasty reality of suicide prevention. People have to be reached before they get to that point of no return. There is help available both here on campus, through your own health care professional, or through organizations such as The National Alliance on Mental Illness or The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Raise your awareness. Talk to someone. And know that those worst moments do pass.
When I heard the news of John Miller’s death, I was taken back to the interminable car ride my husband and I made to Brooklyn in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that Seth was still alive up to the moment we received a phone call from a police detective telling us he didn’t make it. John’s parents made a similar car ride from Poughkeepsie. That horror, that unimaginable grief, however, was not the end of the story. There is life after death. While I still don’t fully understand how I am supposed to make some good out of the tragedy of my son’s death, at the least I can bear witness that, even in its worst times, life is good and worth living.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Ruins and High Kirks and Eid lights, oh my!
My time in Coventry is almost at an end, and I've yet to post a single thing about this extraordinary experience. It has been a wonderful adventure, but the work has kept me busier than I expected as I've read through files and archives of all that's happened with reconciliation ministry here at the cathedral as far back as the bombing on 14 November 1940. In the next couple of days, I will try to synthesize what I've learned from my reading as well as interviews with staff to come up with some kind of business plan (or at least a strategic framework) for the Community of the Cross of Nails moving forward.
Here are just a few highlights:
Just days before the bombing during that night in 1940, Provost (Dean) Richard Howard had included as part of his Remembrance Day prayers this bold petition:
This didn't win him too many friends. However, he followed that with this Christmas message just over one month later:
Tradition has it that the day after the destruction, Howard took a piece of charred wood and scrawled on the wall of the apse the words "Father, forgive." Not "forgive them" as Jesus said on the cross, but just "forgive," meaning "forgive all of us." In 1948, the words were carved into that wall as a permanent reminder of our call to forgive as well as to pray for our own forgiveness.
This message is what drew me to this place, a profound and prophetic message of radical reconciliation, acknowledgement of our own sins, that log in our own eye, in our efforts to build a more just world. That is why the Litany of Reconciliation, drafted in 1959, is based on the Seven Deadly Sins - we must recognize our own sinfulness and our own responsibility for the evil that plagues the world before we can hope to be messengers of peace and reconciliation.
Here are just a few highlights:
Just days before the bombing during that night in 1940, Provost (Dean) Richard Howard had included as part of his Remembrance Day prayers this bold petition:
Let us pray for our enemies:
Lord of boundless love, who in thine hour of agony
didst pray for those who nailed thee to the Cross,
we beseech thee for our enemies
that thou wouldest turn their hearts and incline them to mercy.
So that when this hour of conflict is passed
they and we may be united in the bonds of Christian love
and work together as friends
the advancement of thy kingdom by the power of thy Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord.
Lord of boundless love, who in thine hour of agony
didst pray for those who nailed thee to the Cross,
we beseech thee for our enemies
that thou wouldest turn their hearts and incline them to mercy.
So that when this hour of conflict is passed
they and we may be united in the bonds of Christian love
and work together as friends
the advancement of thy kingdom by the power of thy Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord.
This didn't win him too many friends. However, he followed that with this Christmas message just over one month later:
What we want to tell the world is this:
that with Christ born again in our hearts today,
we are trying, hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge;
we are bracing ourselves to finish the tremendous job
of saving the world from tyranny and cruelty;
we are going to try to make a kinder, simpler –
a more Christ-Child-like sort of world in the days beyond this strife.
that with Christ born again in our hearts today,
we are trying, hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge;
we are bracing ourselves to finish the tremendous job
of saving the world from tyranny and cruelty;
we are going to try to make a kinder, simpler –
a more Christ-Child-like sort of world in the days beyond this strife.
Tradition has it that the day after the destruction, Howard took a piece of charred wood and scrawled on the wall of the apse the words "Father, forgive." Not "forgive them" as Jesus said on the cross, but just "forgive," meaning "forgive all of us." In 1948, the words were carved into that wall as a permanent reminder of our call to forgive as well as to pray for our own forgiveness.
This message is what drew me to this place, a profound and prophetic message of radical reconciliation, acknowledgement of our own sins, that log in our own eye, in our efforts to build a more just world. That is why the Litany of Reconciliation, drafted in 1959, is based on the Seven Deadly Sins - we must recognize our own sinfulness and our own responsibility for the evil that plagues the world before we can hope to be messengers of peace and reconciliation.
All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.
The hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class,
Father forgive.
The covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own,
Father forgive.
The greed which exploits the work of human hands and lays waste the earth,
Father forgive.
Our envy of the welfare and happiness of others,
Father forgive.
Our indifference to the plight of the imprisoned, the homeless, the refugee,
Father forgive.
The lust which dishonours the bodies of men, women and children,
Father forgive.
The pride which leads us to trust in ourselves and not in God,
Father forgive.
Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
To gather with a group of faithful pilgrims on a Friday at noon to pray the
litany in the ruins of the cathedral and to celebrate the Eucharist is a
powerful and humbling reminder of all the forces in our world that bend toward
destruction and our calling to proclaim a different message, one of love and
peace, forgiveness and reconciliation. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
For Tim, undoubtedly a highlight of this trip was a weekend "dash to the kirk" as it was put by David Porter, Canon for Reconciliation Ministry at Coventry Cathedral. David is greatly amused at how we Americans will think nothing of hopping into a car and driving for six hours for a weekend excursion. However, we had vowed to get to Scotland on this visit, and to Scotland we went. I know that Tim and I constantly tease each other about our competing Reformed and Anglican traditions, but it was quite moving for me to see how meaningful it was for him to worship in the same church, St. Giles Cathedral, in which John Knox, the founder of Scottish Presbyterianism, served for a dozen or so years. I do fear, however, that Tim's visit to the High Kirk may have further hardened his resolve to remain true to his Presbyterian roots and hence weakened my influence to claim him for the Episcopal Church.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This past Monday evening, several of the reconciliation team made our way to the largest mosque in Coventry to witness the lighting of the Eid lights. This was something new to me, but, as it was explained, it is something as akin to our lighting our Christmas lights during Advent in preparation for the actual celebration of the Nativity. Eid, the three-day celebration at the end of the month of Ramadan, is not until next week, but the lights are a way of marking the approach of these celebratory and holy days for Muslims. Following the flipping of the switch by the Lord Mayor of Coventry (which was nothing more than symbolic as the real lighting was effected by a representative from the electric company with a screwdriver and an open panel on a light pole!), we were invited into the Muslim Community Resource Center for a wonderful meal to break the day's fast. After a brief presentation, the imam indicated that sunset had arrived, so all the Muslims went downstairs to say their prayers while the rest of us began to eat the food that was set before us. Our friends later returned and eagerly heaped their plates with food, having not eaten since before sunrise that morning. The hospitality we were shown was humbling. I, along with one of the reconciliation interns, was treated as an honored guest as an American. I so enjoyed talking with these new-found friends about my distress at the fear and hatred demonstrated by so many Americans toward Muslims, wishing that everyone of us could sit down and break bread. Reconciliation is about relationship, and there is no more powerful symbol of that than the sharing of a meal. Even Jesus knew that.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have only a couple of days remaining here which I will spend writing up my findings into some sort of report for David Porter. Whether or not I have anything new and useful to say, I do not know. My promise to him when discussing the possibility of my doing some consulting work here was that I would provide the Community of the Cross of Nails whatever organizational expertise I have to offer in exchange for learning everything I can about what it is that they do here. While I hope that CCN can benefit from my time here, I already know who has received the greatest gift during this fortnight in Coventry.
Monday, August 1, 2011
More adventures in CPE
Not many people in a Clinical Pastoral Education program have the experience that my 5 classmates and I had this past weekend. We were chaplains at Camp Evergreen, a bereavement program of Diakon Hopsice St. John for children age 8 to 16 who have lost a family member or other loved one. Children grieve differently than adults, and it's so very important that they are actually allowed and encouraged to grieve. When Tim's dad died just before his 9th birthday, it was as if his memory was supposed to die, as well - he was not mentioned, his family did not share memories, his mother was in too much pain to help her children through this very necessary process of grieving, and that created a great deal of emotional baggage that Tim had to face as an adult. Not so with these fortunate children attending Camp Evergreen. Every activity is designed to help them both have fun and express their loss in a way that suits their own emotional and developmental level.
Fifteen children attended camp this year, dealing with losses that occurred as recently as June and and long ago as 4 years. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, cousins - the kids had lost at least one of these, sometimes with the addition of a pet death that they also grieved. This camp allows them to see that they are not alone, they don't stand out among their peers as someone who is odd or different. They can just be themselves and bond with other kids dealing with similar issues. Watching them grow comfortable with one another and make friends was so heartwarming for the adults. In one cabin of girls, they took three mattresses off of the bunks and put them on the floor so that they could all sleep together. How awesome is that?
Of the craft activities in which they participated, the broken pot may have been my favorite. They took a terra cotta pot and wrote emotion words on the inside describing how they felt about their loss, words like "sad" and "lonely" and "guilt" appeared in several. The children then wrapped the pot in newspaper, tapped it with a hammer to break it into large pieces (though some had many small pieces with which to contend), and then glued them back together. This represents how our hearts may be broken in pieces by the death of someone we love, but the pieces do go back together, even though the scars remain. The children then decorated the pots of paints and stickers, and took them home to plant new life into them.
Part of the weekend included a challenge course where the children were encouraged to take a risk, to do as much as one felt one was able to do on a rope course and climbing wall. Some were hesitant to walk the rope with other children and adults acting as spotters, but in the end, everyone (including me!) made it the length of the rope. Their were many team-building and trust-building activities, as well, all designed to be fun, but always with the purpose of healing and wholeness. Of course, this was a very hot late July weekend, so down time in the pool on Saturday afternoon was a refreshing relief for all of us!
Throughout the weekend, I thought of those persons that I know who lost parents as children and so wished they had this kind of opportunity to help them through. I also thought a lot of Seth and my own continuing grief over his death. Though I might use different words or have different methods of dealing with that, the need to put the pieces back together is as real for me as for each one of these children. Trying to create something good out of something so unrelentingly difficult and sad is a challenge for all of us. The resilience of these children was such an inspiration, though. They risked sharing their grief with their peers as well as the adults and received such love and encouragement in return. This is a valuable lesson for me as a grieving mother but also as a future pastor who will be able to use some of what I have learned to help other children who mourn. What a gift!
Fifteen children attended camp this year, dealing with losses that occurred as recently as June and and long ago as 4 years. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, cousins - the kids had lost at least one of these, sometimes with the addition of a pet death that they also grieved. This camp allows them to see that they are not alone, they don't stand out among their peers as someone who is odd or different. They can just be themselves and bond with other kids dealing with similar issues. Watching them grow comfortable with one another and make friends was so heartwarming for the adults. In one cabin of girls, they took three mattresses off of the bunks and put them on the floor so that they could all sleep together. How awesome is that?
Of the craft activities in which they participated, the broken pot may have been my favorite. They took a terra cotta pot and wrote emotion words on the inside describing how they felt about their loss, words like "sad" and "lonely" and "guilt" appeared in several. The children then wrapped the pot in newspaper, tapped it with a hammer to break it into large pieces (though some had many small pieces with which to contend), and then glued them back together. This represents how our hearts may be broken in pieces by the death of someone we love, but the pieces do go back together, even though the scars remain. The children then decorated the pots of paints and stickers, and took them home to plant new life into them.
Part of the weekend included a challenge course where the children were encouraged to take a risk, to do as much as one felt one was able to do on a rope course and climbing wall. Some were hesitant to walk the rope with other children and adults acting as spotters, but in the end, everyone (including me!) made it the length of the rope. Their were many team-building and trust-building activities, as well, all designed to be fun, but always with the purpose of healing and wholeness. Of course, this was a very hot late July weekend, so down time in the pool on Saturday afternoon was a refreshing relief for all of us!
Throughout the weekend, I thought of those persons that I know who lost parents as children and so wished they had this kind of opportunity to help them through. I also thought a lot of Seth and my own continuing grief over his death. Though I might use different words or have different methods of dealing with that, the need to put the pieces back together is as real for me as for each one of these children. Trying to create something good out of something so unrelentingly difficult and sad is a challenge for all of us. The resilience of these children was such an inspiration, though. They risked sharing their grief with their peers as well as the adults and received such love and encouragement in return. This is a valuable lesson for me as a grieving mother but also as a future pastor who will be able to use some of what I have learned to help other children who mourn. What a gift!
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