I'm at one of those points where I feel an ocean of words that want to come out . . . but my time to type is limited to a thimble's measure.
I just came from a memorial service for the young girl I mentioned a few weeks ago. Too many feelings to express. I see her mom, several rows in front of me, doing the horrible dance of her terminal neurological disease. I see her brother across the aisle in a numb despair (me imposing my intuitive feelings upon him . . . and they my be accurate . . . or maybe not). I feel the trough of the fall, the pain of being human it is total rawity.
It is such a mixture of emotions as I sat in the sanctuary of my old church, the first time in over two years. I felt the choking of social anxiety. I feel hated towards me there but had to remind my selfish self that none of this was about me. I left as soon as the service was over and am waiting over coffee and a computer for my wife, who stayed behind.
But I focus on those whose grief is beyond measure and I want to, willingly, splatter their pain all over me as a kind of baptism of empathy. I, of course, cannot imagine what it is like to loose a child or a sister because I never have. But I can allow my imagination to take me in that direction in the same way climbing a mountain, as I did yesterday, was moving me in the same direction as the sun. I do this because if I suffered such loss, and the memorial room was filled with people, that is what I would request of them. Not the cliches of "God doesn't make mistakes" but I want to see a tear that tells me that they at least want to understand my pain. That is what would satisfy me.
I will have to stop with that thought before I even begin. I will add that I sensed a strange awkwardness in this memorial that was beyond my own, personal one. Evangelicalism seems to loose its voice like a opera singer with laryngitis at such convoluted morality that is involved with this tragic story. I think how much better the memorials in the high church, where a few verses are read, a burning of candles, a ritual of grief and submission to God without any mortal trying to "make sense of it all" or to say the right thing.
Speaking of high church . . . moving on to a much less difficult topic . . . my church is again exceeding my expectations for a Sunday school program. We are studying Shakespeare for a few weeks. I never imagined that I would be dissecting the prose of Hamlet in a Sunday school class . . . but it is a wonderful way to spend an hour. My wife came with me today to my church. There is no hope that she would ever join me there and I respect her decision to stay with her friends at the other church.
Our pastor spoke on forgiveness+reconciliation. I did some soul searching. I know that when I'm hurt I can hold a grudge. I think of this old church situation. While I know that I reached out to the old pastor and he never did me, is that enough? I have forgiven him . . . I think. But I don't believe in magic forgiveness anymore. I use to think, as an evangelical, that someone could rape and kill my family and then I could "forgive them" and never feel a negative emotion towards them again. But real forgiveness is more messy. The boundaries of the emotions are not well defined, between the real and normal . . . and the pathological. But I had to ask myself, have I done enough?
My wife believes that if I really forgave her pastor, I would return to his church and feel no emotions when I see him. I ironically came out of the bathroom at the hospital this week and ran right smack into him. I shook his hand and we talked about family as we walked in the same direction. So is that reconciliation? I don't know, but I must go.
I just came from a memorial service for the young girl I mentioned a few weeks ago. Too many feelings to express. I see her mom, several rows in front of me, doing the horrible dance of her terminal neurological disease. I see her brother across the aisle in a numb despair (me imposing my intuitive feelings upon him . . . and they my be accurate . . . or maybe not). I feel the trough of the fall, the pain of being human it is total rawity.
It is such a mixture of emotions as I sat in the sanctuary of my old church, the first time in over two years. I felt the choking of social anxiety. I feel hated towards me there but had to remind my selfish self that none of this was about me. I left as soon as the service was over and am waiting over coffee and a computer for my wife, who stayed behind.
But I focus on those whose grief is beyond measure and I want to, willingly, splatter their pain all over me as a kind of baptism of empathy. I, of course, cannot imagine what it is like to loose a child or a sister because I never have. But I can allow my imagination to take me in that direction in the same way climbing a mountain, as I did yesterday, was moving me in the same direction as the sun. I do this because if I suffered such loss, and the memorial room was filled with people, that is what I would request of them. Not the cliches of "God doesn't make mistakes" but I want to see a tear that tells me that they at least want to understand my pain. That is what would satisfy me.
I will have to stop with that thought before I even begin. I will add that I sensed a strange awkwardness in this memorial that was beyond my own, personal one. Evangelicalism seems to loose its voice like a opera singer with laryngitis at such convoluted morality that is involved with this tragic story. I think how much better the memorials in the high church, where a few verses are read, a burning of candles, a ritual of grief and submission to God without any mortal trying to "make sense of it all" or to say the right thing.
Speaking of high church . . . moving on to a much less difficult topic . . . my church is again exceeding my expectations for a Sunday school program. We are studying Shakespeare for a few weeks. I never imagined that I would be dissecting the prose of Hamlet in a Sunday school class . . . but it is a wonderful way to spend an hour. My wife came with me today to my church. There is no hope that she would ever join me there and I respect her decision to stay with her friends at the other church.
Our pastor spoke on forgiveness+reconciliation. I did some soul searching. I know that when I'm hurt I can hold a grudge. I think of this old church situation. While I know that I reached out to the old pastor and he never did me, is that enough? I have forgiven him . . . I think. But I don't believe in magic forgiveness anymore. I use to think, as an evangelical, that someone could rape and kill my family and then I could "forgive them" and never feel a negative emotion towards them again. But real forgiveness is more messy. The boundaries of the emotions are not well defined, between the real and normal . . . and the pathological. But I had to ask myself, have I done enough?
My wife believes that if I really forgave her pastor, I would return to his church and feel no emotions when I see him. I ironically came out of the bathroom at the hospital this week and ran right smack into him. I shook his hand and we talked about family as we walked in the same direction. So is that reconciliation? I don't know, but I must go.