"Caged" Silence

Today is the twentieth anniversary of the death of American composer John Cage. (The centennial of his birth is coming up on September 5^th.)  In an article in the New York Times this past Wednesday, Allan Kozinn wrote about having a “John Cage moment” on the uptown A train in New York City. Such moment exist when we stop and listen to the ambient sounds around us and begin to perceive the music they make.

Kozinn highlighted what may well be Cage’s best known work, 4’33”, in which he explored what the writer refers to as “the music plucked from the air”. Over the course of four minutes and thirty-three seconds, a pianist opens the lid, then closes and reopens it two more times to signify the three movements of the work. The pianist never strikes the keys or plucks the strings. But just because the piano is silent doesn’t mean the audience hears nothing during that time; at least, not if they’re truly listening.

As I write this I’m having a “John Cage moment” of my own. What do I hear, aside from my fingers clicking on the laptop keys? My husband turning the pages of a newspaper in the next room, with an occasional laugh or sotto voce comment; my son upstairs practicing scales on his double bass; cicadas outside the open window. I listen more closely, to the sound of my own breathing, the traffic on the street outside, the sound of a jet plane passing overhead. In other such moments I’ve occasionally heard the sound of children’s voices playing outside, something all too rare these days. And birds! Have you ever noticed the music of birds – the pitches, rhythms, the sounds as varied as instruments in an orchestra?

The composer/lyricist Stephen Sondheim was once asked if he listened to his MP3 player while walking around Manhattan (surely I’m not the only person who would love to know what’s on HIS playlist!). He said he left it at home, preferring to hear the ambient noise from the city streets. We’re no longer used to listening for these ambient sounds, something our ancestors often had to do just to survive. We go around with little buds stuck in our ears so that we can hear canned music that could be listened to any time, while the music in a given moment flies by and is gone forever. When Simon and Garfunkle recorded “Sounds of Silence” decades ago, they were surely onto something.

Listening for the sounds of silence takes an open ear, a willingness to use our God-given imagination and creativity, and patience. So here’s a thought for today, in honor of Cage: stop, and listen. Just…listen. What do you hear? Remove the earbuds, turn off TV and the radio, stop talking - and listen to “the music plucked from the air.”

Sisters, Friends, and Rivals: Hagar - in the wilderness (the second time)

She thought she owned me.

That was always the problem – she thought she owned me. And I suppose, in a sense, she did. When Pharoah realized he’d been duped, lied to by Avram the Mesopotamian, I was a human part of the settlement he made to get him and his wife out of town. So I was “given” to Sarai, as a slave to do her bidding.

But I had an advantage. I was young, and fair, and I was fertile. So when my new mistress had given up all hope of a child from her own aging body, she traded me to her husband – traded for the son they both knew Avram needed if the God he had so recently adopted as his own was to be trusted.

And so I conceived; and as I felt the life grow within me I realized Sarai owned me no longer – I had something she would never have no matter how badly she wanted it and that made me bold indeed. She knew it; she saw it. And it made her crazy with jealousy.

She slapped me, once. She cursed me, often. She even forced me to do heavy labor. And where was the father of my child – where was Avram? Hiding behind his cowardice, passive and complacent: “She’s YOUR slave girl – do what you want with her.” Did he care so little for his own legacy, his own child? Did he care so little for the promises of his god?

So when I could stand the abuse no longer I ran away. Into the wilderness – better to die there than face the indignities of their home. It was by a spring in the desert, on the way to Shur, that I saw the presence and heard the voice calling my name. “Go home, and submit to your mistress.”

“What’s in it for me?” (Well, I had to ask!)

“I will so greatly multiply your offspring that they cannot be counted for multitude. Now you have conceived and shall bear a son; you shall call him Ishmael, for the Lord has given heed to your affliction.

Then I knew who this was, this presence. God had seen me, this god of theirs, and had allowed himself to be seen. I had seen God and lived to tell about it. So I gave this God a name: “the god who sees”.

So back I went, back to the abuse, back to the passive father-not-my-husband and his cruel wife; and in the fullness of time I gave birth to my “wild ass” child, a child who was all mine. Years passed and as time went on it turns out that he did not belong to my mistress as she planned; he would never be her son.

That made her crazy, too.

Then one day three visitors came. They must have been walking for miles across the desert, but it seemed they just appeared out of nowhere. Boy, did things get busy then! My mistress was making cakes, my fellow slaves were slaughtering and roasting a calf, and the party started. They talked with Avram while they ate, and I saw Sarah listening from inside the tent; but I was listening too, where she couldn’t see me. A child – really? A child, at her age. No wonder she laughed. I laughed too. They needed no child, deserved no child. My son was more than enough to fulfill God’s promises to Avram: descendants as many as the grains of sand in the desert, as many as the stars in the sky. My son would be their father, and they would know “the God who sees”.

But in time Sarah’s child was conceived, and the child was born. Isaac, she named him – Yitzak, “laughter”. My Ishmael loved his little half-brother, loved to play with him, care for him. Loved him too much, perhaps. Until the day my mistress caught him them playing together, and once again her jealousy took over. So I was given food and water and told to take my son, my only son, whom I loved, and leave them for good. Avram was sending us away. Once more into the wilderness, the place I had wandered before, with only a day’s worth of water and a little bread between the two of us.

And now the water is gone, and we have nothing; and this time there is no spring in the desert; only the water of my tears. I wait to hear the voice of “God who sees”, but I despair. I’ve put Ishmael away from me, in the shade of a bush, not far away but far enough, while I wash the dry sand with my weeping. I cannot bear to watch him die.

The Chicago Coalition of Clergy has declared this a "Weekend of Peace" in the Chicago region, and called upon all who live here to attend a religious service at a mosque, synagogue or church in order to pray for an end to violence on our streets and in our neighborhoods. Following is the litany I wrote that we will use at my parish tomorrow morning:



Litany for the Weekend of Peace in Chicago
Deacon: As people across our region gather this weekend in churches, synagogues, and mosques, let us bring before God our grief and righteous anger at the violence in our region and beyond, as well as our hopes for and commitment to a more peaceful future, responding after each petition, "Lord, have mercy."

Intercessor:
For every life extinguished by an act of violence, and for every family and community plunged into mourning; we pray to you, O Lord:

For those who believe their lives to be devoid of purpose, and for those whose dreams of a new and different life are thwarted, we pray to you, O Lord:

For an end to societal structures that foster division, inequality, fear, and violence; and for those who, actively or passively, help maintain such structures, we pray to you, O Lord:

 For those who believe that violence must be answered with more violence; and for those who feel they have no other adequate response, we pray to you, O Lord:
For those who believe themselves far removed from the region’s violence, that they may understand the interconnectedness of all humanity and our responsibility for one another, we pray to you, O Lord:

For those actively working to bring an end to the root causes of violence; and for those who turn a blind eye to its existence, its causes, and its consequences, we pray to you, O Lord:

For civility in public discourse, and for an end to polarization of political debate, we pray to you, O Lord:

For an end to the exploitation of tragedy for religious validation or political gain, we pray to you, O Lord:

Concluding Collect (Presider):
Lord, make us instruments of your peace in all times, places, and situations. Where enmity, rage, and despair rule the day, may we sow the seeds of reconciliation, love, and hope. Bring all of us to the knowledge that true peace is found not in the absence of violent conflict, but rather in the presence of charity, understanding, and genuine desire for the common good; through Him whose death on the cross embraced all the world’s pain and whose resurrection is the hope of the world, your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Gospel in Cinema: Redefining Family

The gospel for the Second Sunday after Pentecost-B (Mark 3:20-35) is rich in so many ways that it’s difficult to pick which thread to pursue for preaching and discussion. At its conclusion, in what would become a message of hope for the early Christian community, Jesus redefines what it means to be family. Having already offended the religious authorities and embarrassed his relatives, he takes it all one step further when friends come to tell him that his mother, sisters and brothers are outside waiting for him. Jesus looks around at the group that is with him and says, "Who are my mother and my brothers? Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother." (NRSV)

“Family” isn’t always those to whom we are related by blood, legal adoption, or marriage. Healthy, functional families are often able to open their arms wide to include non-relatives; others, however, may have to escape those blood and legal bonds in order to become part of a unit that will offer them loving, wholesome, life-giving relationships. Pondering Mark’s gospel this week in preparation for preaching on it has led me to think of some films that also redefine family. I’ve listed a trio of them below. None of these films are overtly religious. (Heck, none of them are even covertly religious!) Nonetheless, each one illustrates the grace of human relationships that supports and sustains those involved, through times both good and difficult.

Antonia’s Line (Marleen Gorris, director; Dutch, 1995) On the last day of her life Antonia recalls the time she and her teenage daughter returned to her small Dutch village at the end of World War II. Over time she becomes the de facto matriarch for the village, bringing relatives and friends both eccentric and ordinary into her fold, wherein there is room for all but the most wicked among them. This film won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film in 1995.

MicMacs (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, director; French, 2009) In this fantastic, surreal movie, a group of societal misfits, each with his or her own unique talent, have constructed a dwelling under a garbage dump in a French town. When the central character, a simple, homeless young man named Bazil is invited to join them, they become his family, and help him bring down the arms dealers responsible for his father’s death and his loss of job and home.

My Afternoons with Margueritte (Jean Becker, director; French, 2011) The illiterate Germain, whose relationship with his own mother has imploded, meets the elderly widow Margueritte on a park bench in their small town. As they encounter one another on a daily basis, she gradually opens him up to the beauty of literature. When Margueritte’s family decide to put her in a “home”’ some miles away, Germain takes drastic action to help the older woman regain her independence and enjoyment of life.

And there are so many others….what films come to mind for you?

Summer Reading

Here it is, Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer. And nothing says “summer” like a list of so-called “beach reads”, regardless of where you actually intend to do your reading. I’ve been sizing up the stack of unread books in my library (and my office) and have resolved not to buy anything new until I’ve gotten through at least half of them, which means the e-Reader I bought not long ago will have to wait. In no particular order, here’s what I hope to have read by Labor Day. Some of them I’ve started already, some are new; others have been hanging around for several years.

Moonwalking with Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything, by Joshua Foer (Penguin Press). The former winner of the U.S. Memory Championship shares his experiences, and gives us a glimpse into the history of remembering. I’ve already begun to build my Memory Palace. Now, if I could just remember where I left the darn book….

Episcopal Etiquette and Ethics: Living the Craft of Priesthood in the Episcopal Church, by (the Rev.) Barney Hawkins. New from Morehouse Publishing, this book addresses oft-asked as well as seldom-asked questions, such as “Is it all right to bless the food at a wedding banquet with a gin and tonic in my hand?” For me, the bigger question is: Do I really want to know I’ve been doing it wrong for 12 years?

The Difference God Makes: A Catholic Vision of Faith, Communion, and Culture, by Francis Cardinal George, OMI. Though there is much about which the head of the Archdiocese of Chicago and I would disagree – should we ever find ourselves in such a conversation – he is a good writer. His discourses on classical theology bring me back to a discipline it’s easy to lose touch with in the daily work of parish ministry.

The Heartbeat of God: Finding the Sacred in the Middle of Everything, by Katharine Jefferts Schori (Skylight Paths).  The Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church writes with passion and her signature deep spiritual intelligence about the way our faith speaks to the issues of the day and how we are compelled to keep bringing the Good News to a needy, hurting world.

American Judaism: A History, by Jonathan D. Sarna (Yale University). Recommended by my dear friend Anita Silvert; the title says it all.

American Grace: How Religion Divides and Unites Us by Robert D. Putnam and David E. Campbell (Simon & Schuster). Very thick. Very analytical. And, I’m told, very much worth reading.

Unholy Night, by Seth Grahame-Smith (because no matter what else I’m reading, I’ve always got a novel going). In what could have been titled Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh-der, the author takes on the story of the magi – yes, that’s right, those mysterious strangers from the second chapter of Matthew’s gospel – and asks the question: Who are these guys we’ve come to call “wise”? Smith is also the author of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (which reminds me, I’ve also got The Complete Jane Austen dutifully awaiting its turn.) 

So – wish me luck! And let me know what you’ll be reading. Who knows, it might make it to my list...in a few years!

Meistersinger

When I was in the fourth grade our class was given an art assignment to paint a representation of our favorite song. This was the year of the British Invasion; songs by the Beatles and other English boy bands topped the charts, and I recall any number of imaginative renderings of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, “I Saw Her Standing There” and other rock n’ roll hits, some of which have aged better than others. My painting, however, was not of a single song but a series of songs. It depicted a mill on a stream, with a lovely young woman beside it (or at least, as lovely as a ten-year-old with no exceptional artistic ability could make her).  My favorite songs comprised Franz Schubert’s German lieder cycle Die Schoene Muellerin. With the exception of my teacher, no one had a clue what I had painted, or why.

Influenced by my father’s taste, I grew up listening to classical music, most notably the symphonies of Brahms, the operas of Donizetti and Puccini, and the lieder of Franz Schubert. No one sang those last pieces better than my father’s favorite baritone, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, who died this past Friday just ten days shy of his 87^th birthday. He inhabited those songs; he told their stories, his voice colored the tone and the text in such a way that the hopeful lover, the spurned and often suicidal suitor, all four of the characters in DieErlkönig, among so many, many others, all were brought to life. I sang along with my father’s recordings, memorizing the lyrics phonetically if not literally. When I began the serious study of voice in my late teens and undergraduate years, it was not to the operatic stage that I aspired. In spite of my love of theatre, I wanted to be a recitalist who specialized in the lied. I wanted to unpack, inhabit, and present these gems in miniature, to draw an audience into their stories within the intimacy of the recital hall, as I had experienced them in those many recordings. Leave the opera house and verismo to others.

Fischer-Dieskau himself was equally at home, and equally acclaimed, on the operatic stage as well as in oratorio. In a gesture of global post-war reconciliation, Benjamin Britten recruited him to sing in the premier of his War Requiem. I loved to hear him sing Papageno. But to me he will always belong first to the world of lieder.

Gute ruh, Herr Fisher-Dieskau; you were a Meistersinger indeed. If there are liederabends in heaven, my father surely will be queued up for a front row seat!

Honoring Our Parents

As the months of May and June roll around, we approach the occasions known as Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day. Regardless of how we observe these days (or do not observe them) they weren’t created for the sole benefit of greeting card manufacturers, florists, and department stores. Nor are they religious holidays, even though some churches go all out to celebrate them. 

Of course it’s important that we honor our fathers and mothers as the fifth commandment bids us. Parents, biological or adoptive, have a tremendous influence over the lives of their children. The Church recognizes this liturgically in a number of ways, most particularly in the sacrament of Holy Baptism.

But while Mothers’ and Fathers’ Days are not themselves liturgical occasions, they certainly can be pastoral ones. For those who have lost parents, these holidays can be bittersweet as loving remembrance is mixed with a sense of loss. They can be painful for those whose relationships with parents or children have been damaged. They are often extremely difficult for infertile couples. While the commercial world is touting flowers, perfume, brunch, ties and gas grills, the Church can provide a corrective as we recognize the full spectrum of joy and pain that inhabit human relationships and lift up the opportunity for reconciliation; after all, even the best of relationships have their challenges and experience occasional brokenness.

 In the body of Christ, God has realigned the notion of family. While we needn’t (and shouldn’t) give up our familial bonds, we should also reach out to one another beyond those bonds. We look at the men and women who have nurtured, taught, protected, guided, befriended, challenged and loved us throughout our lives, and we look at the children for whom we have done the same.  Let us celebrate the gifts of all the women and men who have made each of us stronger in faith, more loving in relationships, and more authentic in living.