There’s More Than Bats in This Belfry

“God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.” C.S. Lewis

This past week I celebrated the thirty-seventh anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. Well, “celebrated” is a bit strong. I made a mental note of it as the day came and went. I don’t think about my vocation much anymore. I retired five years ago, and while I always enjoyed my life and work as a priest and pastor, I was ready for a change.

I didn’t stop being a priest, of course. Although I may not wear my collar much anymore – not even on Sundays – I am still a priest. The pandemic changed things, however. 

Having had some experience with audio-video technology, I became the parish A/V technician. I pieced together the equipment we needed to provide worship online when the congregation could not gather in person. Even now that we have returned to our sacred spaces, we continue to share our worship online with those who cannot attend in person because of age, illness, or (let’s be honest) they didn’t get up on time.

I believe that my modern-day-Quasimodo work in the loft (fiddling with the A/V equipment, managing glitches on the fly, trouble-shooting issues the online folks raise during worship, etc.) is every bit as holy as the work I did behind the altar or in the pulpit. I know that in my head, but sometimes my heart turns a deaf ear or a blind eye to that spiritual truth. 

Transitions are like that. Some are thrust upon us quite suddenly. Life is going along quite swimmingly and then, WOMP! The body that has always served quite admirably as an engine of mobility breaks down, or the mind that was once sharp as a tack has become a tarp on a shack. We pick up the phone and the people who have always been there to answer, don’t. It’s not that they don’t want to; it’s that they can’t. “Oh, right, they passed away,” I say to myself, suddenly remembering they died three years ago. And darkness descends. The dead-letter office has grown larger, and one’s own life more fragile and diminished.

Other transitions are slower. They sneak up on us like Gollum seeking his “precious.” The early days of the pandemic stretched on from days to weeks to months to years. The isolation and care we took to be safe, to avoid contracting or passing along the disease became a habit, a way of life. The joy and vitality of living became mundane, replaced by a spirit of drudgery, hopelessness, haplessness, and helplessness. The Alleluia of Faith, somewhere along the way, was replaced by a more doleful tune: Lamentation.

We are told that the human body has many organs, and I know it is true, and yet it seems I can only play the black keys on the organ of my soul. That is truly horrifying for one who has striven for most of his seven decades to maintain a decent level of positivity and good humor (albeit humor filled with some absolute groaners).

So, what is there to do? Is there a way through this morose desperation? Of course there is!

First, we need to recognize it for what it is. It is part of life. The fact that this depression has struck me so hard lately is evidence that I’ve had to struggle with this darkness so little in my life. There is no “bucking up” and getting “over it.” It is what it is, so I find (for myself) that it’s enough to embrace a line from Simon and Garfunckle, “Hello darkness, my old friend.” It’s OK. Not, it’s “going” to be OK. Simply, it’s OK. Even Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” 

Secondly, while we may not know how long an episode will last (and it could be life-long), we know that even in the darkness, God is there. Pain? God is there. Loneliness? God is there. Despair? God is there. God does not arrive suddenly, like the Lone Ranger, to set things right. God is not Deus ex machina. God is Immanuel – God with (and in) us – the source of all true happiness here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

There’s More to Cherries Than the Pits

“The world is so loud and makes so many demands. Sitting next to you doing absolutely nothing means absolutely everything to me,” said the boy to the tree. Sketches in stillness.com

I went to the store, as is my custom, to pick up a few necessities for the week and found a delicious display of cherries greeting me at the entrance. Cherries are among my favorite fruits of summer, so I looked over the bags of cherry-red goodness lying before me and, as I could determine no discernable differences among them, made my selection and went on with my shopping.

After I got home and put away the groceries, I unbagged the cherries, placed them into a colander, and gave them a good rinsing. I popped a couple of test samples into my mouth (one at a time) to see how they were and must admit they were a disappointment. They weren’t as sweet or flavorful as I had hoped or expected. I wondered if they had been grown on a candle-maker’s plantation. In fact, a smoky flavor might have helped.

That’s OK, though. While they didn’t meet my hopes and dreams for flavor, nevertheless they do contain nutritional value and are likely healthier than the chocolate chip cookies I would have otherwise been eating, so I’m not going to complain. It is also quite possible that some of my ability to taste food items continues to suffer the lingering effects of my bout with Covid a couple of years back. Life goes on and, if I need to, I can delight in pondering how delicious those cherries may taste to others.

I suppose that’s important. I have never been accused of having good taste in anything, and so it has never been important for me to compel others to think like me, feel like me, dress like me, or do things the way I do them. I think it is perfectly fine for me to like what I like, and for you to like what you like, right?

There is a certain freedom that comes with detachment, by which I mean I’m free to be me, and you’re free to be you, and we are each free to own what is ours (feelings, thoughts, ideas, experiences, etc.) and others to own what is theirs. That means each gets to keep their identity. 

For some people, detachment could mean one doesn’t care. If I see my child run into the street without looking both ways and ignore it, that isn’t detachment; that’s neglect. If my child misbehaves in the store and I don’t care how that may be affecting others, that isn’t detachment; that’s hostility by proxy.

No, detachment the way I mean it is how I am able to retain my own identity and still love, care about, and identify with the feelings of others.

When Jesus says, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” he’s asking us to see our neighbor with our eyes and hear them with our ears – not literally, not figuratively, but honestly. We are so often caught up into our own worlds, our own situations, our own messes that we’re unable to see or hear the pain (or joy) of those around us. Sadly, that also means that others are often oblivious to the pains or joys we are experiencing at any given time. That’s isolation, not detachment.

God calls us into community, but our culture values individualism to such a degree that we’d often prefer to fall heck-bent into perdition than take hold of a hand reaching to raise us up to safety. God says it isn’t good for us to be alone. Remember the wisdom of Life cereal’s Mikey: Mikey dared to try Life, and to the great surprise of his siblings, he LIKED it. God is always calling us to try life, too, to learn how to live as individuals and as members of a larger whole.

God calls us into community, which doesn’t mean we lose who we are or sacrifice what we like. What it means is we get to explore the kingdom of heaven more fully, because we see and hear together far more than we ever could alone. To do less would be the pits for us here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)