Jodi and I helped to lead a retreat for engaged couples today. If ever you seek to recall what sparked love between you and your mate and what keeps it alive today, surround yourself with young couples who sincerely want to hear your stories, share, and listen.
Oh, and I finished The Great Gatsby today. Beautiful and tragic. More on that tomorrow, Coach.
My driver from the airport to the hotel Saturday was an older Romanian man who welcomed me to New York four times over, showed me a cell-phone photo of Jane Fonda at LaGuardia from earlier in the afternoon, talked about a movie he’d seen her in as a young man (called “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”), then about another movie, which led to a conversation about the war and his views on U.S. politics as an East European immigrant from a long-suffering nation. He combined a great love for America with high expectations, a heavy dose of skepticism, and no illusions about the potential for political leaders to disappoint. Fascinating.
I told him that one of the things I love about getting into a car outside an airport is the roll of the dice: you never know who you’re going to cross paths with. He smiled and said, “You get in with an open mind – not everyone does that.”
* * * * *
I walked from the hotel through a crush of humanity to the intersection of 50th Street and 5th Avenue, to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for Mass this evening. It’s amazing what you pass along the way: the destitute and the fantastically wealthy, posh restaurants and corner hot-dog stands, fashion-forward boutiques and knock-off handbags.
Yesterday the cathedral was bustling with tourists (and a scattering of prayerful, mournful, and presumably faithful). I lit a candle and said a prayer for the folks back home, made a lap around the church, then left. Hard to find peace with so many people milling around.
I arrived tonight about five minute before the service. The ushers were stationed at each aisle, asking people if they were here for Mass. If yes, they were given a program and allowed down the aisle to find a pew; if no, they were directed to the outside aisles to observe and take photos. I wound up three-quarters of the way back, just right of center, and when the massive pipe organ started, you could tell how big the space was to fill – it sounded surprisingly soft, almost muffled. It took several minutes for the church to reach some semblance of quiet, and even then, there was a constant influx of church-goers and tourists. Between the priest and me were hundreds, maybe thousands, of worshipers of every nationality you could imagine.
The readings, of course, were the same ones many of you heard. Monsignor Ritchie, however, said (in a voice equal parts joyous preacher and wizened New Yorker) that he would speak about the readings from Tuesday’s Mass – in part because the cathedral clearly held so many visitors, many of whom he feared may not realize that the Church doesn’t just celebrate the Mass on Sunday.
So he preached what he described as a second set of commandments in Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Ch. 12), and ended with a verse from the next chapter: “For the commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery,’ ‘You shall not murder,’ ‘You shall not steal,’ ‘You shall not give false testimony,’ ‘You shall not covet,’ and whatever other commandments there are, are all summed up in this saying, namely, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'” (Romans 13:9)
The procession to the altar for Communion was slow going, not unlike the sidewalks outside, except without the cell phones and exasperation. People were patient; people were kind …
* * * * *
I filed out with everyone else, back into the neon whirlwind outside. I walked past 30 Rockefeller Plaza, past Radio City Music Hall, where the annual Christmas Spectacular (featuring those leggy Rockettes) is the only show in town due to the writer’s strike, past Lindy’s New York Cheesecake and back to hotel, not hungry enough to eat dinner. I stopped at the little lobby store to get a Coke and peanuts (curse you, Bob!), smiled and thanked the woman at register, wishing her a good night.
I got snack-hungry later and ran back down to get some popcorn. She recognized me, and we talked about the weather, here versus Minnesota, then about her love of the City. “I’m more of a country boy,” I said. “I couldn’t live here, but I do like to visit.”
She smiled and said something I didn’t understand about my education showing through; after a few moments, I realized she was talking about my upbringing. She said, “Where I come from in Cuba is a town, but not big. It is country. I like it, too. People come here; they say, ‘Hello,’ like you. They are nice, friendly people. That’s their education.”
We talk a bit more, then I start back toward the elevators. “You have a great night,” I say.
“Good night,” she says. “You say, ‘Buenos noches.'”
“Buenos noches,” I reply.
“God bless you,” she says, and waves.
One of my first and formative lessons at Yale was the utter ineffectiveness of religious appeals to those who do not share your faith. As a result, I tend not to lead with my faith when making introductions or arguments. Increasingly, however, I’m realizing that A) much of what I enjoy talking and writing about involves religion or spirituality, and B) people should understand where I come from so they can disregard me with reason!
I grew up the son of a fallen-away Catholic mother and an … atheist? agnostic? closet Buddhist? … father. I made my First Communion somewhere around fifth grade, during a church-going streak of a couple years, as I recall – but my spiritual upbringing was shaped as much by Dad and his Little Grandma, a remarkable, diminutive woman who raised him up right – on the Bible, if not in the Church. To this day, he’s one of the most Christian people I know, despite the fact that he sees no evidence or need for a God, per se – benevolent or otherwise.
So I arrived at Yale in 1992 a country kid of relatively modest means and an old-fashioned upbringing not tied tightly to any particular faith tradition. I roomed with six other guys whose views and values were as different from mine as our hometowns – rural Remus, Michigan, versus Cape Cod and Walpole, Mass.; New York; Philadelphia; Chicago; L.A.
They grilled me over my views on abortion, abstinence, drinking, you name it. I believe I surprised them on two counts: my strict adherence to these values despite being nearly half a country from home, and the fact that I didn’t reference the Bible or God in my arguments.
I didn’t because A) from a religious perspective, I wasn’t sure what I believed, and B) the non-religious majority in the room didn’t buy faith-based arguments and dismantled our one strongly Catholic suitemate simply by asking why. (He quickly discovered that although he believed precisely what the Church taught, he had no idea why they taught it.) Instead, I pursued these discussions as dialectic, working out the truth of my values through their constant challenges. In the meantime, that first semester I took a class in physical anthropology, focusing on human evolution, and quickly fell in love.
I majored in anthropology and studied human evolution for four years. Halfway through, I took a summer job at Wall Drug (yeah, that Wall Drug – the one with all the billboards) and fell in love again, this time with a cradle Catholic. And I learned a couple things in the process.
First, I learned that, on the whole, scholars who study human evolution are generally great critical thinkers, quick-witted and skeptical, and they generally lack a family life. (They seemed like a terribly smart and lonely lot.)
Secondly, I found out that a cradle Catholic and a skeptic-in-training make a pretty mean team in the search for Truth.
Jodi’s quiet faith, and a wonderfully honest and human priest named William Zink, brought me back into the church (not to mention my mother, who, like me, is now a lector). I’m Catholic and proud to be so, although to this day I sometimes have doubts and misgivings about the Church, its teachings, and my own faith* – and I’m not at all convinced that we’ve cornered the market on the Kingdom of Heaven.** But I know what I get from the faith tradition I practice, and it’s too good to give up and go looking elsewhere.
Besides, where would I look?
*****
vigil
we watch for signs
signals too dim to light our way
stop us dead.
we wait – for what?
an invitation is ours
each day; each moment
we are born again
to do more good
to do better
god is god the everpresent
he leaves not
each dawn an easter
each day a rebirth
j. thorp
27 sept 01
*****
I’m never sure how I feel about that poem as creative writing, but when I wrote those words, they seemed like a revelation.
Life is a constant series of rebirths – perhaps the most dramatic in my life is described in an essay called “Thomas and Me,” which can be downloaded here.
It’s long; ask Jodi if I can ever tell a short story. Feel free to share your thoughts.
——
* Father Bill told me that even priests have their doubts and not to let mine get in the way of experiencing the fullness of life in the Church. He also assured me that the head on my shoulders is God-given, and that, as long as I continue to seek, I’ll be alright.
** You’ll see on my short list of favorite books “The Power of Myth” by Joseph Campbell and “Living Buddha Living Christ” by Thich Nhat Hanh. I don’t necessarily buy everything these fellows are selling either, but they make for compelling reading. Jesus said, “I am the Way,” right? I believe there are a lot of non-Christian people walking that Way, narrow or not!
It rained like you wouldn’t believe on my drive home Thursday. On Friday, I e-mailed a friend of mine:
“drove home last night in a torrent; drove in this morning to dramatic skies: great golden cloud formations creating the illusion that … just … there! … is heaven, just beyond that cumulus. unfortunately, i’ve been above clouds like those, and the void you encounter there is far more god-like and far less comforting somehow …”
That’s one of the fascinating things about this faith tradition I’m a part of: It’s Good News, to be sure, but that’s not to say that A) you don’t have to work hard, or B) you won’t fall short no matter how hard you work. The psalmist wrote, “Be still, and know that I am God.” I’ve tried to heed that advice on occasion, and found myself straddling a fine line between absolute comfort and terrifying vulnerability.
This is what my head’s like on Saturdays. Maybe you best come back tomorrow …
Anyway, the comment in the e-mail got me thinking of a poem (of sorts) I wrote some time ago on a trip to Philadelphia. Might be worth a minute …
philadelphia, june 19
the beautiful people
sweep past
the heavy black woman
asleep on the curb;
the arab man, his broom
and old bagels;
the truck double-parked;
or pass the hour
in conversation
over tiny black tables,
small dishes
and drinks.
i watch this one pass—
white capris above
long brown calves,
and a salmon top,
moving with purpose,
phone in hand.
i sit, an accomplice,
no better for my
phone not ringing.
an old man shuffles by,
toothlessly mouthing
soft-serve, and
i remember the flight.
six miles above
this bustle
is imperceptible.
the plane tilts, and
i look past the sky
to the deep blue
ends of the earth,
into the infinite,
and see these tiny things
that consume us
carry little weight.
a tiny heart flutters
about my chest.
god must be a
big-picture man, I think,
and the gravity is
less somehow.
J. Thorp
19 June 2001
The first few lines of the second stanza bug me today. I was sitting on a bar stool at a burger joint below street level, so I saw this woman legs-first and couldn’t catch her face. Maybe she’s better faceless, though — if the point is the countless comings and goings of ultra-engaged and -engaging people who somehow remain strangers. Best not to second-guess, I guess …
I went to Iceland this past spring for work. Iceland always has dramatic skies, beautiful and terrible. I’ll have to post a few pics from there at some point — if I can recall which computer I dumped them on. Unfortunately, they’re not on this one.
But while I’m on the subject, I should plug an Icelandic musician I’m currently digging. Most folks have heard of Björk, and some know Sigur Rós (a favorite of our glacier tour guide, who had a Sigur Rós playlist programmed for every turn in the winding road) — but the Iceland Review on my nightstand at the hotel featured an interview with Lay Low, a guitar-playing indie-blues singer who reminds me of Madeleine Peyroux, but with less Billie Holliday and little more Björk (that lovely Icelandic lilt) to her voice.
Anyway — check out the article the caught my attention here.
Then visit Lay Low’s MySpace page here to listen to a few tracks.
I’m not sure you can get her disk in the states yet, so you’ll have to hop a plane to Reykjavik. Could be worse …
Archangel Stomp 