Do You See What I See?

I was sitting, chilling in an overly air conditioned classroom at Bowling Green State University about twelve years ago when I first read C.S. Lewis’ “Meditation in a Toolshed.” In the essay, he discusses the need to look both at and along a particular issue in life: love, religion, life, whatever. We should recognize that experience and education are equally as valuable when trying to understand the mysteries of this thing we call human existence.

We read the essay in class in preparation to discuss the debate surrounding Science and Religion. Are they mutually exclusive? Can they both present valid perspectives? The answer, I believe, is obvious. Of course, they can.

I have been thinking about Lewis’ essay for the past few days. I had not read it since that summer in 1996. Perhaps I am drawn to this text because recently I have revisited several passages in the Bible.

I was raised Fundamental Baptist. We attended church three times a week; there were a lot of “no’s” growing up. No smoking, no drinking, no dancing, no movies, no sex, no wearing pants to church (a memorable fight involving lots of tears changed that), no, no, no, no, no. Many of the people I grew up with, of course, ended up doing many of these things, and, as far as I know, some still do.

When reading the Bible, I am also reminded of Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave.” Like many people, it is one of my favorite pieces of literature. In it, Plato describes a scene where human beings have been kept shackled in a cave. They can only stare at the wall—nowhere else. There is a fire and a wall. Puppets cast shadows on the wall, and the human beings, having grown up in the cave, recognize this shadow world as “real.” The movie The Matrix offers a stylized version of the same notion. Plato says that if we unlocked one of these persons, dragged him up out of the cave, and introduced him to sunlight, flowers, trees, grass, sky—the “real” world—he would be unable to return to the world of shadows, for he had experienced something more and finally understood that all he knew before was false, someone else’s interpretation of the truth.

When I sit down and read my Bible, I want to see past the shadows. I want to see the text anew. I want to look at it and along it—simultaneously. There are many passages that I have never heard preached on, or at least, they were not preached on in the ways that I understood them. The women of the Bible were rarely spoken of, unless they were Ruth or Esther. Much of what I have read in the text was ignored. Slowly, I begin to recognize that I grew up watching shadows.

I want to believe that I have the mental capacity to read the Bible for myself without the filter of a “learned” intermediary, or “scholar.” If these words are truly from my Creator and Deity, then I should be able to have access to them as freely as anyone else.

C.S. Lewis wonders about subjectivity. If we can only experience things from our own limited perception, then how can we ever have any “true” objectivity? Is that really a table? Does my friend experience the table as I do? What are the implications of our disparate understandings of table?

I read stories of love in the Bible. I have read plenty of sections about types of love that are condemned. If I read the text one way, I am an abomination who does not deserve access to God. This is how my parents read it. Sometimes, I think it is a test of their faith everyday that I survive and am not "judged." They believe that I will die early--perhaps they think my salvation is lost these days, I'm not sure. They didn't used to think that. Even so, everyday, their words cross my mind. Will I slip and fall in the bathtub? Will a stray car swerve into my lane? Why does my head hurt and throb? I feel like my parents are sitting back and waiting. My seemingly "unpunished" life tests their beliefs. I can see both along this issue and at it. I understand how they think and why. Are they right? Am I right? The shackles of my Baptist upbringing bite my wrists.

People say that the sin of Sodom and Gomorrah was homosexuality. Fine. I will read the text that way. But, what about the fact that after Sodom and Gomorrah was burned into nothingness, Lot’s daughters got their father drunk and both slept with him—having children by him? I always found that passage so hard to read. Thankfully, our mores have changed thousands of years later. A person could compose a list pages and pages long of things that we are supposed to read one way (without our modern knowledge and understanding) and things that are not supposed to be read the same way (having children by our drunken fathers).

In the end, I have tried to look at and along the beam whenever I approach the Bible. I pray and have prayed, cried, lost weight, tossed and turned and stayed awake night after night. My brother prayed hard, too. He prayed that he could be “cured” of the pain he felt most of his life. He took his own life fourteen years ago. I felt the same way five years ago when I cried out to God for different reasons. I received an answer. Was it a deception? A test? Perhaps.

I suppose what I would really wish to see is fewer people judging others. Why can’t we try to look at and along the beam before we condemn someone? Perhaps my answer could be found if I spent an afternoon in the shadows of a toolshed.

All I know is that some days the sun, that bright shining warm sun, feels just beyond the reach of these manacled arms...

Still Grieving

I am about to confess one of my deepest regrets in life: I did not attend my Grandma Moor’s funeral. The most natural question is: “why not?” The answer is very simple: it was easier not to go. It was easier on me. Yes, I lived ten hours away in Iowa. I was teaching and taking summer classes. I would’ve had to miss several classes to make the drive, or else chug plenty of black coffee and prepare myself for the long drive on back-to-back days. But, I could’ve done it. And, from where I sit now at 34 years-old, I should’ve done it.

Grief is a tricky thing. Sometimes, I almost think people don’t talk about it enough. Oh, we do the “words aren’t enough” jive, but we don’t always discuss the real nitty gritty of grief. When my brother died, I had diarrhea for days. Everything I ate went straight through me. It didn’t matter what I ate. I’ve heard other people tell of being constipated. If these are embarrassing details, then I guess I will embarrass myself. Grief is not always immediately felt in the heart, but you will more than likely feel it in the bowels.

Grief is also the gift that keeps on giving, as I like to say. Once you think you are “over it,” it will rear its head at the most unexpected moments. You will feel the absence of a person at the strangest junctures in life. Maybe you will have finally outlived your older brother, watched a certain team win the World Series, or suddenly realized that you and the person you lost performed a yearly ritual you always took for granted.

I should’ve gone to my grandmother’s funeral. My mother was grieving the loss of her mother and she ached for her only living child to be beside her—her only daughter no less—to be there as support. I did not go. I couldn’t ask for permission to leave school without having broken down into uncontrollable sobs. I hate grieving in public. I hate crying in front of people. When my brother died, my father had us troop over to a friend’s house. A bunch of people sat around in the deacon’s living room. My father talked. I cried. The people watched. I despised every tick of the clock. I did not feel supported. I know my father did, and I’m sure my mother did, too, and all of those people were there to lend comfort and love, but I felt suffocated.

For some reason, my Grandmother Moor has been on my mind lately. Hard to say exactly why and how those things happen. Perhaps it is a symptom of aging: an understanding of the moments you should’ve savored as a youth. It’s too bad that memories cannot be stored on disks and rewatched and memorized. They become so fuzzy over time.

My grandmother’s father called her Hank. The name suited her—at least the person we could see in those coal black eyes of hers. My Grandma Moor was spunky, even I could tell that and I did not meet her until she was already into her 60s. Henrietta was a fine enough name, but it was a bit old-fashioned. Grandma did have a love of cat-eye frames and floral print dresses. Every time I visited my grandparents’ house, she was in a dress. Her ways were traditional. And, yet, Hank seemed to capture the spirit of a woman who age and dementia could not dim.

Henrietta Elizabeth Sterling was the name her parents gave her at birth. Her black hair, black eyes, pale skin, and tenacity for her ideals embodied the Irish blood that now courses in my veins as well. People said we looked alike. Perhaps so. When I see past my mother in my face, I can see a resemblance to Hank.

She loved animals. She used to keep parakeets. Before that, years before, on their farm, Hank had cats. My mother claims that she could win over any cat, even the most wild. Maybe those felines recognized a kindred.

Towards the end of her life, my grandmother’s mind was lost, but she had a constant refrain. She wanted to “go home.” It is hard to say exactly where that was in her mind, though she often hinted that it was her childhood home she craved.

Sometimes, I understand this feeling. There are times I would like to “go home,” too, but it is more a feeling than any particular place. I should’ve gone to my grandmother’s funeral. It is one of the many regrets I have, and age has taught me that it will not be last.