Let’s Give God a Break by George Merrill

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I would like to write in defense of God. In my opinion we have abused him (or her) shamelessly. It’s high time we give God a break.

Biblical history has its own problems with fake news. “God rained down burning sulphur on Sodom and Gomorrah,” the bible tells us in one epic account. Why? God abhors homosexuality. Lot’s wife became collateral damage: she looked back on the city about to be destroyed. God instructed her not too. She was reduced to a pillar of salt on the spot because she turned around to look. Disobedience? Maybe, but another possible transgression suggested is that she became too interested in what was going on there. In either case the punishments, in my view, did not fit the crimes.

With the advent of modern biblical scholarship and scientific archeology, many of these accounts of divine retribution are believed to be more mythical than historically credible. Historically credible or no, myths make their point and this one and many others like it are that God’s wrath can be savage and spiteful. Much of historic religion has targeted gays and lesbians for just such punishments.

I recall after 9/11, televangelists Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson were outspoken about how America’s tolerance of gays, abortion, lesbians and the ACLU caused God to open the gates to the terrorists allowing them to enter and cause this national tragedy to happen. In short, the attacks on 9/11 were God’s judgment against America’s growing liberal agenda.

Significant numbers advocating for this vengeful God have traditionally been associated with the Republicans who share their party’s contempt for liberals and their agenda. This has created a delicate situation now since the Republicans hold not only the house and senate, but the executive branch as well. Conservatives are more cautious about calling the disasters God’s retribution since Republicans are now in the driver’s seat and for the most part are setting the national agenda.

Rush Limbaugh, a loyal pundit of the right, got God off the hook this time by handling the recent hurricane tragedies this way. He just couldn’t help but blaming somebody.

“There is a desire to advance this climate change agenda, and hurricanes are one of the fastest and best ways to do it … All you need is to create the fear and panic accompanied by talk that climate change is causing hurricanes to become more frequent and bigger and more dangerous, and you create the panic, and it’s mission accomplished, agenda advanced.”

He seems to me to be saying that anyone even talking about the reality of destructive hurricanes makes the storms bigger and more frequent. He gives climate change talk the same power that God possesses; during the creation God only had to say ‘Let there be light”, and it was everywhere.

Televangelist Jim Bakker was determined to keep God active in the retribution mode and stated that “this flood is from God.” Why? To punish Houston’s former mayor for attempting to subpoena ministers’ sermons. Wouldn’t you wonder what the mayor knew about Texas clergy that God preferred to keep classified?

Pastor Kevin Swanson asserts that Irma’s path could have been altered had the Supreme Court only decided that abortion and gay marriage were illegal. God didn’t move the hearts of the Supreme Court in a timely manner. The pastor suggests that, the whole mess happened because God dropped the ball and didn’t act sooner. It doesn’t make God any less retributive but God is now also accused of not staying on top of things.

Ann Coulter, not averse to speaking her mind, interestingly wasn’t sure hurricane Harvey was God’s way of punishing Houston although she tweeted that the explanation was “more credible than attributing [natural disasters] to ‘climate change.’ ” I think she was uneasy attributing the hurricanes to God outright but she did so in a disingenuous way.

James Dobson of Focus on the Family fame, while describing the Sandy Hook shootings as God’s punishment for tolerating gay marriage and abortion, was curiously silent on the recent storms. He championed God’s wrath in the past. I wonder why he remained silent on the matter? Too busy with family business, I suppose.

Pat Robertson also did not comment directly on God’s role in the recent storms, but spoke to it obliquely. Robertson saw the hand of God in the Haiti and San Fernando earthquakes and suggested that the political pressures America puts on Israel, causes natural disasters. My guess is that he’s soft on Israel because Jesus was born there. He also warned that gay tourists at Disney World could cause a meteor strike. So much for star of wonder, star of night.

Michael Brown, a member of Trump’s Evangelical Advisory Board, cautioned that, “we must be very careful before we make divine pronouncements about hurricanes and other natural disasters.” He praised Houston for having stood bravely against the rising tide of LGBT activism concluding with this observation: “Why would God single out Houston for judgment?” One preacher suggested that Houston got it big time because they elected a lesbian as their mayor.

God gets portrayed as having sex on his mind all the time. I think those who champion his vengeful acts are the ones obsessed with sex and I would add, violence.

What are we to make of all this?

Four things come to mind.

One, we are still adolescent children in gaining a wholesome understanding of human sexuality. Secondly, nature, for all our scientific advances, remains mysterious and unpredictable. We try controlling it, but we can’t.

I don’t think we’ve grasped the reality that we are a global community and we have responsibility for each other, not to punish, but to heal. Finally, we keep trying to draft God into our causes, like selective service once called us up to serve in the military. We require of God that he do our bidding. It is very hard to grow into the knowledge that we’re made in God’s image when we keep trying to make God into our own. We fashion him in our own image, and unfortunately, not with our more endearing qualities: deceit, manipulation, coercion and violence. And for all that, would you believe, that at the end of the day God doesn’t punish sinners, but forgives, loves and welcomes them into his arms. Now that’s the real miracle.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord”

Thank God for that.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist. A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

No Forwarding Address by George Merrill

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In my last column I mentioned having grown interested in writing letters, real letters not email. In part, the idea was born by a book I read about one woman’s discovery in writing letters to people who’ve influenced her life. What she wrote impressed me.

One of the advantages of being an octogenarian is the long view of life that the years provide. I have both the time and the perspective to recall a rich repository of people who have been significant to me. To intentionally think about those people and what they meant to me is not, as you might expect, just going over the same old turf again. There are new discoveries. The recollections reveal new and startling aspects of how I have been influenced by others. Intentionally pondering the meaning of old relationships is filled with meaning and at oftentimes, surprises.

I’m thinking particularly about a recent letter I wrote – the second one I wrote with an intention to communicate gratitude for what she meant for me. I sent the letter to Maureen.

She was a colleague of whom I was always fond, but at the time I hadn’t realized just what it was about Maureen that drew me to her. We worked together thirty-five years ago. She had that ineffable characteristic gentle people possess: an unassuming presence that brings grace to whatever they’re about. In some ways she seemed to be able impute life even to things as inanimate as a small pile of stones.

Maureen had been a nun in a cloistered community. After years of discernment, she discovered she was being called to a new ministry. She received training and served both as a hospital chaplain and a pastoral counselor.

Occasionally she would lead small groups in meditations. She’d craft small objects as aids to the meditations she’d lead. There was one I remember. From one point of view it was wholly unremarkable. My memory of it – were talking some twenty to twenty-five years ago– is admittedly sketchy. My mind’s eye recollects a pile of small stones, placed on a dish. A candle was placed on the mound.  It seemed to me at that moment that the stones became like some ancient monument to a holy site. Some spiritual awakening had occurred and a small mound of stones had been erected to memorialize it. There is no material monument left by Maureen’s meditation except the picture in my mind and while the details are hazy, the feeling of awe, a sense of the holy is not.

As fuzzy as the image remains in my mind, and that I don’t even recall the particular subject of the meditation, the impression remains and the feeling I have about it is undeniable. She had the gift to bring a spiritual awareness to the things to which she gave her attention, significance that, of themselves, they didn’t possess. She didn’t teach the stones to talk. She invited them to communicate a mystical presence by the intentions she invested in them as she assembled them for the meditation rite.

I’ve sometimes thought of specific places like Lourdes or the Mount of Olives as holy places. I’m beginning to believe that by itself a place is not holy – what makes it holy is the time, the place and the people converging on it at a particular instant. All the circumstances at a particular moment conspire to create an experience that transcends time and place to reveal a new reality, as if by being present with open hearts a small window in the firmament of heaven is thrown open, revealing something of the eternity beyond it.

I will not know what Maureen may think of the letter or even if she will see her graces the way I describe them. I’m not sure she will recollect our common history in the same way as I have. I have seen that happen in families eager to share reminiscences only to discover that one may see particular moments very differently from others. Is it then possible that our experiences with each other may not be as significant when we all see the moment in the same way? We all have our town take. Our shared history with each other is indeed mixed. Few of us will ever know the full impact we have had on another. It may remain hidden for years as if under a small mound of stones.

Sending the letter became my way of reconnecting and celebrating what others have meant to me. Beginning to write the letters I find the hardest part. At first I have only a person’s image in my mind’s eye or some associated objects. Soon a feeling follows. It’s hard to put into words. For a while I’ll draw a blank, but soon recollections begin to take shape and the words come to express my gratitude.

There’s a Christian teaching called the ‘communion of saints.’ It’s stated this way: “Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight . . .” When I was a boy, I imagined that I was surrounded by all my relatives who’d died, gone to heaven and they hovered around me, invisible, rooting for me like Casper the friendly ghost. They were my celestial guardians. My youthful understanding of the communion of saints did not survive my seminary education, intact. One thing changed: I believe that those witnesses compassing about me now include many of the living. And I can send them letters, unlike friendly ghosts or even saints that we assume reside in heaven but never leave forwarding addresses.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist.  A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

I Sat Right Down And Wrote Myself A Letter by George Merrill

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More than once I’ve wished that the news were fake. It’s demoralizing because it isn’t.

There are migrants seeking safety, natural disasters and brutal regimes oppressing their peoples. These inequities seem everywhere and are especially painful as I look at my own life. My life is privileged. I feel shame at times, and at other times guilty – like the survivor who has escaped the misfortunes plaguing his neighbor. Why him and not me, or more darkly, feeling relieved that it was he and not I.

Of the feelings I experience in the face of the world’s pain, it’s helplessness that I find the most disquieting. In truth, there is little I can do.

I am a white, middle class privileged resident of Maryland’s Eastern Shore where I effectively want for nothing. I have the freedom of mobility, amply supplied markets nearby, and a car with access to fuel. I receive health care because I am one of those fortunate people who have a good medical plan. I have fresh water at the turn of the faucet, a waste system that efficiently discharges effluences, electricity to cool my house when it’s hot, and oil to warm my house in cold winters. My children and grandchildren are safe, as I am.

Like many people of good will who have the means (and some who don’t), I give to relief agencies, try to do justice where I can, advocate for victims, try to be intelligently informed, but at the end of the day, I still feel that acute sense of how impotent I remain in a world filled with suffering.

In the face of so much suffering, and after doing what I can do materially to address some of it, how am I to be in the world in ways that won’t make me cynical or lead me to despair? Are there ways I can make a difference? Could it be something as simple as writing letters?

The thought came to me recently when I ran across a book called, “The Forever Letter” written by a Rabbi, Elana Zaiman. She develops her idea from a lesser-known tradition in Judaism called the ethical will. This is a statement an aging person might pass on to his or her children to share special values and traditions important to the writer. It’s a kind of moral legacy as well as one of love and care. “The Forever Letter,” is intended to be a hand written letter. It is less formal and offered as a gift of gratitude to anyone at any time that we’ve loved and treasured. As a letter, it can be held and embraced for a lifetime. That makes it a forever letter.

I struck me that if I were to make a list of those people who have, in varying ways, been important to my life and then tell them that by writing to them, I would be actively engaged in creating a tangible web of love. I know that a heart awakened by love is better informed to deal wisely with both good and bad fortune. An awakened heart is always open: a despondent heart closes down and pulls back.

Letters today are arcane. A handwritten letter is distinctive, however. It can be held and embraced, as Rabbi Zaiman notes, and can be read again and again. There’s intimacy in reading sentiments written in the hand of the person sending it. In that sense, there’s a tangible part of that person in the letter itself. I remember reading that Viktor Frankl kept his sanity during his imprisonment in the death camps because he wrote his thoughts on scraps of paper. It gave him meaning to survive in a landscape of total meaninglessness. It was love that helped him stay alive. He writes about that love:

“But my mind clung to my wife’s image, imaging it with an uncanny acuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her look was then more luminous than the sun which was beginning to rise.”

I confess that I was energized at first by the thought of writing forever letters. Then I began to feel resistance. I could see myself trying to think myself out of writing that first letter. I have no doubt that something about the idea both allured and scared me.

I decided I would not analyze my resistance. I’ve done that before as a way of ducking an issue. I sat down instead with a real fountain pen and paper and wrote a letter to a young man of thirty whom I began mentoring when he was eight. We cut Halloween pumpkins together, read Harry Potter (I never like Harry Potter books), took trips to the beach and the like. He lived hard times. He is in serious trouble now. He called recently to tell me. I did what I could, but it never occurred to me to write him now that he’s facing his own demons. That’s where I started to lay the first strand in creating a web of love and care.

Would my letter help my young mentee’s troubled situation? At the time I wrote it I was not sure. I knew only that I had taken the time and the energy to communicate to him that he was not alone in his misfortune and that someone valued him at a time in his life in which he had little value for himself.

As it turned out he never received the letter. It was never sent. I learned from his relatives shortly before mailing it that the situation had worsened and nobody was sure just where he was and what had become of him. I felt let down, as if I had been too late. Should I pitch the letter or keep it, I wondered?

Someday I may be able to give the letter to him. In the meantime I decided to save it as a symbol. It represents to me my first conscious effort to be aware and then communicate my own feelings of gratitude for what others have meant to me.

This is one forever way of being in a troubled and tumultuous world.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist.  A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

 

T.E.A.M. – Together Everyone Achieves More by George Merrill

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For those with apocalyptic leanings who fear that the end time is near, 2017 hasn’t been a reassuring year.

The election kicked off confusion and chaos in Washington and throughout the world. There was the Charlottesville tragedy, the hurricanes in the Caribbean, Florida and Texas, the two earthquakes in Mexico, and recently Kim Jong-Un gleefully flashed his latest rocket claiming his is the biggest and baddest in the world. These happenings alone would suggest that the world’s end time, if not imminent, isn’t that far off.

But take heart.

Like embers flickering in a soft breeze, two bright spots recently appeared on the national scene. I thought they were encouraging.

The House and Senate Minority leaders struck a deal with President Trump. Both minority leaders proposed a plan to keep the government solvent and to aid hurricane victims. Trump bought in. In fact he was so enthused he was reported to have called both ‘Chuck’ and ‘Nancy’ the next day to express his delight in brokering a deal with his new congressional colleagues.

Both sides of the aisle are wary. The Democrats can’t imagine a deal with Trump that wouldn’t leave them holding the bag. The Republicans feel betrayed. However, taking the deal at face value definitely marks a departure from recent political intransigence. Where will it go from here? “We’ll see,” as our president often says.

Another bright spot recently revealed that, during recent Texas and Florida hurricane disasters, loss of life was kept to a minimum. Given the enormity of the storms, experts agree it could have been much worse. Over the last sixteen years government agencies have learned to cooperate more efficiently in sharing resources and information. Former deputy of FEMA Richard Serino also made this observation: “Now we’ve seen images of neighbors helping neighbors. They’re the real emergency medical workers.” It was a snapshot of what the possibilities of cooperation between people and their government can do in the face of disasters.

Cooperation gets things done. Those cooperating frequently remain invisible to the world. The peacemakers may be the children of God, but very few are ever thanked or get into the public spotlight.

I remember about ten years ago watching a conversation on TV. Democrat and former member of Homeland Security Advisory Council member, Lee H. Hamilton, and Republican and former White House Chief of Staff, James A. Baker, co-chaired a panel on Iraq. It led to a discussion of diplomacy.

I’m paraphrasing, but the picture they painted in my mind was graphic. In diplomacy, progress is agonizingly slow, and measured in inches rather than feet. You think you have it and now you don’t. You go over the same ground again and again only to find you are back where you started. It recalls the feeling of futility we’ve all had doing those knotty tasks that life sometimes calls on us to perform. In the conversation, one of them said to the effect, that after months and even years, you gain an inch and you begin slowly building on it in the same plodding way you got the inch. They both were very clear about the patience and psychological endurance that it required and the results were never wholly predictable. No matter how disappointing, you just show up and try again. That’s the art of real deals.

On the issue of cooperation, Lewis Thomas, the late dean of the Yale and NYU Medical Schools, pathologist, biologist, pediatrician and award-winning author was convinced that “the driving force in nature . . . is cooperation.” He sees it operative in the most basic life forms like our cells. In short, he insists that the evolutionary process is the survival of the most cooperative, not of the fittest. This extends to our microscopic cells.

Establishing cooperative relationships is the lynchpin in the lives of a cell. Cells not only learn to get along with toxic bacteria but, in a complicated symbiotic process, cells can make these pathogens indispensible to their own survival, like making silk purses out of sows’ ears. Thomas explains in detail the science of this process, but honestly I grew hopelessly lost among the bacteria, the chloroplasts, anaerobes, mitochondria and prokaryotes so I decided to take his word for it. I was sure he knew what he was talking about. Thomas’s thought is hopeful and inspiring; that right down to the RNA in our cells, we’re hard wired to get along.

So if our cells have learned that cooperation is the formula for survival, why do we get so stuck in conflict?

My guess is that our spirituality is evolving. It’s been evolving more slowly than biological cells. Perhaps our spirituality began developing later than our cells, and hasn’t had time yet to catch up. Spirituality is slowly working its destiny out in us. Visionaries are always ahead of the game. Prophets antagonize their contemporaries because they keep people’s focus on fundamentals like love and cooperation. The basics of survival are not welcomed when we’re hell bent on being first.

What does cooperation look like? There’s an old Chinese tale that describes it nicely.

“Can you tell me,” a dying old man, once asked a wise elder, “What are heaven and hell like?” The wise elder took the man inside a house. In every room tables were filled with delicious food. The people sitting around the table were all thin and hungry. Each held chopsticks 12 feet long. No one could not get the food to their mouths with such long chopsticks. The dying man then said to the wise elder, “Now I know what hell looks like. Show me heaven.” The wise elder took him to another house. They went inside and saw many people well fed and happy, but they too had chopsticks 12 feet long. Puzzled, the old man asked, “All of these people have 12 feet chopsticks too, yet they are well fed and happy, please explain this to me?”

The wise elder replied: “In Heaven we feed each other.”

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist. A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

Got Your Number by George Merrill

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Recently, I thought that I’d bring a measure of order to my unruly life, the way I occasionally clean out closets or drawers. I began sifting through contacts listed on my iPhone in order to delete some. The list was long.

Maybe half were still current contacts: others had moved away, some had changed their phone numbers and email addresses, and there were others from whom I’d simply drifted apart. What was disquieting was that so many had died. But all the names and numbers, which for a variety of reasons had grown obsolete, remain listed as if auld acquaintance – whether among the quick or the dead – should ne’er be forgot. In truth, they were not. They were listed among my “contacts.” I went through most all the names. Some I’d not thought about for years, but deep in the corridors of memory they were alive and well. So were the associations I had to them and the circumstances that once connected us. Our relationship to others is reciprocal in nature; in all our exchanges, in varying degrees, we give and we get. We belong to a huge network of significance. The longer we live, the wider it grows.

Not long ago on Facebook, I received an invitation to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday, her picture smiling and happy: she died three years ago. When I saw her picture a pang of grief swept through me as though it was the day she died. How easily a ‘then’ leaps from the past to become a ‘now.’

Old phone numbers that should be lost to me from disuse often linger in my mind’s memory bank, hidden from immediate sight, but easily recalled. I remember my childhood phone number at home. It began, ‘Gibraltar 7.’ Several friends’ numbers began “St. George 7” and one had the famous “Murray Hill” exchange. These were the arcane codes by which we once dialed or directed the operator to connect us with one another. Even at my age, when immediate recollection can be unreliable, I doubt that I will ever forget my father’s dog tag numbers assigned him by the Army during WW II – 0527071. That was seventy-five years ago. In all kinds of ways, we continue doing numbers on ourselves.

Numbers are symbols. Typically they quantify by being icons of amounts and how much. The ‘how much’ can also be construed as the total depth of meaning. Take December 7, 1941. My father had been playing poker with friends. I suddenly recall sitting on his lap. I do not recollect what he said, but I could see the anxiety on his face. The dates and numbers may carry not so much a clear thought, but a depth of feeling, the chilling kind that I felt when seeing the look in my father’s eyes on that day.

For Americans, 9/11 holds a particular horror. It was the day we lost our innocence. Since perhaps the war of 1812, Americans have believed in our geographic invincibility, and our psychological invulnerability.

Then 9/11 became an infamous date. When I see the date signifying that day I recall just where I was when I heard the news. I had been standing on line in Graul’s super market and perusing magazines at the checkout counter. The headline of one tabloid announced how a woman had given birth to a frog. The tabloid included pictures – not of the birth – but mother looking happy and although hard to tell, baby frog, too. I thought at the time what a heavy burden this places on friends who are usually moved to say how much baby looks just like dad or mom. I didn’t get to read on as someone in the checkout line mentioned an airplane crashing into one of the twin towers. How quickly my world, our world, can go from absolute absurdity to total horror in a matter of seconds.

As I scrolled down looking at names and numbers, I noticed how some spanned my lifetime. Others represented chapters in my life. The names conjured up places I’d been, things I’d done, and affiliations I’ve had; there are names of fellow clergy, and people connected with college and seminary; Habitat, Talbot Mentors, PEACE, the church, the writing community, photographers and not the least a brother and sister I’d grown up with.

Years ago a friend of mine commented on relationships and how transitory they seemed to him. We move in and out of each other’s lives. A few relationships remain active and close for a lifetime, but they are few. Most are more transient and although not that close are nonetheless highly influential. The influence may not be apparent at the time. In fact the relationship may seem so casual as to be totally inconsequential. I look back at so many names and numbers, and can see in some a particular contribution to my life that, at the time, I was unaware of.

One was an artist. She’s been gone some time now. I met her when we first moved to the Shore. We were in a workshop and I remember thinking that she was a snob and not anyone I’d particularly want to associate with. As only time can weave through its web of connections, we were to grow close and become soul mates in many ways. We were to share in each other’s spiritual journeys. And how strange it is that only seeing her name on my cellphone contacts that I think of this: clouds.

My friend introduced me to a whole new way of seeing of color. She showed me a characteristic of certain cloud formations I had never seen before.

On bright sunny days with blue skies, white clouds are not really white. When I look closely I now see a variety of the subtle colors that she introduced to me. I cannot look to the sky on days like that, but that I think of her as I note the soft hues on the undersides of clouds and the journey we shared as friends.

Remembering fondly and treasuring these names and the stories/history we have shared, I decided that for now I would not delete any of my contacts.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist.  A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

What Shall I Wear by George Merrill

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From the moment of our birth, we are swaddled, capped and wrapped to greet our world. Fish, animals and birds meet their world au natural. From the start we are embarrassed to reveal our natural endowments, except once, and then only briefly in the Garden of Eden. We keep our privates, private. Critters don’t care a fig.

For us “What shall I wear?” is the first questions of our day.

At the dining room table recently, two of our granddaughters engaged in a heated discussion. It concerned clothes. One was sixteen and the other was eighteen. For many years, as they were both about the same size, they wore one another’s clothes the way the Native Americans once shared the same land with each other; they took turns inhabiting it. For years the arrangement worked amicably and exponentially increased wardrobe choices for both.

The problem: the older girl was soon going away to college. What clothes would stay, which would remain? There was another concern here, although it didn’t surface directly. The sisters have been very close and the older leaving home set into motion the younger’s anxiety about her sister’s leaving. Wearing one another’s cloths indicates the depth of intimacy and ease with each other that both have enjoyed. Clothes constitute more than meet the eye.

Clothes may be utilitarian, but we make individual statements by what we choose to wear. Statements include the sense of our sexuality, or our wealth. We show social status, as in the uniforms, which identify our professional and societal functions like the military, ecclesiastical garb and the doctors’ white coat. Clothes in that sense are like a language; visual symbols of who we think we are or where we belong. Clothes communicate our statement to others.

Recently I saw a young girl wearing jeans. They were deliberately stressed and shredded; fibers opened at the knees, patched here and there and unevenly bleached. They were fitted so tightly that if the girl were a western cowgirl, there would be no way she could get on a horse. What was remarkable was that I could tell that they were brand new. I have been told stressed jeans sell for extortionist prices. The statement the girl’s jeans make is more difficult to read. Why would girls wish to look like waifs in tattered rags? The symbolic significance is a confusing one; blue jeans would naturally come to such a worn condition only by backbreaking labor since for years blue jeans and Levi’s had been marketed specifically to the working man who wanted most their indestructability.

But perhaps there is a message here if we look more deeply. In this post modern era, many of our youth spend little if any time engaged in labor of any kind except perhaps taking the garbage out, cutting grass or washing a parent’s car. Enormous amount of their time is spent riding in automobiles. They’re constantly on cellphones, on computers and watching TV. Does wearing the embattled looking Levis express an unconscious yearning? Do they reveal a latent desire to have performed the physical labor that, at the end of the day, we can point to with pride and say ‘look at what I’ve accomplished?’ It seems to me that today, if Levis were left to wear out naturally, the seat would be the first to go.

Jeans, when I grew up in the late forties and fifties, were especially popular among boys. My first pair of Levis was a signature moment in my boyhood. I bought them in a dry goods store that had a distinctive smell, not unlike local hardware stores of yesteryear. My jeans indestructible character and association with cowboys carried the suggestion of masculine prowess. They were not associated with any elite, but rather the workingman. The coming-of-age uniform for my boyhood was decidedly Levis. It included wearing a white tee shirt with its short sleeves rolled up to secure a package of cigarettes. This is how we chose to dress among our peers, but we carefully lost the cigarette pack when we returned home.

Time is a big factor in how we react to clothes. James Laver, in his book, Taste and Fashion, constructs a timeline, known as Lavers’s Law, by which we can expect certain reactions to dress. Laver notes that wearing something ten years after its time is indecent. Five years old, shameless, but one year before it’s time, daring. One year after it’s time it’s dowdy, ten years, hideous, and fifty years, quaint. Worn seventy years after it’s time is charming and after one hundred and fifty years it’s beautiful. I note that socks and underwear are apparently exempt in the discussion in that Laver’s focus is primarily on what meets the eye.

This is interesting if we follow the fashion trajectory of blue jeans: they’ve traveled uphill all the way. They’ve gone from “work clothes,” to casual, to business and now even to formal wear and are still engaged in a gradual social ascent – even though the jeans remain only a shadow of their former selves. In 1886 when Levis first illustrated in advertising, a pair was tethered between two horses. Behind each horse stood a man with a whip ready to flog the horses: the message? Even wild horses couldn’t make these pants rip or tear. I do not believe that today, with outsourcing, our jeans are made of such stern stuff.

Any discussion of sartorial matters like this cannot but address our universal need to be sexually attractive. By just thumbing through any magazine that advertises clothing, the models – either male or female – look unlike the people we normally associate with, particularly here in Talbot County… except perhaps when our children or grandchildren come to visit. The beautiful young models are shown to encourage vain hopes in us, but I think most would agree, our preoccupations with sexual allure have a natural shelf life.

Until about twenty years ago I enjoyed shopping for nice clothes and believe I had good taste and dressed well. Since I became an octogenarian I no longer think of myself as a sex object and my dress habits have become less inspired and more perfunctory. Now, clothes primarily need to fit loosely, keep me warm in winter and cool in summer. They should not embarrass my spouse and friends and should ideally be made of fabrics able to minimize any food and coffee stains I may have spilled.

Worn a size or two larger, Levi’s might fit the bill nicely.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist.  A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

Spirituality Of Recovery by George Merrill

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In the sixties I served as the Chaplain at Blue Hills Hospital, Connecticut’s cutting edge facility treating drug and alcohol dependent persons. I was a young priest and had recently completed graduate studies in psychotherapy and family counseling. I knew little about addictions, but I learned – I mostly began understanding spirituality.

I led groups. We’d sit in a circle. The chairs were hard, the folding ones commonly found in parish halls. One day there were fourteen of us, all men. Some members were new admissions, others recidivists. A third of the group suffered drug addiction. The others were alcoholics. (alcoholism is drug addiction, the substance of choice being alcohol.)

The discussion groups provided safe space, acceptance, and a forum for patients to air concerns and confront “stinkin’ thinkin’,” the chronic attitudes of resentment, self-denigration and/or grandiosity that feed the addictive process.

On this day, the subject settled on “relapses.” Frenchie was the center of the discussion. For years he’d been readmitted off and on for detox. Frenchie was a likeable guy. People took to him. He had a kind face, gentle eyes, and seemed shy and awkward – like an adolescent boy. He worked at lumbering in the Canadian forests. He made good money. He might stay sober anywhere from six months to a year.

One drug addict in the group, a street smart and perceptive young man, asked Frenchie a question in a friendly way. “Why, after almost a year sober, did you ‘fall off’?” “You had it made, man,” he went on, pressing for Frenchie’s story.

Frenchie smiled sheepishly, and told us he’d indeed been doing well. One night, on his way home, he walked by a bar and saw two or three people he knew. “I just went in to talk with them, I swear,” he said with a pleading look.

The cagy drug addict looked at Frenchie kindly, but skeptically and said: “ Hey, Frenchie, ain’t nobody goes into a whorehouse because he just wants to talk to the girls; know what I mean.”

The comment however confrontational was insightful and caring. Frenchie was being taken seriously and his denial challenged in a humorous way, from a peer – someone from whom he might be able to hear what he couldn’t from critical moralists.

Founders of AA had learned long ago that those whose lives have known brokenness, could be the most effective instruments in healing the brokenness of others. In so doing, the broken heal themselves.

Christian spirituality has two best-kept secrets: it seems they’re kept from most Christians: one is how in our weaknesses we find our strengths. The other is how God has deeper compassion for losers than winners. Consider how Jesus befriends Peter, who betrayed him; how St. Paul, a religious terrorist, becomes a Christian advocate; and how the thief on the cross crucified next to Jesus, Jesus promises to welcome in paradise that very day. Jesus did not schmooze the rich and famous. He had a feel for the people on the streets.

St. Paul discovered his strengths by facing his weaknesses. For me, and I suspect others, this is not always a welcome notion. Who wants to face their weaknesses, parts of their personalities that they find ugly (if we can even identify them)? A confrontation like that may drive us in either of two directions: deny the shortcomings and blame others for the alienation we’ve created among friends, family, spouses and employers. The other is to openly acknowledge whatever defects of character we have that are defeating us. Then undertaking the hard work to remove them. AA calls this step “taking a fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” The 12 Steps can serve as a universal guide to anyone interested in developing a spiritual practice. In my view, the 12 Steps touch most all the bases.

I’ve known fiercely religious people whose piety is hard-edged and critical. They’re always right and will grumble about “them” and “those” who may see things differently. We all know this as the “holier than thou” attitude. Recovering folk have a perceptive description of the man or woman who is now sober but just as insufferable and unreasonable as any drunk can be. They’ll say he’s a “dry drunk,” meaning that even though he’s stopped drinking, he’s the same unreasonable, defensive and self-defeating guy that he was when drinking.

I befriended a man about twenty years ago – I’ll call him Sonny. He’d been severely alcoholic and lost jobs and almost lost his family. He earned his sobriety slowly but steadily and was now actively working the 12th Step, reaching out to others to offer hope or help to anyone ready to receive it.

One day Sonny and I drank coffee. We talked about our lives. I shared some of the changes I’d seen in my life since the days at Blue Hills. Sonny looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, but straight faced he said, “George, it’s too bad you didn’t know me thirty years ago when I was drinking. I knew everything then and all you needed to do was ask me. I’d always have answers for you. Damn shame,” he mused as he shook his head mischievously; “I guess I’ve just lost my edge.” Humor lends a light touch to painful memories.

It’s been my experience that humorless people are often the least self aware, like many well meaning but self-righteous folk who once gave moral lecture’s to people desperately seeking help for their addictions. A sense of humor indicates the capacity to change where the situation warrants it. It reveals the capacity to live with loose ends without trying to precipitously tie them up to force conclusions. Humor is the reed that survives the storms because it is able to bend no matter from what direction the wind blows.

I studied spirituality in seminary. I discovered it at Blue Hills. I saw a spiritual practice that helped broken lives mend while offering hope to the hopeless. I also witnessed what for us Christians can be a hard truth to take on: that our strengths will be made perfect in our weaknesses.


Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist. A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

Darkness at Noon by George Merrill

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As different as night and day? In a binary world maybe, but not this one. This world is a bewildering both/and.

When two self-contradictory statements make sense we call it a paradox. When two self- contradictory statements claim to be equally true but when examined make no sense at all, we say it’s equivocation. Equivocation is the art of the deal, a tool of deception and the soul of politics. Paradoxes are the heart of spirituality and the occasion for astonishment. “To gain one’s life, one must first lose it,” is a paradoxical statement.

Nothing new under the sun? An eclipse can make the world seem new. For a moment, there’s darkness at noon. That’s new.

I suspect what appears new to us is how fundamentals, the basics of our universe and of our human condition, become arranged and rearranged. Author Bill Bryson writes: “During the big bang, ninety-eight percent of all the matter there is or will ever be has been produced . . . the universe is a place of the most wondrous and gratifying possibility, and beautiful, too. And it was all done in the time it takes to make a sandwich.”

What’s new is how all this fundamental matter continually coalesces to form new creations.

For us, a specific confluence of time, place and awareness can generate extraordinary moments. It’s mix and match of sorts. Like a bridge game, the number of possible hands can be staggering. In my lifetime, the range of possibilities that may open to me, created by a finite number of variables, is endless. Hope and wonder are predicated on that belief. How life actually proceeds for us includes the hand we’re dealt but even more, how and when we play it.

My first introduction to the Eastern Shore was an overnight sail across the Bay with a friend. We left Middle River mid-afternoon and arrived at Fairlee Creek, a popular gunkhole for boats sailing to the Upper Shore. The sail became one of the signature moments in my life, a moment greater than the sum of its parts.

We arrived shortly after five, successfully negotiating the narrow dogleg that forms the entrance to the creek. We anchored, made drinks and watched as the sun began descending in the west, while slowly shrinking into an ever-diminishing orange ball. The sun’s usual brilliance softened as the heavy moisture laden atmosphere settled in, common on steamy August nights around the Bay. The evening was still. The only sound came from a boat anchored nearby. Someone on board with a flute was playing airs, the notes wafting through the night air around the creek. At that moment, I was sure the whole world had been reconfigured right there before me and momentarily revealed the heart of the universe. Everything came together to create a moment of pure magic. What became paradoxical was how I felt about it. I’d have sworn at that moment I’d been in Fairlee Creek before. I’d never been there. It was new and it was not new.

How did this bewildering universe begin?

Some people hold to creationism. Creationism teaches how the universe and all its living organisms originated from specific acts of God, as described biblically rather than by natural processes such as evolution. It didn’t take God long, but longer than making a sandwich; six days to be exact. Scientists believe creation is a 13.772 billion year evolution – plus or minus 59 million years. For creationists, the crabs we catch in the Bay today are the same as they were when the Bible was written. It’s not a majority opinion, but it seeks to account for the wonder of how our world began.
For me, creationism is too static. There’s no process, no growth, no ongoing shifts and realignments. There are no paradoxes. It’s all tidily finished off, wrapped and presented.

Even a flaming biblical literalist or a hard-nosed scientist might agree to at least this much: how and whenever it happened, the universe was conceived with blinding light. God either spoke that light into being or the big bang illuminated the void, while creating a universe out of nothing. Ex- nihilo, meaning ‘from nothing,’ and the idea of light being the first order of creation have offered some nascent possibilities for agreement between religion and science.

While writing this essay, the solar eclipse had been under way. Light and darkness were on my mind. Hordes traveled to be in its path and witness the event. News broadcasters across the country were hyped as they interviewed festive crowds assembled for the event. During lunch I joined my wife for an hour and we watched on TV as the total eclipse occurred over Oregon. It loses its wonder on TV.

An eclipse is predictable; responses to it are not. Its predictability provides thousands the opportunity to experience what darkness descending during mid-day is like. Some described it as fun, others, eerie, scary, otherworldly, and awesome. What was unique to the event was witnessing a certain configuration, the confluence of forces already in existence but converging in such a way as to reveal in the things familiar to us – like a sun and a moon – something new and awe inspiring.

Miles O’Brien, PBS’s science correspondent interviewed a scientist knowledgeable in cosmology and physics. The scientist said that the sun’s corona, hotter than even its atmosphere, is expanding. In billions of years it will grow to such proportions as to burn off our earth’s atmosphere and eventually cause the seas to boil.

This suggests an ongoing process of ‘becoming.’ Become what is the mystery: toast or completely transformed. The process under way is how everything is being inexorably woven together and making all things new. You and I and the world are engaged in a process of becoming, during which many truths exist without necessarily having to contradict one another.

The author of the 139th psalm thought God a paradoxical way: “Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.”

What’s it like when darkness and light are alike? Perhaps something like the experience of finding ourselves in darkness even in the middle of the day.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist.  A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.

 

 

A Longing for Love by George Merrill

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The tragic clash in Charlottesville recently and the president’s disappointing equivocation about its perpetrators is one more toxin added to the already poisoned atmosphere in which Americans live daily.

I’ve seen selfless service and goodness exercised in public life: Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Jr., Elie Wiesel, Eleanor Roosevelt, Dag Hammarskjold and Shimon Peres – to name a few. These are the men and women I’d want my children to emulate. They’re strong and loving people. They care. My concern is that today’s young people are being fed a steady diet of cynicism through sensationalistic media outlets, which, by the way, Americans devour voraciously.

I believe our national discontent indicates a deep hunger for inspired leadership, for authenticity and for the hope that can lift us up and help us live the greatest challenge to our existence: how to love one another. Loving one another is the ultimate challenge in life. Everything else is secondary. Inspiration and hope are available, but today you have to look hard. It’s like panning for gold in a streambed. The constantly moving water stirs up dirt and obscures the gold.

How shall we “sing the Lord’s song in a strange land,” is a challenge as relevant today as it was over two thousand years ago when the grieving psalmist, longing for his true home, first spoke these words.

Thomas Merton is a name well known in and out of religious circles. Seven Story Mountain, his autobiography written in 1948, concerned his conversion to Catholicism and his eventual entrance into the Trappist community. The story fascinated believers and non-believers alike. I read it as a teen-ager and I remember little of it. I do recall the feeling that it temporarily awakened in me. It was that feeling all of us have had at one time or another. It’s when on a dark night, we watch the stars and a feeling of awe becomes visceral, working itself up from deep within us and lodging in our throats. Merton’s spiritual vision extended beyond the banks of conventional religion to excite people’s imagination about the awe inspiring wonders of spiritual awareness.

I was surprised to read not long ago about how, years after he wrote it, Merton began to critically examine his own motives in writing it. He had uneasy feelings about it’s tone which he regarded as condescending, giving the impression that the cloistered life of the monk was the ideal spiritual path to follow.

What amazed me was how a spiritual giant like Merton who could “speak with the tongues of men and of angels,” still retained a fearless openness, curiosity and transparency. He was able to take a hard look at himself and what he was about. In one sense, his own spiritual growth process spoke even more loudly about living a life of spiritual depth, perhaps even more than did his thoughts he wrote about earlier. He was not dogmatic and hardwired to defend ideas he once held. He enjoyed enough of the spirit of wisdom to understand that spirituality is a process of constant change, not static “beliefs” that demand unquestioned loyalty.

Years later he said of his book, “this is the work of a man I have never even heard of.” He knew his spirit still missed something and he still hungered.

In 1958 he had an experience that again changed his life, but this change, in my estimation, is the most profound.

He was still writing and had been in Louisville Kentucky to meet his publisher. Merton was walking though a shopping district at the corner of Fourth and Walnut Streets. He became acutely aware of all the people around him. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that he loved them all. In his words: “ . . . they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness.” He recognized “the secret beauty of their heart.” He described them as shining brilliantly like the sun.” He goes on to say: “If only we could see each other that way all the time; there would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed. I suppose the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship each other.”

Big problem? Not in my book. That’s a more excellent way than shooting each other, driving cars into crowds and bombing innocents in market places.

I know we hunger for a vision of ourselves and our nation that inspires and lift us up. Witnessing to love is the most compelling vision of all.

Columnist George Merrill is an Episcopal Church priest and pastoral psychotherapist.  A writer and photographer, he’s authored two books on spirituality: Reflections: Psychological and Spiritual Images of the Heart and The Bay of the Mother of God: A Yankee Discovers the Chesapeake Bay. He is a native New Yorker, previously directing counseling services in Hartford, Connecticut, and in Baltimore. George’s essays, some award winning, have appeared in regional magazines and are broadcast twice monthly on Delmarva Public Radio.