The Attachment Page 13
We’ve got so accustomed to being given a quick soundbite answer to things. If it were as easy as that, wouldn’t life be grand? And how to explain that the majority of sexual abuse happens in the home, and by heterosexuals?
I don’t know. Don’t understand. I can’t face it. I guess all I’d add is that in terms of the priests who prey on children, it’s about abuse of power and trust as much as anything else. But then isn’t all abuse about that?
Enough, now. Up here among the gum trees, just for today, I would like to free my mind from darker thoughts. I want to give my head a chance to roam. Earlier, I sat down to write my last blog post thinking I knew what it would be, only to find myself far, far away, writing about something I didn’t know. I like it when I can give my thoughts some time to wander.
As an aside, does that ever happen to you with sermons? Do you always know in advance where a reflection will end?
Sorry I’m rushing. I want to offer thoughts that are formed and considered. Talk would be good. A couple of armchairs on either side of a coffee table. Time . . .
Good night. Can’t believe I was in Sydney a week ago. It seems like three lifetimes.
Ailsa
Ailsa,
Just arrived back from the wedding of the youngest daughter of a lifelong friend of mine—whom I buried a couple of years ago—on their property ten kilometres outside Bega. Gorgeous rolling hills, technicolour green, dotted with homesteads. The ceremony was under an ancient elm tree on the side of a hill. At the critical moment of sharing vows we were hit with a violent wind sweeping up the valley—the spirit was alive and well (it was quickly interpreted by the romantics among us as the enthusiastic sign of approval from the bride’s late father).
As is not unusual in the bush, the wedding party went until the early hours—vigorous and highly charged 30-somethings dragging my rather inflexible frame on to the dance floor. My clunky attempts to engage in the exhilarating gyrations of my new young friends were covered in deep embarrassment. Vain protests that ‘I am more a walker than a dancer’ were drowned in the electronic din. Thank God for good wine. Happily I have lived to tell the story—as they say ‘never underestimate a survivor’.
Talking writing . . .
I may not be ready to write about the abuse disaster but I have invited interested people in the parish to come together next Tuesday to discuss/express their anger/vent their frustration and bewilderment, and decide what we are going to do about it. Will be interesting to see who turns up and what transpires. Hold the presses.
You asked me about sermons.
Not sure where to start, but I sometimes have a pathological unease about religious language. Another deep concern I have is about anything that approaches cliché. The trouble is that if I have heard some expression only once or twice, it goes straight into the cliché file. That leads to some amusing situations. Because I celebrate Mass twice on Sunday mornings, I have a distinct revulsion of giving the same homily again at the third mass at night. My low boredom threshold stands exposed. Take note!
You said something about starting your blog in one direction and the writing taking off on some entirely new angle as you write. Well sunshine, that’s me to a tee. I prepare quite assiduously, but if something else takes my notice . . . off I go. The language sensitivity thing, however, is deeply ingrained—God language, particularly. I wonder what your revered Scottish ancestor man of the cloth would make of my touchiness.
To be a little clearer about what I mean by ‘God language’—it’s the stuff that we hear repeatedly from church pulpits, often abstract, often from the Greek tradition of the Creeds. I heard a phrase that has always stuck in my mind as a warning—‘Words falling from pulpits like frozen birds from a winter sky.’ Of course, the Greek analytic language is part of the Christian package, but it is always instructive to me that Jesus talked mostly in story language, almost never in formulas.
Thinking of winter skies reminds me of when, as a boy of ten and still in short pants, I was invited to tour an observatory equipped with a powerful telescope. The director of the observatory, a gentle old Jesuit astronomer, was attempting to fire young minds with the wonders of the universe. Each boy eagerly took his turn to look through the lens. For some reason, when my turn came, I failed to focus on anything before being pushed along by the next in the queue impatient to have a look. Always have been a little slow to see things. Disappointed, but now alone outside the observatory, the telescope experience was not completely wasted. Looking up at the night sky, the stars of the Milky Way leapt out at me, splashed like a handful of diamonds carelessly strewn over velvet cloth. I had scarcely noticed it before. I was hypnotised by its vast magnificence. A moment of genuine ‘awe’. It may have been my first experience of the depth of that word.
From my very centre, questions arose. Who am I? How did I come to be here? How far are those stars away from us? What were the names of those other stars and planets? There has been an explosion of information about the universe, of course, since those days—the first satellites were launched; there was the excitement of the moon landing; photos appeared of Planet Earth in a sea of darkness. We have all learned about a universe that is expanding, about something called ‘the big bang’, about the distance light travels from the nearest star. More information—strangely, never matched by that first experience of awe. The boy never grew out of the questions: Who am I? How did I come to be here? But now there were other questions. Where can we find meaning in this amazing universe? Where is ‘God’ in all of this? Keenly he felt the need of that ancient Jesuit priest/astronomer to help answer the questions. How could the old Jesuit balance the intricate and sophisticated science of astronomy with the stories of his biblical faith? How could he celebrate the mystery of the Eucharist each morning and then spend much of his night peering into the mystery of the unfolding universe? Twelve years after that observatory visit, I would follow my gentle teacher along the long path he had already walked—to commence studying to be a priest.
Let me say something about the enthusiasm I had with the study of scripture. Reading the bible is a puzzle. We talk about it—often with entirely false confidence—quote from it, swear on it, prop it on our bookshelves, fight over its meaning, write our family genealogy in its flyleaf. Few really understand it. Not a single book, the bible is a collection of books written for different purposes, but written by people, dare I say it, rather like ourselves, wrestling with the questions that take us to the centre of our being human: What does love mean? What is this brief life of ours about? Why do some people die young? How can we live in justice and peace? The language of their stories is often unfamiliar—remember they were written as long as 3000 years ago, by people who were as nomadic as the early Indigenous people of our own continent.
The Jewish tradition very sensibly refrains from naming God. The modesty contained in this prohibition always seemed eminently sensible to me. A writer friend of mine (see—I have writer mates, too!) claims that to speak appropriately about God is not only difficult but can be dangerous. Not only ministers of religion, but journalists, politicians, taxi drivers, even teachers of religion, throw the word around with abandon without ever having any real idea what they are talking about. ‘It is a tragedy of modern western culture,’ he claims, ‘to have fallen victim to the illusion that it is perfectly easy to talk about God.’
The seminary taught me many things. One of the most important was: to know what you know, to know what you don’t know, and to be able to tell the difference. To me the mark of an honest preacher is to hold tightly to that principle.
Ironically, while people today frequently move away from the notion of a biblical God, there seems to be no diminishment in the hunger for a spirituality that is able to nourish the questions we ask ourselves. Like the word ‘God’, the word ‘spirituality’ is far from easy to define. I learned recently that the word soul (or spirit) originally meant ‘coming from or belonging to the sea’. There is something about the endles
s sky and the restless sea that keeps us awake to the unique human experience we share, wrapped in the arms of a gentle gracious mystery. The questions of the boy looking up into the night sky all those years ago are not unfamiliar to any of us.
Excuse the length of this mail—you must be dropping off to sleep reading it. As the drunk said in the police station—‘I had the right to remain silent, but I didn’t have the ability.’
Antonio
Hi Ant,
I’m so glad you didn’t remain silent, dear drunk! What an astonishing letter. I am a poor creature with no time today, and can only bow in humility at that offering before I race out into the too, too rushed morning. So sorry. But I will read and re-read it through the day. One of the pleasures of digital correspondence.
In passing, though, I wonder if I could go a day without using the word God. We are so casual with it, as you say . . .
God knows.
OMG.
Good God.
God help us.
God! (Expletive, pleasure, awe . . . whatever)
And that is just the habitual, unconscious tics we have.
The Jewish tradition might be very sensible. I am going to try to monitor myself with this. Perhaps I should be saying ‘Oh my stars’ or ‘Good eucalypt’ or ‘Sun help us’. After all, that worked for the ancient Greeks with Neptune and Artemis and Zeus.
You write of ‘the Greek tradition of the Creeds’, and of ‘words falling from pulpits like frozen birds’, and my ears prick up—not just at that lovely metaphor, either.
Can you open up for me what you meant by ‘Greek analytic language’? I thought Hebrew was the basis of most of the Christian ‘package’.
Sorry to take you to Theology 101, but I’m curious. And sorry to meet such a letter with a request for another. I am Oliver Twist—‘More, please.’
Only when and if you can . . .
Deep gratitude for unearned grace.
Ailsa
Ailsa,
What I meant by that heavyweight Hebrew/Greek comment is that there are two different influences in the history of Christianity—sometimes it makes things a little clearer for me, at least, to keep them in mind.
One is the Hebrew way of thinking. The other is the Greek—more abstract, more analytic. They are quite different. The Jewish tradition is held together, by and large, by stories. Think of the creation account, Adam and Eve and all that. Jesus was a Jewish storyteller. Explaining his vision for a more human world, he used story after story. This was a classic Hebrew way of communicating.
But the Christian movement began to spread throughout a Mediterranean world and adapt to its new culture, often Greek-speaking and Greek-thinking. St Paul’s letters are a good example. There are few stories in Paul, and more analysis, expressed more often than not in abstract language.
Later, when the Roman Emperor Constantine wanted to unify the empire, and heal the hotly debated divisions in the Church, a Council was called. Amidst all the argy-bargy and debate, a statement of basic beliefs was formulated—the Nicean Creed was born. It was expressed in the most abstract of language, taken from that very analytic Greek tradition. Now, each Sunday, we recite a version of that Creed faithfully, but dare I say most still struggle to understand its meaning fully. Sometimes I find myself asking, ‘why couldn’t they have just left us a story?’
In my funny perspective on things, I think there is a good example of these two ways of thinking that happens in libraries. Placing books into strict categories—crime, travel, spirituality—is very Greek. Logical, working from clear distinctions etc. But the books themselves are frequently stories—far harder to categorise. Think of your book. It could easily have been filed or displayed under the categories of memoir, travel, spirituality or even extreme sport!
But to return to my high-minded explanation, the fact that our Christian tradition borrows from many sources can only be a plus, don’t you think?
But enough with the God language. Hope it helped.
Tony
My dear Tony,
Let’s cop a little God talk on our chins! I can cope, after the last 30 minutes. A neighbour has just finished telling me of her son’s abuse by the parish priest around the corner from us, one of the most serious of all the offenders on record. Terrible. Beyond depraved.
I’m home alone tonight—Peter is up country—rain beating down outside, and I can’t lift myself off the chair. After talking to that neighbour, I opened my computer and read a letter from a friend in the army telling me of the abuse suffered by wives at the hands of some of the returning Vietnam vets who had been ‘serviced’ by girls trained as prostitutes. The men came home and demanded similar service from their wives. What could these ‘bland, Anglo women’ do to compete? How had the Vietnamese girls been taught their ‘tricks’? What were the soldiers really wanting?
Heartbreaking.
I had an utterly beautiful day, but this half hour has taken all wind from sails.
I’m grateful for your missive. It brings light. Which is not to say that is all I expect from you. Sorry. Of course not that. Be however you are. At any time.
Just meant . . .
Thanks for the ‘talk’. I can’t seem to write much of anything just now in reply. I will respond properly, hopefully in the bright new early morning. Which it will be.
I hope you have a warm still night up there in Sydney. Melbourne is cold and the house is rocking with wind. Turbulence.
A x
Ailsa,
Dawn breaking over Sydney Harbour. Peaceful and already warm. Just heading for the water and read your mail and what a horrible night you were having. There is a guy named Richard Holloway (wonderful, searching, honest pilgrim of life) who wrote a strange but comforting book Between the Monster and the Saint, which he concludes with the words:
It is a harsh world, indescribably cruel.
It is a gentle world, unbelievably beautiful.
It is a world that can make us bitter, hateful, rabid, destroyers of joy.
It is a world that can draw forth tenderness from us, as we lean towards one another over broken gates.
It is a world of monsters and saints, a mutilated world, but it is the only one we have been given.
We should let it shock us not into hatred or anxiety, but into unconditional love.
When you told me the story of the soldiers returning from the Vietnam War and abusing their wives—I thought of the Holloway statement. In wartime, no soldier goes unwounded, but they didn’t say that to my father coming out of France in 1918. Or friends of mine who had returned from Kokoda in 1945. Today, thank God, there is more awareness of this abuse.
In short, war abuses soldiers. Soldiers often abuse women. Where does such abuse cease? We don’t know. The cycle of violence continues.
Holloway unflinchingly faces the ‘indescribable cruelty’ that exists, yet offers the alternative. Our lives are played out between the monster and the saint, and each of them exists within our own skin.
Love that line about broken gates.
Sent with a big hug.
Tony
Dear Tony,
Holloway’s words resonated with me very deeply, though I’m not sure I can be quite as clear-eyed as him about the world. Part of me is a romantic who wants to buy into the idea that the ‘world’ is pure and untarnished, and that it is we humans who make the mess. But that makes me separate from the world, and that is nonsense. The easy cop-out, perhaps. I’m not quite as unflinching as Holloway yet, but I’m trying.
Thank you. I am rolling his words around in my mind. And I guess if I’m honest I feel like I am the broken thing, rather than the gate.
I’ve been wrestling with myself about this email. I want to sit down and write you a proper letter, slowed down to body-speed, not tapped out at this ridiculous keyboard-pace that creates errors and skims the surface. But I also want the immediacy of conversation. The to and fro. So I’ve given in and come here to my drug of choice, the computer. Bu
t I will do the other thing, too. I will take paper and pen and slow down, later today, when this tumult has settled. Perhaps after walking.
This shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Always, when I have had an overload of joy or of sorrow, there has to come a balancing. The world sends it. It’s as sure as night following day, and yet I’m tripped up and I fall. Once, earlier this year, I actually fell physically, so hard did the wisdom need to slap me. But I am getting something of the message. Slowing down is the insistent theme. Slow everything. Attend more closely. Don’t just smell the roses, but sit with them, maybe until they have withered. Stay.
So hard. It has always been the hardest thing for me. Stay.
Anyway, I’m going to try to type more slowly, and to take things chronologically . . .
On Saturday, while you were marrying your friend’s daughter, I hit the hills with Louise. Our jaws had as good a workout as our legs, while you were feeling the wind of a father’s love sweep up the valley and swirl around a bride. I love that image. I love to picture you, looking into the eyes of your old friend in his daughter’s face, and somehow holding all those forces. No wonder you danced!
We danced across hills, too, and I talked to Louise about slowing down, and she talked about sitting still, as we whirled. I’m getting out of chronology here, but I sourced a Richard Holloway radio conversation, after reading the darkly hopeful quote you sent me. In that lilting brogue, he talked of falling in love with another student, as a young man. A male student. Something about the ease with which he spoke of it made me relieved. I’ve always said I can fall in love with anyone—male or female, young or old, straight or gay—and people ask me to pin that down. Oh, are you bisexual?
‘Were we talking about sex?’ I want to shout back at them.