Month: September 2016

My sister recently asked me what affects me most at my emotional core–either positively or negatively. She tossed me a softball, and I totally whiffed.  The OBVIOUS answer for anyone of my age who lives in New England was “the year 2004”.  Instead, after a moment of self-reflection, I said “death.”

For those who don’t live in New England, “the year 2004” will be an opaque reference, so let me briefly explain.  Before 2004, the Boston Red Sox had not won a World Series since 1918. They came close a couple times, only to be denied due to some flukes of baseball (most notably a little league error by He Who Cannot Be Named in 1986). But they won in 2004.  And before 2004, the Patriots had never won a Super Bowl.  They came close in 1986, but lost to a team that made music videos and whose most memorable player carried the nickname of a kitchen appliance.  The Pats won in 2004. Exultation. Serious exultation.

Even so, when my sister asked the question, “2004” didn’t register in any of my neuronal paths.  Only “death” did.  Maybe that is not a very surprising answer for most people, but it was still a bit of a revelation to me since I thought I had a clear and healthy view of death: it is certain and unavoidable, but also not the final word for those of us who are people of faith. Sad, yes, but still.

As some context, I am not a sentimental or expressive person.  “Even-keeled” is not uncommonly attributed to me. I find that ironic since I can’t sail to save my life. Now admittedly, I will mist up in a movie when the main character overcomes a tough situation (Brian’s Song gets me every time I watch it), but I don’t even need double digits to count the bona fide crying episodes in my life and they are nearly all linked to death.

One of these episodes was in the days just after 9/11.  My church organized a time of prayer, and I, dutifully–and not much more than that–went to intercede for those who were suffering in our country. But here’s the kicker: I ended up weeping.  I didn’t personally know anyone who had died in New York, Pennsylvania or Arlington, but I was undone at that meeting. If it were not for my wife’s touch (she held my hand, squeezing it during my sobbing), I think the sorrow might have turned into something more ugly.  None of those deaths made any sense.

Other deaths have hit closer to home. My brother-in-law died young from a brain tumor less than a year after marrying my sister. I kept it together outwardly when my father offered a powerful prayer in the hospital chapel, but I fell apart when I called my (at that point, future) wife to let her know that he was gone. [She is starting to play an important role in this blog post]. How could my sister be widowed when she was so young? That is a cruel fate.

My aunt, who was a saint if there ever was one, died of cancer before she got to know her grandchildren. Their lives would have been so very enriched to have interacted with her. She was a special person. On a cold, blustery day in Massachusetts, the time at her graveside was…bad, good, I don’t know, hard to process. With my wife at my side, the tears came on strong. My aunt had lived well. She was still young and vital. How was this untimely departure from the world understandable?

There are others. My grandmother–I can can still barely get through “It is Well with My Soul” in church because of how those verses summoned something deep within me at her funeral.  My cousin’s husband–his charisma and vibrancy were maddeningly incompatible with an early death. The suicide of a High School friend–why were his demons so persistent and unshakable?

In thinking about all of this, I have an even deeper appreciation that, at the center of our being, humans sense that death/suffering is not the way it is supposed to be. There is something wrong with it. We were created for life; we were created to thrive. Death is the slap-you-in-the-face reminder that there is a tear in the fabric of our reality that needs mending.  Death casts aspersions on everything we believe to be good and meaningful. No wonder it draws us into places our hearts and minds only go on occasion.

And I’m struck by how deep-sorrow is not only permitted, but also wonderfully enabled by the presence of those who love us deeply and intimately.  The squeeze of the hand says “I wish you weren’t hurting, but it is alright to hurt. Go ahead and feel this pain right now”. The longer-than-usual embrace in a moment of weeping signals so beautifully that love is stronger than even death, as unlikely as that sounds. The steady presence of a partner by one’s side builds into us an experienced–and therefore, trustworthy–knowledge that we aren’t meant to be alone, and we are not alone, no matter how isolating our grief can feel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A month ago, I had the privilege of giving a short meditation during my son’s wedding ceremony. Several people have asked for a copy of what I said.  I’ve been resistant to sharing these remarks because, to me, my words seem too one-dimensional. In that hard-to-access three dimensional part of me, I wanted–I really, really wanted–to get to that place beyond the words themselves, to connect with my son and his bride at a more immediate, intimate and unspoken level. I wanted to love them more deeply in their nuptials than they had ever been loved. I wanted to capture the vivid reality that matrimony is much harder, much better and much more significant than our culture will currently admit.  I wanted to tell them, both honestly and hopefully, not to settle for the caricature of the divine ideal that most marriages are.

I make a living with words, so I know that I, in fact, fell short in all four of my goals. But through the encouragement of a friend (“get over yourself”–it is a unique friendship) and my father (a more tactful, but also more formative voice in my life), I post them here. In the delivery, I went off script a lot, but here are the remarks that I prepared. (With all due credit to Mike Mason, whose Mystery of Marriage has been very influential in how I think about matrimony).

George Bernard Shaw begins his play Getting Married with a memorable observation: “There is no subject on which more dangerous nonsense is talked about and thought about than marriage”.  In my brief comments now, I hope I don’t contribute too much more evidence that Shaw was right.

I can’t begin to express what an honor it is to be asked to say a few words at your wedding today and, especially, to pray for you as you move into your next stage of life. I have to say, it’s also a bit nerve-wracking for me. There is so much that I want to say, and want to say well. And there is so much that could be said that it is hard for me to know what specifically to say. 

So what I have decided to do this afternoon is to let you in on two secrets that every married person knows. Here is the first: Marriage is unconstitutional.  It is an obvious violation of the 4th and 14th amendments, and possibly also the 2nd and 9th depending on how you interpret them. It is unconstitutional because marriage is a massive violation of your right to privacy. Once you are married, you are going to be under a constant state of surveillance of the sort the NSA only dreams about. Nothing you do will be in secret. Nothing about who you are will be secret. You will no longer have the luxury of not being watched.  All the typical disguises that you put on in public will be found out by each other.

Of course, you have been longing for this moment of marriage to come. Of course, you have come to enjoy the comfort of each other’s company. But I can promise you that you will be surprised at how formidable the challenge of two becoming one flesh is. I’m not just talking about learning how to compromise and sacrifice, how to resist returning insult for injury or how to make each other feel appreciated. These are crucial skills for a happy marriage, but I am talking about something much deeper. You are giving up your right to privacy, to independence, to self-determination. In other words, your marriage is a process of redefining yourself in light of one another. Blake–you are no longer just Blake, but you are also Leigh Ann’s husband. Leigh Ann–you are no longer just Leigh Ann, but also Blake’s wife. Your individual story is being re-written in way that is not understandable without the other. It is false without the other.

No one escapes this redefinition process unscathed. You will learn that the hurt which occurs in the spaces where we love is the most painful hurt of all.

Now I will let you in on the second secret: As you persevere in this process, and only by God’s grace will you persevere, something incredibly profound and wonderful is going to happen. You are going to become a better version of yourself, a person much closer to what God intended you to be. This is what love does, and in particular what marriage love does—it teaches us a deep humility about our shortcomings and frailties  (it turns out that this happens daily, or more than once daily, in my case); it makes us dependent; its light forces us out of the dark places where we hide; it compels us to recognize that our earthly life together carries an eternal significance. This is why Paul tells us that the profound mystery of marriage is that it points to Christ and his church—it enacts a meaning far greater than others will see from the outside, an intimacy far beyond what is reflected in our movies and novels. As you enjoy the warmth of each other’s physical embrace, embrace this eternal reality every day. It will serve you well.

Blake and Leigh Ann—today you begin this process of being watched. You are ready for it.