Boston Marathon– Lost Innocence?

The Boston Marathon

I love the Boston Marathon. The spirit of the event is a resonant harmony of the freshness of the first warm days, the hope of early-season baseball, the perseverance of the runners, the lift of the cheering crowd, the helpfulness of the marathon volunteers, and the silliness of the soused– all of it wrapped into a ball of  joyful camaraderie that is fully lovely because widely shared. People come together on Marathon Monday in a way that calls forth our better nature: we cheer for each other, instead of harboring hidden envy. Your success is my success; my success is yours. Ubuntu.

Is the bombing really an end of innocence for the Marathon? I remember being in Hopkinton for the start of the race in April 2002, and I remember being on the lookout for suspicious bags and suspicious people. I wasn’t overanxious, afraid, or edgy– I was just aware of my surroundings, having had past trauma re-awakened the previous September. And while I am not a reporter and therefore don’t know this to be true, I imagine that Marathon and city officials rehearse for emergencies. In this era, it would be naive– even negligent– not to prepare for scenarios similar to what happened Monday.

I believe innocence is recoverable; I believe that there always exists the possibility of a second innocence rising up as a green shoot from dead earth. A second innocence will never be as pure as original innocence, but it might be richer: richer because a second innocence knows, and has some kind of working agreement with, the darkness and corruption in life. On the far side of injury, we re-open ourselves to love. We can, and do, begin again.

Perhaps Monday’s bombing was the end of a naivete about the Marathon, rather than the end of innocence. Naivete says: it can never happen here. Naivete says: I can guarantee 100% safety, all the time. Naivete says: there is a plane of existence that is exempt from the outrageously unfair. It’s right to grieve the loss of this naivete, even as we grieve for those who died, and for those who were injured in body, mind, and spirit.

On Marathon Monday next year it will be spring again, after a long winter. 25,000 runners will gather in Hopkinton, and half a million will line the route. The spirit of good will and mutual care will come alive again; again my success will be yours, and yours will be mine. What is this, if it is not innocence reborn: the willingness to share again a day that is beautiful and good, despite the memory of fear and grief; the willingness to come together again to celebrate the best of the human spirit, despite having experienced the worst? The spirit of the Marathon will have a shadow, and that shadow will add a dimension of sadness. Still– even with that sadness, and maybe perhaps even because of it– the spirit of the Marathon will be more abundantly filled with all the fullness of life.

Below is an excerpt and link to Boston Globe sportswriter Dan Shaughnessy’s column on the bombing:

More end to more innocence. One of our best days is forever tainted. The 117-year-old Boston Marathon will never be the same. The journey from Hopkinton to Boylston Street is now a 26.2-mile stretch of yellow police tape.

via Dan Shaughnessy: Patriots Day a sacred tradition taken away – Sports – The Boston Globe.

 

Go Pope!

Pope Francis Washing Feet on Maundy Thursday

“Love one another,” said Jesus on the night of the Last Supper, and as a sign of that love he washed the feet of his disciples. Pope Francis broke tradition and washed the feet of women last night. Given the great commandment of love, how could Jesus be displeased?

Go Pope!

HuffPost Religion’s report follows here:

ROME — In his most significant break with tradition yet, Pope Francis washed and kissed the feet of two young women at a juvenile detention center – a surprising departure from church rules that restrict the Holy Thursday ritual to men.

No pope has ever washed the feet of a woman before, and Francis’ gesture sparked a debate among some conservatives and liturgical purists, who lamented he had set a “questionable example.” Liberals welcomed the move as a sign of greater inclusiveness in the church.

Speaking to the young offenders, including Muslims and Orthodox Christians, Francis said that Jesus washed the feet of his disciples on the eve of his crucifixion in a gesture of love and service.

“This is a symbol, it is a sign. Washing your feet means I am at your service,” Francis told the group, aged 14 to 21, at the Casal del Marmo detention facility in Rome.

“Help one another. This is what Jesus teaches us,” the pope said. “This is what I do. And I do it with my heart. I do this with my heart because it is my duty. As a priest and bishop, I must be at your service.”

via Pope Francis Offers Holy Thursday Foot Washing To Inmates In Casal Del Marmo Jail PHOTOS VIDEO.

 

Ash Wednesday and a Billy Collins Poem

To remember that we are ashes, and to ashes we will return, is a call back to our human life. It seems a little odd to be called back to the only kind of life we can have– that is, a human one– but the Ash Wednesday reminder addresses a beautiful (and sometimes very dangerous) silliness that is part of human nature: our tendency to forget that we’re not the center of the universe; to forget that we’re not gods; to forget that our time on earth is but a breath.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Remembering in this way sounds, initially, like a death sentence. What it is, really, is a life sentence. Remembering that we are dust opens the door into fully inhabiting the lives we’ve been given, into living more completely into this place and time. We don’t have forever.

And so I offer Billy Collins’ poem “Nightclub.” I like it for Ash Wednesday because, like Ash Wednesday, it is a poem that reminds us who we are , and invites us to embrace our human foolishness as the doorway into a fully human kind of beauty.

Nightclub

You are so beautiful and I am a fool
to be in love with you
is a theme that keeps coming up
in songs and poems.
There seems to be no room for variation.
I have never heard anyone sing
I am so beautiful
and you are a fool to be in love with me,
even though this notion has surely
crossed the minds of women and men alike.
You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool
is another one you don’t hear.
Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.
That one you will never hear, guaranteed.

For no particular reason this afternoon
I am listening to Johnny Hartman
whose dark voice can curl around
the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness
like no one else’s can.
It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o’clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream.

Yes, there is all this foolish beauty,
borne beyond midnight,
that has no desire to go home,
especially now when everyone in the room
is watching the large man with the tenor sax
that hangs from his neck like a golden fish.
He moves forward to the edge of the stage
and hands the instrument down to me
and nods that I should play.
So I put the mouthpiece to my lips
and blow into it with all my living breath.
We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

Billy Collins

 

Pronouncing Blessings

Pronouncing blessings is a sign that our humanity is present. There is nothing religious– overtly or implicitly– about the following video (by Improv Everywhere, in New York); but in another way it is nothing but deeply religious, as people offer spontaneous benedictions on one another. Enjoy.

 

Remembering Who We Are: “Moon Over Manifest” by Clare Vanderpool

"Moon Over Manifest" by Clare Vanderpool

Great theology can come from theologians; great theology can also come from poets and storytellers. “Moon Over Manifest”, a work of historical fiction by Clare Vanderpool, is not explicitly (nor even implicitly) about God. Rising from the story like warmth from glowing coals, however, is Vanderpool’s sensitivity to theological themes, and her feel for the human journey.

A primary theme is the play between what appears to be and what is; between appearance and truth; between concealment and revelation. Manifest, of the title, is a small town in Kansas. As the story goes on, the name of the town becomes emblematic of the truth about the town’s past becoming visible– becoming manifest.

Another theme is suffering– and more specifically, that particular suffering known as grief, which comes with love and loss. Vanderpool’s characters want to distance themselves from their painful past. With help they remember what they already know: that there is no going around grief; there is only going through it. By going through it– by remembering their love and what it costs– they are healed.

Good art, like good theology, reminds us who we are as humans: what it takes to be healthy and whole; what our limits are; what we’re capable of, both for good and for ill. Forgetting who we are as humans leads us to mischief. “Moon Over Manifest” helps us remember who we are. And it’s a great story.