A Generation

With each bank of hours, staring into oblivion, bending every pathway in my mind, hoping to find an undiscovered calculus, I arrived at the same unwelcome result. And then the calculations would start again dammit, each iteration lowering me further into a yawning darkness.

My mother would thrust her finger through my chest clear to the other side: “This too shall pass. This too shall pass.” I wanted to believe her words, spoken as both a hope and a declaration–like Gandalf at the bridge of Khazad-dûm shouting to the Balrog demon that played hell with me.

Every April 10, I recognize the anniversary of this misery; indulge me. I reckon it this day based on a peculiar memory: what must’ve been the largest one-a-day calendar ever, bolted to a wall, the number ten writ large upon the paper; and it was April. Assuming the staff was diligent about stripping off a billowing sheet each morning, then that was the day a tumor was removed from my neck. One week later I was diagnosed with cancer. I was a clueless runt all of fourteen and this was not exactly the growth spurt I was promised.

Such a diagnosis one decade earlier would have been fatal; but in 1980, before the Internet and the Fall of mighty Carthage, I stood an even chance. Chemotherapy was still a dark art and there was much uncertainty about her incantations. It was determined, after 6 months of treatment, a computerized coin flip would decide if another 12 months of the regimen was required. Why 12 and not simply another 6 was curiously never questioned. At any rate, this was a nation-wide study to determine dosage since the drugs had devastating, often deadly, side effects: Methotrexate is used as an abortifacient. Cytoxan can permanently sterilize. All of them interfere with metabolism and DNA duplication; add daily doses of radiation minus the x-ray vision and superpowers. It goes without saying that my tenuous dreams of being a rock star were thoroughly dashed, especially in the era of big hair bands. As one of the doctors presaged, I’d contract leukemia in my thirties should I survive so long.

My thirties? What did I care? That was an impossible and distant future for someone measuring his life in moments, like Antonius Block in the Swedish film Seventh Seal:

I shall remember this hour of peace… I shall remember our words and shall bear this memory between my hands…

I would pray, sometimes on my face: How can I hold the moments of life between my hands like a bowl of strawberries? Why do the seasons pass? Where are the years the locusts have eaten?

Back then, my mother, a woman of immense faith, protected me with the power of prayer. Her janky Plymouth Horizon made at the lowest point of American automotive innovation served as our chapel on wheels. Whenever we parked that car—often at some Gigeresque underground parking lot of a medical facility—Mom would pray over everything: me, the doctors, the nurses, the interns, the radiologists, the treatments; anyone and anything remotely associated with the circumstance. She would invoke the name of Jesus, quote scripture, denounce the Devil, and made sure that every spiritual and corporeal entity knew who, what, when, where, how, and why. 

This activity was not confined to the lowly Detroit beater. As part of every round of chemotherapy, Mom would ask the luckless administering doctor if we could all pray first. No amount of medical school and gunshot wounds might have prepared him for such a thing. In any event the doctor would respectfully pause before injecting me with chilled chemicals that immediately filled my mouth and nostrils with the taste of moth crystals. Twelve hours later I’d be puking up my large intestine along with the foul hospital ravioli I had for lunch.

Hear, O my son, and receive my sayings; and the years of thy life shall be many. (Prov 4:10) [1]

My father, a man of blood and iron, probably preserved my life with a daring decision. Raised poor and fatherless in the Great Depression, Dad was the type of man who did what needed to be done despite sentiment or professional opinion. Be it bludgeoning an animal out of its misery or unceremoniously telling his teen-age son he’d lose all his hair, Dad did so without the luxury of introspection. Once when my brother managed to hammer a nail perfectly into his index finger, it was Dad who yanked it out with knuckle-white hands rather than rush to the hospital for careful diagnostic imaging. Only God knows how Joel managed an impossible self-impaling or how Dad deftly removed it without inflicting yubitsume.  

After the required 6 months of therapy, it was determined by chthonian lottery that I should remain another 12 months more on chemotherapy: tails, bwa-ha-ha, you lose! When Mom and I were told this outcome on what was supposed to be my final day of treatment, I disintegrated.  If that wasn’t bad enough, the new doctor on staff mistakenly informed us that 18 more months would be required (more supervillain laughter), dropping my heart into the sink of despair.  

Years later, after my father passed away, I learned it was he who made the decision to discontinue treatment. Mom couldn’t deal with the dilemma. From her account, Dad merely called the oncologists as perfunctory as ordering a pepperoni pizza (always double cheese), informed them of his decision, hung up, and went back to work: heads, ha, I effing win!

Maybe. It was not until I was a parent that I understood the courage of that decision. Going against the recommendation of doctors, Dad took a tremendous risk. Had the cancer returned, it would have done so with more aggression and—well–good night dour prince. I have a difficult time imagining the weight of guilt that hung in the balance. Fast forward to this day and no one can dispute Dad’s decision.

My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother: For they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head, and chains about thy neck. (Prov 6:20)

And now, here I am, fifty plus, married, and the improbable father of two daughters. By this account, I am the richest man I know, for who may buy a single day, let alone forty years, with their wealth? As Mom hoped and declared, that too did pass and today, because of my mother and father, I have the luxury of introspection…

In antiquity, forty years was the measure of a generation and signified a period of testing. Jesus predicted the destruction of Jerusalem in “this generation” and exactly forty years later the Romans besieged the Holy City. Moses spent forty years in Egypt, forty years in exile, and another forty years in exodus. The children of Israel wondered the desert and ate manna for forty years. The first kings of Israel–Saul, David, Solomon–each reigned forty years. On its own, forty years portends a certain significance and meaning. Even the very date, 04-10-2020, reveal operands to calculations of forty, being also the 100^th day of the common year.

But is it not more auspicious that this remarkable Ruby Jubilee falls on Great and Holy Friday? That exactly one generation later this experience would point to Christ’s crucifixion and the ultimate conquest of death and fear:

Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed… then shall come to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” (1 Cor 15:51)

The lessons of that time can be brought to bear on our present pandemic and quarantine: part curse, part blessing. It is in these moments of testing we are asked to grow up and think about life with the utmost clarity; to take inventory of the moment and give thanks for what we have; discard the foolish, shallow, and banal; make restitution and reconciliation while the time is ever short; to ask if life is not more important than the multitude of things we worry about. To take courage in knowing that the Lover of Mankind is on our side and not opposed to us—so do not fear.[2]

This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

When you descended to death, O Immortal Life, You destroyed Hades by the splendor of your Divinity, and when you raised the dead from under the ground, all the Powers of heaven cried out: O Christ our God, the giver of life, glory to you. [3]

O Great and Holy Friday!

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[1] Curiously, Prov 20:20 is “Whoso curseth his father or his mother, his lamp shall be put out in obscure darkness”.

[2] Ps 118:6

[3] Resurrection Troparion

On March 17 2013, (St Patrick’s Day) as part of my journey to full communion with the Roman Catholic Church, my marriage of 21 years was validated.

Why?

The technical answer involves me having been baptized in the Catholic Church and not officially leaving as a teen and then getting married later without the Church’s permission. This all came as a surprise to me, since, I didn’t know I belonged to the Catholic Church, let alone departed unofficially, and needed permission to marry whomever I wanted. So I had to get two witnesses to fill out notarized affidavits as did Kimberly. Then we had a small ceremony which amounted to a wedding. Our daughters were our witnesses. It was really beautiful and extremely cool.

The not-so-technical answer came as a surprise to me too.  This was not so much explained as it was revealed to me while going through the process. To unearth my spiritual past, I discovered that the old non-denominational church through which I was married had no internal record of our marriage. I was directed to the civil authorities that maintain such records and licenses. In essence, my marriage was validated by the full faith and credit of the State of Maryland which is next to worthless anyway.

In addition, civil “progress” on marriage would have us believe that a marriage between a man and a woman is just one of many marriage formats including same sex marriage and the many that will follow—and they will. Forget natural law, divine law, social health and morality, what the people want, even arbitrarily, by popular vote and the force of media will become the civil definition of marriage. And so, my marriage, is simply one of those floating in a broth of what’s-happening-now.
But there is a governing body that thinks otherwise, one that has been around for thousands of years, transcending government institutions like the Supreme Court and simply outlasting the continuous cycle of hard work->prosperity->stupidity->moral decline->extinction nations are prone to repeat including ours. Now my marriage is validated, recognized and archived under a more logical and stricter definition. It requires submission on my part (i.e, conforming to the truth, not redefining it) but will also provide backing for the onslaught already in progress.

What also came as a surprise is the deepening of my relationship with Kimberly. At least for me, it has changed me at the core and in ways words cannot describe. In the days that followed our validation and the resolve to live according to Church teaching, it was like being in love again. I couldn’t stop thinking of her; I wanted to get home as soon as possible to see her and be with her.
So then, reprobate world, redefine marriage however you want. Muster meaning in a world of malleable definitions including the ones that suit you. Let the governments of the world declare freedom for its people—freedom to marry whomever they want. Freedom to do what’s right in their own mind like a drug addict thinking more drugs will liberate him. But I have discovered true freedom: the power and desire to do what is right and I know now that everything else is a counterfeit.

A particular rant on a popular social website lay claim to the “ascent of man” while insulting and name calling a presidential candidate in the most profane and uncivilized manner. This seemed ironic, for in what way do we measure and lay claim to man’s ascent? By bashing someone?

I began to think about this a bit more and concluded that the ascent of man will never be measured in our species’ artistic or technological achievements. If that were so, the nation of Israel would not have a problem staging the operas of Richard Wagner. But they do have a problem because, even though Wagner’s music is lauded as a massive humanistic achievement, his anti-Semitic views expressed during his life cannot be overlooked by the Jewish state even though anti-Semitism is not readily apparent in his operas. And many times we are called to boycott someone who has expressed a certain viewpoint even though their talent or work seemingly contributes to our supposed “ascent”. Why?

Because the “ascent of man” is not really expressed in what we do with physical mediums such as marble, wood, metal, sound, film, silicon, technology or physiology. It is advanced in how we treat other human beings when we are both powerless and powerful. It is shown in how we treat others when we disagree politically, ideologically or demographically.

When I think of man’s ascent, I don’t think of marble statues, works of literature and massive operas. I think of the great manifestation of divine attributes like forgiveness, mercy, compassion, humility, sacrifice, honesty and things for which only a few people have been lauded but which each of us can exercise everyday—despite our talents or resources. Do we?

Consider these individuals that have contributed to the ascent of man even though you may not find their work in a museum or cinema:

• Nelson Mandela
• Martin Luther King, Jr.
• Dietrich Bonhoeffer
• Corrie Ten Boom
• Jesus of Nazareth
• Paul of Tarsus
• Mahatma Gandhi
• Oscar Schindler
• Amish Congregation of Nickel Mines, PA.
• Mother Theresa
• Saint Francis of Assisi
• Albert Schweitzer

So next time you feel the need to rant about Republicans, Democrats, Christians, Atheist, Wall Street protesters, Tea partiers, Michelle Bachmann, Barack Obama or anyone else and drag them through the mud with a stream of spewing vitriol, please don’t claim a role in man’s ascent. You have forfeited that alliance.

In a recent interview with John Stossel, atheist, author and magician Penn Jillette talked about his new book, “God, No!”, espousing an active moral life without the need for God, deity or divine authority in general. It sounds like a book I might read since the author stated that the tone wasn’t mocking, i.e. Christians and people of faith as I’ve come to expect from such books, but a tone of sharing in the marketplace of ideas.

During this interview, Jillette made the claim that, should you remove all the atheists from the world, 97% of the Academy of Sciences would be gone whereas only 1% of the prison population would be affected. I’m not sure about the numbers but I will support his claim that a preponderance of people in high social positions such as top scholars, top scientists, celebrities and business people are overly represented by those who call themselves atheist vs. those who would claim to be Christians or theists. I would also say that you will find the reverse in such positions in the ranks of the poor, destitute, uneducated and, yes, incarcerated.

What?!!

That’s right, I agree with Penn Jillette. People of faith are at the bottom of the social pyramid and people professing no faith or an atheist worldview are at the top—generally speaking. Ironically, this squares perfectly with the Bible and its teachings, the very thing that Jillette repudiates.

As the Bible repeatedly illustrates and how history routinely bears out, rarely is the pathway to God traveled on the same road that leads to personal riches, self actualization, fame or academic prowess. God is almost never encountered at the “top of our game” but frequently when we arrive at the “end of our rope”. Only in our inability and desperation will we beat a path to the hope and forgiveness presented to us by His Gospel, whereas on our up-and-coming we usually abandon Him entirely, inflated with our own success, education, self confidence and other forms of idolatry. Sadly, but predictably, God is the choice we make only when we’ve exhausted every other avenue: influence, money, skill, education, degrees, intellect, medicine, nutrition, philosophy, good deeds and (no kidding) religion.

Charles Colson, one time advisor to President Richard Nixon in the early 1970’s, learned this the usual way. He was the type of person Penn Jillette talked about, the 97% component that comprises the apex of society and personal achievement—that is, until he was swept away in the Watergate cover up, landing him in jail where he embraced the Gospel and converted his life forever.

If the Bible is a concoction of myths as Jillette believes, the creators certainly portrayed this phenomenon accurately when they painted the “myth” of King David. At the bottom of society, David was a shepherd boy of no influence and yet marked as the Apple of God’s Eye. After rising to power with endless successes in battle, becoming well connected, well wed, rich and dwelling in a palace as the anointed king of Israel with an everlasting covenant to boot, David started believing his own narrative, believing his own PR, believing in his own abilities …and then it starts. In one episode he had a dutiful soldier in his own army murdered so that he could cover up an adulterous affair with the soldier’s wife. Does that sound like myth-making material—or does that sound like our modern headline news? What sort of myth is this where the heroes are curiously identical to the tragedies of today: Tiger Woods, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Anthony Weiner, Eliot Spitzer, Bernard Madoff, Bernie Ebbers and the countless fallen who once comprised that 97% of society’s cream.

Penn Jillette, self described as a a “puritanical atheist”, is smart, moral, sincere, and hysterical; I had the privilege of seeing his show at Ford’s Theatre centuries ago. And I agree with him that we won’t often find God in the great halls of the academy, the hills of Hollywood and the high offices of power. No, we will often find Him in want, in need, hungry, thirsty, sick and in prison. Perhaps if Penn Jillette had re-read Jesus’ description found in Mathew 25:34-36 he might be surprised just how much his world view correlates with scripture.