Walking into the Light

The one thing for sure that will kill any discussion or conversation is the old death blow, lack of curiosity. I’ve known many of those, the ones where you supply the questions or comments to keep a conversation going, the ones where you bite your tongue or sit on your hands eager to ask a question or make a comment while the discussion leader goes on and on, and on. Yet, no one else seems to have anything to say, or ask. Maybe the topic is a little intimidating sometimes, and most of those gathered are hesitant to throw in their hat.

Needing to understand more, better, deeper, and to grow from this understanding, seems to in part define our Friday morning Bible study group. Aside from being Episcopalians, although that is not entirely true since one pilgrim kneels elsewhere on Sunday mornings, I don’t know how much we have in common. Most of us would be characterized as moderate to liberal thinkers. We have chosen to worship in a parish congregation where inclusion is valued. We’re educated, well read and articulate. We’re seekers and doers of good. I’m sure we all think that we at least try to walk the walk as well as talk the talk.

I don’t even know the professions of this mostly retired group. At least two of the women are from unhappy divorces. Are there happy ones? Just about everyone is a parent. One of us is gay. Like most Santa Feans these days, we hail from other parts of the U.S.—California, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Iowa, Texas, careers in the military. The priest, who along with his wife leads our study, shepherds a parish just east of Albuquerque. His wife is the organist and choirmaster at the Presbyterian Church downtown and director of several choral groups around town. We all have spots or stripes, but we’re easily distinguishable, especially when we open our mouths.

Last Friday, one of our pilgrims put forth that the closer we get to God, the more we are challenged by the dark forces of this world. I guess our more evangelical brothers and sisters have had it right all along. Old Satan is just waiting for us, and when he senses that his hold on us might be slipping as we move and stumble toward God, he goes to work that much harder to keep us in darkness. This struggle between the light and the dark, good and evil, positive and negative energy, peace and the opposite of peace, love and hate, charity and greed, the supreme “I” and the corporate “we” has been with us throughout human kind’s recorded journey.

Yesterday I visited with an antiques dealer friend who was set up at a small venue for the day. The buying crowd trickled in, draped in its lack of enthusiasm. A little money was exchanging hands—mostly dealers buying for resale. That’s what most of us do—trade merchandise. The shoppers seemed to be looking for a bargain, or perhaps they had stopped in because they had seen a sign advertising this one-day antiques market, and they really didn’t have anything better to do. As we visited casually at this dealer friend's display table, she commented that she admires my interest in helping others, adding the same for my religious practices, but she punctuated her comments with “I’m a non believer.” And of course she had to explain herself, for herself, I guess. It didn’t benefit me. No one has given me a judge’s robe.

Concerning my fledgling efforts to volunteer in this town of much volunteering, an interesting contrast to all of the flagrant self-absorbed behavior that permeates the very fabric of this high desert place, she added, “I don’t like old people”. She will turn 70 on her next birthday. “I believe that when we die we are food for worms”. I suppose that’s not arguable. There was more, including our agreeing that the sense of good and bad, right and wrong—indeed, the instinct of humans to do good, right toward one another—is part of our fiber, and certainly not limited to the practices of any particular faith.

This pilgrim has no evangelical streak, but I am perfectly comfortable talking about my religious/spiritual practices. My journey is just that, a journey, a struggle sometimes often, a challenge every day, often lonely, which I am trying to understand is a choice. That’s a different story. I do believe that I can make a difference, and my need to do this serves as a source of frustration when I sense that I am failing or not really trying hard enough, or I spend way too much time thinking or talking about it, rather than doing something about it.

I remain anxious about my decision to volunteer at a senior daycare center where most of the clients suffer from dementia—not because I question my motives but because I’m a little fearful, frankly. There I sit, how far away? I understand deeply now that what most old, lonely people want desperately is simply a little attention. As frightful as they seem sometimes, some wheelchair bound, some hooked up to oxygen, head dropped forward, or others very ambulatory yet babbling and sometimes babbling cruel remarks, they want a little attention, a kind hand, word. “What’s your name”, a woman asked me for at least the third time on the first day I volunteered. “Harold,” I replied. “Harold,” she repeated, “I’ve never really cared for the name Harold.”  “I’m sorry,” I replied and continued with the game we were all playing, naming 10 of this or 10 of that. And she, too, in her mind being claimed by Alzheimer’s, felt that she had to explain, but I wonder for whose benefit.

While finishing Anne Lamott’s Grace Eventually today, she reminded me of Woody Allen’s philosophy that 80 percent of life is just showing up. As far as I know, there are no meters registering how much time we spend showing up for any given reason, but we know quality when we do it. A friend back in Texas told a story of a guy who agonized over spending time with his aging mother. On one visit, when he made a move to leave after a relatively short time, his mother protested, “it seems like you just got here 15 minutes ago.” He replied, “Well, it seems to me like I’ve been here all day.” Why does this make me both smile and sigh at once? What mortification awaits me with not even a child to feel compassion for me when my time comes? How blessed was our mother who somehow wanted more in her loneliest moments.

Whether or not the stress of the human struggle has grown greater in the post-atomic age, a time where we have mastered the ability to obliterate one another completely, has generated years and miles of discussion. One thing that has always been true remains at the heart of the struggle—our will to be right, our unwillingness to bend, our shortfall in living out the ethical reciprocity of the golden rule, just might be our undoing. Do unto others what you would have them do unto you. Don’t do to others what you would not have done to you. Do the next right thing, both for yourself and for those who share your journey, even those who just happen by, intentional and otherwise. Thank God that I still have the wits about me to remind myself that there but for the grace of God go I.

Walking into the Light—Santa Fe, New Mexico (June 1, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis