All posts by Dena Hunt

Getting (Being) Old

People, we hear, are living longer. That’s not true. While it is true that more people live to old age, “old age” itself has not changed its number definition. Eighty was old fifty years ago and it’s still old. (Ask anyone who’s eighty.) The psalm is still on target today when it says our lifespan is seventy, “or eighty for those who are strong.” The number is no higher now than it was 2500 years ago.

When we have memory lapses, become slower in our steps and prone to more aches and pains, we say we’re “getting old.” Not so. We’re old. We just don’t like to say so. “Getting” implies that old age is coming, but the truth is that it has arrived. In fact, it arrived a good while back.

You might think that the reason we’re in this kind of absurd, self-mocking denial is that we don’t want to be old. That’s not true either. Being old actually has its perks—people defer to you (sometimes), concern themselves about you a little bit (sometimes), forgive you for tardiness, technological illiteracy, forgetfulness, crankiness; and all this social slack-cutting is in addition to the fact that you may now spend some of that money you’ve been saving for the future—the future is now. And you can sleep in too, if you want to.

No, we don’t really mind being old. What we do mind is what we don’t mention so much—to other people, to each other, or even to ourselves: We don’t want to die. And old age is the last stop before the end of the line. It’s a good thing we can sleep in because a lot of us have no choice: insomnia is the most common geriatric complaint. Old people are not able to sleep because they don’t want to “sleep.”

What do we think about, talk about, in our waking hours? There’s an awful lot of dieting, exercising, power-walking and such. Lots of vitamins and supplements. We spend so much of our little time remaining trying to extend our little time remaining that we waste the little time remaining to us. Back in the 70s, a guest on a talk show boasted that his daily multi-mile jog had extended his life by seven years. The host—I believe it was Dick Cavett—responded, “Yes, but you spent seven years running.”

Some people become obsessed with their health. Attending their health becomes a full-time occupation, and they work overtime. We no longer have “a doctor”; we have a cardiologist, a gastroenterologist, an ophthalmologist, a urologist, and that’s just a few of the doctors we have on our appointment calendars.

In a spurt of reality-thinking, we go to a lawyer and draw up documents: a will, an “advance directive” or “living will” or the now-popular list of “5 Wishes,” and a financial power of attorney in case we become debilitated before we become dead. We purchase burial plots, coffins, funeral services. All this is expensive, but the high cost allows us to feel that we’ve bitten the reality-bullet about dying.

Not so. Once we’ve done all the practical stuff, insomnia returns, a new pain or a strange mole or something else has us calling another specialist, or we sign up for yet another yoga, tai chi, or exercise class. Perhaps contemplate a vegan diet. Maybe that little reality break wasn’t all we needed. Maybe we need to “get right with God.” We go to daily Mass, we try to make amends for all the wrongs we’ve done in the past, pray for the souls in purgatory and have Masses said for them, spend lots of hours in church volunteering. We work at getting right with God. We pursue interior peace (never recognizing the contradiction).

Being old is a lot of work. But we may, with God’s grace, get tired. Fatigue may release us from compulsively attending every Mass, from constant vocal prayer recitations, from all the feverish efforts to earn his favor and our salvation. We may even be blessed with the insight that all we do for him, for others, is really for us. And not just lately, but all our lives.

And we are so tired. It’s too late now to live our lives over. Our bodies are worn out and frail. Our minds are tired and our hearts are weary beyond bearing. Our one desire now is rest. And so, at last we surrender—we surrender our labor, our life, everything—for that precious rest we know is possible only in him. It’s then that we begin to live, and we begin to wish that we’d been old all our lives . . . .

Evolution of God 

Atheists are fond of suggesting that we create God in our own image. In fact, the mean old white-bearded god of judgment learned in some people’s childhood is the reason they give for dismissing belief in God. (Actually, of course, any reason will do if you decide not to believe.) But it does seem that as we evolve, so does God.

He seems so much more complicated as we age. We can perhaps remember, as children, our idea of God was so simple. We can smile at the memory of our innocent wonder of “Him,” a child’s wonder at all the universe, all the life around us, from the view of our own new life, of which we were just becoming aware, the very newness of our own being. He was Father—of all this, all life, of us. As we grew, so did he. We matured in our own understanding of “father”; a loving disciplinarian, he “chastened” us because he loved us. This was our understanding of Our Father, our Sire, that source of life in whom we lived and moved and had our being. He was big and powerful, protecting us, his beloved children.

In the same way, we understood our Mother, who fed and nurtured us in unconditional love; she was obedient and submissive to Father and taught us the same obedience and submission. Indeed, it was in her submission that we were conceived. And so we understood that too as a source of life, mysterious though it was. To be disobedient was to thwart life and deform us, and lead us to a life of darkness and loss of our father’s kingdom.

There are those who outgrew their father. They became smarter, bigger, stronger than he was, and just so, they outgrew God. Because they were smarter than he was, they became their own authority, humanists. And they outgrew their mother as well. They became wiser, more free than she was, and ironically controlled by their unacknowledged worship of phallic power, they became stronger than she was. Despising what they saw as her weakness, they became feminists. They outgrew faith in anything except themselves and their own ideas.

But, even if we didn’t have a temporal ideal father or mother, whether we were blessed with an idyllic childhood of unified parents or not, we still knew, because we are part of nature and all of nature followed the same pattern: God was heaven, mother was earth, and all of life was the fruit of that union, the trinity of nature that depends utterly on the union of heaven and earth, father and mother. We understood the mystery of the seeming death in submission as the necessary condition for life. It was not hard to perceive the resurrection as the unmistakable sign of life’s continuity because of that necessary surrender to the Father’s will, even on a cross.

For that reason, we can understand why our Lord told Martha that her sister Mary had chosen the one thing necessary. In our Christian life, we find, sometimes only painfully slowly, that the one thing necessary is submission to his will, not to win our own complicated arguments about whether he is a he/she/it or about what we think his will might be. For Christian faith is composed of listening, another word for prayer. No theories, no human ideas of activism—of body or of intellect—can supersede that one thing necessary. Nothing can displace the primacy of that necessary condition of all life, and of life eternal. It is the very state in which our blessed Mother lived her life, in wordless pondering of his will in her heart. His mother, his sister, his brother are those who do his father’s will. No one understood that better than she.

From the primeval days of the infancy of our humanity, when God was the mountain, the big and powerful and remote mountain, to the days of our pagan adolescence when the sun was father-God and the earth was mother, we evolve and mature in direct proportion to our spiritual growth. And eventually, in old age, perhaps, we understand that nothing of our early grasp has changed at all, only deepened and expanded. It really is simple, after all. We are still children—but now, in joyful and grateful humility, so very glad to be! Finally understanding that our true strength comes in our weakness and our true freedom comes in that submission and obedience, we are plagued no longer with restless desires for more.

And in moments of meditative listening, we know that as our own science has learned, nothing ever goes away in nature, but only changes, so it is in super-nature. As it has always been from the beginning, so it is from our own beginning.  We know enough about him only when we know that we will never know him—not now, not in this life. And we are content to see through a glass darkly, content to listen, to obey, to submit to our own love for him and to his love for us. Until we see him as he is.

A Good Man

A man I admire, a deacon, recently told me that he sees Christ in every person he encounters. He seemed surprised when I answered that I did not. I said that I saw Christ in someone’s character or condition—like their loving nature, or their innocence (not to be confused with naiveté)—or perhaps in their “story,” the events of their lives, etc. “You see like a writer,” he said. Well, maybe. But when I look at other people, I see—or try to see—them.

My Baptist mother had a sort of gift for seeing. I remember her quiet little predictions about some person or other, which were inevitably realized. Examples: A man was behaving a little differently and my mother said, He’s having an affair. Turns out, he was. Everyone was shocked except my mother.  She could tell when anyone was lying (except me—blind as a bat where I was concerned). Sometimes she could even tell when someone was gravely ill, just by looking at them. And even—I remember, once it happened—she could tell when someone was going to die soon. She could see goodness and badness in other people when there was no outward sign of either. She saw what she called “little black scurrying things running along the baseboard” when my uncle was having a very hard time with his pain and anger, following a divorce when all his five children abandoned him. I don’t remember her ever seeing Christ in other people. But she loved Christ deeply and talked to him in her sleep, thanking him, loving him.

I’m reminded of St Peter who saw the duplicity in two of the newly-formed Christians who lied about bringing “all they had” to the collective treasury. Or St (Padre) Pio, who could read souls and was known to refuse absolution to some penitents.

The good man I admire so much referred to my “inability” to see Christ in others. The term has a negative judgmental connotation, and I was a little hurt by it  It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed about something or other, and, come to think of it, it’s always been about other people. But here’s the thing: He gets up before dawn and drives many miles over dirt roads in order to set up Exposition in the chapel for the handful of people who like to visit before going to work. He does this without complaint, despite the fact that there’s another deacon and a priest right next door to the chapel. And he stays, of course, in case all adorers leave, for the scheduled two and a half hours, in case someone else wants to visit. He visits the sick in the hospital, takes Holy Communion to whoever asks, runs the RCIA program, preaches homilies whenever asked, and visits a reclusive old lady like me once a month to talk, sometimes for a couple hours or more.

I don’t see Christ when I look at other people, but I think I can understand that for those whose lives are utterly dedicated to service, that may be a necessity—as Mother Teresa said of all those whom she encountered on the streets of Calcutta. But I’ve also seen Mother Teresa’s expression in photos with Princess Diana and others who sought photo-ops with her, and then I believe she could see others as my Baptist mother saw them.

How we see things, including other people, doesn’t say anything about what we see, but it says a lot about us. My mother’s sight was a gift, and I think my friend the deacon’s sight is a choice he’s made. There’s a difference, to his credit rather than to hers. Imagination gets mingled into my vision, and I don’t trust my own sight of real people. I know better than to trust my own judgment. But when I see my friend the deacon, though I don’t see Christ, I do see a good man, a just man, in the Hebrew sense of that term. And those who know about that term will know that it’s rare, a treasure in God’s sight.

My name is Babel

My name is Babel

I am multi-lingual. Because languages are realities, I perceive many realities. You learn a new language; you learn a new reality. And thus we know that reality is plural and not singular. We refer not to “reality” but to thisor that reality.

And because that is so, we can know—with comforting I-am-aware certainty—that there is no faith that is supreme. Faith is as multi-real as language. Thus I (and all those others like me who are also aware of this truth) do not tolerate intolerance.  Intolerance is the only sin. Nothing else. I don’t attend any church, mosque, or synagogue. They are all intolerant because they all believe their own faith is superior to others. I recognize no religion that does not give equal validity to every other religion, which of course, cancels out the validity of any religion.

That is not to say that I’m not a spiritual person. I am very spiritual! Indeed, I pray every day. I pray in mindful meditation or meditative mindfulness, and when I ask who he, she, or it is, I always receive an answer: “I am.” And that is how I know that I am God. Reality is what I think it is. It’s what you think it is. God is therefore—us.

We know we are God. We know there is no sin except intolerance. And we do not tolerate that.

My name is Babel.

Be Where You Are

This old dictum can be deceptively simple, rather like “Home is where the heart is.”

When I first considered becoming Catholic in 1984, I went to the local church, only a block or two from my apartment in New Orleans, and talked to a very young priest, whom I’ll call Father Francis. He was fresh out of seminary in Ireland. In RCIA, I wondered what became of him. When I asked about him, the deacon in charge of RCIA told me that Fr. Francis was homesick for Ireland and was suffering from depression. He stayed in the rectory a good deal.

Well-meaning people tried to introduce him to New Orleans culture, but the attempt was a failure. He just didn’t want to be there. One of the parishioners said, “We’re just not good enough for him, I guess, not white enough, maybe.” Sympathy morphed into resentment.

Finally, one day, he was over it. “You have to be where you are,” he said, as though he’d stumbled on a discovery—and maybe he had. If you are where you are, you won’t understand the difficulty of not being where you are. It’s not a matter of geography. It’s a matter of being. There are all sorts of accoutrements to go with that being—being where, being with whom ….

Having lived all over the place when I was a child (17 school changes in 12 years), and having attached and detached from numerous “fathers” (I had a very romantic mother), I learned very early on that it’s not a matter of where you are, or with whom—all that matters is how you are. If you are self-alienated (another term for this condition), you can project that discontent in any direction you want, and change locations/mates/jobs/situations, and be repeatedly surprised by the smallness of the improvement you’re able to make, even with the most radical changes. Until finally, one day, you may discover that it’s not a matter of where you are. It’s only how you are that counts. And that how comes from the inside out, not from the outside in.

This discovery may seem unimportant. But that’s where the deception lies. The significance of young Fr. Francis’ discovery can’t be overestimated, for, consciously or not, he had decided: “I shall not want.” Even if he forgets that decision, even if he resumes emotional dependence on the world around him, a reference point is made. And the soul remembers what we do not. Wherever he is for the rest of his days, whatever the conditions of his life, he has chosen the better part and his cup runneth over.

What Are You Giving Up for Lent?

Common question among churchgoers after Ash Wednesday. I’m a vegetarian, so I can’t give up meat. Of course, there’s a lot more I could “sacrifice.” Years ago, however, I thought about what to give up—daily wine with dinner, desserts, etc. But every way I turned this in my thoughts, it just came out silly. Foregoing ice cream did not seem anything more or other than a minor nuisance, more likely to make me irritable than to make me holy.

Instead, I decided to give up one specific thing, so I could focus on it, and I decided to give up complaining. This may not seem credible, but it’s true: The difference was remarkable. Complaints come to mind before they come to lips, so it was necessary to counter a complaint mentally. I had to notice the good in every complaint-evocative situation—I had no choice. Here are a few of the more minor examples (There were also major ones):

Thank you, Lord, that I have a friend to meet me for lunch. She didn’t show up on time, but, because I’m not complaining, I am free to enjoy our lunch together, without having to harbor a nagging resentment that her quarter-hour tardiness might have caused me.

Thank you for this unexpected bill. It makes me conscious—again—of my good fortune in having a pension that enables me to pay it. Many people are not so fortunate. For so many, an unexpected bill can be a budgetary crisis.

Thank you for the Mass this morning, for the loud pianist/cantor who seemed to regard the Mass as his personal concert—he was there, not somewhere else. And in his way, he’s participating in Mass. Thank you for reminding me that Mass is not my personal path to holiness, but everyone else’s too. (Mental note: Think more about Mass as shared. After all, we share the one bread, the one cup.)

Thank you that the doctor has kept me waiting a half-hour so far—it’s a wonderful opportunity to sit in quiet meditation, one I might not have had without this delay.

Thank you for this wonderful young priest we had among us for this short time. He’s leaving, but he was here long enough to remind some of us that we are Catholics, not members of some socially-acceptable progressive culture. His departure will break some hearts, but we must be grateful for that too, lest we become dependent.

Indeed, thank you for every deprivation, every loss, especially those that are great. Every loss is a grace, for it is the removal of yet another veil, bringing us ever closer to you.

When I gave up complaining that Lent, I found that gratitude filled the void without any effort or will at all on my part, almost without my even noticing the exchange at the time. Only later, during Easter, did I notice it.

This Lent, I’m giving up criticism. I don’t know what the fruits of that surrender will be, but so far, it looks a little like humility….

Have a blessed Lenten season.

So—At What Point Is It Person Enough?

The recent passage of New York’s radical new law permitting abortion up until the beginning of labor was shocking, but more shocking still were the cheers of the lawmakers when the governor signed the bill into law. Even people who were barely lukewarm in their pro-life sentiments were horrified by such an enthusiastic reception of the law. I could not help but wonder, however, at the pro-life horror as much as I wondered at the pro-choice cheers.

When I was teaching debate, I always allowed my students to choose the topics, no matter how controversial, with one exception: abortion. I had to explain that the topic is not debatable. Why? Because the morality or immorality of abortion depends entirely on a judgment about when life begins; otherwise, it’s simply a debate on infanticide. Nor can the issue be decided solely on the basis of religion: The Catholic church says that life begins at conception, a position that makes most birth control methods infanticide, but the Union of American Hebrew Congregations says that life begins when an infant first breathes outside the womb of the mother, a position that makes abortion legitimate up until the very last moment. That is why the Supreme Court refused to make a judgment and that is why the whole issue has been—and will continue to be—so impossible to legislate.

 “Well, then, Ms. Hunt, what is your position? Should it be legal or not?”

“I don’t want it to be illegal—I want it to be unthinkable.”

 And so the outrage that pro-lifers expressed at New York’s lifting of virtually all restrictions on abortion is as troubling as the cheers of the lawmakers. What is it that governs pro-lifers’ thinking when they consider human life in the womb? Is it the relative development of the baby? Is a baby not as fully developed as one about to be born somehow less a person than one more fully developed? There is something askew in that point of view. Either that’s a human life or it isn’t. Can any human be more or less a person? Once conceived, it’s either a human or it isn’t. The cheers are indeed horrifying, but the hypocrisy of those who were outraged is just as disturbing.

Possibly most mysterious of all is how we have borne our grief in all these decades of legally disposable babies. There’s only one way: by denying the infant’s personhood in earlier stages of pregnancy. Not only has that denial made it possible to bear the reality of the mass murder that has become a part of our culture, it has also allowed so many of us to continue our own systematic murder in the devices we use to prevent birth. It is our reaction to the cheers of the lawmakers that exposes our own hypocrisy.

From the moment a woman knows she is with child, she is answerable to God for the life of the person in her womb. If that is not true, then there is no life-creating God. And that is where the real debate lies—and always has—and no legislation can answer it. That debate is not between us, but within us.

The Joy of Worship

Last Sunday on the way out of church I noticed a lady sitting at the end of the pew on the far side of the church, turned slightly away from the departing crowd. Clearly, she didn’t want to be noticed. She was weeping. I sat down on the other end of the pew, nearest the departing parishioners in order to shield her from view as much as possible and give her a bit of privacy.

 I suspect that our church is much like most Catholic churches in the country. As soon as the recessional hymn is half-way over and the priest is no longer in view, people start leaving, and as they make their way to the vestibule, they talk, visit, laugh. Children, having behaved well during Mass—at least for most of the time—are happy for the release and run toward the door. I’m sure that in some churches, there is a great deal more reverence and decorum, and people either stay a while in prayers of thanksgiving or leave a good deal more quietly, but not in our church.

I had seen the lady in the communion line and she wasn’t weeping then. As I sat there, turned a bit away, with my back to her, I could steal a glance at her face once or twice; there was no anguish, grief, or even sorrow—just embarrassment by her apparently uncontrollable weeping. Eventually, when nearly everyone was gone, she stopped crying, stood to leave, and whispered “Thank you” as she left. I smiled at her in return.

She was experiencing the gift of tears. It’s not uncommon, or at least, it didn’t used to be. Tears are the ordinary human response to the grace of the Holy Spirit when one actually experiences Holy Communion. That’s not the only occasion for the “gift of tears,” but it happens often on that occasion. Or it used to.

We are so self-conscious now. The irony should be obvious: Even as we wear jeans and tee-shirts to Mass, even as we chatter in the sanctuary before and after Mass, even as we wear our informality and casual attitude like some kind of costume we’re proud of, we are so very self-conscious. We are suspicious of anything that looks “religious” and terrified of anything that might be “holy.” The woman was embarrassed with good reason.

I don’t want to be misunderstood. This is not criticism. I love these people. More—I can feel God loving them. The children running in the aisles, all sit-still behavior abandoned—I feel Christ smiling at them. But consider something else. Consider the awe, the wonder, the mystery, that has just happened on the altar. Consider the breath-taking splendor of that moment of divine intimacy that has just made us share in eternal life.

The incongruity is too mind-boggling. We must de-holify it. We must dress down for it. We must engage in idle social chatter in its presence, get it down to miniature size so we can handle it. Our minds are small, our emotions more comfortable with a little teddy-bear Jesus. We smile and wave at each other, sometimes hugging when we make the sign of peace. We are not comfortable with anything else—anything more, or other. It would be too frightening. It would be weird.

I’ll see that lady in church again. I feel a bond with her now, yet I know neither of us will ever mention it; we’ll probably even avoid each other. I wonder if she knows that what happened to her was a gift.

Expansion and Contraction

So much is covered by the over-arching metaphor of expansion and contraction. It is the activity of our lungs as we breathe, of our heartbeat, and some physicists say it is the constant activity of the universe.

But it’s more than merely physical activity. It’s the living of our lives, our relationships, and all our endeavors. It’s even the description of neuroses: Imagine a continuum. On the one end, one is out of control, extreme expansion; on the other, one is out of touch, extreme contraction. In interactions with others, one may be extroverted in a state of expansion and introverted in contraction.

Expanding and contracting is the activity of birth. As it is the activity of living, it might be considered a constant “birthing” of our lives. In the arts, there is a place for creation and a place for performance—for the composer and for the musical performer, the playwright and the actor, the poet and the critic. And both are equally necessary, interdependent. Neither can exist without the other.

In our pursuit of secular vocations, we discover that there is as much need for creative innovation as for maintenance and management. Since both are equally necessary, neither should reject the other.

In our spiritual lives, we follow the paths of service and prayer. God teaches us via our own experience and responses whether we are more active, outward-oriented, or more contemplative, given to inward reflection. Martha serves others; Mary listens to God. Both are expressions of love.

At some point, we might learn our own personal homeostasis on that continuum. The discovery can lead to self-knowledge that will help us to live our lives as God intended. Only following his will for us can lead to fulfillment and the inner peace every human being craves. The absence of that peace is almost always due to the absence of self-acceptance, which causes interior conflict and leads to conflict with others. The disdain sometimes expressed by active people for their contemplative counterparts, or vice-versa, is so destructive, and so contrary to God’s will.

We live at present in a culture that holds contemplation in varying degrees of contempt. In our churches, the condemnation of “faith without works,” when preached from the pulpit by active-minded priests, leads to frenzied competition with politics, rendering unto Caesar what is God’s and ending tragically in joyless works without faith. There is a reason that frantic social action Catholics so often lose their faith, and there is a reason that small obscure parishes where perpetual adoration is established survive and thrive. “We want God!” shouted millions of Poles to a government founded entirely on social action.

Awareness of the motion that governs our souls can save us from frustration and disharmony with God’s will for us and teach us to understand better the tensions of the world around us, and even to accept those changes we struggle with so often. That awareness is faith—which always brings hope and conquers despair.

Happy New Year!

It is November. It is Time….

Last night I went to a visitation and vespers service for a priest emeritus whom I have known for more than twenty years. I wept. And it seemed that I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop myself. We were not close, and, at 94, he’d been beyond ordinary social interaction for some time.

 Yet his departure awoke a dormant love I had forgotten. There had been nothing to bring it to consciousness until his death. At 76, that’s happened to me before, more than once or twice. It’s a shock. Our universe is altered. And then we realize with a painful suddenness, that while we weren’t looking, while we were occupied with other things, a bond was broken. Someone who belonged to us has left us, has escaped our indifference to mortality. Hopkins speaks to this:

To a young child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Father and I used to go to the symphony together. Afterwards, we had coffee in a kind of strained amiability. I was hyper-conscious of his priesthood, and he was far more understanding than, I think, most people ever knew. He was down-to-earth almost to a fault, a position that gave him detachment, saved him from descending into the squabbling melee of human vanities and agendas. He’d been a priest for seventy years, he’d lived through Vatican II, he continued saying Mass long after he was unable to follow the rubrics without assistance. He was the most unflappable person I’ve ever known.

I took Holy Communion to him for years after he was put in a retirement home. He could no longer walk without assistance and remained seated as I stood before him, disinclined to small talk—I think he was glad I didn’t try to force that smiling nonsense. I knew him too well for that, since our symphony days. All things Vatican II were, as they had been, in full force, and he was obedient. Yet, when I administered the Host, he never opened his hands. He always received on the tongue. He never joined me in the prayers, but always said, “Amen.” My mission, my purpose, my usefulness, was concluded when I placed the Host on his tongue. I could be dismissed. This never offended me, though I know his lack of sociability annoyed others.

I believe he celebrated Mass in the same way: with his attention on What was happening, not on his performance. His homilies were mere reiterations of the Gospel reading. This irritated many parishioners, who wanted to be entertained, enlightened, or affected by words. Their opinion of his homilies was never very relevant to him, though I’m sure he was aware of their disappointment.

I used to write homilies and commentaries but I gave it up. It was too easy to lapse into sentiment or hypocrisy, and too difficult to be relevant for English-speakers who might be Canadian, Australian, American, anyone anywhere who spoke English. One becomes generic by necessity. It is easy to understand Father’s indifference to those who wanted to hear stirring or consoling preaching every Sunday. I think he just gave it up.

He was “giving it up” made manifest. I think now I learned some of the roots of my contemplative life from him. Without ever having a conversation on the subject—for, as a writer, I know what I think he might have also known, perhaps without thinking about it: Truth transcends words. It’s way too big to fit into the small human invention of language, or even into our ideas about it. We gain awareness of it as we permit it, without resistance, access into the cracks and crevices of our constructed brittle and fragile lives, our mortality. And with the grace of our faith, we discern that we win by surrender, by letting go of our bonds so that they don’t become our bondage. And know, with Hopkins, the futility of our leafmeal language.

R.I.P., Father Marv.