More
than ever I find myself living in the present, yet, paradoxically, in the past
as well. I ran across a quote by Robert
Alter in February Commentary (talking about the Dead Sea Scrolls), which hit
home:
[T]he popular fascination with the scrolls that has
been sustained over four decades and the inordinate hopes for a grand
revelation from these scraps of parchment betoken one of the great modern
illusions – that if only we could take within our grasp the material substance
of the past, if only we could empty out all the contents of its buried time
capsules, we might touch an ultimate secret of origins, understand in a new and
illuminating way how we came to be what we are. (p.41)
I
drink a lot of red wine in Italy. We are
with ourselves, exclusively, except for happy moments from time to time when
Thomas or Mara engages those around us, as in a restaurant or store. How the Bar owner in Roma and the old ladies
do like Thomas, the piccolo!
Last
night I dreamt Ross Porter, the Dodger announcer, died. Suddenly.
There was a funeral at church and I was to sing the "Ave
Maria." They brought him in, not in
a coffin, just straight from the hospital, complete with an IV and the remains
of an ace bandage still on his arm. I
noted how he looked dead, his eyes still visible slightly under closed eyelids.
I didn't even know the "Ave
Maria," and who am I to sing solo?
In
England, on the way to pick up the children at school, I listened to a story
written in the first person of the last thoughts of a hospital patient who was
dying after being run over by a car while riding his bike. It was eerie, real. On the way to Roma, I listened to The Shell
Seekers. At the end, the main character
dies, and, again, the reader is privy to the dying thoughts of the
character. I felt my eyes cloud over
with tears.
I
think about death. Today I thought that
it is like jumping into a big black hole and hoping you will be caught by
Christ. Like bungie cord jumping and
Christ is your bungie cord. Perhaps
these thoughts arise because I have accomplished my only real dream in life: to
go to Europe for a year with my family.
Having completed my mission, perhaps I am becoming consciously aware
that I have no new goal, but death, the greatest trip of all.
I
seem to be forever torn by a need to be a saint and the demands of my human
existence. I feel a terrible need to get
to know Christ so much better. It is as
if I will be swinging in the trapeze, hoping he's there! One would hope to know so much better the one
upon whom we must depend! Where do I get
to know him? Through others? Through the Church? The poor?
Scripture? How many times do I
wish I were a monk with time to think of nothing but God! But we are in the world! How I would miss the knowledge and love of
Cathy and our children!
In
Rome on Saturday I awakened at about 5 a.m. and couldn't sleep for awhile,
thinking these thoughts (though paying income taxes entered my thoughts as
well!). I said my Hail Marys (Ave
Marias!) and as usual felt better, finally drifted back to sleep. At seven I arose, showered and went to St.
Peter's, where I encountered an amazing experience: priests, mostly individually,
but sometimes two, at every side altar in St. Peter's (and there are many!)
saying masses. Most had their backs to
the congregation (if any). Each altar had
a server. Priests and altar boys stood
in line for the next open spot. I
attended one of the masses. What a
physical demonstration of faith!
Lately
I begin to recognize my old demons from college. Where have they been all these years? Buried in the work to establish oneself in
life? Why do they reassert themselves
now? Is it a good sign or a bad
sign? I can see in myself what I thought
I saw before in my father: boredom with life, keeping busy so as not to wrestle
with the devils. Jesus himself had a
difficult time in Gethsemene, asking, first, for the cup to pass. We all wish for that cup of death, death
itself, to pass. Yet at times I fear
what follows death almost more than death, the new life or death of Christian
belief. I looked at myself in the mirror
this morning, put my hand over half my face and thought I looked like the
doomed man in Michelangelo's Last Judgement.
I
tell myself that I must think less and trust more, that I must be like the
little children in my relationship with God.
It is hard, but really, do we have any choice? This Lent I must try to come to the real
feeling of how much I depend on Jesus, and, by doing so, convert my life. Yet everything I do, except for the
occasional moments of religious education for the children, seems oriented to
this world. I live in this world and I
am unused to believing in something, someone so beautiful, so wonderful as
God. My legal mind offers the assurance
that God created this world and all of its fruits and love, therefore they
cannot be bad. I take some comfort in
the thought that, as the generations pass, God moves us along another notch in
our understanding of Him. We no longer
have Joans of Arc. I also remember that
old expression: the darkness is always the worst before the dawn.
I
have recently begun focusing on whether I really believe Jesus when he says,
"I forgive you." Of course, in
order to believe that Jesus forgives my sins I must really believe that I am a
sinner. The priest said nice words in
confession the other day ("nice humble confession"), which I greatly
appreciated, but still hard to believe in my own goodness.
And
so, sometimes I hold Cathy closer in the night.
1:35 a.m.
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