They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great. – Job 2:13
To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric. – Theodore Adorno (1903-1969)
Unfortunately for poor Job the seven days of silence reported at the beginning of his story would be as good as it gets. Eventually, they, Job’s friends, tired of sitting in silence with him and demanded he get up and do something. Before long they were blaming him for his suffering. “If you won’t blame yourself, blame God, then!” they said. Somebody has to be the cause of all of this suffering.
Unfortunately for Adorno, who wrote in German, he was originally mistranslated as saying, “Poetry is impossible after Auschwitz.” In fact, what it seems Adorno wanted to say, is that the blaming of self, or god, or history, for evil, is barbaric. Adorno echoes Job who by the end of the story declares that the blaming that springs impatiently from silence is as wrong twiddling our thumbs. It cannot be that mere silent inaction is the answer. But speaking too often results in barbarism.
A roughly contemporary philosopher (Charles Hartshorne, 1897 – 2000) would around the same time, but across the pond, observe of the Book of Job that its conclusion is the most sublime in all of Western literature: God is goodness and love and so is worthy of worship, not because of any future rewards either on earth or in heaven, but as such. Inaction, blaming, or mere silence in the face of suffering are all wrong.
It is hard to imagine any of us exempt from some degree of suffering as a result of this pandemic. Whether we are worrying about vulnerable family members, or have lost a job or a friend, we are all hurting from some or many of the losses this pandemic has forced upon us. I hope that I have been able to offer something more than mere silence and, with my words, and in our shared worship, something less than Adorno’s barbarism.
As I write this, there are hopeful signs (again, of course) that this current omicron wave that has forced our lives to go remote again is peaking; hopeful signs that spring will bring more than warm, fresh air into our lives, but a new (old) way of being human together, with culture and arts, worship and real communion.
- That said, 2021 was not without its extraordinary moments.
We got vaccinated! I’m sure you won’t forget where you got your first dose. Mine was in Morrisville on a Sunday afternoon in mid-March that was bitterly cold. I remember filling up my car at the gas station across the street from the CVS after getting the jab. The sense of gratitude and sheer delight at getting the vaccine, so long anticipated, warmed even that coldest day. - I remember how you started stopping in over the next few months to share the same sense of exhilaration, and how we began dropping masks and then worshiping together indoors (masked, of course); how wonderful it was that it seemed we were on track for a glorious fall reunion. It’s worth holding on to that, even though it didn’t quite work out that way.
- I let go of my resistance to broadcasting our worship service and with the extraordinary help of JT Leavitt, who was finishing up his degree in the spring and is now working in Atlanta, GA, we wired the sanctuary for broadcasting. I cannot thank JT enough for his help in getting the system planned and installed. We are not without our hiccups, still, but it seemed, especially as the situation started looking suddenly worse again by September, that this hybrid mode of worship was appreciated.
- Our choir sang and tears flowed in appreciation and wonder during our Christmas Eve services! Mary Jane and Erik, for the balance of the year did yeoman’s work in providing beautiful music for us, both recorded and live.
- Lori Morse instituted “Church School en plein air” as she met with our children outdoors in September and October. It seemed that children and teacher enjoyed that setup and spent many hours talking about and working on a project called “Be the Church.”
- Despite the pandemic, I officiated at 8 funerals and 4 weddings, one of which was my sister-in-law’s, a real delight. That’s compared to only 6 funerals in 2020.
- Finally, because it isn’t mentioned anywhere else, you have continued to support this “Light on a Hill,” to quote a recent newspaper article about the extensive maintenance projects that went on here in 2021, in magnificent ways. Your Board of Finance asked for a 5% increase, when it came to pledge time, and you came very close to that. In a time when many churches are struggling to carry on, we are, it must be said, doing very well. Last we held our first fund-raiser since the pandemic (a historically successful tag sale – not the best, but within the top 5!). It remains to be seen what our fundraisers will look like in 2022. We keep our fingers crossed.
So, you can see, we haven’t been silent. Neither have we been barbaric, but have steadily continued to believe that we are not defined by disease or illness, as we prophetically affirmed at our Ash Wednesday service in 2020 just before the pandemic shut us down. No matter how ruined this world may seem, and no matter how terrible our despair, as long as we continue to be, our very humanity tells us that life has meaning. “Our life, as individual persons and as members of a perplexed and struggling race, provokes us with the evidence that it must have meaning.” (No Man Is An Island, Merton) Yes, some of that meaning still escapes us – but not all. You, we, are living proof of that. And so I quote one last person – St. Paul – “I thank God every time I remember you.”
Respectfully,
Peter