Lessons from the University

My undergraduate days at SUNY at Binghamton remain relatively cloudy in my memory, but a few highlights stand out. First is the image of a streaker running through the lecture hall, with four hundred young adults instantly having to decide to either gawk or close their eyes as the naked man crossed our line of sight. 

A second lesson was an intense class discussion on the incest taboo, how across all cultures, only one behavior was totally forbidden – the act of incest. In my naiveté, I thought there would be other universal taboos (murder, rape, etc.), but, at least according to that anthropology professor, that was not so. 

A third message I’ve wondered about was a statement by another prof: there is no such thing as true altruism. At nineteen, the word was new to me, but Merriam-Webster defines it as “unselfish regard for or devotion to the welfare of others.” The instructor’s point was that no one does anything for another person without having some kind of selfish motivation. Students suggested examples of altruistic actions, but the instructor countered with reasons why the behavior was of benefit to the self. 

Mow an elderly neighbor’s lawn? You do it to improve the neighborhood, thus increasing your property value. You do it to receive applause for your good heart or to earn brownie points in your system of religion. You do it because your mother taught you to help others, and you feel better (or less guilty) when you follow her counsel. Maybe . . . 

Here’s a related topic, as reported by Hanna Rosin. In November, a man with a certain loyal following raised a question on social media. Might it be possible that at least some of the migrants who wanted to cross the border between Mexico and the U.S. were good people, not criminals? Could his followers put themselves in the shoes of “the fathers, the mothers, the children” who came to escape violence? Rosin described his question as a call for a truce grounded in empathy, the kind you might hear in a war zone, say, or an Easter Sunday sermon.” 

The response was immediate and angry, and within days, the initial questioner was forced to leave Facebook, as his suggestion of seeing another perspective was dismissed as heretical – or worse. Ironically, the writer was not a saintly Mother Teresa, calling us to care for our neighbor. No, this was militia leader Ammon Bundy, known for his involvement in the Bundy Standoff in Nevada in 2014, and the armed occupation of Oregon’s Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in 2016. Rosin recognizes what Bundy failed to understand: “Americans these days seem to be losing their appetite for empathy, especially the walk-a-mile-in-someone’s-shoes Easter Sunday morning kind.”

One more concept. A recent Facebook discussion focused on expressive individualism, when the highest good is individual freedom, happiness, self-definition, and self-expression. One of the question raised asked about alternative practices. If we, for moral and/or faith-based reasons, reject that premise, is there an antidote?

I’m not sure how the streaker fits in, but the concepts of shared moral values (cultural taboos), the presence of altruism, the practice of empathy, and the choice to reject expressive individualism seem to me to be vital components of the kind of society I want to live in. As a community, as a culture, are we forsaking a care and concern for the other? If so, who will we become? 

One of the suggested alternatives from the Facebook discussion has resonated with me: We reject the worst of expressive individualism by moving the measuring stick for flourishing beyond ourselves and our immediate family, and expand it to the flourishing of our neighborhood, our city, and our world (thanks Nate, for the discussion, and Bill, for the response). 

Here’s another way to think about this. Writing in “How Then, Shall We Live?” Wayne Muller asks, “What is my gift to the family of the earth?” Forty-some years ago, one young man’s answer was to run naked through the lecture hall in expressive individualism. From my perspective, altruism and empathy have provided more lasting value to the family of the earth. 

Rising from the Ashes

This week, the attention of the world converged on a glowing spire in Paris, as the Notre Dame Cathedral was heavily damaged by fire. Soon, social media was flooded with selfies taken in front of her iconic flying buttresses and Gothic towers. Many wrote of their personal connection with “Our Lady,” noting her long history, her symbolic value to Paris and France, and the spiritual insight often discovered in the glow of her glorious Rose Window.

Thousands of miles away, in St. Landry’s Parish in Louisiana, residents and parishioners were still reeling from their own losses. Under the darkness of night on March 26, the century-old St. Mary Baptist Church in Port Barre burned to the ground. Origin of fire: suspicious. Within days, Greater Union Baptist Church and Mount Pleasant Baptist Church, both in nearby Opelousas, were also torched by an arsonist. 

Ashland is no stranger to church fires. On a Sunday morning in December 1933, the First Presbyterian Church was ablaze, most likely a result of faulty electrical wiring near the pipe organ. Ashland’s First United Methodist Church was doubly struck, as the congregation suffered a major fire in the 1880s, resulting in the construction of a new, “modern” church building at Sandusky and Cottage Streets. Then, in September 2002, fire once again roared, this time through its education wing, although the sanctuary itself was spared.

I don’t know the responses of the people of Ashland, Ohio or Opelousas and Port Barre, Louisiana, as the fire sirens wailed and the news rapidly spread through town. However, it’s likely their reactions were similar to the Parisians who quickly gathered to bear witness, to watch, to wait, and to pray, their tears mingling with the soot choking the air. News reports featured clips of the burning cathedral, with the spray of the firehoses arching towards the flames, surrounded by stunned onlookers who sang the Ave Maria and other hymns of faith.

In a discussion of Gothic architecture in “Christianity Today,” Matthew J. Milliner wrote under the headline, “At Notre Dame, Good Friday Came Early.” As Christ followers around the world mark Holy Week, the destruction of this magnificent image of faith surely does seem symbolic of Good Friday, the day when Jesus of Nazareth was crucified. The damages suffered in St. Landry’s Parish magnify that symbolism, as the betrayal of hate adds to their loss, again reminiscent of the Passion narrative. 

Regardless of the actual day of the week, when tragedy strikes, it seems like Friday, not the TGIF kind of Friday, but like Good Friday, a time of grief and loss. But as Pastor Shadrach Meschach Lockridge first immortalized in his sermon of the same name, “It’s Friday . . . But Sunday’s coming.” Dr. Tony Campolo has popularized Lockridge’s classic sermon, quietly setting the scene: “It’s Friday. The disciples are hiding and Peter’s denying that he knows the Lord. But Sunday’s coming.” His words crescendo until he reaches the peak: “It’s Sunday. And now everything has changed. It’s the age of grace, God’s grace poured out on all who would look to that crucified lamb of Calvary. Grace freely given to all who would believe that Jesus Christ died on the cross of Calvary, was buried and rose again. All because it’s Sunday.”

In communities, in cathedrals, in hearts and lives, the pain and suffering of Good Friday only remains for a season. In Ashland, First Presbyterian Church and First United Methodist Church stand strong today as symbols of resurrection, risen from the ashes. In Louisiana, churches in St. Landry’s Parish are will move ahead, buoyed by their faith and a growing gofundme account that will allow them to start construction. And in Paris, as French President Emmanuel Macron proclaims, the Île de la Citéwill one day welcome a renewed Notre Dame Cathedral.“We will rebuild!”

Here we are on holy Saturday, thoughtfully nestled between Good Friday and Easter so we can purchase the ham and the butter lamb, hide the eggs and the chocolate baskets. Yet on this day, as have people through the ages, we too can bear witness, watch, wait, and pray, in faith that resurrection and rebirth are possible. Alleluia! 

Juxtaposition

 Last Friday night, the lovely Madelyn Simone took her father to her school’s Girls Gala. This annual event brings together girls and their dads or other family escorts for an evening of dancing (think “Baby Shark”) and elementary school socializing. With a touch of lipstick and lots of photos, nine-year-old Madelyn and her dad enjoyed an evening together that will hold a special place in her childhood memory bank.

Just a few miles away, there was another gathering on Friday, where memory was all a grieving family could cling to. On that night, more than two hundred people came to the Southeast Community Center in Canton to stand together, to keep vigil for Sylvia. Sylvia McGee was fourteen years old. Sylvia McGee was in middle school. And Sylvia McGee was killed, shot in the head, her body discovered in a Canton alley by a friend of ours walking his dog. 

Those two images, one of a life-filled dancing child and the other of a child robbed of life, have been competing for space in my thoughts in recent days. Juxtaposition is when two things are seen or placed close together with contrasting effect. Sometimes juxtaposition is used as a literary device, to draw a marked contrast between one character or another, to create suspense, or to achieve a rhetorical effect. Remember Charles Dickens in “A Tale of Two Cities”? “It was the best of times, it was the worst of time, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness . . . it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

This weekend, we’re celebrating an anniversary. It’s been ten years since The Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center opened its doors wide to Ashland. Reflecting on those years, I see over and over again this same sense of juxtaposition, of contrast, of the season of Light and the season of Darkness. 

In the past ten years, there have been plenty of moments filled with joy at 527 East Liberty Street in Ashland. The music. The laughter. The daffodils. The weddings. The squeals of the little ones at the spraypark. The winding path of the labyrinth. The rejoicing of the angels in heaven as “a new name [is] written down in glory!” 

Juxtaposed against the joy were the times of profound sorrow and loss. The sudden death of our architect, Bernie Zofcin, who never got to see the completed facility. The specter of domestic violence that ended Billie Jo’s life. The presence of a serial killer. A shaken baby. An estranged family. A loss of sobriety.  

Is it possible to reconcile these times of such jarring conflict, between life and death, growth and destruction, sorrow and joy? One incident at the Kroc comes to mind that symbolizes this possibility for me. One night, an employee had a medical issue as he drove into work, and he literally “drove into work,” his truck plowing into the social service wing of the new facility. We were grateful there was no serious injury to the driver or others, and heart-sick over the damage to the building. Now what? 

One by one that night, the people gathered. Employees, church members, neighbors; all came to wait, to work, to pray, and to be together, in this place that hadn’t even existed a year before. Now, we had become community. As Jean Vanier recognizes, “One of the marvelous things about community is that it enables us to welcome and help people in a way we couldn’t as individuals. When we pool our strength and share the work and responsibility, we can welcome many people, even those in deep distress, and perhaps help them find self-confidence and inner healing.”

When I struggle to see light in darkness, in the juxtaposition of life and death, Vanier’s words remind me that we can live each day in community, “with new hope, like children, in wonderment as the sun rises and in thanksgiving as it sets.” As we lament, as we rejoice, as we reach for each other in community.

Multiples

In recent weeks, my daughter-in-law Becky and I have watched quite a bit of daytime television together. One of Becky and Dan’s favorite shows is Outdaughtered, a reality show featuring a family with quintuplet daughters. The popularity of the show reminds me of how the birth of multiple babies has grabbed the world’s attention for decades.

The Dionne quintuplets, believed to be the first set of quintuplets to survive infancy when they were born outside a Canadian village in 1934, were of great interest to my mother. The quintuplets weighed a total of thirteen pounds, six ounces when delivered by a doctor and two midwives. Wikipedia reports they were wrapped in “cotton sheets and odd napkins,” and their mother, Elzire, went into shock, but recovered in two hours. I’d still be in shock!

The story of Yvonne, Annette, Cécile, Émilie and Marie was chronicled in the newspapers and magazines of the day. Within months, the Canadian government removed the five babies from their home, citing the safety of the children (although it didn’t remove the five older siblings). Kept in a building especially designed for them, they became a tourist attraction (Quintland), where over nine years, an estimated three million people observed them through one-way mirrors. Finally, in 1943, their parents regained custody of the children. A bizarre story, both tragic and fascinating.

Fast forward to 1963, when quintuplets were born in Aberdeen, South Dakota. James Andrew, Mary Magdalene, Mary Margaret, Mary Catherine, and Mary Ann were the first surviving quints born in North America in nearly thirty years. While Andrew and Mary Ann Fischer maintained more privacy than the Dionne family, the children’s pictures often appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, celebrating milestones and chronicling their development.

As the wonders of fertility treatment expanded, Kenneth Jr., Brandon, Nathan, Joe, Alexis, Natalie, and Kelsey entered the world in 1997, born to Bobbi and Kenny McCaughey. The world’s first surviving set of septuplets, their birth made news across the country, and President Bill Clinton phoned the family with his congratulations. Even the surviving Dionne quintuplets added their congratulations, as well as words of warning: “If we emerge momentarily from the privacy we have sought all our adult lives, it is only to send a message to the McCaughey family. We three would like you to know we feel a natural affinity and tenderness for your children . . . Multiple births should not be confused with entertainment, nor should they be an opportunity to sell products.”

When the Gosselin sextuplets were born in 2004, Alexis Faith, Hanna Joy, Leah Hope, Aaden Jonathan, Collin Thomas, and Joel Kevin starred in a new entertainment era. Instead of fiercely protecting their privacy, Jon and Kate Gosselin opened the doors of their home through TLC’s, “Jon & Kate Plus 8.” And now “Outdaughtered!” I’m glad I haven’t seen episode sixteen: “A Little Potty Never Killed Anyone.” TMI!

The gossip magazines in the beauty parlor were off limits when I was a kid, but I kept trying to sneak a glimpse when my mother was under the hairdryer, Now, in the name of research for my column, I’m fascinated by the stories. I get it - the tourist trade of Quintland, the true confessions of the gossip magazines, and the outrageousness of reality television call to the voyeur in us. Our curiosity about how others live, especially in the unique circumstances of multiple births, keeps us watching. 

But we can also benefit from each other’s story. Frederick Buechner writes: “The storyteller’s claim, I believe, is that life has meaning – that the things that happen to people happen not just by accident like leaves being blown off a tree by the wind but that there is order and purpose deep down behind them or inside them and that they are leading us not just anywhere but somewhere.” 

As we receive the stories of others, baby-related or not, the words of the Dionne sisters remind us to approach with tenderness, without demanding to be entertained by the pain, distress, or oddity of their circumstances. And if we listen carefully, we can hear echoes of our own stories, as we embrace the unexpected within the circle of family.