I
convene a weekly group that gathers to discuss spirituality and our lives. It is a wonderful group made up of so many
diverse, loving characters. We have all
sorts of folks from athletes to musicians.
Some are still working and some are retired. It is a group which gathers simply because we
want to gather. There is no credit, no
prestige---nothing---in the fact that we do it.
Requiring any kind of attendance or participation would radically change
the group. I would probably drop out!
Typically, we read a book to provoke
some thoughts. But we are not a book
group. One of the books we have worked
with is Sophfonia Scott’s, The Seeker and the Monk. Scott is the seeker and the monk she puts
herself into dialogue with is Thomas Merton.
Merton died in 1968, so Scott never met him. He was Catholic; she is
not. She is an African American
woman. Merton is neither. One of the
chapters in the book focuses on racism and her experience as a black woman with
that reality.
Interestingly, Merton wrote quite a
bit on the topic, even though he was in a rather self-enclosed monastery in the
middle of Kentucky. But he was not
oblivious to her world. He was born in
France and spent considerable time in his adolescent years living in England
and other parts outside America. He
joined the monastery in 1941, so he also was very aware of Kentucky as part of
the South. Reading his works on race is
still quite profitable, as Scott discovered and shares with us as readers. As tempting as this is to develop, I share
instead another aspect of our group discussion that I could not have planned.
One of the members of our group is
very well read and does it in areas I don’t even know exists. She brought to the group was a poet, Gary
Lark, whom I did not know. She shared a
piece from the cover of his recent collection of poems, Easter Creek. I want to share some of that here and also
note my gratitude to my friend for introducing me to this poet. The poem begins:
in a racist town, in a county
that took its bigotry for granted
I was born into a loving family
in a community of generous folks
who gave me all they could.
I wince when I read these words,
because it could be describing me.
Probably for Gary Lark and certainly for me, I did not even know this
was true for me. Gratefully, at some point I became aware that I was a
racist---prejudiced and all the rest. To
become aware brings the possibility of change.
That said,
to be aware is to learn how pernicious racism really is. Later in the poem this is articulated in a
helpful manner. Lark says,
carried from place to place
like great-grandma’s quilt…
Racism was woven into the fabric
like a smoldering thread.
To dismiss or deny is to hand down
the garment from generation to generation
like some immutable heritage.
The first
step is to accept we have to change and grow.
That is what I am trying to do. I
have grown immensely since those early days of youth. But I have so much more to do. And then there is the systemic racism that
continues the pernicious effects of racism.
There is so much work to do. It
ties nicely to the final image I choose to share from the poem.
It puts a straitjacket on everyone.
What a graphic image---a straightjacket. If you ever have had one of those on, you
know you are powerless to do anything.
But getting it off is not impossible.
To do so, however, you need help.
And that seems to me to be the clue.
We all need help. Racism is more
than an individual problem; it is a communal or society problem. We all need help. Those who are free of the straightjacket have
to help us who are still bound. No
doubt, many of those helping hands will be black hands!
This is
precisely where my friendship with Sophfonia will be helpful. It is helpful because I know she will be
helpful. For me this is one more
instance of the need of grace in our lives to live the way we should. That makes it a spiritual issue for me. I know Merton and Scott would agree. Now is a good time to ask for help. Let’s get this straightjacket off!
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