Unsure and Certain Hope

It’s the night before I’m leading a funeral service for a former parishioner who died suddenly this past Saturday while the regular pastor is on vacation.

Cimetiere Montparnasse

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Apart from the past few months, I’ve been on a hiatus from parish ministry—though it’s true that in the last few months when I’ve been back in the parish, it comes rushing back to me that this is a worthy calling: to be with people when answers no longer apply and questions are wordless, however real. That’s when people need somebody to do whatever it is I do, which is, as far as I can tell, this: to point beyond the question to the mystery that surrounds it and—somehow, but with boldness--summon hope.

I don’t mean blind hope. I don’t mean stupid hope. I don’t even mean Emily Dickinson’s fey definition (and I don’t think Emily Dickinson was fey in any way other than how she defined hope, which is “The thing with feathers/that perches in our soul.” Really, Emily? Feathers?)

I mean the kind of inchoate hope that is at once vague and yet trustworthy. There’s a paradox. Still, that’s how faith operates. Paradoxically. I can totally understand why people get annoyed by faith. I do, too. But it grips me by the scruff of my neck and shakes me and before you know it I will be saying these words, these words I know by heart:

“Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant, Barbara. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.”

And after that, I will say this:

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend Barbara to her resting place, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her. The Lord’s face shine upon her and be gracious to her. The Lord look upon her with favor and give her peace.”   

What does this mean? What does this accomplish? I don’t know.

And one day—far away, I truly hope—I also hope somebody will say those words for me.

Rooming with Emily (an untrue story)

Emily as we know her

She is understandably misinterpreted, an eccentric who likes her cocktails. This means she’s always at Maggie’s, the little bar we all go to after the readings.

Maggie’s is small enough you can mill about the place the way you would in someone’s house. There are always those, too—house parties. Jonas, the summer program’s director, wants his teaching staff well-cared for, especially since we all are garrisoned in the college dorms—‘suites’ the college calls them: two bedrooms, a bath and a common room the size of a postage stamp. But they’re air-conditioned, which is a blessing.

To compensate for the spartan housing, Jonas and his wife, Anna, hold dinners to which all the visiting faculty writers are invited. Another member of the English department, a medievalist named Heloise, also hosts a dinner from time to time. So most nights we all eat together like some kind of quirky family. After dinner, on weeknights, one of us gives a reading.

It won’t surprise you that Emily is a picky eater. She’ll nibble on a single shrimp or leave the dinner table, her plate untouched. Little wonder, then, that she’s rail-thin. And the severe way she wears her hair makes her look drawn and plain.

  

But it is not true that she always wears white. She is, in fact, a provocative dresser considering that she is no longer an ingénue. Somehow, she pulls it off. Maybe it’s her air of innocence—estranged from beauty none can be/for beauty is infinity. She’s always saying that kind of thing.

A further stereotype-busting fact is that each summer Emily has a fling with someone. I’ve been her room-mate for nine years, so trust me, I know. However pale her brow, her blood runs red. And if you read her poetry closely, that should come as no surprise.