One last time

 

We have a mature thunder plum out front, which blossoms every spring and shades the driveway in the depths of summer. It leans out from under the protection of the great oak, which is 75 years old. A youngster by comparison. Last year I noticed it had developed a fungus, black crusts on a few branches. I've seen this before and I knew what it meant. Soon all the branches would be covered. There would be a last bloom and then the tree would have to become something else. 

I'm down to the last 8 classes of my teaching career, one last season to bloom as a teacher, then I, too, will be something else. (Though thankfully not covered with a fungus!) 

I will learn to say when asked what I do, "I write."

An adulterated Bible

In 1631 a typesetting error resulted in copies of the King James Bible where the 6th commandment (or 7th, depending on how you count) in Exodus 20:14 is rendered “Thou shalt commit adultery.” It was a scandal, the printers were fined (though in the end they didn’t have to pay), and most of the copies of what would become known as the Wicked Bible were destroyed. 

I have started to wonder if Hegseth and Trump have a similarly adulterated version of the Gospels, where the beatitudes in Matthew have been misprinted:

Blessed are those who mourn, for clearly they deserved what they got

Blessed are the strongmen, for who wants to be WEAK?

Blessed are those who show no mercy, nor quarter to the enemy either

Blessed are those who are sure that they know better than God what is righteous, for their morality should be enough for you

Blessed are the warmongers, for obviously this is God’s war and the rest of you ought to get down on your knees and pray for victory

All amid a steady chant of be afraid, be afraid, be afraid.

Sic transit gloria mundi

I am transiting at Dulles airport, headed to South Bend. I’d never been to Dulles before. Somehow I had imagined a small airport, but it is a sprawling thing. I took the train from C to A, enjoyed the video wall art in the tunnel — ads, then a short calm video of ocean waves breaking — then walked the length of the elegant international terminal (I have two hours between flights). It was hushed, with its Dior and Chanel kiosks and sleek glass-doored lounges guarded by uniformed personnel with iPads. (The Etihad lounge was apparently full up, there was a tumble of people on the floor waiting to get in, leaning forward hopefully at every departure.) Spacious gates, a vaulted ceiling hung with flags, sunlight streaming in. From here you could fly to Paris. To Rome.

But my gate wasn’t here. I followed the signs up the escalator. Across. Down another. Down one more. The corridors grew narrower, the ceilings lower, the light more artificial. No fancy oyster bar — burgers and chicken tenders were on offer, TVs showed 5 different sports games, people spilled out into the corridor. A woman walked past dressed in a full-on cat costume, ears and all, tail twitching happily as she chatted on the phone,. Two little kids dressed in lederhosen (really, I promise) whooshed by holding hands and singing. Where, I wondered, was Maria?

I popped out in a spot where each gate has subgates — A1A, A1B…A2F— a dozen gates all squished together in the space of two in the cathedral above. The microphone system isn’t working right. It’s hard to get to the desks. “Raise your hand if you asked for a wheelchair going to Raleigh!” Finding a place to sit is a challenge. Finding a place to stand is a challenge. The building shakes when a plane takes off.  I think of Dante and descending circles.

But. But despite the chaos and crowding (because of the chaos and crowding?) there is something so warmly human about this place. It’s more than an hour to my flight, but I have no desire to return to the sterile marble heights. I score a seat, sit and listen to the man across from me wearing a gorgeous blue turban telling his grandkids he would see them in just over an hour. “Just 60 minutes!” He beams.

The world is filled with glory, fleeting, but no less intense for that.

Talking heads

I’m at Notre Dame (the one in South Bend) today to record a podcast, one of a couple this month. I met the host of this podcast through the blog twenty years ago, when our kids were young, and over the years I have treasured our criss-crossing interests in theology and science. She also introduced me to rose congou tea, a cup of which is sitting next to me as I write. I am also going to the Madeleva lecture tonight — “The Wrath of God(dess): A Spirituality of Feminist Rage” given by theologian Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier. Several of the previous Madeleva lectures are on my shelf, including Kathleen Norris’ The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy, and 'Women's Work’ and Sidney Callahan’s Women who Hear Voices: the Challenges of Religious Experience. Sidney Callahan is a Bryn Mawr alum, and came to speak to one of my (non-chemistry) courses. 

A couple of weeks ago I was privileged to sit down with Mike Laskey of the AMDG podcast to talk about how science and faith work in my life as a scientist. (This is a great podcast series, in my Saturday morning rotation, with tons of interesting guests, most with some connection to the Jesuits and things Ignatian — rare books, material science, astronomy, songwriting.) I talked a bit about awe and mystery and finding God in a handful of water. Also tea, perhaps because you can (sorry!) hear the noise of my tea cup hitting my desk periodically (also one loud beep from an incoming text — this was not my smoothest interview). 

Tuesday, after a hard PT session, I checked my email to find a request for an interview from EWTN Nightly News to talk about the Artemis II mission. Sure, when? It was 11:35. Could I do this at 12:15? I was sitting in my car, soaked in sweat in desperate need of a shower. 12:45? I got home, showered, professionally attired and to my office in time. Whew — shades of the first days of the great tea kerfuffle!

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Listen to the AMDG podcast here, and the EWTN clip here. 

Photo is from an interview for On The Media recorded at WHYY 11 years ago, about the Food Babe. 

The women gather

I ran across an Easter reflection from 5 years about an Easter morning spent cleaning the kitchen…

“As I scrubbed last night’s sheet pans, I wondered if this really was how I should be celebrating Easter, clad in a well-worn apron and wielding a soapy sponge. Or perhaps this is precisely how Jesus imagined the celebration as he knelt on the floor, a towel around his waist, washing feet. Women, up early to do the work of feeding the hungry and tending to the needs of the living and the dead. Women with the courage to stay in the face of unspeakable pain, and a scandalous death. Women with the courage to profess what they had seen, in the face of mockery and derision.”

...which kicked off a search for a song I had heard from Sweet Honey in the Rock: The Women Gather. I could hear the spare repeating line in my head. “The women gather…” 

And the women still gather. To stand witness to the unspeakable. To accompany the undesirable. To bury the dead. To shelter their children with their bodies. To beg for peace.

We still gather at Easter — the women, the men, the children — even as we are embroiled in this “war of choice.” Though it not the choice most of us would have made. Our leaders demand we pray daily, “on bended knee” — in the name of Christ —  for military victory. I cannot. I will not. 

Yet. I will pray. For the courage to stand witness to the Gospel, that promises the utlimate victory, over sin and death, For an enduring and earned peace. Not one bought with blood and terror, awash in tears.

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The rest of the reflection is here. Listen to The Women Gather here.