Try to Praise the Mutilated World

This sentence is taken from the title of one of Adam Zagajewski's poems, which I happened to find on the last page of The New Yorker from September 24th, 2001. I saved this particular issue from The New Yorker because it was put out in the wake of the 9/11 tragedy. At first glance, the cover looks like it is entirely black, but holding it up to the light I see it is the black outline of the Twin Towers against a charcoal black background. For a moment I feel that I am free falling as I remember the day the world went dark.

I have mixed emotions about The New Yorker. I feel I ought to be blown away by every story and poem I read in it because, after all, it is The New Yorker, and the editors at this magazine are so much more sophisticated and illustrious than I could ever hope to be. But then, I must admit that I am not blown away by most of what the magazine publishes because what most of the fiction and poetry acutely lack is a sense of vulnerability from the author. The fiction is cleverly written. It is well-written, and the pacing is almost always flawless, but I am rarely able to lose myself in it because I feel that I am reading a story written for The New Yorker, and not seeing into someone's soul. In the case of Zagajewski's poem, though, I was able to feel his vulnerability. I read the poem aloud four times in a row, letting his exquisite language dance off my tongue. I have not read something so beautiful in quite some time.

My eyes then were caught up by a full-page advertisement from the ACLU opposite the poem. It screams out in bold letters: WHAT WOULD YOU RATHER LOSE? a. CONTROL OVER YOUR DAUGHTER'S REPRODUCTIVE DECISIONS b. YOUR DAUGHTER In the center is the grave of Rebecca Bell: 1971-1988. She died from an illegal, botched abortion. My immediate reaction was one of horror and sadness - for Rebecca and for her parents. I didn't even think of the baby that had been aborted, for that was not the advertisement's intention. Rebecca Bell's grave stands at the center, but why does it not read: Rebecca Bell: 1971-1988 and the unborn child of Rebecca Bell: 1988-1988? The child is not mentioned, it is not even an afterthought. It is Rebecca Bell who matters, and more important than Rebecca Bell, Rebecca Bell's reproductive rights.

Today is the Sunday of Orthodoxy and Father gave a very heartfelt, powerful sermon about our responsibilities as Orthodox Christians - to proclaim the truth always, just as the defenders of the Icons did. Too often we do not proclaim the truth, and, in fact, nod our heads at falsehoods because we are afraid to offend, while the saints who we commemorate each day lost their very lives.

There are two falsehoods that are being propagated today - 1. That we all believe in the same God, and 2. That abortion is a right and not an atrocity. We tread lightly around these issues. In fact, very often we are ashamed. Someone at the takeout restaurant says - It doesn't matter in the end what church you go to. It's all the same. I nod, smile, and pick up my orange chicken and rice. It's inconvenient to enter into a discussion. I want to eat my orange chicken. I don't want to have any awkwardness the next time I come in for takeout, so I agree to something that I know is not the truth. At dinner with an old friend, I complain about my experience with Curves, the workout center for women. She exclaims - Did you know they donate a huge amount of money to ProLife groups? - Oh, I didn't know, I respond. Why did I not say - I'm ProLife. I didn't want to spoil the meal. I didn't want there to be an uncomfortable silence, or an argument. I, in a sense, agreed with her that ProLife is wrong. Now I am ashamed of myself. I too, who claim to have the truth, the one, undivided Holy Catholic Apostolic Church, am afraid to speak the truth because I have been conditioned to be polite at all times. But today I am putting this away. I will speak the truth always, because it is my responsibility to speak the truth. It is not a suggestion from Christ. It is a command. The priest and bishops are not the sole guardians of the Faith. I am a full member of the Church. I too must be a guardian of the Faith.

Yes, try to praise the mutilated world. Say it is a good thing for women to have innocent lives torn from their very flesh. Say Rebecca's rights are more important than the innocent child's. Be polite, nod. Say - Blessed are the wombs that never bore and the paps which never gave suck. Call good evil and evil good. Yes, try to praise the mutilated world. But also remember. Yes, remember, we will have to give an account for it. We will have to give an account of what was given to us and how we protected it.

Shattered

A few days ago I accidentally broke a glass pitcher that belonged to my Grandmother. I remember the day my mother, my aunts and uncles and I went to participate in what they all referred to as "The Great Divide." My Grandmother was moving out of her apartment to a nursing facility and so she was giving her belongings to her four children. As a newly married young woman, I thought little about anything but supplying my kitchen and home with useful pieces of furniture and kitchen supplies. The glass pitcher was something no one else wanted, but I really took to it. It has been, almost nightly, the pitcher I set on the dining room table with water and freshly sliced lemons, limes, and, on occasion, cucumbers. At brunch, it holds orange juice. When I make Spanish food, it is filled with Sangria.

When using this pitcher, and serving dinner in general, I think of my Grandmother and feel that she would be proud of the refined manner in which I serve my family, but the feeling is very much akin to what a little girl might feel giving a tea party to her stuffed animals, that, in a way, I am play acting. The pitcher may be beautiful, the plates I use Tiffany, but they have been given to me, something that belongs to a life my Grandmother and her parents lived. Under my elegantly set dinner sits a table that we found at a rummage sale. As far away as my Grandmother now is physically, so is the world she came from. I realize I did not really know her, but the pitcher was something tangible, something that connected me to her in a way I could not perhaps emotionally.

More striking was that Pavel was sitting only a few inches from where the pitcher landed and broke into pieces, and that not even the minutest piece of glass scratched his skin. As I swept up the shards of shattered glass, I felt sad that I had lost one of my favorite serving items, and sad that I had lost what it represented, but I glorified God that He protected my child from harm.

Last week Florence and her children were in a terrible accident on a country road. She hit black ice and the vehicle went out of control, fell into a ditch and rolled over, caving the entire roof in. They all walked away without a scratch, so that looking at her yesterday, I could not even tell she had been so close to something unimaginable. The car was totaled, items pierced into the front seat by the roof, but the Icon of Christ on the dashboard, which flew from side to side in the past when she simply made a turn, didn't even move. God protected her and her children as He had protected Pavel.

Today is the first day of Lent, which I am embracing with much joy. I look forward to stripping away all the usual busyness of my day to day life, of not listening to the radio or watching television, of being in church more often, the beauty of the evening services, the prayer of St. Ephraim, how it feels to receive Communion at the Presanctified Liturgy after a day of fasting. During Lent, we "break" ourselves and we let God break us, so that we can arise from the pieces different, hopefully human beings more attuned to Christ. My breaking the glass and Florence's accident are representatives of new beginnings, of cutting off the old man and letting in the new. Both of us are changed. Obviously she is more changed, as her accident had the potential of being much more tragic, but both of us were given a window to the Divine. Both of us recognized God in our lives.

He gives us these moments because we are weak. We cannot see him dwelling with us at all times. We cannot see the angels processing through the royal doors at Liturgy. All He does is think of us, love us, and yet, in our daily routine, we can go many hours, even days without calling Him to mind.

The greatest gift He gives to all of us today is the Great Lent. Today He is continually in my mind, as I try to fast, to pray, to avoid temptations I would otherwise ignore like talking too much or flipping through a catalog. I look forward to hearing the first part of the Canon of St. Andrew tonight, to the dark church, the smell of beeswax and rose-scented incense, the Kontakion in the Sixth Tone. I look forward to my legs being sore from the many prostrations. But most of all I look forward to the journey, the struggle even, because when I struggle I know I am not completely lost.