Showing posts with label John Donne. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Donne. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

The Distribution of Wealth: Is the Game Rigged?

I read about the wide disparities in wealth distribution in these United States these days and I am chagrined.

The old arguments about how things have always been (as if that’s conclusive proof that they must ever be thus, as if slavery wasn’t abolished, as if women weren’t once chattel and now independent agents, as if change has never happened on this planet) are like dust in my mouth.

When it comes to economic inequality, what I’m thinking is this: can things be this uneven without the game being rigged?

Don’t statistical probabilities argue against that?  Maybe not.  I can’t say for sure.

But a rigged game is something we all understand.  And hate.  At least when we’re on the receiving instead of taking end of the rig.

When it’s the other way around, the thinking seems to be:  I got mine, you get yours.

That’s not theology.

It’s crap.

Because, first of all, you/we didn’t get yours/ours.

Not you-all-by-yourself-you anyhow.

Secondly, it isn’t ‘mine’.  Never was.  Never will be.

Thirdly, if you think it’s about merit and facts and not advantages and perspective, try this one on for size:   1 in 5 families in the United States receive food stamps.  Washington Blog

What’s your own reaction to that?

If you react with distrust and the assumption that a whole lot of folks must be milking the system, I’m guessing that you don’t receive food stamps or have a family member or friend whom you both love and respect who does.

If you react with sadness that there should be so much want in our country, I’m guessing that you either receive or have received financial help yourself in the past or present or have a family member or friend whom you both love and respect who does or has.

It’s the same fact.

But the conclusions we draw from it vary widely based on our own worldviews, formed by our own experiences.

It’s the same fact.

If you view this fact as evidence of individual moral failure, I’m guessing you’ve been raised on the idea of self-sufficiency, which carries with it the assumption that the need for help is a matter of personal failure and a matter of individual shame.

If you view this fact as evidence of collective moral failure, I’m guessing you’ve been raised on the idea of communal sufficiency, which carries with it the assumption that the need for help is a matter of collective failure and a matter of collective shame.

It’s the same fact.

No matter how you understand or interpret it, it is the same fact.

Which teaches me that I need to listen to others more if I would even begin to approach meaning and understanding, for the same facts bring forth a myriad of conclusions and opinions.  Our conclusions and opinions are not facts.  They may have value, but they are not immutable.  They do not stand as laws of the universe.  And unlike facts, they can change.

Thus it is my worldview, but not necessarily fact, that the disparity in wealth in the United States today suggests the ‘game’ of wealth accumulation is rigged.  That conclusion shapes how I understand my own wealth as well as yours.

It makes me cringe, since I am largely on the receiving end of benefits I did not earn, privileges I do not merit.  It makes me challenge myself since God repeatedly reminds me that to whom much is given (and I am one to whom much has been given), much is required.  It makes me question my ‘kind’ as I listen to the language of possession be translated to the language of entitlement.

But what if I’m wrong?  What if the ‘game’ isn’t rigged?  Does that change anything?  Does it make me more entitled?  Less?  Or, I suspect, not entitled at all?  Does my earning or merit, should it exist, lessen my duty to my fellow creatures to share the bounty?  I suspect not.  (No, I know not).

Because worldview or no worldview, the fact is that my very possession suggests that the ‘game’ actually is rigged – whether it’s by accident of birth, divine providence or unfair advantage, to paraphrase John Donne, whenever the bell tolls for thee, it also tolls for me.

It might be (I stress the might) different if there weren’t enough to go around.  But there is.  And that fact alone stands as an indictment when the reality is that ‘it’ is not going around.

In that reality, I stand indicted, convicted, guilty.  How could I be otherwise?

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn


God hath made no decree to distinguish the seasons of his mercies; in Paradise, the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn, his mercies are ever in their maturity.  –John Donne

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn, by Elizabeth Spires

In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always near
to falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walking
heaven's paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.
Safe in heaven's calm, they take each other's arm,
the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.
But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkept
as Eden would be with the walls knocked down,
    the paths littered
with the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakes
for children of the Fall. The light is gold, the sun pulling
the long shadow soul out of each thing, disclosing an outcome.
The last roses of the year nod their frail heads,
like listeners listening to all that's said, to ask,
What brought us here? What seed? What rain? What light?
What forced us upward through dark earth? What made us bloom?
What wind shall take us soon, sweeping the garden bare?
Their voiceless voices hang there, as ours might,
if we were roses, too. Their beds are blanketed with leaves,
tended by an absent gardener whose life is elsewhere.
It is the last of many last days. Is it enough?
To rest in this moment? To turn our faces to the sun?
To watch the lineaments of a world passing?
To feel the metal of a black iron chair, cool and eternal,
press against our skin? To apprehend a chill as clouds
pass overhead, turning us to shivering shade and shadow?
And then to be restored, small miracle, the sun
    shining brightly
as before? We go on, you leading the way, a figure
leaning on a cane that leaves its mark on the earth.
My friend, you have led me farther than I have ever been.
To a garden in autumn. To a heaven of impermanence
where the final falling off is slow, a slow and radiant happening.
The light is gold. And while we're here, I think it must
    be heaven.

In heaven it is always autumn

Today my friend Walt shared Elizabeth Spire’s poem taken from a line in a sermon by John Donne.

His sermon and her poem, both beautiful each in their own way, stir that thing of Fall in me – the thing so many find in Spring – the life-stirring thing – that makes each smell more pungent, each feeling more poignant.

My spring cleaning has always happened, when at all, in the Fall.

My joy has always come not at the flower’s first bud, but at the leave’s last burst.

It is the fullness of what has been more than the promise of what might yet be that captivates me.

Thus does the ugly-spoken word always jar the more in Fall – not here, not now – wait til Winter or better still, Spring, for such things.  They must not be spoken here.

With the greed of the small child, I am jealous of each Fall – for every bend, every curve in the road, brings a new panoply of color and movement and sound – each more spectacular than the last if only for its first viewing by my esurient eyes.

Were I a dog, it would be dropped golden leaves and not a stick that would jut ridiculously from my mouth.  Were I a cat, it would be crunchy curled leaves and not the mouse, played and replayed between my claws.

I am but a woman and so it is my eyes, my nose and my feet that feast.  As it should be.

For the sheer bravery of Fall, as each thing dies sure it will be resurrected, moves my eyes to tears, my nose to lift seeking into the air and my feet to dancing.

Fall again.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Where Were You?

A 9/11 Reflection

Where were you?  Who should be allowed to participate?  Who should be kept out?  Should it be a celebration of life?  A memorial to the dead?  We were forever changed!  We haven’t changed a bit!  We came together.  We’ve been broken apart.  What do you think?  What’s your story?  Where were you on 9/11?  Where were you?  Where were you?

It is as if we are asking not each other, but God.  Where, dear God, were you?  Why did not Your hand stay the course of destruction?  Why did you not save us human beings from ourselves?  It is the question believing humans tend to ask only when the tragedy happens to us, forgetting John Donne’s poignant rhetorical advice to the ages: . . .  any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee . . .”  — Donne, Meditation XVII

The images of September 11, 2001 are iconic.  The sound bites endless.  And the never-ending flow of statistics both tell and hide the story in all its horrible and glorious humanity: 

Time it took to build the Twin Towers: almost twenty years
Time it took the Towers to fall: 12 seconds
Total number killed in attacks (as of 9/5/02): 2,819
Number of nations whose citizens were killed in attacks: 115
Number of people who lost a spouse or partner: 1,609
Estimated number of children who lost a parent: 3,051
Tons of debris removed from site: 1,506,124
Percentage increase in Peace Corps applications from 2001 to 2002: 40
Percentage increase in CIA applications from 2001 to 2002: 50
Firefighters & police officers of New York City represented 13% of those who died
FDNY & NYPD families received 25% of charitable monies raised


The statistic that strikes me the most is that the Peace Corps saw a 40% increase in applications, while the CIA saw a 50% increase.  People wanted, it seems, to do something.  The response, either to peace or to something more difficult to define, probably depended largely on individual personalities and convictions.  

It’s been 10 years now.  I wonder whether the increased interest in either or both held true over time.  Somehow I doubt it.  We’re a forgetful people.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.  But sometimes it’s a costly luxury, this failing to remember.

And so I sit quietly at home, remembering and thinking on scripture passages that speak of the silence of God . . . not the non-responding silence of the seemingly absent deity, but the silence of the “still, small voice” . . . the silence that begets silence as its own worship-filled response. . . the silence of my own re-write of the Psalm . . . know that I am God and be still . . . it is the enormous silence of facing my God, who in the face of my own questions (to paraphrase William Sloan Coffin), is asking me how I could have let such things happen.

Where were you? 

Where was I?