There was a death in the village

Yesterday was a difficult day in Jogiwara. I woke to cries of anguish when Hari’s mother discovered the lifeless body of her oldest son. The sun was barely up. Hari came into my house unannounced and told me that his brother had died in the night. I got up, put on some clothes and went to the room where this lovely, friendly man’s body lay. His face had been covered with the blanket that had kept him warm during his last cold hours. 

People had already started to gather. There is no ritual book. Tradition takes over. It is all unspoken. People talk amongst themselves, but there are very few words spoken. No one has to tell anyone what to do. People know their roles exactly. The men and the women separate. The women gather around his mother and his wife. They fill one side of the room, and sit quietly. Some of the women cry, but surprisingly no one tries to comfort his mother. They just listen silently; they help her when she gets up. The young girls sit with the women. His nieces cry. At some point Hari’s middle daughter tells me tearfully she doesn’t know what to do. She looks at me. I cannot help. Saying I am sorry is not enough, or it feels totally inadequate. 

There are almost no tears among the men. The young boys, the oldest is his son who is just 20, stay close to the men, and help where they can, but they look a bit lost. Later at the cremation ground, his young son will be the only person dressed in ceremonial white to light the fire. I get the impression that this is one life lesson that has to be learnt by imitation. A few men sit with the body opposite the women. His uncles, both the Sikhs and Hindu are joined by one Tibetan, a monk who lives in the village. He married but still shaves his head. All the men are older than this young father . He was not yet 50. He had been sick. He had been in the hospital, but still his death was sudden. I try to read the hidden signs of grief but I am lost. The women show much more emotion than we are comfortable with in the west. The men are far more restrained.

More men gather, but for the most part stay outside the room. More arrive. I notice that some of them begin to disappear into the forest that abuts the house. A steady line begins to shuttle back and forth carrying wood, large logs, and small brush. My guess is that up on the road a jeep has arrived to carry the wood to the cremation ground. Each village has their own. I have been to three cremations during my time here. The first was an ex-pat Brit. It was traditional; the Indians took over; we, his western friends, stood and watched. Then my cook's mother died. We went to a gnat more distant from the village, down a long steep path to the river.  

After about 3 hours, his body is carried from the room to a wide area outside the house. Some of the men begin to prepare it for burning. There are elements to add, flowers, seed and a yellow scarf. A more colorful blanket is spread over his body, and he is carried to another jeep on a palette. If there are prayers I don’t hear or understand.

By the time I reach the cremation grounds the bottom of the pyre has been stacked tightly with kindling underneath.. Only men are allowed; a large number are doing the work of carrying and preparing the logs. The pandit actually seems more like a work foreman than a priest. The fire must burn for at least 5 hours so that the ash is fine enough to be carried to the Ganges, 11 hours away. Suddenly four or five women push in. They cry and shout. Again I am startled by the indifference of the men. After a few minutes the women are ushered out. Then his body, enclosed in a metal grate, is moved onto the huge stack of the wood that came from the forest next to my house. It feels intimate. More work assembling more heavy branches on his small body with care. Many hands. The priest has to make sure that the fire does its job and burns his body, and that the logs don’t fall and spill his ashes into the wind. They have to make it to Rishikesh. His assistant smokes a cigarette. It’s just a job. 

It has taken a long time, but when his son lights the fire, it starts quickly. If the wood was green, it seems to burn hot. The men take off their shoes and put either green leaves, what’s left at the beginning of winter, or small pieces of wood, soaked in water, into the fire. We wash our hands and leave. 

Taking about talking about God

A correspondent was asking if the Nicaean Creed's phrase "True god of true god" implied a multiplicity of gods,

Can I post a fairly long response? There is a piece missing from this conversation. In the days of Google translator we think that there is a simple equivalency between words of different languages. That is especially true when it comes to language about God, god, gods, Greek gods, the Hebrew god of Abraham, Allah etc. They are all words that stem from a particular time and place.

The Council of Nicaea was held in 381, in a town in modern day Turkey after the emperor Constantine moved the capital of the Roman empire from Rome to Constantinople. It was the first council in the history of the Christian church that attempted to address the entire body of believers. It was convened by Constantine to resolve the controversy of Arianism, a doctrine that held that Christ was not divine but a created being.

So it is not about a multiplicity of gods. It is about the “essence” of god and Jesus. It was also the beginning of the move (or maybe an expression of a movement already afoot) to formulate church doctrine in terms of Greek philosophy. The council fathers (no mothers represented) were trying to formulate a statement declaring that the Lord Jesus was (and is) god by asserting that he was (and is) of the same essence as god.

The language of the Council was both Greek and Latin. The official text coming out of the Council was Greek. I don’t know Greek, and even with a dictionary I can't be precise. In Latin however, God of gods does not refer to any multiplicity of gods. I think it is probably best described as a logical tautology: “God is of the essence of God.” Deum verum de Deo vero; natum, non factum; ejusdemque substantiae qua Pater est. As a matter of fact, looking at the Latin, the elaboration of the tautology, “light from light” (light is always of the essence of light) seems to be missing, perhaps an addition or a variant text.

What we have is the answer of the council to the followers of Arius. Jesus is truly god of the truly god, he was born (as a human while still remaining god) but not made (in the same way that god made Adam). He, the Father and the son and the spirit (filioque) are substantially the same. The filioque would drive another split, but that just gets way too complicated. I vote for Unitarianism just because it’s simpler and more beautiful, but that’s a pond I don’t want to dip my toes into here.

Driving in India as Spriritual Practice

Let’s begin our journey by taking a spin around an Indian traffic circle. For rigid westerners the driving here is totally insane; thinking that the roadside altar dedicated to Mother Teresa of Calcutta actually points to an Indian Catholic church is as misdirected as believing that the road crew in charge of installing shrines had a master plan. 

I wondered if following the blue dot on Google maps could help me trace the route that the Apostle Thomas took to India. After an interesting side trip into Nestorian Christianity, and questions about the exact nature of Jesus as both divine and human, I decided to return to the original focus of my exploration. 

Continuing my madcap trip around the Indian traffic circle, I wound up in Chennai where completed an informal pilgrimage to the three basilicas dedicated to one of the Apostles of Jesus. I visited the Basilica of Apostle Thomas, and felt that it pointed to something larger than just maintaining the prevailing view of what Christianity.

I’m going to try to construct a meditation about Thomas. Let me try to rip away some of the garbage I think surrounds Thomas, and point to why I think we might pay attention to him as we meander through India, or the world.

I will posit that we don’t know much about Thomas is because he was not a church guy. I think he actually might have been the smart ass geeky kid, maybe even an obnoxious asshole.  I found this brief article about the “Gospel of Thomas” by Elaine Pagels and a talk she delivered at Stanford 17 years ago, My friend Bonnie Johnson would have loved Pagels’ work, and you might appreciate how Thomas sides with the slaves who are unwillingly forced to disrupt things trying to get a high caste lady’s sedan chair to the front of the crowd. 

After Jesus was crucified, the Apostle James and a few others stayed in Jerusalem, preached about the risen Jesus and kept kosher. Paul went off trying to translate his take on radical conversion into Greek, adopting the first non-Jewish cultural idiom. Peter traveled to Rome where he, according to legend, set the course for the Teaching of Jesus to dominate the western world. 

But Thomas apparently went in the exact opposite direction; he struck out for India, alone or with maybe a few followers. The churches, the communities he established were not as cohesive as the ones established in the Greek and Roman worlds. Maybe my speculation that the Indians were just just not going to submit to conforming beliefs way back then, like right now, is basically correct, and any communities he established disappeared or were absorbed by local cults. India in the first years of the common era was religiously similar to what I experience today, mystics and wandering sadhus.

The most famous story about Thomas, and he is only mentioned a few times in the official record, is that he did not believe that Jesus had risen from the dead because he hadn’t seen him, that he would not believe until he actually placed his hands into the wounds of the torture that had killed Jesus. So Jesus appeared and held out his hands with the wounds still open. Thomas says, My Lord and my God, I believe. Then Jesus says:  "Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed [are] they that have not seen, and [yet] have believed.” Pagles says that this is the formal, or dominant church getting a recalcitrant believer to cast aside his or her doubts and enter into the fold. But something else might have been going on.

What if our Thomas was really just a stubborn guy who not only demanded a different kind of evidence when it came to belief, but insisted on an interpretation of the message of Jesus that included everyone, not just the proper ladies but also her slaves, the outcasts, even the homeless? And since the older Apostles who were in charge couldn't forbid him coming to the Lord’s table, they just sent him to India, and told stories about him, barring him from the proper European landholdings.

You don’t have to join me in India to upset the picnic table. That is not a rhetorical question.

The ride around India (or anywhere) is much better with a companion; I remember Ashish Gupta driving for the first time in India, in Goa where the traffic rules are slightly more recognizable for the likes of us. It is the main headquarters of the Jesuits in India and has been since about 1543 plus or minus so there is a bit more ingrained European sense of order in some things. But Ash still almost got us killed. My last longish trip here was twice to Amritsar where I got my Covid Vaccination. 12 hours round trip to a private hospital that would give foreigners a jab. It really did save my life, and I was scared to death on the highway across Punjab where drivers think nothing of driving against traffic on a two lane divided highway if it gets them closer to home. 

So I don't have any real question. It is more of a floating inquiry--how we open to the Spirit for more than just pinpointing a destination. My observation is that it's almost as if to thwart our good intentions, sometimes the movement of the Spirit is like barreling up the freeway in the wrong direction, or maybe to be accurate, facing that guy who needs to get back to his cows who's barreling towards us, and we know we really shouldn't trust his driving. 

And if you can't join me in India, (not a declaration or assessment but a kind of wild daydream--you, me and Rinku driving across the high Himalayan plains in Kashmir!), we still travel as spiritual companions and check out Saint Thomas. What a blessing.

Of course after all that travel--a post card!

My friendship with an Anglo-Catholic Bishop

I just learned that my friend Edward Harding "Ed" MacBurney died last year (October 30, 1927 – March 17, 2022). He’d almost reached 97 years, and I imagine that they were very good years. He had a zest of friendship. He was immensely likable, intelligent and a dedicated listener, the kind of person who loved a good conversation, especially if it opened the door to a topic close to his heart and he thought it might lead somewhere. He held clear positions with regard to matters of faith, but the term pastoral would also be a good fit and blunts any harsh doctrinal edge. 

My mother remembered that at a certain point in life my grandmother faithfully read the Sunday obituaries in the Bridgeport Post to see how many friends she’d lost. Now in the day of Google, I join my grandmother in this pursuit, but I do not consider it at all morbid. I even do it with the joy of honoring my friends by revisiting our conversations, seeing how things stand and where we would be today if we were able to continue talking. 

And it’s conversations with Ed that I want to talk about. During my college years, he and I were quite close. Then I entered the Jesuits, and Ed’s priestly life started to move towards “The Right Reverend.” Over the years we lost touch except for an infrequent exchange of long letters. He became more conservative and I gravitated towards a very secular version of liberation theology, verging on agnosticism. However when we inevitably disagreed about somethings that he considered essential, even sacred, I never felt estranged or judged. I hope I can return that favor now as I talk about our friendship. 

I met Ed during my freshman year at Dartmouth. He was the rector of the Saint Thomas Episcopal Church that stands very close to the green. I don’t think that he had that title, but he was a de facto chaplain at the College. I saw a committed Christian and a priest who was always open to talking with students. I liked him immediately. The Newman chaplain, Father Bill Nolan, was a bit crusty for my taste in the all-knowing way of immigrant Catholic seminary training, as dogmatic as the rote study of Aquinas produced. To me Nolan’s attempts to be open-minded as befit an outsider at a prestigious waspy institution seemed superficial, even shallow. Ed was far more approachable perhaps because he didn’t have the immigrant Irish hurdle of having to prove himself. He was a Dartmouth graduate as well, and although as much of a traditionalist as Nolan, he was quite relaxed about it and spelled out his line of thought in a very personal way. Our conversations were like entering a well ordered house and feeling at ease. 

There was a small chapel in the rector’s house; it even had a small foot pump harmonium. At 5:30 Ed led Evensong from the Book of Common Prayer. I liked learning to sing the psalms in plainchant, or Anglican chant, and started including it as part of my practice. Nolan also said mass at 5 in the Aquinas Chapel at the end of Webster which I attended at least once or twice a week, but I actually preferred Evensong. There was never any pressure from Ed to switch allegiance. He told me in a matter of fact way that he’d entertained the idea of becoming Catholic, and had thought about religious life, joining an Anglican Order, the Cowley Fathers. When we talked about my intention to become a Jesuit, he encouraged me. 

In1963 I decided to go to the Universite de Caen for a semester abroad. Ed was planning a trip back to England, and invited me to join him for what he called “the crawl,” following a winding path from London north to Leeds and then south to Canterbury, cramming as many Anglican cathedrals as we could into the two weeks I had before I left for France. We visited Oxford where he’d been influenced by the nostalgic practices of the Oxford Movement at St Stephen's House. We drove over a long flat plane to Ely Cathedral where he’s been ordained, and of course included Westminster and Coventry. I forget the order. He introduced me to his friends. In Leeds I met the engaging Franciscan, Brother Michael Fisher whom I kept in touch with for many years. At the Cathedral of York I did not hit it off with a rather stuffy dean and his wife. Ed was disappointed. At several points we stopped at a motel or modest roadside inn and shared a room. I recall that after he’d put on his pajamas, he knelt by the side of the bed and prayed which I found very sweet. I am pretty sure that we ended our trip in Canterbury; then Ed drove me to Dover where I continued my journey onto Paris via train and ferry.

I look back on our crawl as a kind of Anglo-Catholic pilgrimage. I’ve located various dots on a map as accurately as possible to see where I physically was on this journey. With some grace and forgiveness for the intervening years, it’s close enough. But to get back inside the mind of the 20 year old Ken might actually take a bit of magic. The hopes, dreams, and aspirations of my college years go hand and hand with acquiring experience and knowledge, questioning, experimenting, trying to find my place in the world. Retracing those steps is far more difficult. The dots are not physical, their movement influenced by the position where I stood in the moment as well as where I stand now 60 years later. 

“Follow the Money” 

I remember that Ed had just come from an Episcopal conference in the US where Bishop James Pike had been slated to give a high level talk on the ecumenism coming out of Vatican II. Ed complained that all the controversial firebrand could come up with was how efficient it would be to save money not duplicating secretarial services. He expected some encouraging words about the “big questions,” and was disappointed. Then he laughed. A missed opportunity. I don’t remember if he mentioned Pike’s championing the ordination of women, but he certainly would have been against it. 

Let me fast forward 35 years and bring my wonderful friend Bonnie Johnson into the conversation. Ed and Bonnie would have loved one another despite being theological miles apart. Bonnie was a devoted Christian as well as an astute observer of the American Episcopal church. She brought Bishop Pike’s economic analysis back into the theological conversation about the big issues. She contended that as congregations became smaller and poorer, the acceptance of women priests grew simply because they’d work for less. Women now make up 40% of working clergy in the US. Though I hesitate to state anything definitively because reading their balance sheets is confusing and beyond the intention of this paper, both membership and revenues have also decreased substantially in most parishes although contribution seems to be up overall, an anomaly that I cannot figure out.

But just a snapshot from the available data In 2022 is telling. The salary of an Episcopal priest in the US is $52,707. There is an enormous fluctuation across various dioceses and churches, salaries ranging from $10,193 to $267,214. In 2002 male clergy earned 20% more than the female counterparts. Today the wage gap has been reduced to 13.5%. Perhaps a major reason for the gap is that larger, wealthier parishes prefer men and smaller parishes rely on married women whose income supplements their husband’s. Another reason for the decrease might simply be the increase in the number of women priests and the resulting proportional distribution of overall revenues. Anglo-Catholics continue to make a strictly theological argument, but Bonnie always looked at a wider picture and included several possible factors. It might be blasphemy to classify Deep Throat as a theologian, but I think “Follow the Money” is a valid line of inquiry. Ed might have been appalled but I’m sure he would have tried to continue the conversation in a civil manner. 

When I returned to Hanover from France in January, Ed told me that he was getting married and asked if I would be an usher at the service. I said of course, I would be honored. I think that I joined at least one of his wife Anne's sons, and Gaylord Hitchcock put on his best suit. I remember being at the rectory one afternoon several weeks before the ceremony. Ed took a phone call within earshot. In his cheery voice he arranged an appointment with the caller. When he hung up--this was definitely pre-cell phone--he turned and told me that he and his friend, Dr. Someone, had arranged to talk about “the birds and bees.” He laughed, and I’m laughing now just remembering his joy and his innocence. 

When Tara Doyle, whom my partner and I knew from MacLeod, stayed with us one Christmas, she wanted to attend Christmas midnight mass. I was assigned to choose the venue. Even though we knew that we had to arrive very early to get a seat, Grace Cathedral would have the best music plus we were meditators and welcomed a half hour in silence in a magnificent church while empty pews filled behind us. It was also about as high church as I could find. When it came time to receive communion, I didn't hesitate to kneel at the rail in front of the main altar. The priest who offered me the sacrament was a beautiful African American woman. It was perfect. 

References: 

https://www.comparably.com/salaries/salaries-for-episcopal-priest https://www.christiancentury.org/article/news/gender-pay-gap-among-episcopal-clergy-shrinking-persistent 

https://www.catholic.org/news/politics/story.php?id=3086