Tuesday reflection: Resurrection, death and dying
The readings for today were about heroic myth and transformed consciousness. Dying and rising gods, ritual shamanism, and all that. It was all a bit dry and academic for my liking (perhaps it reminded me too much of those know-it-all anthropologists I had to read for my honors class in religious studies all those years back in university).
In class we devoted far too much time to two exercises that annoyed the hell out of me (way more than they should have). These revolved around identifying the queer stories in scripture and in the queer/postmodern 'canon' (you know, the kind of pop culture analysis that is grist for the mill in any number of college cultural studies courses). Here again I could feel the gravitational pull of so many heads about to disappear up their own asses.
Sometimes I want to shout, "hey, that cigar really is just a cigar, nothing more!" The Samaritan woman just had a bad life, she ain't no lesbian! But on reflection I realized it is very easy for someone with my healthy level of self-acceptance (and relative privilege) to be critical of the need for validation. It is important that people find their stories in scripture, even if I don't agree with their reading of it. Give me Queer Eye for the Good Book over Left Behind theology any day!
During one discussion I was misunderstood as defending a primitive resuscitation theory of Christ's resurrection (as opposed to the classic liberal view of it as symbolic or mythical). I need to state that I do not believe in the literal resuscitation of dead bodies (any more than I believe in snakes and asses that strike up casual conversations).
There are many different views of the resurrection of Christ. Some take resurrection quite seriously as a real event in cosmic time, without relying on the concept of the resuscitation or revival of corpses. You can be liberal/progessive and even queer in your theology without having to compare the resurrection of Christ to the memory of Judy Garland. Resurrection is one of the great mysteries of faith; it doesn't have to be explained away or downgraded to a 'living memory'.
Enough about that. I've been reading Michael Christensen's The Samaritan's Imperative for tomorrow's class on modelling a queer ethic in the 21st century. The book is a primer (written for non-queer clergy really) on ministry to people living with HIV/AIDS. It was written fifteen years ago at the height of the pandemic in the US.
What struck me was a passage concerning a young man with HIV/AIDS whose condition had progressively worsened and had been moved by his family into an intensive care unit. William had already lost his apartment, job and health coverage. All of his personal possessions, including artworks and books, were being sold off in order to pay for his ongoing care. As dementia set in, William became distraught about losing his sense of identity, as defined by
the way others see me, by what I have in terms of things, by the work I do and the home I have ... my theater company and my books of art. That is who I am...
Christensen, a Nazarene minister, noted:
I thought of Jesus' teaching about not being anxious about our life, what we will eat, where we will sleep, and what we will wear. For a person's life does not consist of the abundance of his or her possessions (Luke 12:13-34). How beautiful that sounds in the abstract. How difficult for anyone to live out. William looked deep into the abyss [...]
Confronting the loss of all that defined him, William wept uncontrollably.
The reason this struck me is that I saw myself, not in the minister, but in William. How my life is defined by an image of myself and by the people and things in my life! How would I react if William's circumstances were my own? I belive I would find the spiritual resources within me, but who knows?
The ability to be present with someone in this situation, to listen, to be there for them, to offer them up to God in prayer, to do what is asked to help them, to see in that person the suffering of God in Christ, is the essence of the gospel.
I was also moved by a familiar scripture reference Christensen used to illustrate one of the stages of grief. After initial phases of shock, denial and anger, terminally ill people and other folks who are grieving often try to bargain with God. I recall doing the same thing myself during difficult times in my life. I once told myself that if a HIV diagnosis came back negative (it did) I would commit myself to an Anglican monastery (I didn't, thank God).
Christensen likens this to the prodigal son, who decides to return home and bargain with his father. But God doesn't strike bargain. The divine embrace is always ready and waiting for us.