Christians I have known III

Ray Ventre was a professor of English Literature at Northern Michigan University. I always thought of him as Father Ventre, however, because he had at one time been student at seminary, and came very close to priesthood. What failed him, it seems, was a love a woman, and the belief that the ordinary could be made holy by our reverence of it. He claimed one could, and perhaps should, conduct communion with bananas and coconut milk if that's what one had on hand.

I think it was destined that he and the Catholic church should part ways, at least insofar as vows of obedience were concerned.

Unlike many English professors, Dr. Ventre was not a failed, promising, rising, falling, or would-be author. He was born to teach, and what he loved most in the world, second to his faith, was the written word.

He was a passionate teacher, who would read from Gerard Manley Hopkins, and crisscross the room, waving his arms, daring us to follow him into the heights of sprung rhythm poetry. He introduced us to early feminists, and the emerging American voice twentieth century with wit and joy and an infectious enthusiasm. He loved the 101 classes, precisely because it was a requirement and he had the chance to at least infatuate the most cynical student with the love of the possible.

All of our power, he contended, was contained within our capacity to communicate. And, when he was done with us, our minds awake, most of us would never view language the same way again.

I was in the honors English program, but caught every class of his that I could, even if it wasn't mandated by my curriculum. Even though he was not my adviser, I visited him often, and while I attended school, we were friends.

Until the day I came into his office to tell him I was leaving school.

I was a very good student, but I was very poor. Having no family, I supported myself. Two years after I entered University, Ronald Regan fulfilled his vendetta against higher learning and managed to cut the legs out of the grant and aid programs which supported merit scholars. So, after two hard years, working myself in and out of the hospital from sheer exhaustion, the young man I was dating offered to marry me. We'd leave Michigan, relocate, and I would finish school while he worked as a computer programmer. It was a life raft, and I grabbed it. Now, I happened to love Kevin, but I would have (and did) love anyone who was marginally kind to me.

When I told Dr. Ventre I was leaving school to marry, he thought I was pregnant.

I've known a lot of people who were anti-abortion in my live, but none who walked their talk like Ray Ventre did.

"You need to stay in school," he said. "The world will be missing something if your voice is gone."

I didn't understand. Even then I had a plain spoken, simple writing style. In part because I had been told that the average reader would read at 4th grade level by the time I was / if I was / a professional writer. So I struggled to write about complex things in simple language, the sum greater than the parts. But in the two years I sweated through my program, pushing, and pushing, spending as much as 40 hours on my hardest class - I was not "discovered" by the department. As yet, I didn't have a "voice".

Professor Ventre, who loved poetry almost as much as he loved the bible, pulled an worn, thick volume from his shelf. Without pretension, he opened the book and handed it to me.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't and danced his did ...

It is and remains one of my favorite poems by ee cummings. I had never read anything like it before.

"He wrote important things with simple language," said Ventre.

You have a voice. Your voice is the beginnings of a new voice. It shouldn't go unheard."

"Um..."

"If you're pregnant, my wife and I would be happy to adopt any baby of yours," he said, to my complete surprise. " Don't get married for the wrong reasons."

"Oh, no" I laughed, "I'm not pregnant."

What I didn't say was "adopt me."

I didn't know how to ask for the kind of help that I needed at the time. A room to sleep in, space to work.

None-the-less, never had a met a christian so willing to live by their values.

He didn't want me to marry for the wrong reasons. And yet he would not encourage me to abort a pregnancy. So he offered his own home to bridge the gap.

I remember he also used to teach in a maximum security prison, in addition to his university duties. There was a riot in the prison that year, and the prisoners got him out, even while they held others hostage.

Sometimes the ability to walk out of a lion's den comes from simple kindness and respect.

Ray Ventre did not profess his faith.

He walked it, much as I can tell, every day of his life.

Christians I have known II

Kathy O'Brien was the resident director of my dorm in college.

I used to visit her, and we'd eat and drink and talk about religion. She was the closest thing to an older sister I've ever had. She and I would sit and tell stories until the wee hours of the morning.
Like most freshman, I was a long way away from home. Unlike most freshman, there was no going back for me - so my faith was something I relied on heavily to make it through from day to day.

In Kathy's company, I found a consistent source of renewal for that faith.

She helped me manage my scholarship and aid package - as I had no one else to advise me. She was there to tell me when it might, or might not be appropriate to ask for help. And she gave no small amount of much needed mothering. She was always there at the worst of times, when doubt set in, and reminded me to appreciate the unexpected miracles that came my way.

Times are never easy, and those years in Michigan were particularly harsh. There was double digit unemployment in the county where I went to school. I was working as a waitress, an art model, and a library clerk at the time. I was trying to be self sufficient, but spent a fair amount of time feeling sorry for myself, given the uphill battle I faced and the circumstances I had come from.

Kathy lived by the conviction that human life has meaning, value, and no matter how many false starts we may have - each of us had the opportunity to walk in the master's footsteps. Each in our own way, each of service by our own definition, each able to return to our creator and say we had not wasted the gift of our life.

Not quite so sure of myself, I clung to my optimism like a life raft. Kathy understood that, and when she could, she buoyed that faith so that it would carry me a little bit farther. But she wasn't content to leave me in a state of arrested adolescence.

She once told me a story about a priest that took her class to meet a family of immigrant workers, taking them one of the girl's cast off bicycles. The family was so thrilled with the small gift, and all the children in the family took turns riding the bike, while the girl's in Kathy's class saw the conditions of the immigrant workers, compared to their own lives. They returned week after week, and gradually each of the girls brought such gifts as they could - learning at age 9 or 10 how very fortunate they were, and the beginnings of how to care for others. On the way home from one of the outings, the priest stopped a the bus to move a turtle out of the road.

There was no hubris or pride in the story, just a lesson.

It was part of the reason she served as director for the dorm. It was the beginnings of my awakening to service as a way of life. As her priest shaped her, she now shaped me - gently, by example - not into asking for what I needed from god, but towards asking of god and myself, how I might be of use.

And walking on that path has been a source of growth, frustration and tremendous joy.

It's been said before by better writers than I, but perhaps warrants saying again. Much as this generation has been taught to focus on themselves first, it does not seem to minimize our heartache. We tend to forget our own troubles when we are attending to others. Kathy taught me how much we are for each other, god's hands of comfort, help, hope, and commitment.

When I am most lost, I try to remember that the light comes from that-a-way. If I am feeling hopeless, helpless or useless -- I try to remember to look for where I might be useful.

Being useful is infinitely better than being "happy". When chased, happiness is never "found". Sense of purpose seems to ever give unexpected rewards. Not of gratitude. I find that embarrassing. Just simply being of use, seems to inspire joy. We find community in the company of others. We find our woes in another person's face, and find ourselves wiping away our own tears. We are no longer alone. There is a miracle that takes place in that moment, where we fulfill who and what we can be.

And the shine of it carries us home.

Christians I have known ...

Last weekend was Easter, and a thoughtful one for me in many ways.

I listened to Armenian hymns.

I read about gardening.

A friend and I had dinner and spent a great deal of time talking about writing, concluding that neither of us are doing enough of it.

My writer friend is a christian, small "c". His faith is a practice, not a belief system. The metaphors of the bible deeply inform his actions, but not typically his conversations - unless he's talking to me. More than once I have been accused of holding church services in my home. (Only with those interested and willing.)

When I was a kid, there was a group of christians who eschewed buildings, ritual and dogma. We met quietly in each others' homes, and we read and discussed and looked for a way to make sense of the world, following the footsteps of "rebel jesus" as closely as we knew how.

The first pastor of this non-church was named Bentley, and we sometimes loosely called ourselves "the Bentley group". It was a radical form of christianity. Tything was done through individuals, for individuals. Bentley himself raised serveral foster children, but never once spoke as though any of us ought to have or develop similar spiritual convictions. Under his gentle influence, we drifted towards being of service.

And, in the uptight, deeply conservative community where I lived, there were 250,000 of these gentle, unorganized, non-judgemental followers.

That was the closest thing to at home I have ever felt in community worship.

None-the-less, I am a quiet follower of the man jesus. Perhaps that comes from early childhood exposure, I don't know. Of the existence of god I have no question. Why I came to think that jesus closely represents that god, I can only say that perhaps it is the story teller in me that is drawn to the parables, which make sense to me. Most other christian dogma, I have little patience for. That which excludes, which claims there is only one path to the sacred seems the least likely and least consistent with the jesus I have read, and the god who sings to my soul.

That wars were fought over whether or not jesus had a purse (and thereby condoned the ownership of vast property) seems so far away from the basic lessons christ taught.

Mostly I have learned christianity from chritians. Sort of like kung fu from a practicing master.

The Fat Waitresss

"I can tell first thing when I come into a place if the service is going to be awful," sneered the emaciated gentlemen to his three companions, "see that bulge of fat around her belly!"

See the hint of stretch marks, dear sir, as in recently recovering from pregnancy. How would you like to be working on your feet all day, one month after giving birth?

This actually happened at one of my favorite neighborhood diners recently, where the waitresses are busy, hardworking, and almost always pleasant.

"See," said a second gent, head to toe in fair trade Central American clothing, "What happens when you pay them minimum wage - they stop hustling for tips and it's all downhill from there. Portland's even worse."

Dear second gentleman, have you ever spent a day in your life hustling for change? Because that's pretty common on the breakfast shift. I worked the breakfast shift many a year before I had my first professional job. How 'bout you - what's the hardest day's work you've ever done?

I know, spare me the bad old days, but please, where did we get the idea that we have a servant class and that some of us deserve to be "served" in any particular manner?

I used to love waiting tables, for the years that my legs could do it. I felt, mostly, like people were guests in my home. That wasn't just a work ethic. That's a life ethic. I'll try to treat strangers as well as I would family, because that's how I was raised.

Until they start to look at me like a footstool.

No, we're are not the plushy furniture you rest your weary feeties on. We are human beings, and as such, deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. We do not yet live in a feudal or caste society - last time I checked. And even if we did, I would beware the consequences of treating the peasants with disdain.

Mostly, in this life, you get back what you have given.

Go ahead, offer up that waitress, nurse, caregiver the bile of your stingy heart.

Just remember who stirring your soup...

Must Make it To Canada

We share everything, David and I.

This week we are sharing a cold.

It's a menacing, snarling virus that I don't want to share with anyone else.

So I'm going to nap now, and see if I'm well enough to go to Canada tomorrow and get taught more of the tools of my trade.

Head must not explode...

I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places...

I had a visit from a long gone lover in a dream last night. I was running a fever, so it's not surprising the dream was a little weird.

We were hosting a party, and he stopped by, healthy and lithe, not having aged at all. He put his hand gently on my back, or on my hand, as he walked past, and left before all the guests were gone.

"But wait," I said, stepping into the elevator. "I was hoping we could talk."

"It's all be said," he replied.

Damn dream.

And then I was left with a long list of "I wanted, I wanted, I wanted..."

I wanted to fix all the things I'd done wrong, say all the things I never said. I wanted, somehow, to make things finish on that note that story tellers hope for. That ending which makes meanings out of things that have many meanings and no meanings.

On waking, I found myself wondering at desire. How selfish a thing desire is sometimes. I know that there are many churches which espouse that we should only have sex within the confines of marriage, something most of us ignore before we're married, and some continue to ignore after marriage.

Not typically being a pundit for right wing thinking, there's usually an advantage to a least considering the other point of view.

What is sex for, when it's not for making babies?

Is it a way to get closer to someone?

Or is it a way to use someone, as a fleshtoy, to get your freak on?

Is there a problem with a usurious relationship, if it is conducted by mutual consent?

I wish there was an easy answer. I don't think there is.

But I think it's something we need to be able to talk about, honestly if we can, at least to the people we're having sex with.

Most of the broken hearts I've seen or caused or had, seemed to come from not having distinguished what engaging in physical intimacy means.

And it doesn't mean one thing. I believe it probably means as many different things as there are relationships. For me it means things beyond words. But I still think we should be able to talk about it. The more I grow in this wondrous, wounded place the world is, the more I am convinced that it is a many layered system of complex systems.

It doesn't seem to reduce to primal elements.

Listening to the Dali Lama, he pointed out some basic truths, among them that there is no one truth - for everyone. One person, one truth, he said.

How can we hope to engage another, without an understanding of what that engagement means to them as well as to us? Without knowing what their truth is? Lest we wreak havoc in their lives and ours.

We need so much. And need gets a bad rap, so we try really hard never to admit our need. The most secure people I've ever met are people whose needs are being met.

Among the many things we require, we need to be wanted and loved, exactly as we are. And our deepest urges, those things that we are afraid to tell anyone or afraid to share - are probably the things that we most risk in our lives with our intimate partners. It takes great courage to stand before someone literally and psychologically naked.

Focusing outward, then, how can we, as a society, have the audacity to say what is marriage and what is not?

Every marriage is different, based on different rules and assumptions. Every marriage has it's own private universe of comprehension. How many times have you heard one person in a couple say "I married my best friend" ?

My husband and I share this uncommon belief that there is little difference between the commitment we make to our friends, and to our marriage. That's a good thing, because we'd probably make someone who didn't share this belief more than a little miserable, insecure, or frightened. But we are pretty attached to each other. And, as much as we can, we befriend for life. Being married sometimes hampers the amount of energy we can give our friends, but our door is always open and there is always a spare couch.

I am even a little suspicious of the structure that tries to restrict my commitment to a single nuclear family. The larger our family the greater our security in the world. Security of all kinds. Love, friendship, support, camaraderie, advice, help with the living of life, the give and take in times of need and plenty.

So if my best friend happened to be a girl, does that makes a difference in whether or not I should be married?

If we allow ourselves to go down that track, then do we start checking on whether people who are marrying and having sex intend to have children?

People who are passed child bearing age, should they not be able to marry?

How can we have a state create a constitutional law which prohibits any marriage?

If one is really going to bring religion into the government - something we are not supposed to do anyway, consider this:

God was the first matchmaker.

Where love is found, is there not also god?

And what god hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

Fields of Gold

It is not our wealth that makes us whole.

It is our memories that make us wealthy.

And the smallest bits of golden memories that this good life gives us are that are precious cannot be purchased, cannot be sold, cannot be foreclosed upon, cannot be taken away.

In our adolescence as a country we have made a worship of individualism, and broken our hearts on its empty promises.

So, today, if you find your pocket empty, fill it with someone else's hand.

To paraphrase Dr. Martin Luther King, to serve only takes a willing heart.

Service isn't sacrifice. Service isn't communism. Service ranges the spectrum from simple kindness to giving your life willingly for another. It's a wide spectrum. We can all find a place for ourselves somewhere in there.

Personally, i thank god for stevie wonder every day.

Sometimes service is just finding our passion and sharing it.

There are many reasons to do something, and profit may well be the least of them.

Work, with passion, at work.

Live, with passion, at life.

And you'll never be poor.