All posts by Kingsview & Co posts from Michael A. King and guests

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; dean, Eastern Mennonite Seminary; and owner, Cascadia Publishing House LLC
Creation care, inspiration, Mental and behavioral health and recovery, Teachings of Jesus

Presence and Love Dancing by the Dead-Ash Fire

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Dancing by the fire image“The Affair,” a flawed yet riveting Showtime series, weaves over five seasons a web of sin and sorrow, of poor choices and consequences. One character’s inability across decades to stop harming loved ones and himself is horrifying.

Yet as Noah ages and life holds him sometimes brutally accountable, his heart opens. Noah tells a traumatized Joanie, whom amid tangled choices he once believed his daughter, of epigeneticist Eddie’s theory. Eddie believes trauma can reshape how our genes are expressed, meaning trauma can be biologically passed down. So if your ancestors lost a child you might feel effects without directly experiencing it.

But Noah also tells Joanie, “If trauma and pain can echo through generations, then so can love. If abandonment can ripple across time, then so can presence.”

Ever since that episode, the hope that not only the bad but also the good can ripple down has haunted and inspired me. I think I see it again in Steven Petrow’s Washington Post column (March 7, 2021) on “How you will be remembered depends on how you live today. So, too, does your happiness as you get older.” Petrow begins with poignant examples of what his parents’ tombstones say. His dad’s describes, “Journalist and Professor”; his mom’s testifies, “Beloved by all.”

Petrow explains that his father’s identity was so wrapped up in résumé-building that he had a terrible time adjusting to the loss of his professional perks as he aged. But his mom, though quite professionally accomplished herself, made the transition to “eulogy virtues,” the gifts to life and loved ones that linger even after death.

Petrow also reports his own temptation to live “more like my dad, with much of my energy focused on earning more, beefing up my résumé looking to achieve greater success.” Then he attends to Arthur C. Brooks. “‘After 70,’ Brooks wrote in an essay, ‘some people stay steady in happiness [while] others get happier until death. Others—men in particular—see their happiness plummet.'” And Petrow connects this with his quest to shift “from résumé virtues to eulogy virtues.”

It strikes me that résumé virtues can help pass on trauma and abandonment. In “The Affair,” Noah’s passion to be a best-selling author catalyzes considerable damage. Eulogy virtues may be more likely to pass on presence and love.

This matters to me because Petrow and I must be nearly the same age, and I’m in the thick of wrestling with résumé versus eulogy priorities. My heart is on the eulogy side. But I still miss parts (not all!) of the days my life revolved more than now around professional commitments and weighing this or that decision with potential to change lives for good or ill.

Now sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of being back having too many meetings all the time and even navigating the anger of a colleague who was angry because I couldn’t schedule the appointments he thought I owed him quickly and often enough. That phase seemed soul-damaging while I was in it and often was. Yet in the dreams there is a frisson to being endlessly busy and in demand that can haunt me when I awake to its absence.

So though I’ve long aimed not to live like Petrow’s dad, I resonate with his late-life pain. And I’m glad Petrow ends with love for a father whose happiness declined because of lost résumé status but who even so had fostered eulogy values:

Soon after he died, and more than 15 years after he retired, his colleagues and students profusely acknowledged his résumé virtues—but their tributes also eulogized his humanity, noting he had been “a wonderful mentor and advocate,” and not least of all, “an amazing man with a kind heart.”

Petrow concludes, “I wish my dad had been able to hear that.”

I won’t be able to hear what’s said at my funeral, but Petrow helps me continue the move from résumé to eulogy activities. This seems to me particularly urgent now in a country and world unraveling as politicizing everything destroys us; climate extremes tear at bodies, souls, and power grids; a pandemic rips up customs that once spelled home. These are such large forces the temptation is to see the résumé builders—the powerful people—as our main hope now.

But what if that ceaseless restless quest for more better best is not only a solution to but also a cause of what needs healing? What if for those of us who attend to the teachings of Jesus, Petrow is updating give up your life to find it, take up your cross and follow me, for what good will it do you to gain the whole world and lose your soul?

What if urgently called for today are eulogy values? What if that means a vital need is to  pass on—even in tiny ways—presence and love, soul-pursuing rather than world-chasing, to echo Jesus? In this eulogy-centric stage I draw some comfort from that.

And I dare I hope I’m participating in that process even through treating ash trees and with dead-ash fires:

As nights no longer get cold enough to kill emerald ash borers, billions of ash trees are dying. At our house we treated one majestic ash. It was already borer-riddled but the tree guy said just maybe not too late. Last spring luxuriant new leaves crowned the tree. One limited yet glorious miracle. Let that ash tree live long enough for someone to bring a leafing branch from it to my funeral.

But we had to pay $10,000 to take down other dying giants before they fell on our house. Then this: A year ago Joan and I went abroad. A daughter, her husband, and a six-month-old granddaughter joined us. By the time we flew back into panicked Newark airport crowds, our pre-COVID-19 customs were gone and have yet to return. Since Newark we’ve lived in a bubble in which we routinely see only the loved ones who flew back with us that fateful day.

Fridays they stay over into Saturday. Recently I realized our granddaughter really likes rituals, including helping me set up fires in our basement woodstove. Now before Friday bedtime I ask if she wants to go to the basement. Wriggling with joy, she makes me leap to head off her going down the steps herself.

We start the fire. With dead ash wood. Yet from this death springs life: She delights, the flames turning her face golden. She points to the TV. Not good. Except. She’s learned you can play music on TV. So we go to a music channel that’s not too wild but has mellow beats. She starts to dance. And it becomes clear that, like her mother who so loves dancing she’s taken lessons, she gets the beat. She jigs back and forth. She raises both index fingers to point, grinning hugely at dance partners, while she twirls.

I think of my family history. Trauma going back centuries, including depression, anxiety, suicide, and yes, abandonment. On Joan’s side the baby girl who lost her dad at 10 months, its own abandonment. The trauma ripples down and is for us and billions reactivated by COVID-19 wounds.

Then I wonder if also rippling down the generations will be that little girl dancing by the dead-ash fire, experiencing even amid Covid isolations presence and love and giving it back to us. And I dare hope such eulogy practices will linger even longer than the résumé activities now fading.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. Parts of this column were first prepared for a February 28, 2021, sermon at Salford Mennonite Church.

gratitude, inspiration, Mennonite poet, Poetry

Winter Color, by Julia Baker Swann

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I hear a slow summer wind in this sponged carpet of russet needles
under my feet. Smoldering burnt orange around silver tree roots and evergreen.

Husks of tall blonde meadow grasses sway in the barely-breeze.
Skeleton seeds wait, gold even without light.

Rocks splattered with the creep of fungus and lichen. White, yellow,
and neon.
In the warm pockets around each stone’s breath, bright clover tests growth.

When inside my home the clouds are a heavy drape.
I crave the sun-spill across the floor.

When I go out the moss grey sky is a complex churn.
I would need violet, black, and even a dab of rose to paint these layers.

The subtle hues ask me to quiet. To clothe myself
in terracotta and winter-berry, silver-tone, tawny down,

deer-skin, dusted pine, honey-sap and moth-wing white.
To chant these muted colors like a bold prayer,

treasuring the particular sounds.

—Julia Baker Swann is completing an MA in Theopoetics and Writing at Bethany Theological Seminary and is poetry editor at Geez Magazine. She is author of The Moon Is Always Whole, her first poetry collection (DreamSeeker Books/Cascadia, 2020).

Anabaptist-Mennonite, Mennonite poet, Poetry, Writing

Country Night, by Jean Janzen

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Lying awake I remember branches
scraping the night window, I, a child
away from my crowded home to my
cousin’s spacious country rooms,
she and I in separate beds.

How to hold the memory of my heart
racing in the dark, the small body
curled, the wind wild? How to hold
that child until dawn ignites the leaf
with its tiny separate rooms,
the stem clinging?

—Jean Janzen, a poet living in Fresno, California, is the author of six previous collections of poetry who has received a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship and other awards. A graduate of Fresno Pacific University and California State University of Fresno, she has taught at Fresno Pacific and Eastern Mennonite University. Janzen is author of What the Body Knows (DreamSeeker Books/Cascadia, 2015).

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, Bible, biblical interpretation

Protect Her from the Chaos

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It has been increasingly painful to watch my granddaughter, old enough to take so much in but too young to talk, use hands to communicate. Whenever she sees something to interact with, she waves. This includes cars and trucks but increasingly settles on people. And above all other children. Yet when she sees children, COVID-19 distances her. So she will wave and wave. Once when her grandma took her to a playground and her waving to potential playmates failed, she burst into tears. Her hands speak her longing. And highlight the distances traumatizing our world these days.

Those hands yearning take me back to books I encountered as a 1980s seminary student but which had been released around the time I was born: Principalities and Powers by G. B. Caird (1956); and  Christ and the Powers, by Hendrikus Berkhof (1953). I’d not heard of either before.

But given how regularly the Apostle Paul’s references to them in letters to the Romans, Ephesians, Colossians were cited in church when I was growing up, I had heard ceaselessly about the principalities and powers. My vague sense was that they were satanic forces of evil, fearsome but not in ways hugely pertinent to my youthful realities.

Caird’s and Berkhof’s were the first treatments of the powers that made me come alive.  Both wrestle with whether Paul ultimately believes literally in angelic or demonic powers and both shift at least some emphasis to what Berkhof calls “structures of earthy existence.” Here the focus starts to fall on the patterns and systems that make up our cultural, political, social, legal, military realms, and more.

It is no accident that Caird and Berkhof were writing in the aftermath of a planet and countries and cultures devastated by world wars. Their books were released in the decade after World War 2, a decade which also saw the Korean War, the Cold War, and so many more occasions for thinking through the powers.

Particularly Berkhof taught me to see such structures as both evil and good. Particularly Berkhof feels to me alive in spirit today, addressing the core realities we are at this moment living through as he tells us that the structures are evil. They are evil because they demand loyalties only God deserves, as when a nation commands us to pledge allegiance in ways that clash with obeying God.

As a Mennonite raised to believe in two main realms, one the world’s, one God’s, and to be loyal to God’s when they clash, I practically drank in this view with my mother’s milk. This is why when I turned draft age during the Vietnam War, I registered as a conscientious objector loyal to God rather than then-President Nixon and the military he commanded.

But that is not the end of the story Berkhof tells us about the powers. For Berkhof the powers are also good. Commenting on Paul’s conclusion in Colossians 1:15-17 that Christ “is before all things, and in him all things hold together,” Berkhof says that “Diverse human traditions, the course of earthly life as conditioned by the heavenly bodies, morality, fixed religious and ethical rules, the administration of justice and the ordering of the state—all these can be tyrants over our life, but in themselves they are not.  .  . ; they are the dikes with which God encircles His good creation, to keep it in His fellowship and protect it from chaos. . . .”

And that takes me back to my granddaughter’s longing hand. For that hand to touch other hands, it needs powers that protect her from the chaos.

On the nights when it looked like U.S. powers were on the cusp of unleashing direct military intervention against protestors for racial justice, some among the military powers I would still register conscientious objection to rose against such domination. Here and there in politics and government as some leaders show us what demonic idolizing of the powers looks like, others, often humbler in ego and role, protect us from chaos.

I pray that in the days ahead and for years to come many hands, seen and unseen, will build dikes against chaos and clasp my granddaughter’s outstretched hand.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. Until recently, when Mennonite World Review was merged into Anabaptist World, he wrote “Unseen Hands” for Mennonite World Review, which published an earlier version of this column.

 

Awe and wonder, Creation, Grief and loss, hope, inspiration, Poetry

To the Three Ducks Flying Beneath the Dog Star, by Kathryn Winograd

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So little you know, wild-winged
and unshaken beneath a dog star,
half-grazing the pines, the bare winter
aspen I stand in the dark wash of
waiting for the tip of a yellow moon.
In Ohio, girlhood, these April stars
circled a pond bull-dozed
by my father, a raft of cattail
where the red-wings spun their nests
above the scrim of caught water.
Tonight, in this near dark, so close
my hand could circle it,
Sirius hovers above the red
factory lights of Pueblo
and the Sangre de Cristo blue-
washed in this hour.
I am cold in this wind,
in this spine of the Milky Way,
these blue white stars named
for a bear or a lyre or a woman
weeping her dead into a river.
I think I was still half-sleeping
in a field of grass, in a haze
of stars, in a far and nameless
country you care nothing
about, burying and unburying
those I love. Such quiet,
the mining trucks to the north
stalled and the little generator
of a shed where no one lives
in winter shut down.
And then, your wings, almost
against the moon. Why
must I always be alone,
searching for something beautiful?

—Kathryn Winograd, a poet and essayist, divides her time between Littleton, Colorado, and a “pie in the sky” cabin her husband and she dreamed of for twenty years before stumbling across forty acres of high meadow ranch land near Phantom Canyon. She is the author of six books, including her most recent collection of essays, Slow Arrow: Unearthing the Frail Children, which received the Bronze Medal in Essay for the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Her first collection, Phantom Canyon: Essays of Reclamation, was a finalist in the Foreword Reviews 2014 INDIEFAB Book of the Year Awards.  Her poetry collection, Air Into Breath, an alternate for the Yale Series for Younger Poets, won the Colorado Book Award in Poetry. She currently teaches for Regis University’s Mile High MFA. She wrote “To Three Ducks Flying Beneath the Dog Star” during the first months of the pandemic.

Faith, hope, inspiration

Sourdough from East Coast to West and Even Zarephath

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It should be emphasized upfront: the primary motivation was neither self-improvement nor altruistic baking for loved ones. It was fear of shortages.

Along with family, I was out of the country when COVID-19 began its wildfire stage. We returned to grocery shelves mostly still normal except for whole corridors emptied of toilet paper. But just days later half-empty shelves became the norm.

Flour started to vanish. Especially wheat flour, my favorite for bread. And yeast. My alarm rose. Amid such big fears as socioeconomic collapse, loved ones getting sick, or I myself being infected post-heart surgery,  I was beginning to experience my day-to-day pandemic concern: fear of shortages.

What if I couldn’t have bread? Especially wheat bread? The antidote became clear after several days of researching the flour/yeast supply challenges: sourdough starter! You can grow sourdough starter from flour and water. Eventually it feeds its way into creating its own sour-tasting yeast mix.

That didn’t solve flour shortages. I’ve not figured out how to fix these by, say, growing and grinding my own grains, but only by watching for sources of the occasional five pounds here or there. I try to accept that as anxiety producing as the erratic supply is, the situation is dramatically less problematic than billions of people have long navigated every day.

So far the flour has not run out. More amazingly, the yeast keeps growing as the starter thrives on. I experience a bit more fully now the power of the Old Testament story of the widow of Zarephath, who has “nothing baked, only a handful of meal in a jar, and a little oil in a jug; I am now gathering a couple of sticks, so that I may go home and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die.”

But the prophet Elijah, confronting barren land after God has stopped rain, is out of food. God promises the widow will feed him. Elijah tells her to keep implementing her plan but first to make a little cake for him and then one for herself and her son, because “The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth.” And so it happens (1 Kings 17: 8-16). It may not have been sourdough but it sure reminds me of it.

I‘ll never forget the surge, so intense I discovered the blood pressure I regularly measure had soared, when on the seventh day of feeding my sourdough starter doubled and more. And when dropped in water to test its potency, it practically leaped out, so energized it was.

My family is bewildered. This is not the Michael they know. He’s made it all the way to Medicare without even hinting at the urge someday to bake bread. Now he feeds his starters, Paulette (who eats unbleached flour) and Buddy (who eats wheat flour plus unbleached white) whenever they become exhausted.  In an effort to experience more hints of the Zarephath miracle, he also does not throw out starter discard (a byproduct of feeding the starter) but offers it to waffles and English muffins.

Lo, the recipients of this version of flour and oil are enthusiastic. They plead for an inexhaustible supply. I do my best to provide.

And recently I discovered the joy of providing not just the baked goods but spreading their source across the country. As so many of us have experienced worldwide, COVID-19 had inflicted trauma on West Coast children, grandchildren, and grandparents. Joan and I had previously relied on juggling vacations but often also work travels to include stop-offs in the West. But now such options to bridge the gap between East and West Coasts were blocked. We risked soon going for a year without visiting grandchildren growing up as fast as spring corn stalks. Various risk factors made flying seem unwise. Finally we settled on doing what we could with masks and careful stops to drive and meet halfway across the country.

What balm for traumatized souls. Older grandchildren Kadyn and Maya, eight and four, never before having experienced sourdough baking, each took delighted turns helping to mix and knead. Then my daughter Kristy had an inspired request: Could she take some starter back West? Carefully the feeding and dividing was done, and a starter child born from starter that had by now thrived across some 10 states headed forth across more states and miles.

A week or so later, as we mourned the renewed chasm of 3,000 miles between households came photos from Kristy: bread and muffins made from that sourdough.

When Maya who had helped make bread with me realized her mom was using a version of PawPaw’s starter, she was thrilled.

Through sourdough I’m nurtured—to my surprise given just trying to fix anxiety—in ways that help me grasp why so many new bakers have turned flour and yeast scarce. Sourdough doesn’t fix pandemic nightmares and deaths. But it can feel like healing balm on the wounds.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He writes “Unseen Hands” for Mennonite World Review, which published an earlier version of this column.

hope, Teachings of Jesus

Getting Through

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Years ago after I had published some of her books, I slipped into a talk Mennonite author Katie Funk Wiebe was giving at a retirement community. Although I had long connected with Katie in relation to publishing, I had only met her briefly a decade before. Even back then she was at retirement age and writing particularly on aging. Now in her 80s she was still writing away and active enough to be speaking 1300 miles from her Kansas home.

When I crept into the chapel where I was to help sell her books, I was instantly impressed. Why? Because we often view 80s as winding-down time. Such signals are even stronger as COVID-19 makes some see those over 60 (like me) as having few valuable years left. Yet there was a majesty to Katie that was riveting, even awe-inspiring, as she stood there framed by that head of white hair simultaneously dignified and wild and told her truths. I saw the Katie who in Border Crossing (DreamSeeker Books, rev. ed. 2003) yearned to have done more galloping “at breakneck speed. . . .”

A man likely still older asked Katie this: As we age, as ears and eyes, limbs, even brains fail, how is God with us then? And what are we worth then?

The next questioner wondered what it means to believe God remains present when dementia takes away everything we may have thought of as defining a person.

Katie pondered. She seemed not determined to get answers just right. She just offered the thoughts that came. A main response was to tell of walking with her daughter Christine. After years of failing health, Christine had finally moved in to be taken care of by Katie before dying.

Katie said some days were very hard with not much to be done but get through them. At the end of each day they’d sit with each other. They’d ask what in that day had been life giving, what life denying.

Sometimes they found life-giving things to be thankful for, even if as small as the sun shining. Other days, confessed Katie, they could think of nothing at all. The day had been grueling, even torturous. Those days they’d just sit with and sometimes hold each other and thank God that they still had each other.

In the midst of COVID-19 and so many chapters of the Christian calendar we’ve lived through in recent months, including Lent, Palm/Passion Sunday, Easter, Ascension Day, Trinity Sunday, and more, the Jesus story says that the great takes the form of the low, that God sometimes values the very opposite of what we do, that God is larger than death but also present in death and beyond. I suspect this matters as we confront—often squabbling over political implications—wrenching accounts of persons of all ages, often older but often enough not, savaged by COVID-19 and too frequently taken or grieving one taken.

And I think often that the upside-down Jesus is evident in Katie Funk Wiebe. I see Jesus in Katie’s head of white hair flaring, pondering with her questioners what is left to celebrate when we have little but dim eyes, failed ears, false teeth, a brain that may not even know who we are.

Amid worry that normalcy may not return soon or ever in its old forms, I remember Katie not fixing what can’t be fixed but sitting with dying Christine and even then being grateful for what remained present to be cherished. Both Jesus and Katie are gone now in bodily form, but I sense their spirits living on, intertwining not so much in answers to what lies ahead but in ongoing presence amid whatever each day brings.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He writes “Unseen Hands” for Mennonite World Review, which published an earlier version of this column.

family relationships, Mental health

See Me

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A blessing of six grandchildren is the chance to learn again a key longing of being human: “See me.” The ache to be seen is fundamental. It shapes us from beginning to end and through everything in between.

But oh how it shapes us as we begin. I see this in each grandchild. And I’ve found that with each the moment when we mutually experience the seeing changes our relationship forever. I could give many examples; let me try three representative ones.

I’ll always remember Maya that day we Skyped across a continent. She was nine-ish months. I loved her. I worked at getting to know her. But it was work. I had to keep experimenting with how she wanted to be related to. Then that day she kept bopping her head up and down.

Some impish urge caused me to copy her. She stopped. She stared. She bopped again. I bopped. Again she tested me. I bopped. Suddenly she grinned. Bop bop bop. Back and forth across the miles we bopped.

When I next saw her, I bopped. She bopped. We were launched. Three years later the bond grows ever stronger. What had happened? I believe that in the bopping Maya grasped that she had been seen.

August’s parents needed a babysitter for most of a day. Would I consider it? Yes. I drove five hours to figure out how to engage August. Bopping didn’t cut it. He just stared at his grandfather with a gaze that said, “You’re even more out of it than I thought.”

Experiment with this. Test that. Nothing. No crisis. We were getting along but perfunctorily. He was tolerating me. Then I got on hands and knees and followed. Everywhere he crawled, I crawled. Until . . . aha! He realized he was in charge.

Grins and grins. Crawl a few feet then turn. Is PawPaw following? Yes! More dazzling grins.

Now he walks and talks. But if he gets grumpy all I have to do is follow him, to his room, to look at sheep, to any of his current interests. All he needs is the following that tells him, “I see you.”

My youngest granddaughter, five months, needed figuring out. She responded to typical gestures, including my go-to, walking. But again it was work, a quest for what she really wanted.

One day I added speechifying to walking. I told her with some passion, including hand gestures, about grapes and raisins. I explained that she is a grape but raisins are grapes that have been aged and dried, that people my age are raisins, that her mother is half-grape, half-raisin. She was quite taken with the grandfatherly insights.

Then amid the speechifying her mom put her on a floor blanket. I got down with her. Her brow furrowed—What? What is he doing!—before yielding to a smile. I was joining her! I had seen her. Our relationship was a ballet from that point forward.

I ponder the state of the world. I ponder politicians who demand see me see me see me. I ponder their followers, who likewise want politicians to see us, cater to us, put us first. Perhaps by now it shouldn’t surprise but it does: Even as a pandemic sweeps the world, instead of pulling together many of us are splitting over whether COVID-19 is real, serious, to be fought against even if the economic toll is high—or is a form of fake news, perhaps serious but not that serious, not serious enough to shut things down. Once again the see-me cries emerge and revolve around you see me, not I will see you.

I wonder if we’ve corrupted the see-me transactions and attachments of childhood in ways that destroy. I wonder what would happen if we relearned to see each other at the primal levels I suspect the children within us all crave underneath the distortions of see me into which we keep falling.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He writes “Unseen Hands” for Mennonite World Review, which published an earlier version of this column.

Awe and wonder, gratitude, inspiration

Surrender’s Blessings

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Though we’d just met when hospital orderlies called us each from waiting room to preop,  she and I agreed: We didn’t want to go. Trained by a culture that prioritizes control over surrender, I asked my orderly, “What if I don’t go?” My new friend concurred: “We’re going on strike.”

Yet off we went to surrender our markers of control: wallets , rings, watches, glasses, clothes. Control was reduced to fumbling with a hospital gown to preserve dignity–barely.

Control had worked during the 40 years cardiologists reported, “Maybe someday you’ll need your aortic valve replaced, but probably not until your 60s, and maybe never.” Now an echocardiogram had shifted “maybe” to consulting a surgeon.

Still I pursued control. I doubled exercise, enhanced nutrition, lost more weight. Maybe I could still strengthen my heart enough to  skip surgery. I felt ever better; a painful challenge if forced into surgery would be relinquishing pre-surgery well-being.

Then another echocardiogram. The valve was leaking badly, its shrinking surface area raising pressures that would eventually destroy my heart. Mortality odds were soaring; maintaining control by resisting surgery would do me in. Any vestige of control now meant choosing surrender.

I grieved this into the final hours. Still, due less to strength of character than to bleak alternatives and a hospital system that sucked me into its inexorable protocols, surrender I did.

I most strongly felt the surrender as not just forced but ultimately embraced after tearful goodbyes to spouse, daughters, siblings gave way to the anesthesiology fellow pushing my stretcher with wheels as balky as some shopping carts down lonely halls. I apologized for her having to explain “He had a lot of good-byes” when an operating room phone call asked why we were late. Gently she told me, “It was moving to see the love.” It’s time to yield to care like this, I thought.

Such kindness was underscored as we reached the operating room, an efficient team inserted IVs, lines, whatnots, and that syringe slowly pushing in to take consciousness. All team members used my name and gave their names. They honored me as person with feelings and fears.

What a gift when offered to one on the cusp of being chilled 10 degrees below normal, chest sawed open, heart stopped, blood and breath circulated by machine, the symbolic and in many ways literal seat of being to be held in a surgeon’s hands as aorta is clamped off,  diseased valve removed, new valve sewed in. Would a clot break loose? Warmth ever return? Heart restart?

Then puzzling light and shadows. I remembered the man born blind reporting, after Jesus healed him, seeing men like trees walking. Through ICU windows I was glimpsing midday sun on hospital buildings.

Though pain and recovery lay ahead, I had awakened to so many gifts: discovering that the feared breathing tube had already been removed, that my incision had been minimally invasive, that I was . . . alive! My mind seemed still mine. The stuffed narwhal my granddaughter had given me, matching her own so we could together be comforted, was tucked in beside me. Love filled the room—first as compassionate staff cared for me, then as loved ones arrived.

Many of the effects of surrender in this context were so intense as to be almost mystical beyond words, but truth-telling does require reporting that not all was peaches and cream. After catheter was first removed a combination of anesthesia aftereffects and my reaction to lost privacy completely froze my bladder. This continued for so many hours that if I had not surrendered to some, shall we say, very direct interventions, what I had always anxiously assured my spouse could happen on too long a plane flight would have happened: something would have burst.

But let me ask you, if you had trouble managing some of your affairs in public and you were told somebody always had to be with you, what would  you do?

Or suppose you at last negotiated that you would be allowed to try by yourself so long as you stayed near the call button. By now even the most rules-affirming staff–who were, after all, just trying to obey the rules to keep the patient safe–realized creative alternatives must be sought. Then suppose every time you started to unfreeze you could hear your heart monitor, wi-fi carrying it out to main hall and nurses’ station for all to enjoy with you, beeping and cavorting with every move while you waited for someone to race in and code  you. What would you do?

Well, what I did was this: I yielded to catheterization whenever the freezing had gone on too long to remain unaddressed. And I turned to my post-partum daughters, who had in total delivered six babies and had learned, I now began to grasp in fuller ways by far than before, what it means to give up all privacy and bodily control. Minute by minute and hour by hour–thank you dear children–they coached me through.

Frozen body functions remained, however, far outweighed by learning like never before the power of being cared for in body and spirit. One nurse, sensing the exhaustion Joan and I were feeling due not only to recovery intensities but also constant night interruptions and noises, proactively conceptualized the entire night so she could structure it to give us the longest periods of unbroken sleep.

Another night, Eun-Hui and Bryna needed to take extra care of the endless array of wires and tubes attached to me and into me, into my chest, arms, carotid artery, and even, I was intimidated to learn, the very core of my heart. There at 3:00 a.m. they stood on either side of me, Eun-Hui supervising as each took turns checking bandages, adding ointments, in a few wonderful cases taking this or that out for good.

Off to my left,  an utterly worn-out alien slept on a fold-out chair. It was my poor spouse, ears muffled in noise-canceling headphones, each eye looking like a magnified fly’s eye under a black mask. A nurse herself who had once cared for people in my situation, knew the dangers, and had endured months of worry long before the traumas of supporting me through surgery, now she could rest into the gift of other nurses taking over. She particularly deserved that after the first night, when with no place in to stretch out while I was in intensive care she had slept sitting straight up except with head bent onto my bed.

So now on both sides of me for over half an hour Eun-Hui and Bryna painstakingly worked. Carefully, gently, skillfully, they created what came to seem to me a holy time, a period of understanding as well or better than I ever had in worship the healing effects of the laying on of hands. When they were done, Eun-Hui asked how I was doing then as they turned to leave of all things thanked me, adding with a smile, “You were a very patient patient.”

I realize, with sorrow, that millions who deserve it don’t get such care, including as overseen in this case by a surgeon whose colleagues kept volunteering that I was in world-class hands. I realize as well, after starting to see the enormity of the claims my bills are making on Medicare, that anyone who thinks the challenge of health-care costs is solved simply with hard work and personal responsibility has not tried having a heart valve replaced in the U.S. health system.

So I am profoundly thankful as I remember those hospital days, just three but with effects that shaped not only my body but also my spirit for the rest of however many days I still have. I feel grief for a culture that shapes me and us to learn so  much more about control than surrender. And I feel sheer gratitude at having been invited to learn that surrender offers not only curses but also mystic blessings.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He writes “Unseen Hands” for Mennonite World Review, which published an earlier version of this column.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, Church structures, Doubt, Faith, formation, Future of the church, Mennonite, Mennonite church, worship

Enriched by the Churched and A-Churched

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When I became a seminary dean in 2010, polls were showing that membership and participation in traditional Christian denominations was falling. As the decade proceeded, the unraveling gathered speed. In an October 17, 2019 update, Pew Research Center reported that “In U.S., Decline of Christianity Continues at Rapid Pace.” Across some 10 years, the percentage of Americans who describe themselves as Christian is down some 12 percent to 65 percent. Meanwhile “the religiously unaffiliated share of the population, consisting of people who describe their religious identity as atheist, agnostic or ‘nothing in particular,’ now stands at 26%, up from 17% in 2009.”

In recent years I’ve left to others the challenges and opportunities of running seminaries during such a time as this.  This has given me more energy to focus on the reality that this isn’t just an institutional matter; it’s deeply personal. When I was growing up I don’t recall knowing anyone in my immediate circle of loved ones being other than Christian and a regular churchgoer. Now the majority of my friends and family are what I might describe, respectfully, as “A-churched” in the Greek sense of “A-” pointing to an absence of.

As Pew indicates, and whatever the trajectory may become in future decades, for now this trend seems only to be strengthening among those I love. It has perhaps also intensified as political polarization separates Christians into camps who can only shake their heads in disbelief that the other camp could be understood to be truly Christian.

This came to mind as I was discussing with one of my pastors participating in a ritual of congregational healing in preparation for treatment of a leaking aortic valve. At the same time, my wife Joan was working out logistics of an informal ritual with a circle of her friends who had supported one of their group also needing heart treatment. They were now offering this ritual to me.

I value both settings, I realized. As one formed in the church before I even knew who I was, I continue to experience the power of a community gathered in Jesus’ name in hopes of offering to each other and the world at least glimpses of being the Body of Christ.

And as one who has personally spent periods traveling through many of the “A-” dynamics of our age—A-theism, A-gnosticism, A-churchgoing—I also was moved to envision support organized not against but outside of traditional congregational structures.

I‘m grateful that at the moment I’m not responsible for envisioning how this plays out institutionally, as congregations, church schools, denominations, and faith traditions wrestle with what it means to thrive—or not—amid current trends. My time of institutional leadership as the trends gathered force showed me I didn’t have failsafe initiatives.

But as I ponder the personal dimensions of all this, I do draw some inspiration from simultaneously experiencing the power of both formal and informal communities of care. When I discussed some of this with Joan, she reported wondering how even informal communities of healing will continue to be available, given how often they spend capital inherited from formalized faith settings.

Joe Hackman, the pastor who helped shape the Salford Mennonite Church ritual before he shifted roles to MennoMedia, saw connections with Joan’s feedback. He noted that

For spirit and the spiritual, we have been able to rely on the deep spiritual wells of our grandparents, but once those wells are depleted and we have not created our own wells, there’s nothing to pass on to our children other than moral values.  Maybe that’s enough, but I’d like to think we could pass on something more.

So  I hope instead of pitting them against each other, as we sometimes do, we can be flexible enough to learn about the gifts of each type of community. I hope we can be enriched by comparing and contrasting the life stories that cause each of us to navigate joys and dangers of being churched, A-churched, both, or more.

—Michael A. King is publisher and president, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He writes “Unseen Hands” for Mennonite World Review, which published an earlier version of this column.