The gathering of the saints
This morning I listened for the third time to the February 23 On Being Program featuring the conversation between host Krista Tippett and her guest, the poet, Marilyn Nelson. As is often the case each time I listen to or read the words of wise mentors, I am rewarded with more gifts.
Ms. Nelson, since she was a very young girl, has been bearing witness to what it means to call upon the saint within us and to honor the saint within others. Her history is as a woman who happens to be black/African American, Colored, a tenured professor, a published poet and a leader in helping to erase the social constructs which are erected to hide the fear of we humans being humans – sexism, racism, homophobia, and other isms – and one who bears witness to the wisdom, strength and faith of her ancestors – the saints.
I think of the saints that I know or have known – so often women but occasionally one of we men who claim our own sainthood. I suppose I must operationally define the term saint. Although I might agree with some of the selection by religious organizations I am thinking of those I have known and admired who will never be canonized or recognized by any official body. Some may or may not be recognized by their peers as particularly virtuous, but many are those who, as did the slave ancestors of Ms. Nelson, exhibit amazing strength of physical, emotional, and spiritual character while keeping an open heart even for the slave master who had perhaps suckled at their breast.
The saints I have known were busy gathering in the hall in my head this morning. There was Stefie whose mother came on her own from Czechoslovakia to look for her intended and, having found him, led him by the ear to a life with 12 children. One of those children whom I know was, in her seventies, under the guise of cleaning houses, infusing families with a love and a strength they did not know they had. This was the same woman who gathered together some other women to wheel enough topsoil over several hilly blocks to cover the coal ash in the football size yard of the apartment building. They created safe and beautiful places which nurtured the souls of all with whom they came into contact. Mother Theresa toiled to nurture others even when her faith in the God who would allow such misery was very weak. Then we have a houseful of immigrants who stoop sat when it was too hot to sleep inside the D. C. brownstones which had shared bathrooms. They got up and went to work even if sleep had not been visited, took care of their families and never asked the question “why me?” There was David and Minnie who, when we arrived in the small island community with our young son, embraced us and announced that they would, of course, fill the role of grandparents to our son. David would assume the role of teacher, father, mentor, and wise elder to teach me what it meant to be a man. I think of my friend Becky and her husband Bob who never questioned whether they could afford to retire early and raise a nephew following the death of the second of his parents. I think of all those who are called by some everyday heroes – those who add another cup of water to the bean soup and mix up a bit more cornbread to feed the multitude. Then, there are the Martin Luther King Jrs., Rosa Parks and all those who marched with great love and determination. One should not, of course, forget the lowly paid janitor who was the de factor father and counselor, or the young soldier who will never again know innocence.
They keep arriving to sit for a spell in this virtual hall. If, by chance, I am tempted to complain or to weep because of what I call a burden of inconvenience I have only to call upon the host of saints including the newest to join those who gather in my head, Ms. Marilyn Nelson. She will call up the poem which will call up the silence which will weave the cloth which will cover those who are in need of warmth which will…
The saints gather and it is good.
Written February 25, 2017
This morning I listened for the third time to the February 23 On Being Program featuring the conversation between host Krista Tippett and her guest, the poet, Marilyn Nelson. As is often the case each time I listen to or read the words of wise mentors, I am rewarded with more gifts.
Ms. Nelson, since she was a very young girl, has been bearing witness to what it means to call upon the saint within us and to honor the saint within others. Her history is as a woman who happens to be black/African American, Colored, a tenured professor, a published poet and a leader in helping to erase the social constructs which are erected to hide the fear of we humans being humans – sexism, racism, homophobia, and other isms – and one who bears witness to the wisdom, strength and faith of her ancestors – the saints.
I think of the saints that I know or have known – so often women but occasionally one of we men who claim our own sainthood. I suppose I must operationally define the term saint. Although I might agree with some of the selection by religious organizations I am thinking of those I have known and admired who will never be canonized or recognized by any official body. Some may or may not be recognized by their peers as particularly virtuous, but many are those who, as did the slave ancestors of Ms. Nelson, exhibit amazing strength of physical, emotional, and spiritual character while keeping an open heart even for the slave master who had perhaps suckled at their breast.
The saints I have known were busy gathering in the hall in my head this morning. There was Stefie whose mother came on her own from Czechoslovakia to look for her intended and, having found him, led him by the ear to a life with 12 children. One of those children whom I know was, in her seventies, under the guise of cleaning houses, infusing families with a love and a strength they did not know they had. This was the same woman who gathered together some other women to wheel enough topsoil over several hilly blocks to cover the coal ash in the football size yard of the apartment building. They created safe and beautiful places which nurtured the souls of all with whom they came into contact. Mother Theresa toiled to nurture others even when her faith in the God who would allow such misery was very weak. Then we have a houseful of immigrants who stoop sat when it was too hot to sleep inside the D. C. brownstones which had shared bathrooms. They got up and went to work even if sleep had not been visited, took care of their families and never asked the question “why me?” There was David and Minnie who, when we arrived in the small island community with our young son, embraced us and announced that they would, of course, fill the role of grandparents to our son. David would assume the role of teacher, father, mentor, and wise elder to teach me what it meant to be a man. I think of my friend Becky and her husband Bob who never questioned whether they could afford to retire early and raise a nephew following the death of the second of his parents. I think of all those who are called by some everyday heroes – those who add another cup of water to the bean soup and mix up a bit more cornbread to feed the multitude. Then, there are the Martin Luther King Jrs., Rosa Parks and all those who marched with great love and determination. One should not, of course, forget the lowly paid janitor who was the de factor father and counselor, or the young soldier who will never again know innocence.
They keep arriving to sit for a spell in this virtual hall. If, by chance, I am tempted to complain or to weep because of what I call a burden of inconvenience I have only to call upon the host of saints including the newest to join those who gather in my head, Ms. Marilyn Nelson. She will call up the poem which will call up the silence which will weave the cloth which will cover those who are in need of warmth which will…
The saints gather and it is good.
Written February 25, 2017
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