Bending the Universe.

Throughout the election season, I would read this or that opinion writer asserting that “America hasn’t been this divided since the Civil War.”  Whenever I’ve bump into that point of view, I’ve wondered about the age of the opinionater (sic).  Anybody who grew up in my age cohort knows better.   

You see, I’m Sally Draper’s age.  She was the fictional daughter of, Don, the main character on Mad Men.  Just like Sally, I would play on the floor in front of our black and white TV set before dinner.  Night-after-night there’d be that Vietnam War footage narrated by Walter Cronkite:  soldiers fighting in jungles, soldiers fighting in rice paddies, soldiers fighting in cities.  For my parents, there must have been a kind of whiplash when that same ½-an-hour news program flashed images of college students protesting, college students tear-gassed, college students weeping over felled college students.  

I recall the after-Mass rage in my dad when Father Bob Meyer gave his anti-war sermon.   So many parishioners’ kids were serving in that war.  Not everyone of them made it home.  Overall, 58,000 Americans, and 3 million Vietnamese didn’t make it home.  I remember mom’s shock and anger when dad told their out-to-eat dinner companions, that he’d disown his own sons if they ever refused to serve in a war.  One set of parents at the table had a son who was planning on not serving in that war.  I remember dad’s large eyes, and white face when he came home and turned on the television for news of Dr. Martin Luther King’s death.  I recall the eighth grade girls screaming and crying at school when, Presidential hopeful, Senator Robert F. Kennedy, was shot dead in a restaurant kitchen.  Again, on our black-and-white TV set, I remember the smoke arising from America’s burning cities.  I remember when Uncle Joe was murdered in Detroit.  I remember the line in that song,  “Do you recall what was the deal…the day the music died?” 

I was too young to know what the deal was then, but looking back, I can see just how fractured our country was when I was a boy.  Somehow our imperfect union managed to mend…enough.  Somehow I hope this recollection can provide a measure of hope that our current divisions can mend…enough.  I want to hold onto MLK’s conviction that “The arc of the moral universe bends toward justice. 

One SMC reader, “Suzy,” recently posted this poignant post-election question, “What happens when love doesn’t prevail?”  To put her question a different way, “What happens when the arc of the moral universe is taking its sweet time in bending toward justice?” Maybe even more to the point, what if it appears that the universe has taken a wrong turn altogether?  

I can’t presume to provide an adequate answer to Suzy’s question.  According to the poet, Ranier Maria Rilke, such profound questions are meant to be lived into more than answered.  But I can tell you what Suzy’s question surfaced for me.  “The arc of the moral universe” may “bend toward justice,” but it seems to me that it never bends toward justice all by itself.  It requires people who are willing to do the hard work of bending things in a better direction.  Mostly people who do this work, do it anonymously.  They listen for the rhythm of an inner life, and march to the tune they are hearing as best they can.  Consequently, they frequently feel out of step with the crowd.  Remember the New Testament story of the wedding guest thrown out into the darkness for not being dressed in the proper robes?  This is frequently the experience of those unwilling to don the robes of a certain kind of cultural acceptability.  If you happen to find yourself in this kind of darkness, take heart.  You may feel like an alien, but you are not alone.  Look around and see if you can find a nearby campfire shining in the darkness where similarly unrobed people are sharing laughter, fellowship, and authentic spirituality.  It is around the glow of such gatherings where inner lives can spark action toward bending the universe.