Religious heritage in Poland below and above ground

Although I'm not a believer in any religious dogma--including Roman Catholicism, the faith I was born into--I was impressed with my visits to churches in Poland. Churches there are monuments to art and beauty, resilience in difficult times, and the history of culture in this country. I could feel an appreciation for all three elements on my trip to Poland this spring. I'll write about my experiences in four of them here.

Most impressive on all three counts was, hands down, the Wielczka (Vee-LEETS-ka) Salt Mine, which Renate and I visited one cool and rainy Sunday afternoon in early May. It's an hour's journey from Krakow, and we enjoyed the chance for a bus ride to this small town, made famous by the salt mine, now a UNESCO Heritage site. The mine, which closed in the mid-90s after four centuries of active mining, is full of stunning sculptures and bas reliefs, all carved from salt by the miners themselves. It was a 3-hour tour, which involved walking down countless steps, hundreds of feet under the earth. I took almost no pictures due to camera/lighting challenges, but no matter. No photos can really do justice to this place. Please take 6 minutes to watch this excellent Youtube video which will give you a taste of what we saw and learned that afternoon. Here's a stock photo of one room; the art, walls, floors--even the chandeliers--are all made of salt.

Mining has always been a hazardous occupation, especially so in the 16th and 17th centuries when one out of every 10 miners died in methane explosions. No doubt the art here was a prayer as much as an expression of beauty. Really, watch the video. You'll share in that feeling too.

Another religious site--perhaps the most revered in all of Poland--is the Wawel Cathedral on the far edge of Krakow's Old Town. It's part of Wawel Hill, which also includes the royal castle from which Poland was ruled for 500 years. Saints, kings,  and scholars are buried here in what has been called (by Pope John Paul II) the "sanctuary of the nation." With this in mind,  I viewed Wawel Cathedral more through a cultural than a religious lens. Yet, the cathedral is definitely designed for religious contemplation and awe. Here are two photos posted on Trip Advisor by a reviewer better equipped for photography than I was. The first is the nave of the cathedral with its arched Gothic vaulting. The second is the most celebrated side chapel--the Sigismund Chapel, a masterpiece of Renaissance art.

And here's a view from the outside--with me dressed for the cold weather despite the flowers of spring behind me.

On another day we visited another celebrated Catholic site in Krakow--Mariacki Church (St. Mary's), which our guidebook told us was one of the finest medieval structures in the country, dating from the 1220s. Later in the century two Romanesque towers were added, one eventually serving as a lookout tower. Legend has it that in the 13th century a watchman saw the Tatar invaders approaching and took up his trumpet to raise the alarm. He was killed with an arrow through his throat, but is still remembered today, every hour, when a lone trumpeter plays the bugle call four times from four windows. Renate went outside to listen at the appointed time, but I stayed inside, still absorbing the feeling of this ancient cathedral. Here are three of my photos. The first is of the majestic high altar with sculptures by the German master Veit Stoss (1440-1533). Unfortunately for visitors this year and next, the altar is undergoing restoration. Though much was covered we could see some of Stoss' artistry. The second photo below is my photo from a postcard.

I imagined how many prayers must have been said in this church over the centuries, how many hopes and sorrows are stored in the walls and also how much comfort and peace worshippers must have received from the beauty and light. To the left of the main altar was a bank of candles, similar to those which I remember from my church-going childhood in Hammond, Indiana. My mother used to light candles often in memory of her parents, my grandparents Leon and Barbara. They emigrated from Warsaw in the early 20th century, probably never having had the opportunity to visit Krakow's spiritual centers. I lit a candle and held some thoughts for them before leaving this exquisite space.

Although it is far less significant in size and history than the Salt Mine, the Wawel Cathedral and the Mariaki Church, a church in Wroclaw--the first city we visited in Poland--remains in my memory. On our way from our hotel to the town square, we passed St. Maria's Church several times. I remember our first stop there early in the day, a place where tourists were not congregating. and the atmosphere was very peaceful.

I sat there for awhile, letting the light from the stained glass wash over me and imagining the many human emotions that have filled this space. Later in the day, we stopped by again and listened to a group of nuns singing, with the lyrics digitized on that small black screen shown in the background. In a side room a group of parishioners were animatedly conversing in sign. I realized how churches have their daily rhythm too, and how the timing of our visit shapes our experience.

Next: The Jewish Quarter and Auschwitz

Thoughts on our daily walk with Death

We're always walking with Death--that's the truth built into the Buddhist acknowledgement of impermanence. Like so many,  I've gone through hours, days, weeks, months--giving D scarcely a thought, pushing the knowledge of my eventual demise to the back of my consciousness as I plunge into daily tasks and distractions.

There are always moments when the reality of impermanence breaks through--historical photos, for example. I feel a kind of poignance of looking at images of people going through their daily routines, seemingly oblivious to the preciousness of that fleeting moment. There are other times--reading obituaries and noting the age of the deceased. Is she older or younger?--as if that really had any relevance. Death can arrive anytime, anywhere, at any age; we all know that but tend to wince when reminded. And then there are other times--when someone I know dies. This month three deaths occurred in my immediate world. Shortly after the third one, my weekend Buddhist reading list came via an email from the magazine Lion's Roar. The article, "The Supreme Meditation" by Larry Rosenberg, focused on the theme of death. Although Western culture is structured to take us away from that awareness, he asserts, the key to living fully is embedded in keeping that awareness up front and center.

Of course, if death is always with us, it has many guises. I've passed a few frivolous moments imagining how often death would change his profile picture if he were on Facebook. I finally settled on an image that I saw on the cover of a children's book, Cry Heart But Never Break, featured in one of my favorite blogs. It's a gentle image; I so dislike horror.



The Buddhist tradition tends to be more in-your-face about it. This image, Zazen on Waves by Maruyama Okyo (1787), can be seen at Daijoji Temple in Hyogo, Japan.



Recently, visiting the Denver Public Library, I checked out The Five Invitations by Frank Ostaseski (Flatiron Books, 2017). I just finished it this morning and found it very useful--thought-provoking and well, calming. A teacher/caregiver who cofounded the Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco, Ostaseski interweaves stories of his experiences there with other examples of those five invitations, invitations to use death-awareness as a means of bringing us "closer to our truest selves". The invitations are: (1) Don't wait; (2) Welcome everything, push away nothing; (3) Bring your whole self to the experience; (4) Find a place of rest in the middle of things, and (5) Cultivate "Don't Know Mind". Click here for extended definitions of all of them.

As I attended two memorial services this month, I had a chance to think about these invitations and what they might have meant for those whose lives were honored. One of them was for Gerry S., the lawyer who gave me my first job when I came to Denver in 1976. He was an open-hearted man who at that time was just recently in recovery and discovering the joy of living without addiction. He had left a high-powered legal office to open his own practice. He was kind to me, offering a very relaxed work environment and passing on books and information about Colorado life. I think he knew how to live fully, especially within his large family and the AA community where he supported numerous others on the path to recovery. We lost touch after I left the job three years later. But now, decades later, when a mutual friend told me that he had passed away at the age of 87, I knew I wanted to attend his memorial and tell his widow how much his kindness had meant to me. I did that following a service at a small Anglican church in South Denver, packed with the many friends and family members who loved and missed him. I believe the stories and images showed a man who brought his whole self to the experience of living.

A week later I learned of the death of Angela S., one of my OLOC sisters. Dealing with a terminal cancer diagnosis, Angela entered home hospice after treatments were no longer useful. Shortly before her death at age 76, she married her longtime partner, Cindy. I was not prepared for the very powerful discovery I made at her memorial service, held at the Church of the Beloved in a suburb north of Denver. Angela, who had grown up Roman Catholic, was part of the Catholic Ecumenical Communion, a faith community that creates an inclusive environment for Catholics who accept the liturgy but not the restrictive politics of the Roman Catholic Church. Not surprisingly, it is not recognized by the establishment church. But it was through this faith community that Angela's family and friends could bring their whole selves to the experience of honoring her life at the ceremony, officiated by a minister who was also a woman. And we could all find a "place of rest" in the inclusivity in which Angela's spouse and commitment to her community could be fully recognized.

There has still been no memorial service for Joanne K., the 85-year-old former neighbor I had visited weekly before her death last month. Perhaps there has been or will be a service at the local Catholic church she attended. We had started a friendly-neighbor relationship during my last year living at Camellia House, one which probably would have ended when she moved last summer. However, shortly before the move, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given less than 6 months to live. Joanne also had a secret that she had told no one else: she had loved another woman in her youth, a woman who left her, and it seems I was the only one she could talk to about this. Alienated from her surviving brother, she kept her secret from the 3 women who formed her social circle. With others, she was closed, often seeming snobbish but perhaps just not sure how to relate after a lifetime of closure and focusing solely on her career in music. During my visits I hoped to create space for her to open and remember, but she did not choose that path. She wanted to "stop thinking about it." One day she broke a hip, then had surgery, then on to rehab, but was suddenly transferred to hospital when she developed an infection. She was hours away from death the last time I saw her. Hooked to various machines, she labored to breathe and I held her hand for awhile. A friend was coming to accompany her transfer to a long-term care facility that afternoon, so I left. She died alone early the next morning.

The memorial services for Gerry S. and Angela S. gave mourners some closure--and no doubt some reminder of our own mortality, of the invitation to live more fully in whatever ways we find meaningful--through friends, family and/or communities. I wonder how many others leave life as Joanne did, still unresolved about the events and people who disappointed them. May her memory rest in peace in the lives she left behind.

Christmas Eve at First Baptist Church of Denver

This Christmas Eve I met a new neighbor—the First Baptist Church of Denver, just a block and a half away from my apartment on Grant Street. Fortunately, we had no white Christmas this year; I say fortunately, given my aversion to walking on snowy or icy streets. On this chilly but snow-free evening, I walked this short distance, part of the way alongside a string of candelaria, leading to the entrance of the church for the evening candlelight service. Here's a photo of the altar. Imagine the candles lit and the background lighting softer.

 

First Baptist is a small church with a long (150 years) and respectable history. Martin Luther King Jr. once preached here. It has a large pipe organ that people are very proud of. You can hear it if you click here.

Plain setting, unadorned crucifix, no stained glass. Lit candles on the altar gave the space an intimate feeling. I took a seat and soon we were invited to greet our neighbors, the 100 or so congregation members who had filled half the benches that evening. I was warmly welcomed by two attendees who seemed about my age, Nancy and Mike, who sat in front of me. Their bench was strewn with children’s toys and books. It was a good beginning of the evening—also a good ending to a day of companionship among friends in Boulder. 

This evening was the first time I had ever set foot in a Baptist church, and I was curious to see what a service was like. Perhaps there was a taste of the forbidden in this decision, as during my Catholic youth, we were not allowed to consort with Protestants in their churches. I also knew, thanks to a friend who had once attended Northern Baptist services like this one, that this congregation would not fit my stereotypes of Southern Baptists, likely to be anti-pleasure and anti-gay. Not that I had any direct experiences with Southern Baptists either.  

This visit was the second in a new would-be tradition I started last year—spending Christmas Eve in a church in my area. I plan to go to a different one each year, preferably one I can walk to. Last year my friend Roberta joined me for a stroll to the spacious, stained-glass-infused St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral on 14th Street. We enjoyed the beauty, the trained voices of the choir, the flowers, and the message that churches do best at Christmastime: peace on earth and good will to all. Here’s a photo of the interior of St. John’s.

First Baptist was the polar opposite of St. John's. Both setting and service were simple, without frills. Their mission is simple as well. They aim to be “a place that welcomes and affirms all people and their questions about life and faith. We are a progressive, justice-seeking congregation that strives to follow Jesus’ ethic of love.” Amen, I say. 

The service started with music—one of the major reasons I like to be in a church at Christmas. A small choir of 5, informally dressed, stood to the side. There were readings from Luke and Isaiah, interspersed with carols. Early in the service attendees were invited to light a candle for someone and then tell the congregation who and why. Ten or so attendees came up and lit tapers. Grandparents and other family members or friends were thanked or remembered; two men acknowledged their same-sex partners. The service continued with music. After the next carol, my bench-neighbor Nancy—introduced as the Rev. Darnell—got up and came to the front, inviting children to sit near her to hear a story. It was a modern-day story of an adopted special-needs child and family love. Then came more carols, a reflection on Christmas by the senior minister, and finally the scene that stays in my mind: the candle lighting. The candles we received upon entering were lit row by row, and we all filed out to the north porch, facing the dome-lit State Capitol building across the street. We sang Silent Night in unison on this relatively silent evening—no sirens or revelers’ shouts intervening. 

We sang all verses of the song, and afterwards, the minister reminded us of some of the ways First Baptist fulfills its mission: providing meals for those in need, shelter for homeless women, and a job training center for recently arrived immigrants. Earlier this month, the church provided space to The Spring Institute to operate a coffee shop on its premises. Eventually Spring hopes to create a program including ESL classes, something it already coordinates at other locations. 

Perhaps the the activities of First Baptist are not unusual. Not being a regular churchgoer, I don’t know to what extent churches have intensified their traditional role of ministering to people in need—a role needed now, more than ever, as social needs grow exponentially along with social inequalities. In any case, here's one place where that ministry is happening.

Years ago, when I attended Catholic mass with my family, I used to love Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. But as I’ve grown older, my fondness for late-night events has shifted to appreciation for those that start early. Ninety minutes after the 7 p.m. service began, I was back home, ready to tend to my own personal holiday rituals. These have changed over time. For a number of years, I just had to watch Miracle on 34th Street (1947), one of the earliest film critiques of the commercialization of Christmas and a gentle tribute to the power of fantasy. 

However, my years in Japan changed most of my habits around this holiday. In my first few years there, I worked on Christmas Day, as did everyone I knew. Sometime in the 90’s, a globalized version of Christmas entered Japan. Falling two days after the Emperor’s birthday (Dec. 23, a national holiday), Christmas got included in a winter holiday break that gradually started earlier and ended earlier than the traditional New Year break had.  By the time I left Japan in 2010, Christmas was widely celebrated as a festival of lights and a romantic date occasion for the young. 

Still, Christmas has a limited place in Japan, preceding the real winter holiday celebration—the New Year, when families and friends come together to share special foods and memories, visit a shrine and watch incredibly bad junk TV. I usually used my time off from teaching to catch up with work and visit friends. Before classes ended for the year, I remember teaching lessons on A Christmas Carol as an internationally-known piece of literature or showing A Muppet Christmas in class. In private, I just had to pull out Dylan Thomas’ classic short story, A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Perhaps you’ve read it too. It starts this way: One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six…. Later, my sister and brother-in-law sent me a video version which I also enjoyed. You can watch it on youtube.

This year, after my lovely visit to First Baptist, I watched my favorite version of A Christmas Carol on Netflix: the 1938 black-and-white film starring Reginald Owen. It was so satisfying, as this non-colorized version was perfect for ghostly shadows. When it ended, I was still awake enough to watch A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Then sleep, and then Christmas Day, a Friday this year, marked by a ritual they say is common among many Jews—going out for Chinese food. I joined Roberta and her sister Bunnie for this, as I’ve done in the past, except this time we chose a Japanese restaurant, one in the small town of Lafayette near Boulder. They were doing a brisk sushi take-out business—perhaps a new ritual for non-cooks on this day. Late afternoon I drove back to Denver for a relaxing evening of Netflix watching, and then finally, snow began to fall. Like Dylan Thomas, “I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness and then I slept.”

Looking back on the Pope's visit

Just two weeks ago, I was sitting in front of a TV, fascinated by the words and images of Jorge Mario Bergoglio, known globally as Pope Francis, during his 3-day tour of the US. Had I blogged about this fairly soon afterwards (a habit I’m trying to develop), I would have focused on this fascination. Puzzling to friends perhaps, as I’ve long since left the Catholic culture I grew up with. Still, watching the Pope speak about climate change and poverty and peace and acceptance and many other things coming from the heart of Christian teachings, I felt tears brimming. Whatever reasons I could have come up with were overshadowed by emotion: relief that finally the right man was in the right job at the right point in history--and hope that he could make a difference.

Much of the time my feelings about the future are quite the opposite. My reoccurring image is that we—humans one and all—are orphans, strapped into the back seat of a car, while the grown-up drivers have wandered off to quarrel among themselves. They've failed to notice that the car is moving and the brakes don’t work. Finally, in Francis, I saw an adult leader who got the quarreling grownups to listen, who said important things, and who said them in a way that made all of us look at what we need to do to survive in this world. We were not lectured; rather we were inspired to connect with our best selves. Even so, I realized then that the experience might be what I call “the Christmas Effect”: business as usual comes to a standstill for a short time and we all focus on what we say are the really important things in life. Then the date passes and business as usual returns--or almost business as usual. Sometimes, some of us really do change if only in small ways. The image of House Speaker John Boehner crying as the Pope spoke and then resigning his position the next day is still with me. No doubt there are countless others in the crowd who cheered Francis and then went home and started to do things just a little bit differently. In the photo below, it's interesting that the word "honeymoon" from another story seems to extend to this event.

After the Pope returned to Rome, it didn’t take long for the honeymoon to disappear, especially among a number of people in the LBGT community. The Vatican confirmed that Francis had met with Kim Davis, the notorious Kentucky official who refused to issue marriage licenses to same sex couples. At that point, my fascination shifted to curiosity and reflection. (How did the meeting with her--she was one of a group-- really come about? Was the Pope “set up” by a loyalist to a previous pope? What did he actually say?) I thought about the crucial question of freedom of conscience—something every religious leader should uphold. I decided that if Francis had indeed conveyed approval of Kim Davis’ choice to honor her own conscience, he was only doing his job. If he had lobbied for a change in the law, that’s another matter—a matter best left to Caesar, not to God. Likewise, his visit with the Little Sisters of the Poor, who are opposing the birth control coverage provision of Obamacare, was another example of the same thing. For those of us who feel strongly that same sex marriage is a right, as is affordable birth control for women, our job remains what it’s always been: supporting political efforts to make those things happen.

In watching the coverage of the Pope’s visit, I also became fascinated by the story of Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the man he was before and after he became the head of the Catholic Church. Here is a man who has truly practiced what he preaches—who rejects the trappings of luxury, who has a human touch, who washes the feet of prisoners. I was also intrigued to learn that he considered himself an arrogant person at one point in his early Jesuit years. Demoted by his superiors and sent off to another city, he prayed and meditated—and emerged as a man who had learned to appreciate humility--the quality that has most characterized him during the past two years.

Nevertheless, you can argue that all admiration of Francis should be tempered by the fact that he heads a religious organization still mired in medieval doctrines. Birth control, euthanasia, priestly celibacy, ordination of women, all are at the top of the list. This week Francis is enmeshed in the politics of the Synod of Bishops on the Family. A key issue is whether divorced and remarried people should be allowed to participate in holy communion, which Francis supports. As of today, however, it looks like the conservatives will win on that. My admiration—now mixed with sympathy—for Francis continues. My own parents were affected by this issue, after my Dad, a divorced man, married my mother. They were excommunicated—a deep loss for my mother—until years later, when a sympathetic priest blessed their marriage. (Dad’s first wife had died by then). No doubt there are many couples today who are affected by the synod vote this week. Thanks, Francis, for fighting the good fight.

Today, with Francis still on my mind, I listed to the Democracy Now interview with musician/writer Patti Smith. Smith—who is not Catholic—talked about her admiration of St. Francis of Assisi—“truly an environmentalist saint” of the 12th century. Two years ago, when the College of Cardinals was choosing a new pope, Patti watched the coverage with her daughter Jessie. How wonderful it would be, Patti remembers saying, if the new pope took the name Francis and became an environmental pope for our century. Mother and daughter hugged each other when the decision was announced that the new pope would be Francis I. “We were like jumping up and down as if we were at the Kentucky Derby and our horse came in. So, I was quite happy, because I knew anyone who took on this name was taking on a great mantle of responsibility,” Patti told DN's Amy Goodman.

Today, Jessie Smith is involved with a huge concert to be performed as part of Pathway to Paris, the lead-up to the international climate talks in Paris, France, this December. Patti Smith will be performing there too, most likely including her signature People Have the Power song. She and everyone else will know that even if there’s no such thing as having God on your side, the next best thing is having Francis there. Maybe the Christmas Effect will work some magic too.

Top photo: photo credit: the way were love ourselves : magazine covers, san francisco (2015) via photopin (license)

When the tears are coming, take my handkerchief

“When the tears are coming, take my handkerchief.” Jurgen Moltmann, 89, a highly respected theologian in Germany, wrote these words in a letter, in which he enclosed a white handkerchief. The letter went to Kelly Gissendaner, who lives in Georgia, and who thought it was the most touching gift she had received in a very long time. Moltmann understands tears. As a young man during World War II, he joined Hitler’s army and later spent 3 years in a British POW camp, where he had much time to reflect on his country’s crimes and the horror of the Holocaust. His remorse was so great, he reported later, that he wished he had died on the battlefield. He began to read the Bible, and later said that Christ found him during this prison term, which was an “existential experience of healing our wounded souls.”

It’s not surprising that Moltmann and Gissendaner made a powerful connection. Kelly read his work in a theological studies program for women prisoners. She found his writings--especially The Theology of Hope--to be a powerful catalyst in her own healing. Kelly, who is 47 years old, has been on death row for 18 years. She was convicted of convincing her lover to murder her husband in 1997, a crime she has expressed deep remorse for. “I lost all judgment,” she wrote in her petition for clemency earlier this year. “I will never understand how I let myself fall into such evil, but I have learned firsthand that no one, not even me, is beyond redemption through God’s grace and mercy”.

Tonight, though I’m alone in my cabin, sitting at my computer,  I feel part of vigils taking place throughout the country, particularly outside the prison where Kelly will be executed if her last appeal fails. Earlier today the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles held another clemency hearing. It ended with another rejection of her petition to change her sentence to life in prison—despite a last-minute appeal from Pope Francis. He  had asked the board “to commute the sentence to one that would better express both justice and mercy.” Hours after that decision, Kelly’s three children and many other supporters wait and hope and pray.

I’m not sure why Kelly’s story touches me so deeply. It’s not a matter of having my religious beliefs validated.Though I have a Catholic background, I am no longer a part of a Christian institution or community.  I describe myself as a secular Buddhist—again, not part of a sangha (group of practitioners), but a lover of the Eightfold Path nonetheless. Like many Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists, I do think there is a great power in forgiveness and recognition of the human ability to heal, change and grow. Kelly’s story, which I first read in the news earlier this year, is an illustration of this. She graduated from the theology program in 2011—Moltmann attended the ceremony—and she has since counseled many other women prisoners, making a difference in their lives. No one disputes this.

Nor is my strong interest in Kelly’s story a result of direct experience with the US death penalty system. Yet, somehow the existence of the death penalty horrifies me in a way I can’t quite explain. No doubt it’s partly the idea of state-sanctioned premeditated murder. Tonight it feels like an armed stalker is on the loose and most likely cannot be stopped. Sister Helen Prejean, whose work was portrayed in the film Dead Man Walking, likens the process to a freeze-frame. “The state is freeze-framed in killing.”

During the past year, I’ve learned much from the Coloradans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty Foundation (CADP), which hopes to make Colorado one of the growing number of states that ban capital punishment. Already 19 states have done so, and others retain it without using it. There are about 3000 inmates on death row in the US and about 40 are executed every year. A handful of states are responsible for most of the executions. There is much evidence that the death penalty is unfair and ineffective. Since DNA testing became available, 330 prisoners have been exonerated, 20 of whom were on death row, according to The Innocence Project. As CADP asserts, “Colorado’s death penalty is a failed public policy that is beyond repair. The death penalty risks the lives of the innocent, exacts a huge toll on the families of murder victims, traumatizes the guards and wardens forced to perform executions in our names, is unfairly applied, and costs millions in taxpayer dollars.”

With the growth of the anti-death-penalty movement, I wonder how far we can be from a time when the U.S. joins the long list of countries which have banned capital punishment (140). That time will probably not be in time for Kelly Gissandaner. It's now past midnight in Georgia, and the latest CNN report says a new execution time has not been set. The last appeal—centering on the concept of proportionality—is still pending. There is still hope, faint as it might be. If and when the State of Georgia executes her, as they will likely do soon, I hope she will have the white handkerchief from Jurgen Moltmann, along with the certain knowledge that she is loved and has lived well. For her mourners, the tears and the struggle will continue.