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This post started out as something else. A case I was involved in came to a sudden, dreadful end, in the form of a murder/suicide. As originally written, it detailed some of what happened, and what had happened in the case up until that point. After only a few minutes, though, I took it down. It didn’t seem right, for a variety of reasons. Mostly, it seemed to me that the details, which were necessarily sketchy, were not the important thing. There are two dead men, one of whom I knew about as well as any lawyer can know a client, but there are also dazed and traumatized survivors, including children. But it wasn’t until this evening that I could begin to understand the true significance of what had happened, of what terrible things like this mean to us, as a wisp of scripture came to mind.
Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.
Mt 5:21-22
When things like this happen, we are aghast, and our first impulse, usually almost unconscious, is to distance ourselves from the act. The sheer horror of it allows us to reassure ourselves that something like that could not happen in our safe world, even as we sympathize with the victim. Yet from a spiritual perspective, these crimes are years in the making, even if perpetrator and victim become acquainted only at that last fateful moment. It is not that we are inherently depraved, as the Calvinists would argue, nor is it always the direct result of demons, although they have a role and love to see blood shed. Instead, we each drag around after us chains, huge shambling piles of them, the first links of which are forged in our cradles, and new ones added every day. Our passions are both the result and cause of the shackles we wear. Pride, anger, lust, vainglory, fear…you name it, and it can be found in the heart of bruised and wounded people.
Each and every person in this tragedy — each and every one of us — bears the scars of life. In a line that only God can truly trace, there are years and years of slights, indifferences, resentments, misunderstandings. Needs are not met, and a cycle of petty cruelties ensues. Even when the end result is not so spectacular as in this case, the quiet toll is just as devastating. Here is the truth: however we may meet our physical demise, we all die spiritually in the same way. Not in one thrust of the enemy, but in the moral version of death by a thousand cuts. A tiny slice here, another there. We scarcely feel each individual cut, but the cumulative effect of slights and hurts, of disappointment and rejection, leads us to destruction. And we not only bear our own chains. We forge the chains of others.
Do you see? This tragedy began in infancy, it blossomed during adolesence, it bore a poisonous fruit in a marriage, and it was harvested on a quiet winter’s day. But you and I cannot segregate this from our own life. Jesus teaches us that we commit spiritual crimes with each cruel word, each deliberate slight, each crime of the heart. We are each the man, wounded almost to death, who was rescued by the Samaritan. But we are also each the robber, and we assault each other behind polite words and smiling masks, leaving loved ones and strangers alike lying helpless and damaged.
No wonder the second great commandment is to love our neighbor as ourselves! If we ourselves do not break the cycle of pain and hurt being suffered by those around us, by those who bear the very image of God, then who will? What Christ calls us to do is struggle past our own wounds, to offer oil and wine for the hurts of others. We must see within ourselves the potential for murder, of the spiritual variety if nothing else, and the crimes that we commit every day.
In a twist both ironic and unexpected considering its source, the New York Times has carried two stories, one on Friday and the other today, which reflects the continued eroticization of our culture. This is a trend which has been noted for some years, yet inexplicably continues to worsen, even as we individually think that it cannot continue to do so.
The first article, an opinion piece titled Middle School Girls Gone Wild, is the more expected of the two. The tendency to sexualize children of ever younger ages is not new, and is certainly accelerating. What is somewhat unexpected is that the Times would pay much attention. Author Lawrence Downes, however, had the unfortunate experience of attending his daughter’s middle school talent show. He had not been forewarned at what the sixth, seventh and eighth graders were talented at:
They writhe and strut, shake their bottoms, splay their legs, thrust their chests out and in and out again. Some straddle empty chairs, like lap dancers without laps. They don’t smile much. Their faces are locked from grim exertion, from all that leaping up and lying down without poles to hold onto. “Don’t stop don’t stop,” sings Janet Jackson, all whispery. “…Ohh. I’m so stimulated. Feel so X-rated.” The girls spend a lot of time lying on the floor. They are in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades.
As each routine ends, parents and siblings cheer, whistle and applaud. I just sit there, not fully comprehending. It’s my first suburban Long Island middle school talent show. I’m with my daughter, who is 10 and hadn’t warned me. I’m not sure what I had expected, but it wasn’t this. It was something different. Something younger. Something that didn’t make the girls look so … one-dimensional.
What particularly stunned Downes, however, was the enthusiastic acceptance of all of this by the parents. He relates a conversation with a school official, who says they have simply given up:
A teacher at the middle school later told me she had stopped chaperoning dances because she was put off by the boy-girl pelvic thrusting and had no way to stop it — the children wouldn’t listen to her and she had no authority to send anyone home. She guessed that if the school had tried to ban the sexy talent-show routines, parents would have been the first to complain, having shelled out for costumes and private dance lessons for their Little Miss Sunshines.
In the end, the obvious moral issues aside, even the Times correctly identifies the overarching impact on the way that these girls develop, when parents “they allow the culture of boy-toy sexuality to bore unchecked into their little ones’ ears and eyeballs, displacing their nimble and growing brains and impoverishing the sense of wider possibilities in life.” And indeed they are right. What are the wider possibilities of life, be it spiritual or intellectual, when self-esteem is found in the skimpiest of costumes?
The answer may well be found in the bookend article, titled The Graying of Naughty, which appeared this morning in the fashion section, of all places. In it, the Times reported on a new breed of porn star, involving men and women over the age of fifty. The article focuses on a fifty year old woman who began a career in pornographic films using the stage name De’Bella. The article reports approvingly that since last May she has shot some thirty scenes, most involving men who are 19 or 20 years old. Her husband approves, telling the paper “She’s doing it for the right reasons” — whatever those may be.
Nor is she alone. Films involving older women are apparently a growing market segment. And, from the other direction, the article includes a reference to 66 year old Dave Cummings, who is filmed with women as young as the men seen with Ms. De’Bella.
In a sense, we see the closing of the circle, the sexualization of both the very young and those who should know better. The very young should not be sexualized at all. For those as old as I am, sexuality should be less about exhibitionism and more about intimacy and communication. Yet we now find all ages held to the same standard of misbehavior. At one time, the immoral were clearly identified as a minority. Now, if only by our silent consent, the moral are themselves increasingly marginalized.
Long time readers may remember that a couple of years ago I discussed the scandal surrounding the Annual Possum Drop held in the village where we live. Briefly — for those who do not wish to read that entry again, or are simply distressed by even thinking of such a thing — the man who owns the gas station downtown (so to speak – in the aerial photo, it is the wide place in the road) holds a big New Year’s Eve bash every year, which features gospel singing, a womanless beauty pageant (don’t ask) and assorted types of merriment, and is capped by the lowering of a caged possum to the ground at the stroke of midnight. Riotous celebrating ensues. In any event, while we were in Greece several years ago, PETA threatened to sue over the event. The organizer didn’t help his cause, since he reported that “…once the crowd leaves, we turn him (the possum) loose. He runs across the road, and we run over him and eat him for New Year’s dinner.” Still, they were so chastened by the threat that they released that year’s candidate and found a dead possum on the road, which they washed, blow dried and propped into a life like position, and carried on.
It occurred to me this morning that there may be readers who have fretted ever since, wondering what has happened to the Possum Drop. I am here to tell you that it is better than ever. Our local paper, The Cherokee Scout, carried a large front page article on developments. The good news is that the organizers have discovered that the key to success is to follow all the applicable laws. In this case, that means that before they go to catch the possum, they have obtained three state permits and one federal permit. This is rather puzzling, since I doubt that any of the possums one sees dead in the middle of the road were run over by persons holding all of the necessary permits, but there you have it. In any event, it means that even as I write this a live possum is enjoying the best catfood available, and waiting for New Year’s Eve.
PETA is still upset about the event. The Scout quoted their representative as saying “Obviously, PETA is amazed an event as ill conceived and cruel as the Possum Drop is still taking place in 2006. Capturing, confining and forcing an animal to take part is needless and inappropriate. I know everyone thinks it’s harmless fun, but the truth for the possum is its a terrifying event. I saw a videotape of last year’s event, and the animal was exposed to a scary situation. It was in a glass box with lights all around and suspended in mid air for the duration of the event. I cannot imagine how terrified the possum is awaiting his fate.”
Well. I guess so. In the meantime, don’t tell PETA about the cans sold there labeled “possum”. It is available both in regular and diet configurations. The Scout took a poll of neighborhood kids, and none of them showed any interest in eating any of it, although one adventurous boy volunteered “Sure I’d eat it, if you gave me money.” More startling, a tourist admitted that she actually spent a moment considering “whether to buy the lite or regular variety”, before coming to her senses.
Oddly, I report all this as a person who avoids the Possum Drop himself. Ever since the New York Times picked it up a couple of years ago it has become too big to be believed. Still, it is fairly consistent for our village. With only 240 souls, it possesses a sense of humor far out of proportion to its size. When the thousands of merrymakers return home, that makes this a very decent little place to live.
Last night, on Christmas Eve, I stayed in a hotel since the drive home and the drive back to Atlanta on Christmas morning didn’t make much sense. The Hampton Inn was surprisingly full, but thankfully, was very quiet last night. This morning, however, there were a lot of people having coffee and pastries in the lobby. I heard them as I got off the elevator, and could tell that they were having fun and carrying on. As I walked into the lobby, though, wearing the collar and carrying my vestments, absolute silence fell, and everyone watched me check out and walk out the door. Without uttering a word.
I have never had such a startling effect on people. I’m not sure what to make of it.
Other than that, this is what I learned in my thirty hours in Atlanta:
1. Do not think that you can go into a coffee shop and have a peaceful cup of coffee when a family is sitting two tables over arguing with Junior about whether or not they treat him differently after they learned he was gay.
2. The people in my parish are unbelievably kind. Despite rookie problems in my first two liturgies, they continue to tell me that they love me.
3. Nothing is as good as coming home to family on Christmas afternoon, after thirty hours in the big city, even if that did include two liturgies and the Christmas Eve service. At Christmas, there really is no place like home.
Having returned from Johnstown, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to put the cassock in for cleaning. I don’t know exactly why I thought that, except that if you put it in the corner it stood up by itself. When that first happened, I toyed with the idea that perhaps we had a miracle in place here. Reality soon set in, however. None of this was helped by the sweltering heat in Pennsylvania this past weekend. Global warming is real, my friends, when Johnstown reaches sixty degrees on a December day.
Anyway, I was a little concerned about the garment. I had never taken it to the dry cleaners before, and I’m fond of my cassock. I mean, when you spend as much time in an article of clothing as I do in my cassock, you get attached. Plus, my wife had persuaded me to have grapevines embroidered on it by the people at Istok, and so I wanted to make sure that it was properly cared for.
So I walked purposefully into the shop Monday morning, dropped the cassock on the counter and told the girl I needed it back by Friday. She nodded in a distracted sort of way, but her eyes were fixed on the black heap on the counter.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A cassock,” I replied. “I wear it in church.” I was trying to make this a teachable moment.
She nodded again, and reached out and gingerly picked it up with two fingers. It began to make an effort to stand up. She dropped it hastily. I’m pretty sure she had never seen one at the Baptist church.
“How do you spell that?” she asked cautiously.
“C-a-s-s-o-c-k,” I answered, and watched her write it on the receipt.
She handed me the ticket. “It will be ready Wednesday afternoon,” she said, still eying the creation. I took the ticket, but she made no move to take the garment off the counter. I knew that as soon as I left, the other people working there would be over to examine the strange thing.
I’ll be glad to get it back, in time for Royal Hours on Friday. And if it persists in standing up even after cleaned, I’ll call the Bishop.
As an aside, thanks for all the kind comments on the last post. For those who want to see a little more, a few more pictures are found on the front page of our parish website.
After feeling like Jimmy Cagney all weekend (”Come and get me, you dirty coppers!”), I am happy to announce that the State of North Carolina has corrected my driving record and reinstated my license. I made them promise that they would never again print a citation with my license number on it.
But I was still very, very careful driving to our vesperal liturgy tonight for the Entry of the Theotokos. Just in case Georgia hadn’t yet gotten the word.
We always hear about people who have been caught in some web of confused identity. Certainly that is happening more and more often these days, as a result of identity theft and such. Sometimes, though, it happens the good old fashioned way — through simple error.
This afternoon I was sitting at my desk working when my wife called. She sounded stressed.
“There were three letters for you today, from the Department of Motor Vehicles. I went ahead and opened one of them.” She stopped.
“What did it say?” I asked. I was picturing some kind of insurance snafu. That has happened before.
“Your license is suspended for impaired driving,” she said. There was a pause. “Is there something I should know?”
“What..what…what?” was the best reply I could offer. My wife said she would bring them to my office.
My first thought was identity theft. The only thing on my driving record is a parking ticket I got in Wilmington, North Carolina, back in the late 90s, although I confess that I was once let off the hook in 1980 for running a stop sign at 2:00 a.m. on the campus of Wake Forest University. I was delivering pizzas — my part time law school job — and was in a hurry to get back to the shop. Campus security was very nice. I certainly had never been charged with, much less convicted of, impaired driving. I was at a loss as to how to proceed.
Fortunately, even though I no longer do criminal law, I know the people at the DA’s office. I called and asked a friend to get on the computer and try to find out what was up. My friend agreed, although not before laughing uproariously, and calling the news out to her co-workers. I am widely known for being boring, and I think the entire scenario amused her.
In any event, she got onto the system, and discovered that the suspension came out of a conviction of a 17 year old in a county in eastern North Carolina, several hundred miles from here. I am definitely not 17 years old. His name was nothing like mine, and the whole thing was apparently a clerical error. Ironically, on the date the offense was committed last February, I was in classes at Johnstown.
My friend suggested I call the Clerk’s office in the county where the case had been. I took her advice, and talked to a very nice lady named Joanne. I explained my problem.
At first she sounded a little doubtful. Clerks hear all kinds of stories, but she dutifully brought the information up on her computer. There was a moment of silence.
“Oh, my God,” I heard her say softly. More silence. Keys softly tapped. “Oh, my God,” she repeated.
I was anxious to get in on what was prompting this response, so I asked her what she had found.
“This is definitely not you,” she said. As we talked more, it became apparent that the citation number for the ticket that was written matched my drivers license number. When the conviction was reported to Raleigh, the citation number had been entered for the license number, and hence my interesting mail day. She told me she would call DMV, and get back to me.
It was only a few minutes later when she called again. She said that DMV had looked at it, and acknowledged that the error was theirs. It was, she said, safe to drive home.
At least I hope it is. I would feel better knowing that the records on the computer had already been changed. Sunday, I drive two hours into a different state to go to church. What if I get stopped at a checkpoint? Will the records that the police pull up still show that my license is suspended?
At this point there is no way of knowing. On Monday I can have my friend at the DA’s office check my record again, but until I know for sure, I may just be a marked man.
Even beyond that, this could be very much a mess. For example, the erroneous information has almost certainly been forwarded to my insurance company. Or, if all databases are not corrected, it could continue to be a problem for some time. Theoretically, I could fly into Pittsburgh on my Johnstown trip and be unable to get a rental car. The possibilities are not encouraging. Your prayer is coveted.
There was a fax — a new fax — on my desk this morning when I got in. It was from the husband of one of my clients, an elderly lady suffering from Parkinson’s disease. She has detailed some very serious accusations about what her husband has done to her in her largely helpless state. The husband was put out of the house, and nowadays I hear more from him than from his lawyer. He has a different theory every week to explain what happened to her. Drug interactions, interference by her son, a rich fantasy life — all of these have crossed my desk. This week’s theory was more interesting, although like the others it fails to explain things like abrasions.
He had talked to a neurologist somewhere, who told him that people with Parkinson’s have a very active dream life. He suggested that she had dreamed these events, as a result of her disease. The notion was at least interesting, and suggested that I should look at some of the literature. I found, in the first instance, nothing about such dreams in Parkinson’s, although I did find that some researchers believe there is a link between a sleep disorder involving active dreaming and the subsequent development of Parkinsons. That was more or less the reverse of the original suggestion.
But I did find a vaguely related notion, which made me sit up in interest, for a variety of reasons. There are studies that suggest that a fairly common feature of the disorder is hallucinations. And not just simple hallucinations either.
Essentially, some studies find that roughly a third of sufferers will have hallucinations, which a French study divided into three categories: presence hallucinations, passage hallucinations and auditory hallucinations. All three of them raised the hair on my neck.
Presence hallucinations are those where the patient perceives…something…in the room with them. Sometimes the presence is in back of them and cannot be seen, but is acutely felt. Other times they are visible, and may be reported as demons, guardian angels or deceased relatives. Passage hallucinations are those where something simply passes in front of the person, much like the fairly common experience of sensing something passing a doorway, just in the corner of one’s eye. For Parkinson’s sufferers, these are more explicit. A surprising number are reported as cats or dogs, commonly deceased pets. Other times, they are the same kind of thing reported as presence hallucinations. Finally, auditory hallucinations involve not just simple sounds, but often messages, usually from deceased relatives. For all of these the content is variable. At times, it is a living relative who is seen, although someone who is ordinarily very far away.
The French study noted that the hallucinations occurred both in people who were taking drugs prescribed for the disease and in those who were not taking medication. This was apparently directed at a theory that the visions were a side effect of drugs that are commonly prescribed to people with Parkinson’s.
I am a fairly rational kind of guy, but I always keep an eye open for the unnatural. Who can read the Desert Fathers without a healthy respect for the unseen world? What Saint’s vita does not include visions, an interface with the world which invisibly surrounds us?
So my first thought on reading about the unfortunate position of these people is this: does disease sometimes open the doors of perception? Not in the Aldous Huxley sense of pursuing experiences through drugs or whatnot, but by tearing the veil that hides that world from us? As Orthodox Christians, we share a recognition that there is much around us: angels and demons, and the saints that constitute that great cloud of witnesses. In our daily life we do not see these things, but there are those among us who do, those of great sanctity or equally great evil. And, perhaps, sometimes those who are simply vulnerable: the mentally ill, those suffering from Alzheimers, maybe those with Parkinson’s?
The idea opens up that whole arena that modern psychology and medicine are supposed to have closed. Sure, sometimes a disorder is just a disorder, and a disease is just a disease. But sometimes, just sometimes, might it not be something more? Something that demands our prayers, and our patience, and our love?
I read a weekly paper known as North Carolina Lawyer’s Weekly, a helpful tabloid that reports on important court decisions around our state, mostly in the appellate courts. Occasionally they will also report on cases at the trial level. In that event, there will usually be some twist in the matter which makes it particularly noteworthy.Such a case landed on the front page of the November 6 issue. Unexpectedly, it should also be of interest to Orthodox Christians, because it involves a conflict between Orthodox belief and that of other traditions. It comes out of New Hanover County, which is Wilmington, North Carolina.
The fact scenario is a little tangled. A thirty year old man died in 2002, of liver cancer. The deceased man was Eastern Orthodox. His precise jurisdiction was not noted, but given the location, I am guessing that he was Greek Orthodox. His mother, the plaintiff in the lawsuit, is an Orthodox Jew. His fiancee is Baptist.
When the young man died, the funeral home took direction from the fiancee. She had held a durable power of attorney and health care power of attorney on the man. Those expired at his death, of course, but they seemed to the funeral home to extend legitimacy to her directions for the funeral. Those directions had been embodied in a pre-need contract which she purchased on his behalf several weeks before his death. That pre-need contract did not specify a religious preference, a place of burial or a time frame for burial. In accordance with the fiancee’s directions, the man’s body was embalmed, and he received a Baptist funeral more than three days after he died.
After his death, the funeral home did not contact his mother. She testified that she called the funeral home to talk to them about her son’s burial, but that her phone call was not returned. The funeral home insisted that they had never received a call from her.
The mother sued, alleging negligent mishandling of the corpse, as well as infliction of emotional distress. At trial, she presented evidence that both her son’s Orthodox faith as well as her own Orthodox Jewish faith forbade embalming, required that someone stay with the body and that the burial be accomplished within three days. The jury returned in the Plaintiff’s favor on the emotional distress claims, and awarded the mother $100,000 in compensatory damages and $400,000 in punitive damages. The awarding of punitive damages is a clear indication that the jury saw the funeral home’s behavior as beyond the pale and inexcusable. The case is presently on appeal to the North Carolina Court of Appeals.
This isn’t my area of law, so I can’t really comment on the case as a legal case. To be honest, what we might think of the lawsuit itself is beside the point. Instead, it should sharply bring into focus some issues that we as Orthodox need to be aware of.
First, of course, is the very sad state of family dynamics in this case. In one sense, it is an issue which arises from spouses or significant others who are not Orthodox. A great many converts enter the Church without their spouses, and certainly intermarriage in this day and age is a frequent and common occurrence. Our brothers and sisters who are Orthodox without their spouse carry a heavy burden, and deserve our respect and support. We should be sensitive to the stresses that they find themselves under.
In this case, had the young man’s fiancee been Orthodox, it seems likely that his priest would have been able to aid in making the specific directions for the funeral. There is no indication that a priest entered the picture at all, or was ever notified. Nor is there any indication that the young man was at all active in his faith.
Still, the greater aspect to all of this has to do with preparation. Our customs, traditions and beliefs about the handling of the reposed are often at odds with society as a whole. For Orthodox, it is vital that we be sent into the afterlife by a funeral in the Church, so that we go with the prayers and blessings of our Mother. Especially if you are unmarried or married to a non-Orthodox person, it makes sense to prepare directions now, so it is clear when you repose. This may be done by giving written instructions to your family, priest and funeral home. It would be a good idea to also include those instructions in the body of a health care power of attorney or will.
It is natural to want to postpone those decisions. Still, it is a hallmark of Orthodoxy, more than any other tradition, to be mindful of death. What do our saints tell us? What do we find in our prayers, both private and collective?
A Christian ending to our life: painless, blameless and peaceful; and a good defense before the dread judgment seat of Christ, let us ask of the Lord!
So we pray, and so we should be mindful. Talk to your family and to your priest now, so that there will be no error or indecision at the hour of your death.
I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to prepare for an unusually stormy term of court, which will open on Monday. In my rural area, we have a term of civil court every four to six weeks. I will ordinarily have somewhere between six and ten cases on any given calendar. That is enough to keep me busy, and still have the judge happy to see me leave when I finish.
Next week, though, is different: twenty two cases on the calendar for a four day term. This astonishing and unprecedented number is the result of a confluence of events: some past continuances, a flood of new cases that are all maturing at about the same time, and an unusually high number of emergency orders signed over the last month or two, all of which are coming in for return hearing. As might be expected, there is no possible way for all twenty two cases to be heard but, on the other hand, there is no way of knowing which ones the judge will call for trial. The only alternative is to prepare for every case, knowing full well that by the end of the week I likely will have disposed of no more than five or six. Bummer. At least I know of two that will be tried: returns on emergency orders. One I obtained over a highly dysfunctional visitation situation. The other is the only one I am looking forward to trying. I represent a young mom who, on the one occasion that she had ever had a gun in the house, hidden under clothes in her dresser, was shot by her three year old son who thought it was a toy. The dad, of course, took the boy, but refused any contact between her and the child, not even after she got out of intensive care a month later. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the child was led to believe that Mom was dead, killed at his own hand. Only since I got into the case several weeks ago has the child been allowed to talk to the mom over the phone, although even then dad limited it to once a week for ten minutes. In a case like that there is absolutely nothing to lose, and I look forward to that trial. By this time next week, I guarantee you that mother and son will be in each others arms.
So, in any event, since returning from Johnstown I have worked like I did twenty years ago, before I figured out life. I used to work sixty and seventy hours a week because I thought I had to – I am a lawyer, after all – but then realized that I was missing the best parts of life. Believe me, once I get past this term of court, I am returning to my moderately slothful ways.
Well, whine, whine, whine. The great thing about God’s providence is that time really does exist on earth. Difficult times come, but then, by golly, they go. As I get older, that has become an ever greater comfort to me. Otherwise, one may as well adopt the view of Lemony Snicket:
Perhaps if we saw what was ahead of us, and glimpsed the crimes, follies and misfortunes that would befall us later on, we would all stay in our mother’s wombs, and then there would be nobody in the world but a great number of very fat, very irritated women.
I don’t know if women find that funny, but I think it is hilarious.
Ancient Church 