Into the Empty Places

Digital Commons@ Loyola Marymount University and Loyola Law School Theological Studies Faculty Works Theological Studies 1-1-2000 Into the Empty Places Douglas E. Christie Loyola Marymount University, [email protected] Repository Citation Christie, Douglas E., "Into the Empty Places" (2000). Theological Studies Faculty Works. 136. http://digitalcommons.lmu.edu/theo_fac/136 Recommended Citation Christie, Douglas E. “Into the Empty Places,” Weavings 15:1 ( Jan/Feb 2000): 19-27. This Article is brought to you for free and open access by the Theological Studies at Digital Commons @ Loyola Marymount University and Loyola Law School. It has been accepted for inclusion in Theological Studies Faculty Works by an authorized administrator of Digital Commons@Loyola Marymount University and Loyola Law School. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Into the Empty Places I' I by Douglas Burton-Christie I ! God is that great absence In our lives, the empty silence within, the place where we go Seeking, not in hope to Arrive or find. 1 I T IS Goon FRIDAY. I have just passed through the security check of Los Angeles County Central Juvenile Hall. Inside, it feels barren and empty. Paint flakes off the walls. Barbed wire stretches overhead. Little tufts of grass push against the concrete. Somewhere in the distance a sparrow sings. Across the yard, I see a group of boys and girls dressed in bright orange uniforms. They are walking, hands clasped firmly behind their backs, eyes straight ahead. Guards monitor their movements carefully. They are on their way to the chapel. My friend Mike, a Jesuit priest who has invited me here today, looks at his watch and mutters to himself-we are late. Hurrying on, we slip in the side door and enter the sacristy just as the kids begin filing into the chapel for the Good Friday service. They move to their seats quietly, exchanging glances with one another, looking occasionally in my direction. I look at them too, trying not to stare. But I find it almost impossible to take my eyes off of them. They are beautiful. That is my first and strongest impression of these kids. I also feel angry, confused. Sitting here before me are fourteen-, fifteen-, sixteen-year-old kids, full of life and energy. I think, they should be with their families, in school, outside playing. Instead they are here in this prison, their lives reduced to something poor and thin. What are they doing in this awful place? How did they end up here? I know that some of them have committed terrible acts of violence. Others have been arrested again and again for gang-related activities, for petty and not-so-petty crimes. That is why they wear orange, why they are, in the eyes of the county, "high-risk offenders." But this is only part of the story. Looking at their faces just now, I see something else-their beauty, their innocence, their hunger. And, of course, their fragility. I find it difficult to hold all of this together-so much degradation, so much beauty. It doesn't make any sense. It feels like I have stumbled onto a deep and terrible rift in the world between R. S. Thomas, "Via Negativa" in Collected Poems, 1945-1990 (London: Phoenix, 1995), p. 220. 1 20 WEAVINGS XV: I the way things are and the way things ought to be. I think of those strange, mysterious words of Jesus, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Was Jesus thinking about kids such as these when he uttered those wordskids who had been drawn into the rough life of the streets, kids without a home, separated from their families, living on the edge, on the verge oflosing hope? It is not difficult to imagine it. Clearly, Jesus felt deep compassion for the children around him. Not only because of their innocence and purity, but because they were the most vulnerable. They had no standing in society. They were considered non-persons. How startled his disciples must have been when they tried to send the children away, only to be rebuked by Jesus: "Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom ofheaven belongs" (Matt. 19:14). 2 Then, even stronger words, "Unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven'' (Matt. 18:3). Here in this place, I feel the sting of these words. "Change and become like children." Like these children, these castoffs, with few prospects, little reason for hope? Yes, apparently, it is these children who I am called to listen to today. They are to be my teachers, in their brokenness and their poverty. I how I feel about this. Do I want to know what they have to teach me? Do I want to open myself to their suffering, learn from it, be changed by it? I say I do. But do I really? Every year as Good Friday approaches, I cringe. I think of how I might get through the day unscathed, as little changed as possible by the questions arising from the dark emptiness and affliction of the Cross. I am afraid to approach too close to this place. __I_am ashamed of my fear. I should be able to face the Cross AM NOT SURE 2 All scripture references are to the New Revised Standard Version unless otherwise noted. POVERTY OF SPIRIT 21 more squarely. But I cannot. I have ·to be drawn toward it obliquely, as I have been today. Even then; I cling to the hope that I can maintain a safe distance• from this terrible emblem of agony, control it. This, after all;. is ,not my; suffering. I am not imprisoned. I am not facing twenty-five years to life. I am only. here visiting. After a few hours I will •walk back through the carefully guarded do0rs of this jail; return home to the embrace of my ·wife and daughter, ,and enter ,again into the comforting rhythms of my.Iife. The .events of this day gradually will take their place,among a-host of memories; more or less distinct-, than live within me. :Maybe L v,vill be touched by,something I see and hear: in this pHtcei,,Maybe myp'erspective on things will change. Perhaps· I will be, changed. That is' what I fear the most. To ,open myself to real change means relinquishing the comfort and safety I cherish and exposing myself.to i:is~ and insecurity: T-his, I know, is what genuine empathy and love require of me. It is wh'at I lbng· for most irr my life. ·And yet it -is precisely this, that I fail at most. On those oci:Jasions when I feel myself. tested, when I am brought face to face with the suffering of another human, being, often I feel all too acutely the thin, insubstantial character of my·empathy. It does not feel strong enough to sustain another soul" struggling to survive a period of desolate loneliness or anguish-or strong enough to sustain me for that matter. I am aware in such Il}d~nts'ofp.<:>w qeep is.my ,in,clin~~io'n towara ~el(:_:preser:vatioU: ~nd.,5ectirfry: f ;:iar{.alino~t. fed piyse'lr;,grbpini for~splic;l g~<?ti~4· bene~th.p1y ~eh~cht!fkirig;to b~.:S,\ire l~st• f finct:mrself supd'e.riJy cfrawn dtft' 'ihto Hee"per :w.aters. ,' 1·.• N? '{ I ' ·. f;Eq~, l!~!le ·sq1Jfe tpere it 1n;tlta_t1 sure footing. Wh~t ~ ·poqr plate to,bu1ld.,a life. ·lln0w tliis·:·J.~w .tbatjt is anjflfl_sion, 1.Q.' imagine that I can find happiness by seeking always to situate myself in a safe place. Yet I•do it constan.tly, all the while asking myselfwhet11} will find the courage to rid myself of this illusion,, to Gast myse1f out, over the fathomless depths, and acknowledge my vulnerability, my great need. · Maybe that is what I am doing here. today. I knew when the invitatioh came that Jr would not be able to ertter-this place casu.:... ally. This·would.be no.mere visit. I would be changed by what I saw and experienced here, moved in a wayJ could not possibly move myself. I knowwell enough that I laok the.courage to move myself. But I also know, or suspect, that ,I Jack the ability to do so. Real, lasting change in my life always has arisen through grace; C 'I' 22 'l ... "' ' WEAV•INGS XV: I "" ,,!; ... ..... tangible in the unexpected claim of ~mother person upon me.. Perhaps "this is the Teal, heart of the matter,for me-I am afraid to give myself over to the risk of being claimed by-another. I am afraid to adm'it the .depth of my own poverty, my need. Nowhere •is·this more clear than,in my relationship with God. Here in this place, in the presence of these boys and girls, I feel my fear begin to dissipate-which- is strange, for this place is suffused by fear. I can see it in ,their faces and hear it in theirvoices as they tell their storie.s-fear of the guards, fear of violence, at the hands of other inmates, fear oflongjail sentences stretching before them. Perhaps most of all, fear that ~heir lives are over, that they will never recover all that they have squ~ndered. I do not pretend to understand this, though I can feel it, like a fist in the stomach. These kids are fearless, tliough, when it comes to admitting the depth of their vulnerability; the1r poverty. In the very place where I feel most constricted, they move most freely. ,Perhaps it is because so many df their illusions already have been shattered, especially the illusion of invulnerability. Most of these kids have been'in gangs. Some still are. On the streets, they have known the sense of empowerment, the projection of power that belonging to a gang, brings. Which is why, in a kind of parody of the G<:>spel -injunction, they have left behind everythingmother, father, brother, sister, everything-for the gang's sake. Now that power is gone. So"is almost everything else. Here they sit, naked ano vulnerable and alone. Do I want to know what they have to teach me? W seventeen years old, I was, arrested for something stupidl did with a car. No one was hurt. But I broke the law and the police caught ·up with me one day as I turned into the parking lot at school. My friends watched, mouths agape, as I was handcuffed and taken away in the police car. At the•station; I was booked and fingerprinted, HEN I WAS POVERTY OF SPIRIT 23 then escorted to a tiny jail cell upstairs. The door slammed sh~t behind me and suddenly I was alone. It was only then that I realized how scared I was. I looked around. In the corner was a bare toilet. The stench of urine filled my nostrils. I felt sick. How could this have happened to me? How could I have ended up in jail? I did not yet know how much trouble I was in. But I knew it was serious. That was over twenty-five years ago. What I remember most clearly about that moment is my deepening sense of shame and humiliation. Sitting in that cell, I went over and over in my mind what I had done, why I had done it. It was a strange experience to confront myself in that way; I was not really in the habit of doing so. But suddenly I had no choice. I squirmed , under the realization that there really was no explanation that would account for my behavior, for what I was doing in jail. I had been careless and stupid. That was the simple truth. It cast a harsh glare on my soul that I found painful to take in just then. It also cast a revealing light on the rest of my life. I realized I was not the person I imagined myself to be. I certainly was not as mature or self-possessed as I thought I was. Nor was I really very capable or independent. In many ways I was still a child. My mother arrived later that day to pay the bail and take me home. She was standing there waiting for me when I walked out of the jail. I remember how glad I was to see her. But I also was embarrassed and ashamed. I had a hard time meeting her gaze-not that she said anything to me to indicate her dismay at what I had done. There were no lectures, no recriminations from her. She apparently sensed that I already had suffered enough humiliation. It had been humiliating to be , stopped and questioned by the police, to realize there was a warrant out for my arrest, to be handcuffed in front of my friends, to feel the scorn and disgust of the police officers, to have to telephone my mother and tell her I had been arrested, to sit looking out through the bars of that jail cell. Riding home in the car with her that day it dug in even deeper; I felt deflated and vulnerable, lost. How strong that feeling is within me, even after so many years. Today, as I look out at the faces of these boys and girls, it comes back to me in a rush, that knot in the pit of the stomach, that bewilderment at seeing my still-fragile child's sense of the world break apart. I am suddenly back there in that place Real change in my life always has arts en thro ugh grace 24 WEAVINGS XV: I of failure and need and vulnerability, a place I have found myself moving through many times since then. It is a place I share with these kids. Being here with them today helps me to see that. Not that I compare my suffering to theirs. I don't want to compare it at all. They have their own road to travel, and I have mine. But today, on Good Friday, we struggle together to enter into the empty places of our lives-those places of suffering and abandonment and bitter disappointment-and seek God there. I rs Q u IE T in the chapel. Everyone is settled, ready to proceed. Music plays softly in the background. Mike stands up and begins reading a prose poem he has prepared: T Today, I invite you to picture yourself in Jerusalem on top cif a hill. The sky is dark. It is cold. There are three crosses. Jesus is hanging with a rope around his waist to keep him from falling. Blood drips from his body, which now hangs limp. Mary says, "It's over. I saw my son Jesus breathe his last breath. I saw so many hours of torture. Now he lays here without breath. Suddenly I understood what death is . .. " A story of desolation, agony, abandonment, told from a mother's perspective. How awful the events of that day must have seemed to Jesus' mother. It is a story all too familiar to these kids, and to their mothers. The presence of their mothers can be felt in the room this afternoon. A question has surfaced: "How did my own mother feel when she saw me arrested, sentenced, and taken away to prison?" For a long while this question hangs in our midst, awaiting a response. Then a young boy steps forward. His head is shaved. He has dark brown eyes and sharp, high cheekbones. He clearly is nervous, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. But he wants to say something to the others gathered here. "I put my POVERTY OF SPIRIT 25 mom through a lot of things. She was sad to lose her son. I always used to be around her. She used to be like my big·sister. That's how we used to kick it. Everything has changed now." Suddenly, he stops talking. His eyes are filling with tears. "Man! I look at my mom's face on Sunday ... I don't know, man. Fm starting to get heartbroken!" He beats ,his chest with his fist trying to catch his breath and searches. the room as though looking for some kind of help. Finally, he gives up and sits down. Another boy walks up to speak. He is tall and thin and has a gentle voice. Since I turned thirteen, I lut tpy,- ,mom throµgh ··if lot ,of paf,i: ... Now I sit here fadtJ:g prison fmf for someth(ng I g'.ot, caug¼t up in with my, "So-called Hoff'!e boys. I kn~w the pain 1 put it} my mom'{ hea~t. Now. she U!Onders what w~nt wrong, becqus,e jrom ~ Zif.tie (toy catryitig books to sch9ol . . : I~faave ?nae,d . up' here.' :Artd..now myi mo,m ·looks at. tnl iw iliis place 1ijhate ':• where no human being wants to be. A young girl comes to the front of the chapel. She is maybe sixteen years old. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a tight bun on the top of her head. She has hazel eyes that flash as she describes a scene she has imagined many times since going to prison-her mother frantically searching the house for her. Today, her mother speaks through her: Startled by my own dream I wake up covered ·in sweat. I toss and turn and try to fall asleep again. No, something is wrong. I saw my little girl caged up like an animal, no one to turn to, nowhere to escape. This is just a dream. It can't be true. So I get up out of my bed and walk toward her room. I reach for the door knob and a cold wind blows across ,,:ny face. I. whisper to myself, ''It· was just a dream, my baby's still here." As I walk .in, a silence covers her room. Each;step that Make closer to the bed, iny heart begins to beat faster and my fears grow deeper. To my heartbreak, it is empty, bodiless! Tears begin to fall. My heart stops beating. This nightmare has become my-reality. This pain that has been cast upon me is unbearable. I see the pain hidden in my lovely daughter's eyes. Days slowly pass. Let me take her place! Let me suffer instead of her. Your sweet scent still lingers through' the room. I miss .you so much . .. I carried you for so long. ... 26 WEAVINGS XV: I• Another boy walks forward. He is handsome, with dark brown hair cut short. His voice trembles as he speaks (later I learn that he has been charged with first-degree murder): I can't describe the pain my mom feels. Her pain to me is like no other. The pain my dearest mom feels is the same pain that is killing me. I see my''mom' go' through sbme kind of agony. I can see it in her eyes even though she would never tell me. I see my mom break down in tears before me because of how difficult it is. That was then. Now it is even worse. Now that I got my life in someone else's hands, I see my, mom has an even deeper sorrow. ... I wish I could take away he'r misery, put happiness and joy back in her dreams. All I· can see •is her pain-that is killing me. On and on it goes, this ~~u~ding of the empty places. For almost three hours the kids stream ~prward, crying out their loss, regret, sadness. Also, though ·in inJre modest measure, expressing hopes for a different kind of.future. Then, in silence, they begin moving toward the crq,ss: With endlessly different gestures-touching, caressing, kissing-they reverence it. Here in this place of abandonment anq:· d~splation, the,y: linger. Then it is over. The kids move from the chapel to the yard under close escort from the guards. It i's ti'me for the evening meal. They take their food from a latge metal cart and sit at long tables to eat. There does not •seem to be ,much talking tonight. None of the rest of us has rp.uch to ~ay either. On the way home in the car Mike and ! try a. couple of times to talk about what just happened, but we cannot manage it. We have just witnessed something immensely sad·and·beautiful. We know that it involves us somehow, ,that it touches on die very mystery of the crucifixion. But it is too difficult just yet to say anything about it. It is still too soon-I 'Sense this ev,en ,as I write these words-to try to say what happened in this place. POVERTY OF SPIRIT 27