Toward a Common Hope - Robert Allan Hill

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So walk with the women and walk with me too. Let us walk together through the Gospel in sermon. And if you get done with the sermon before the sermon gets done—if you are finished with it before I am—have no fear, do not worry. Just wait a bit, and I will catch up with you! And fear not, some of you will arise inspired and some will awake refreshed, and both outcomes are worthy!

      Marathon 2013

      We do not know what a day will bring. This is true of every day, but truer of some days than others. Focus for a moment on the gravest of days you have known. Someday I would like to hear of it.

      For some whom we know well, Patriots’ Day 2013 was such a day, nearly 3 years ago. We learned first-hand in this neighborhood about the visitation of death, tragically known again in Brussels and around the globe this week. Spelled D-E-A-T-H. Not your imaginary friend, but an equally omnipresent invisible enemy.

      That Monday began with brunch and celebration, but ended with terror, needless slaughter, and (humanly speaking) unforgivable horror. Our staff opened the chapel later for the throngs walking, T-less, by. Water, refreshment, prayer, counsel, they gave. One runner came very cold and was shrouded with a clergy gown—all we had to offer, a shepherd’s outfit. What a week. Tuesday brought us to the plaza, come evening, in vigil, to honor and reflect. Wednesday, in this chapel, and also at other hours in other settings, gathered us for ordered worship, prayer, music, liturgy, Eucharist, and sermon. Thursday, we heard President Obama, on a familiar theme, “running the race set before us.” Friday, at home, we watched the televised news. Saturday, we listened for the musical succor of Handel’s beautiful Messiah, right here. The next Monday, we gathered again for a memorial service, for our deceased Boston University student, Lu Lingzi.

      Death makes us mortal. Facing death makes us human.

      You remember death. Your neighbor. Your hourly companion. You spell his or her name D-E-A-T-H. Easter morning is about intimations of life, the Living One outlasting death. Paul: as in Adam, all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive (1 Cor 15:22). Behold: a glimmer of light in the dark, a rumor of life in death, an angel reclining in the tomb.

      Clem: Memory

      Memory gives us life. Remember how he told you . . .

      During that week, journalists from around the globe contacted us and others across the university. Many, perhaps most, called or wrote from Asia. Some needed commentary for radio news or other newscasts. The main newspapers across the country also sent reporters.

      On Wednesday, the office took a call from the Philadelphia Enquirer. Could someone meet their man and his photographer at the steps of the chapel to help convey something of the nightly vigils, services, and informal prayers of the week. We picked a mid-afternoon hour. In the April sunlight, the interview began. Suddenly, the photographer dropped his camera and shouted: “Bob. Bob. Bob!” His name is Clem Murray, a high school classmate and friend. He and his girlfriend Mimi Sinopoli were the “class couple” because they were the most beautiful couple, a truly stunning two-some. I had seen neither of them for forty years. I had heard that they married in college. Somehow, he recognized enough of my former self, hidden behind the current condition of my condition, and recognized my name. He let go of the camera for a hug. We finished the interview and photo. I turned then, as they were going to ask, “So how is Mimi?” You only know the really awkward moments too late. They come up after you, like alligators out of the Florida swamp. Clem said nothing. He didn’t need to. I could see what he was holding back in his face and eyes. He just shook his head and shook. “Two years ago, she died of cancer.” In the midst of life, we are in death, at every moment. All I could see of her was a white graduation gown, a little cap and tassle. Three decades of marriage, three children, all things bright and beautiful, and then a malignancy unto death. Clem waved goodbye. A kairos, not a chronos moment.

      We held, together, a memory of life that made life, that gave life, that made alive. In the very presence of death. It was a resurrection memory. A living memory takes you out of the present and into a living past. It was a resurrection memory. And perhaps the most powerful personal conversation I have known.

      Memory gives us life.

      Ceremonial Bow: Prayer

      Prayer gives us life.

      A week after the Marathon, we memorialized our student, Lu Lingzi. This service was held, as had been the memorial for President John Silber the autumn before, in the George Sherman Union. Two thousand attended, with an unknown number around the globe watching and listening by cybercast. The service proceeded, word and music, after careful attention and planning by musicians and clergy. We heard the Gospel of Mark and the Analects of Confucius. We listened to instrumental and choral music. We grieved, remembered, accepted, and affirmed together. The family, eighteen or so, dressed in black and sat in the front row. As the service ended, from the next row, I could see and hear a susurration along the family pew. They were meant to move to the gathering and greeting room, but no one stood. Further conversation moved up and down the row in a language I could of course not understand. I feared: have we forgotten a eulogy, left out a reading, or skipped over an anthem? No. It was something else. After a moment, the family, dressed in black, stood as one, moved as one, turned as one, and faced the congregation and the world. A long quiet ensued. Then, as one, they bowed at the waist and held the bow. To honor the gathering, to honor the moment, to honor the life, to honor Life, they bowed, in silence. It was a resurrection prayer. And it is perhaps the most powerful liturgical moment I have ever known.

      Prayer gives us life.

      Hold On: Love

      Love gives us life. They went to the tomb . . .

      The next Sunday, April 28th, turned out to be a nice, warm, early-spring day. As the sun came up, we looked forward to a day of rest and worship and a chance for a return to normal.

      About one hour before the Sunday service, Br. Larry came in to the office to say, “We have another one.” It took me some moments to understand and internalize the fact of another death. She had died tragically in a fire, caught in an upper room. Her mother would be coming up from New York City on the bus later that evening. The police would have informed her of her daughter’s death. Our Dean of Students, Kenn Elmore, his associate, John Battaglino, and I planned to meet the bus. That evening, we awaited a delayed Greyhound, talking a bit about the week past. We pondered how best to greet the grieving mom. It was decided I would meet the bus and greet her as she came down the steps, offer our heartfelt condolences, and start the trek over to the hotel. The noise of the terminal, the lateness of the hour, the long weeks of terror and loss, and the approximate presence of death itself settled on us, giving us that quiet of the soul that sometimes overtakes us.

      In the bus rolled. The mother came down the steps carrying a beautifully decorated box, holding it with both hands.

      “I want to greet you for the University and express our deepest sympathy and heartfelt concern” I said.

      “Where is my daughter?” she replied, “What hospital is she in? Please take me to her so I can see her and talk with her. I want to go and see her. Where is she? How is she doing? I brought a rice cake. See. In the box. It is her favorite. Rice cake. I know it will make her feel better.”

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