Invincible summer: A brief post-script

"Your identity is not equivalent to your biography"

Sweet, delicate, and enduring beauty in the midst of winter. One of my favorite pictures. Believe it or not, this is from the backyard of a dear friend in Houston.

Two things happened after my last post, and I’d like to offer them with you as gifts to ponder.

First, I have been reading the Port William novels by Wendell Berry, and I am enthralled. And I realized that something I had read in the middle of the night a few days ago likely influenced my post, “The invincible summer within.” I went in search of the passage (not easy for me on a Kindle) and found it.

It’s from The Memory of Old Jack. Hannah is reflecting in the quiet stillness of a hot mid-day, as she and others wait for the men in their farming community to arrive for dinner. They’ve all been hard at work since sunup, and the women have prepared a large spread for dinner. After dinner, there will be the deep rest that follows strenuous physical labor, a rest that sometimes feels more satisfying than night-time sleep.

In this passage, Hannah is reflecting in a way that must have conjured for me the idea I was pondering in my post, the idea that “your identity is not equivalent to your biography.” I hope that in a quiet moment you might treat yourself to reading this paragraph aloud, slowly:

“Much of the night now she does not sleep, but she is not restless. She lies still, in a patience that makes her body one with the world, time passing, her time coming. It is as though she holds in herself, against darkness and even weariness, a bright cell of summer light. She grows full with the season, heavy with yield. It is a light that she recognizes as her own, though she is only its bearer. Now that she has come to know it, she knows she has never been without it.”

Wendell Berry, The Memory of Old Jack: A Novel (Port William Book 3) (p. 83). (Function). Kindle Edition.

“A light she recognizes as her own, though she is only its bearer. Now that she has come to know it, she knows she has never been without it.” Oh, my. Surely, that must encapsulate one of the most important insights of contemplative practice.

And second, one of my closest friends responded to my last post with an email in which he recalled an encounter on the street.

Sandy is a kind, generous, and deeply spiritual man. I would describe him as an astute and natural theologian, and he is happily out of step with much of what passes for Christianity in America today. Sandy has an advanced degree in clinical psychology, and he has become a writer in his retirement.

I told Sandy that I’d like to share a little bit of what he wrote in his email to me. He had been drawn to the idea that “our identity is not the same as our biography.” Here’s part of what he said:

In thinking about that I thought of how much more fulsome one’s inner biography must be. … It strikes me that the inner biography must be the closest to one’s essence. But never has an obituary attempted to focus on it. It is a story mostly only known and loved by God…and perhaps a few intimate others.

Two weeks ago I met a homeless man while walking Rafe. His name is Lennox. Wrapped in enough to be warm, pulling a wagon full of his life possessions. Run down yet quite handsome. Soft spoken. We chatted for 15 minutes. Likely possessed by some kind of mental illness, but not spiritual illness. I passed him $50. He paused to think, and handed it back to me. In a sincere, soft voice he said he just couldn’t accept a gift that large. We talked more and I told him that I think he is a kind, thoughtful man. I told him that I hoped to see him again. We said goodbye and on the walk home I was sure I had met Jesus.

Running into Jesus and chatting for a while has to be counted as a good day. Perhaps we often pass him by cluelessly lost in our own busy-ness. Which underscores the point of living in the moment.

Amen.