An art gallery downtown. Makoto Fujimura reads from The Four Quartets, testifies to what T.S. Eliot has meant to him. Tells of reading the poem aloud in the subway after 9/11. No one minded, he assures us. It was a way to climb back from despair. He speaks of the Chinese tradition of requiring government officials to master a body of poetry, the art of calligraphy, landscape painting. “Should our leaders be required to be able to create beauty?” he wonders.
An athletic arena, set up with folding chairs for a literary crowd. Before we know what’s happening, Tobias Wolff lures us into a short story about a woman lured into a bogus academic job interview. Witty satire turns bitter. In defiance of her own entrapment, the woman lectures on the cruelty of the Iroquois to the first French missionaries. Wolff describes his research on the missionaries in question. Their certainty, he says, is so impressive. And so dangerous. We must watch for the dangers of certainty. He is thinking of American politics.
The college chapel, two living room chairs where the pulpit usually stands. An interview with Zadie Smith. Smith, too, worries about certainty. Our knowledge is always “minute and partial,” she remarks. Nineteenth-century British writers, whom she loves—Jane Austen, George Eliot—were deeply judgmental of their characters. Smith observes that neither Austen nor Eliot had children. “The experience of having children thrusts you into uncertainty,” she observes.
A low-ceilinged auditorium, the kind with tiered seating and fluorescent lighting. Jaweed Kaleem and Marilyn Chandler McEntyre tell stories about sitting with the dying, listening to their stories, writing about it. When people recognize that they are facing their own death, says McEntyre, that can be for them “a curious moment of empowerment.” A person in the audience asks a question. Her own grief is still raw. She hasn’t been able to write her way toward meaning in her father’s sudden death. McEntyre quotes someone else: “You have to let things be before you make them mean.” Then she adds, “The book of Job is a good place to go for a refresher course in rage.”
A beautiful concert hall, the lights dimmed. Christian Wiman reads poems, songs in the darkness. A falcon lingers on a windowsill, a steamroller flattens a snake, a man serenades his wife as they flee Stalin’s soldiers. An irony of the writing life, Wiman remarks: “You feel most intensely the life you fail to feel.” I write it down though I don’t know what it means. The quote from Abraham Heschel I do understand: “Faith is mostly faithfulness to the times when we had faith.”
A conference center room, four panelists, all religion journalists. Patton Dodd sums up the situation: “American religion is in disarray. For religion writers it’s a cornucopia.” People are hungry to read about religion, they are hungry to speak about religion. No one can figure out a financial model to support religion reporting. And yet, says Dodd, “The world needs neutral, deeply engaged religious discourse.” The alternative is ignorance, prejudice, division.
The theater space, ready for next week’s production, a cabin in the woods, a treehouse, a firepit, painted grass. On the edge of the stage, two upholstered chairs. Tara Isabella Burton and Dean Nelson offer advice about travel writing. Look for a key metaphor, a key quote, find the story. Particulars, never generalities. Talk to people, tell them you’re a writer, let them tell you their stories. But watch their behavior, too. It might reveal something they’re not saying. Whatever you do, do not use the cliché, “East meets West.”
Back in the arena. George Saunders explains that he has been attending Trump rallies, working on a story for the New York Times. The audience murmurs. He places himself, he explains, where the river of Trump supporters sloshes against the bank of protesters. That’s where he stands and watches. People lob internetisms at each other. Writing fiction is his stay against despair, says Saunders. The attentiveness to specificity and complexity, the sharp and true observation, the yes and no, together. Wolff comes on stage for a conversation with Saunders. More living room furniture staged on a stage. They speak of the dangers of generalizations again, hiding our enmities in concepts and abstractions. “You can trace the poisons to the language,” says Wolff.
You can trace the antidotes to the language, too. Naming the world truly. Attending to its beauty. Embracing uncertainty. Listening to one another’s stories. Refusing the lazy generality, the dangerous truncation of mere concept. Instead, reveling in the particular. The yes and no and yes and no and yes.
Postcards from the Festival of Faith and Writing
An art gallery downtown. Makoto Fujimura reads from The Four Quartets, testifies to what T.S. Eliot has meant to him. Tells of reading the poem aloud in the subway after 9/11. No one minded, he assures us. It was a way to climb back from despair. He speaks of the Chinese tradition of requiring government officials to master a body of poetry, the art of calligraphy, landscape painting. “Should our leaders be required to be able to create beauty?” he wonders.
An athletic arena, set up with folding chairs for a literary crowd. Before we know what’s happening, Tobias Wolff lures us into a short story about a woman lured into a bogus academic job interview. Witty satire turns bitter. In defiance of her own entrapment, the woman lectures on the cruelty of the Iroquois to the first French missionaries. Wolff describes his research on the missionaries in question. Their certainty, he says, is so impressive. And so dangerous. We must watch for the dangers of certainty. He is thinking of American politics.
The college chapel, two living room chairs where the pulpit usually stands. An interview with Zadie Smith. Smith, too, worries about certainty. Our knowledge is always “minute and partial,” she remarks. Nineteenth-century British writers, whom she loves—Jane Austen, George Eliot—were deeply judgmental of their characters. Smith observes that neither Austen nor Eliot had children. “The experience of having children thrusts you into uncertainty,” she observes.
A low-ceilinged auditorium, the kind with tiered seating and fluorescent lighting. Jaweed Kaleem and Marilyn Chandler McEntyre tell stories about sitting with the dying, listening to their stories, writing about it. When people recognize that they are facing their own death, says McEntyre, that can be for them “a curious moment of empowerment.” A person in the audience asks a question. Her own grief is still raw. She hasn’t been able to write her way toward meaning in her father’s sudden death. McEntyre quotes someone else: “You have to let things be before you make them mean.” Then she adds, “The book of Job is a good place to go for a refresher course in rage.”
A beautiful concert hall, the lights dimmed. Christian Wiman reads poems, songs in the darkness. A falcon lingers on a windowsill, a steamroller flattens a snake, a man serenades his wife as they flee Stalin’s soldiers. An irony of the writing life, Wiman remarks: “You feel most intensely the life you fail to feel.” I write it down though I don’t know what it means. The quote from Abraham Heschel I do understand: “Faith is mostly faithfulness to the times when we had faith.”
A conference center room, four panelists, all religion journalists. Patton Dodd sums up the situation: “American religion is in disarray. For religion writers it’s a cornucopia.” People are hungry to read about religion, they are hungry to speak about religion. No one can figure out a financial model to support religion reporting. And yet, says Dodd, “The world needs neutral, deeply engaged religious discourse.” The alternative is ignorance, prejudice, division.
The theater space, ready for next week’s production, a cabin in the woods, a treehouse, a firepit, painted grass. On the edge of the stage, two upholstered chairs. Tara Isabella Burton and Dean Nelson offer advice about travel writing. Look for a key metaphor, a key quote, find the story. Particulars, never generalities. Talk to people, tell them you’re a writer, let them tell you their stories. But watch their behavior, too. It might reveal something they’re not saying. Whatever you do, do not use the cliché, “East meets West.”
Back in the arena. George Saunders explains that he has been attending Trump rallies, working on a story for the New York Times. The audience murmurs. He places himself, he explains, where the river of Trump supporters sloshes against the bank of protesters. That’s where he stands and watches. People lob internetisms at each other. Writing fiction is his stay against despair, says Saunders. The attentiveness to specificity and complexity, the sharp and true observation, the yes and no, together. Wolff comes on stage for a conversation with Saunders. More living room furniture staged on a stage. They speak of the dangers of generalizations again, hiding our enmities in concepts and abstractions. “You can trace the poisons to the language,” says Wolff.
You can trace the antidotes to the language, too. Naming the world truly. Attending to its beauty. Embracing uncertainty. Listening to one another’s stories. Refusing the lazy generality, the dangerous truncation of mere concept. Instead, reveling in the particular. The yes and no and yes and no and yes.
Refugia Podcast Episode 35 Peacemaking at the River: Doug Kaufman and the Anabaptist Climate Collaborative
Doug Kaufman directs the Anabaptist Climate Collaborative, an organization that leads climate justice initiatives from an Anabaptist faith perspective. Doug and his team support Mennonite and other Anabaptist churches, helping to build networks, train leaders, and empower climate-related initiatives. Doug describes environmental work as a form of peacemaking, a way of countering the slow violence of actions that cause and exacerbate climate change. Thanks to Doug for geeking out with me on theology and offering some glimpses of Mennonite climate work.
Refugia Podcast Episode 34 A Parable of Redemption: Dave Celesky and Redeem MI Land
Today I’m talking with Rev. Dr. Dave Celesky, pastor of Unity Reformed Church in Norton Shores, Michigan. I’ll be asking Dave about the nonprofit organization he founded called Redeem MI Land, with “MI” spelled “M-I” for Michigan. The idea is to have churches or faith groups purchase a piece of degraded land, and, with community partners, redeem and heal it. Dave speaks eloquently about how this work can serve as an embodied parable for redemption and create vital community connections through a shared project.
Refugia Podcast Episode 33 The Garden Became the Steeple: Heber Brown and the Black Church Food Security Network
Today, I’m talking with Rev. Dr. Heber Brown, founder of the Black Church Food Security Network. Beginning with a small congregation, a 1500-square foot garden, and a divine calling, the Black Church Food Security Network now connects 250 Black churches and 100 Black farmers in the Mid-Atlantic states and beyond. Reverend Brown’s story weaves through issues of health justice, food security and climate resilience.
Refugia Podcast Episode 32 It All Started with Styrofoam Cups: Judy Hinck and Mount Olive Lutheran
It All Started with Styrofoam Cups: Judy Hinck and Mount Olive Lutheran