Connecting Through Our Woundedness to Christ the King

Connecting Through Our Woundedness  to Christ the King

Ravena Mosaic

“The world has never seen, except once, the kind of king we mean when we speak of Christ the King. Our king reigns from a cross and rules on his knees. His crown is thorns. His orb and sceptre, a basin and towel. His law is love. We are here to tell the tale of lives transformed by loving service, and this king has set the example for us all.”—Br. James Koester, SSJE

“The reality is that every human being is broken and vulnerable. How strange that we should ordinarily feel compelled to hide our wounds when we are all wounded!”—M. Scott Peck in The Different Drum (Touchstone, 1998).

Henri Nouwen also tells us that we become less, not more, vulnerable when we share our woundedness. It takes enormous energy to pretend we are “just fine.” We hide who we are, wearing masks and trying to be something we are not. As we take off that mask, we can now employ all that energy simply to be ourselves, to become the person God created us to be. We become more human. In turn, others share their wounds because they recognize us as a safe place—another human being who may have just an inkling of what pain is about.

Letting others know we are human, that we have pain, and that we make mistakes is also a path into the divine within ourselves and others. This is the path we are all seeking. A wide, gaping entrance to this path opens through our wounds directly into the Christ, the Holy, and the Spirit, each within the other.

This is the path from Good Friday to Resurrection. We especially remember Christ’s woundedness and our woundedness, and that connection to Christ the King within us on this Christ the King Sunday on our liturgical calendar. So many images of Christ on this day are of a King on a cross. A King we can always recognize by his wounds. A king who has overcome the cross.

Jake Owensby describes the reign of Christ the King as one of love, forgiveness, and mercy, not a kingdom of punishments and rewards. Christ offers us a love that will not die, that often enters us through our woundedness. That love can only live by overflowing out of us, expanding God’s reign of love on the earth until it is like his reign in heaven.1

1Jake Owensby, “The Peculiar Reign of God,” https://jakeowensby.org/, November 18, 2022.

Joanna. Joannaseibert.com  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Death of JFK CS Lewis and Aldous Huxley on November 22, 1963

 November 22, 1963: Death of JFK, C.S. Lewis, and Aldous Huxley

new yorker

Between Heaven and Hell: A Dialog Somewhere Beyond Death with John F. Kennedy, C. S. Lewis, & Aldous Huxley is a novel by Peter Kreeft about U.S. President John F. Kennedy, and authors C. S. Lewis (The Chronicles of Narnia) and Aldous Huxley (Brave New World) meeting in Purgatory and engaging in a philosophical discussion on faith. It was inspired by the fact that all three men died on the same day: November 22, 1963, Kennedy was assassinated, Huxley died of cancer, and Lewis died of renal failure. We see from the three points of view: Kennedy's "modern Christian" view, Lewis's "conservative, orthodox Christian" or "mere Christian" view, and Huxley's Eastern pantheist" view of God. The book progresses as Lewis and Kennedy discuss Jesus's being God incarnate, to Lewis and Huxley discussing whether or not Jesus was a deity or "just a good person." Wikipedia

We are sometimes asked who we would like to have for dinner, living or dead. Any number of people would invite Kennedy, Lewis, or Huxley. Peter Kreeft’s novel takes us into his imagination of what a conversation between these three would be like, since they all died on the same day. Kreeft, a professor of philosophy at Boston College and King’s College and a Catholic apologist, writes a fictional book that reads much like a play, with constant Socratic dialogue among the three men.

 Huxley, an English writer and philosopher,  portrays God as an Eastern pantheistic, universal force, viewing the universe as divine rather than a separate, personal deity. He believes God is not a distinct being, but the underlying essence of all existence, meaning everything is part of God.

Huxley sees the ultimate spiritual goal as achieving a state of unity with cosmic consciousness, in which individual identity dissolves into the larger whole.

In contrast, C.S. Lewis presents a more traditional Western theism Christian view of God as a personal being who interacts with humanity and can be known through faith. While Huxley's God is not a judge, Lewis's God is a moral authority holding individuals accountable for their actions.

Kennedy represents Western secular humanists and the modernist Christian view.

Most reviewers believe the author is biased toward Lewis, the central figure and most fully developed character, and that the author poorly represents Kennedy. Still, the concept is so intriguing. So often, we do think of friends and family who have died, and if they are having some form of conversation with each other. At some later date, we will all have a chance to learn more!

The book’s ending also speaks perhaps to the author’s concept of God. A fourth character, the Light, appears and says, “Are you coming?”

Joanna. joannaseibert.com

A Senility Picaresque

A Senility Picaresque

Guest Writer: Ken Fellows

Remembering Monhegan Island

     Well into the 8th decade, my creeping forgetfulness of people and place names is disturbing. Memory lapses derail and complicate conversations, writing, and even daydreaming. In medical school many years ago, Alzheimer’s Disease was taught to be the early-onset dementia at the age of 40-50 of dementia. No longer --- memory loss, disorientation, general confusion, and other symptoms are all named “Alzheimer’s” whether the afflicted are in their 40s or their 90s.

     The first signs of senility began several years ago, when I, in the midst of relating facts or telling a story, suddenly couldn’t recall a vital name or a key event. To cover my deficit, I began using the tactic elderly writer Roger Angel once recommended: “I send an Indian scout into the unspoken next sentence to warn of missing names or items --- and modify or change my words to avoid the impending deficiency.” Alzheimer’s runs in families, and my father suffered progressive dementia, finally requiring hospice care. There is reason for my concern.

     The novel Still Alice is a brilliant description authored by neuroscientist Lisa Genova. She realistically and artfully describes the fictional progress of a 50-year-old Harvard Professor woman who progresses through all the stages of Alzheimer’s disease, showing its effects on her profession, her family, and her self-esteem. I recently chose to reread the book, hoping for some insight.

     In the book, Alice had been barely, but bravely, adjusting to her progressive dementia for a decade when she was persuaded to attend a Harvard Graduation Ceremony. The event’s featured speaker, a Spanish actor, talked about his life’s adventure-- what he called a “picaresque … a long journey that teaches the hero lessons learned along the way.” He offered a requisite five goals: “Be creative, be useful, be practical, be generous, and finish big.” Alice, in the book, reflects on that advice, but doesn’t comment on an obvious concern: how could anyone in the throes of dementia ever hope to “finish big?”

     That admonition ”to finish big” was puzzling and distracting for me. What might that entail, and how might it be accomplished in anyone’s life afflicted by Alzheimer’s disease? The usual slow but progressive drift into senescence would seem to make finishing strong a remote consideration.

     Still perturbed days later, I continued reading, hoping an answer to my consternation would be offered. Instead, quite providentially, an answer literally fell out of the book. It was a newspaper clipping I had left in the back pages during a previous reading of the book years before. The short article “The Joy of Taking the Family to Dinner” was authored by psychiatrist and long-time Boston Globe contributor Elissa Ely. In the piece, she described family dinners with a friend’s octogenarian father, who was severely afflicted with Alzheimer’s and no longer verbal, who consistently became agitated at the end of family meals in his care facility:

     “Whenever the family eats with him, my friend’s father picks up the tab that does not exist. He signs on a napkin or a scrap of paper someone remembers to bring, or on other receipts, conveniently pulled from a pocket. I don’t know if the writing is legible or if he can read the name he signs. But he signs with

finality and satisfaction. The very action makes him content. He is taking his family to dinner.”

     So there it was, ---the answer I sought. Despite being lost in the fog of dementia, and near the end of his life’s adventure –his own picaresque –the father had found a way to “finish big.”

      It also became evident that I had noted this remarkable lesson years ago and saved the article … but had forgotten.

I have painted on Monhegan Island in the summer for about 15 years, usually in a realistic style. Last year, I had an impulse to paint a section of the Monhegan Harbor shoreline and its houses in a semi-abstract way. It occurred to me that the painting could be a metaphor for memory loss.

Ken Fellows

Joanna      joannaseibert.com  https://www.joannaseibert.com/