Lavender Graduation

Lavender Graduation

May 10, 2012

Thank you for the invitation to be here today. Who would have thought a week ago that we would be standing together at such a time in our nation’s history?  We can parse the decision our President made to announce his views on marriage in a variety of ways, but when the dust settles, I think it will be viewed as a courageous decision made by a thoughtful and caring human being who will be treated well in historical perspective.

In our gatherings on Tuesday morning in the chapel on those days when classes are in session, we have spent the year reflecting on things we would change if we could: something about our selves, our jobs, our school or out world. My friend Courtney Crummett who works in our library, shared this poem last Tuesday as she explored what it meant to try to live beyond regret for what we have done or not done.

Thanks, Robert Frost by David Ray

Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought...
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope,
will recall as not too heavy the tug
of those albatrosses I sadly placed
upon their tender necks. Hope for the past,
yes, old Frost, your words provide that courage,
and it brings strange peace that itself passes
into past, easier to bear because
you said it, rather casually, as snow
went on falling in Vermont years ago.

At transitions such as the one we celebrate tonight, regret is often present in the form of “would a, could a, should a”. Would we had time to take another class taught by Lorna Gibson,.  Why didn’t I tell so and so what a jerk they were then they said such and such.  If only I had done such and such I would have been ….  We have a standing joke in my family when we are watching a particularly difficult performance or athletic endeavor: my daughter will look up and say, “If you had only pushed me, I could have done that.” It is a joke about regret, but there is a germ of truth because she remembers that we did often push her and she pushed back; we all did when pushed and that is a source of a lot of regret.

Regret can cripple when we dwell on it and that is why I like the poem. There is hope in the future, but there is also hope in our ability to redeem the past. A lot of us were uncomfortable when ROTC remained on campus during the years when “don’t ask, don’t tell” was in play, but  MIT continued to be engaged in the conversation and I think that had we stepped out of the conversations our ability to influence policy would have been lessened.

To move beyond regret is a human perspective, it is not unique to the LGBT community. There is enough regret to go around for all of us and learning to move on without regret is a benchmark for maturity. My hope for each of you is that you can move on and look to the future with hope knowing that the past is taking care of itself.

Blessing:

May you leave this place whole

May you leave this place hopeful;

Knowing that we are with you where-

ever you go and wherever you are.

You are part of MIT even as MIT has

Insinuated itself into the very marrow

of your bones, the blood that courses

In your veins, and the passion that enlivens

your spirits.

Do not forget us for we will not forget you.

AMEN

Robert M. Randolph

Chaplain to the Institute

No Regrets

My name is Courtney Crummett and in my day job I am a librarian at MIT Libraries. If you are new to Tuesdays in the Chapel, the theme for this year is “If I could change one thing.” I think we can all have different reactions to that prompt, but for me it was silence, because of course my self centeredness tendencies took it personally and exclaimed that I don’t have a lot of regrets, that regret is something I have consciously tried to avoid… I try my hardest not to live in regret.
So, I have never really understood it, but it isn’t that I am not familiar with it. This is one of those “get to know you” deep topics that people delve into on long drives, or the topic of deep conversations at coffee shops. You know the conversation, the questions, the sharing. I have always found this conversation interesting, while I enjoy hearing the stories of others, and the opportunity to get to know them, I don’t think about regret often so my stories are not well thought out, fragments, filled with lots of uh and ums.

Not having regret is certainly a survival mechanism for me. My personality is large and opinionated; I can’t really make room for a lot of regret. If so, I think I would drown in the proverbial pool of it.

No one can really do this, though. We all have regret, even just a little bit. I regret just a few things. Telling a boy in college that I loved him even though I knew it was a lie, driving too fast and crashing my great aunt’s vintage car that was and is still my prized possession, and my first real job interview that I failed miserably because I simply choked and my mind went blank…

And if you asked me to, I can pull up the memories of regret into my head. It looks like a collection of short YouTube videos. And when I come to the videos I regret, I physically pull my breath in through my teeth.  I can right now see the short film of me helping my best friend put on her wedding dress, having trouble with the zipper, pulling too hard and busting the seam. Right now I am there, standing behind her in that cabin in the Catskills, my fingers hurting and purple from pulling.  My breath sucks through my teeth and I wince. Man, I regret that one a lot. But honestly, she could care less. What is ironic is that me doing that created a moment that her and her now mother-in-law will have forever. The mother in law, an experienced sewer, came to the rescue and stitched everything up in minutes. Good as new and a great bonding moment for them. But which part do I replay in my head, the lovely ending to the story or the gruesome start?

I think we all battle regrets, especially at night when trying to sleep. I catch myself rolling down hills of memories and then all of a sudden I hear the breath pull through my teeth, my physical reaction to regret. I quickly push it away, think of something else to distract myself, puppies, fields of wild flowers, what I am planning for dinner the next day. I pat myself on the back and hope that the next time I roll onto that breath-pulling memory, the sound won’t be so loud, the regret won’t be so pronounced, the video will fade.

This first reading, Awake at Night by Wendell Berry, reminds me of when regret creeps up on me, at night, lying awake.

Awake at Night by Wendell Berry

Late in the night I pay
the unrest I own
to the life that has never lived
and cannot live now.
What the world could be
is my good dream
and my agony when, dreaming it,
I lie awake and turn
and look into the dark.
I think of a luxury
in the sturdiness and grace
of necessary things, not
in frivolity. That would heal
the earth, and heal men.
But the end, too, is part
of the pattern, the last
labor of the heart:
to learn to lie still,
one with the earth
again, and let the world go.

And I like what Wendell says, to let the world go, let the regrets go, because it is just a dream, what the world could be. And I like the part about letting go is the last work of the heart.  This poem is a tiny little regret killer.  Encouraging us to lie still let the world go.

Because holding on to regrets won’t help us. I’m not pulling extra breath that I need. All our mistakes, our regrets, make us who we are. That is why I feel so strongly about not having regrets. Every time I have said the wrong thing, every worst first impression I have given, it is who I am. Someone told me recently that things get messy before they get cleaner and if we had a pill that could make us exactly who God wants us to be instantly, someone would have already invented it. And believe me, I would be first in line. But they haven’t, and sometimes things are messy, but that is part of life. We shouldn’t regret the messy parts. It is what we do next that counts, how we push off that regret and move on.

I found another fitting poem, a response maybe to lastweek’s choice of a Robert Frost poem.

Thanks, Robert Frost by David Ray

Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought...
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope,
will recall as not too heavy the tug
of those albatrosses I sadly placed
upon their tender necks. Hope for the past,
yes, old Frost, your words provide that courage,
and it brings strange peace that itself passes
into past, easier to bear because
you said it, rather casually, as snow
went on falling in Vermont years ago.

Here, we have Robert Frost himself telling us to let go of the regret because it will turn out to have been all right, part of the plan, mistakes that make us who we were. I think it is no secret that MIT is full of overachievers, hard workers and people who expect nothing short of greatness. Regret can be an evil harbinger for folks that match this description. So, I think if I could change one thing it would be how hard we are all on ourselves, how many regrets we allow to keep us awake at night, I would change that.  I can still see the wedding dress zipper in my head, I can hear my breath suck in, but I am working on shrugging off that one, and each time it is a little less.

Installation Sermon for Kari Jo Verhulst's Installation

April 18, 2012

Text Jno: 20:24-29

It is an honor to be here. I have over the course of my time here known Lutheran chaplains reaching back to Susan Thomas. I cannot recall all of them by name; time and brevity of service come into play. This ministry has been a vital component of the religious scene here at MIT for a long time and I pray it will continue.

The gospel text is familiar and powerful. Others have been convicted by what they did not see, an empty tomb,  burial clothes lying unused. Thomas wants to see and to touch and his response when given the opportunity shakes the foundations.

Questions are a big part of what it is to be here at MIT. We all have questions, but more often than not we are asked them. Sometimes we ask our own. Some time ago I was tempted by and purchased a pair of designer jeans. They are Levis with attitude. I was tempted by spandex and the promise that they were really comfortable when traveling. The haberdasher was an ample gentleman who seemed to know whereof he spoke. The price was too high, but comfort is not to be scoffed at and I bit.

I often carry my wallet in my rear pocket.  It became clear quickly that those who wear such jeans seldom carry wallets. The pocket wore out and I had to have it repaired by a seamstress. The next time I was in the store where I had bought the pants I asked the young woman at the counter if she had noticed that designer jeans wore unevenly on the seat.  The owner was nowhere to be seen. The young woman was running the store and she drew back at the question.  She replied: “You know I really do not spend much time looking at men’s rear ends.” She was offended. I tried to explain and it got worse. I still think designer jeans made with a bit of spandex have a design flaw, but I have not found a way to ask the question that works and for the time being I just have the pockets fixed.

Asking questions at MIT is important, but you need to know how to ask the questions.  That is daunting.  Your sense of curiosity and willingness to inquire must be fearless. I spent a part of the afternoon on Tuesday learning about prions—the smallest infectious particle that resists even the most vigorous  cleansing protocols. I was not taught about prions when I took biology. I asked lots of questions and need to ask more.

The other day I was talking with a  young couple about getting married. They are from China. I had them look at the traditional marriage ceremony that I often use and when we met again they were a bit sheepish. They asked me a question: “Is it alright if we are not religious?” I knew that coming from China it was unlikely that the language of the ceremony would resonate with them but I wanted to talk about it with them. Their question was appropriate. They went on to tell me that they had been to lots of Bible classes, they were seekers in his words, but they were not Christians.  I told them that they were more than all-right; they were honest and the ceremony would have been inappropriate for them. We rewrote it so that it served their needs as they told their friends what it meant for them to get married.

These are good questions, seeking insight, direction. When you are talking about jeans it is not a fatal flaw to be imprecise.  When you are asked about religious beliefs it is important to listen well before you respond because you may not have an answer. Your response may well be a guide to further conversation. And in those circumstances there is a large part of me that would like to stop and give the answer that ends the conversation, but it is more likely that their best teachers will be their peers who from experience will tell them what being a part of a Christian community can mean.

The questions that come to us may not always have answers. We invite people into further conversations. I had a memorial service recently for man who was a Nobel laureate. His life was marked by his love of science; he was not a believer. As the memorial service unfolded it became clear that at a point in his career his belief in science had left him with unanswerable questions: science could not cure his daughter of cancer. He was a friend and I wondered how we would have talked about that? We live with unanswered questions.

Every student is a work in progress and on Monday they may not believe anything and on Tuesday they may well have all the answers. Occasionally we may even meet a Thomas:  “Unless I see the marks…I will not believe.” Thomas ought to be the patron saint of nerds. We ask questions; we answer questions! And sometimes our faith sources call out to us: think about this! Data, details, did Thomas actually touch the Lord?  We do not know, but we do know that he came to believe and then we are told: good for you! But those who come to faith without having seen are blessed. I take this to mean that facts are not the end of the conversation. Sometimes the facts are not enough.

The memorial service for James Q Wilson was last Friday at Harvard. He was known as a data driven researcher who simply sought the facts and let the implications  play themselves out. He was concerned to discover where or not human kind has an innate moral sense and his research was thorough. He wished to counter the relativism that too often seemed to dominate contemporary conversation. He did not find the evidence he had hoped he would find, but he did conclude that humankind had a moral sense that often was dwarfed by violence, greed and the lust for power. His concluding words were these: Mankind’s moral sense is not a strong beacon light, radiating outward to illuminate in sharp outline all that it touches. It is, rather, a small candle flame, casting vague and multiple shadows, flickering and sputtering in the strong winds of power and passion, greed and ideology. But brought close to the heart cupped in one’s hands, it dispels the darkness and warms the soul.

Like Thomas he had seen enough to answer his question but the answer was not as robust as he would have liked. For us who follow he casts a bright light. The posture here is of the servant who protects and nurtures and sometimes that is our role as well. We ask questions, we answer questions and sometimes we wait while the implications of what we are about become clear. It is not glamorous work, but it is God’s and it the work to which chaplains are called.

Kari Jo, May God bless your ministry.

My Life at MIT

Reflections on my time at MIT                                                                                  

 “Laboratory work and shop work… give honesty; for, when you express yourself by making things, and not by using words, it becomes impossible to dissimulate your vagueness or ignorance by ambiguity.”

William James from Talks to Teachers

I’m Ken Stone and I’ve been the Director of the MIT Hobby Shop since 1991.

This quote from, psychologist and philosopher William James, gets to the heart of my belief in

the value of making things and what is so important about the MIT motto “mens et manus”

mind and hand. It also speaks to my experience at MIT and the Hobby Shop which I’d like to

reflect on briefly this morning. 

In 1968 I entered MIT as part of the class of 1972; this year marks our 40^th reunion. I think it

was January of 1969 that I first entered the Hobby Shop, charged with making paddles for my

pledge class of Beta Theta Pi.  I must say I was proud of the paddles my friend Dan and I made

and soon I was working on my first piece of furniture, a desk with one drawer. My lifelong love

of designing and building had begun.

Everyone at MIT has their own unique experience, mine has centered in the Hobby Shop. For me the Shop epitomizes the goal of educating mind and hand, the brilliant idea in my opinion, that has made MIT and its’ students so successful.  Shop membership is open to all students, staff, faculty and alums. It’s also entirely voluntary and allows all who join to pursue their building interests both personal and academic. It’s a community of people, that has shared interests, enjoys building and is excited to have the opportunity to bring their ideas to reality. I think in large part working in this supportive creative environment is why I have had such a positive experience during my time at MIT. But it is because MIT is filled with smart, imaginative, motivated and generous people that the Hobby Shop has flourished for almost 75 years. I have heard that some people are turned off by the name Hobby Shop. I think for them the word hobby connotes something trivial. For the people I know in the Hobby Shop, hobbies are something they pursue because they want to and they enjoy doing it. The work that MIT people do just because they are interested and want to, has always impressed me the most. Their diverse interests and creative imaginations lead to an incredible range of projects that are anything but trivial.

What I like best about the people I know at MIT is their enthusiasm for what they are doing and that they want to share their knowledge with anyone interested. They are generous with both their knowledge and time. They are inclusive, and when you get people like that together, soon they are kicking around ideas and you have a synergy capable of tackling the complex problems that face the world. I find the people who actually make the things they design tend to be both humble and self effacing. I believe this comes from the experience of many failures and remembering the huge amounts of time and effort that was needed to make a design successful.  I enjoy being around people working on concrete solutions to real problems. I’m tired of the good sounding but empty spin that fills our culture. There is however, a tendency of some MIT students faced with various forms of failure to lose self confidence and take self effacing to self demeaning. This is the cultural phenomena I would most like to see combated and changed at MIT. It is critical that we both challenge and nurture our students. There is a delicate balance between putting our best and brightest up against difficult academic challenges and overwhelming them to the point of diminishing their self esteem. For many at MIT working with their hands provides another way to learn while helping balance what can be an overwhelming academic class schedule. It’s also a way in which we learn things that can’t be taught in lectures that it is, both fun and productive.

To conclude I am grateful to have landed at MIT and to spend time with and get to know so many wonderful people. To be a part of and contribute to the work of this institution has been a great joy.  I’d like to finish with a favorite song the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts” which beautifully expresses the blessings I feel. 

  Ken Stone ‘72

More on the Prodigal Son

The Parable of the Lost Son, Luke 15:11-32 (NIV)

Jesus continued: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So he divided his property between them.

 “Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs.  He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.

“When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ So he got up and went to his father.

 “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.

 “The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’

“But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.

“Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. ‘Your brother has come,’ he replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’

“The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’

“‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

The prodigal son

Here we have a marvelous parable!   It recounts the journey of a human soul,
and metaphorically tells the journey of every human soul.  Sometimes I’m
tempted to think that everything we need to know about the divine plan can
be gleaned from contemplating the details in this one story.

At the beginning of the story, the younger son is not in a fallen state,
but in the security of a home and in possession of a birthright to a rich
inheritance.    By his own volition, he wanders away, cutting his ties to
the father.   He then squanders this inheritance.   These choices bring
about suffering and hardship.   And this in turn causes him to realize how
precious a gift he had forfeited.   He appreciated not only how well off he
had been at home, but, more importantly, the generosity of his father.  He
also felt a strong sense of unworthiness to be called a son. He had
squandered his inheritance on things that he now realized were worthless
compared to what he had at home.   He now returns, not feeling a sense of
pride or entitlement, but hoping for a station of servitude.

This is the turning point for the younger son, when, according to the
parable, he gained life after having lost it.  Genuine reciprocation of his
father’s love was now possible.  Knowing this, the father celebrates.

The anger of the older son is no peripheral detail either, but is central to
the point of the story.    He sees a gross injustice in his father’s failure
to punish the younger son or to reward his own many years of loyalty.    The
parable implies that the older son, like the characters in the story of Job,
is missing something here about the nature of divine justice.  There is, of
course, a kind of simple justice in this story;  the younger son did not get
off scot free; he had to suffer hardship.    But what strikes me as
significant here is that the hardship was not necessitated by the father
feeling a need to “even the score.”   The justice in this story is
restorative rather than retributive.

Many lessons can drawn.   We are noble beings, created rich, but we bring
ourselves down to abasement.   We are given gifts, not because we’ve earned
them, but because of the Giver’s love.   Have I reciprocated that love or
have I squandered the gifts on what is worthless?  When I stray from my true
home, do I have the humility to bring myself to account?    Can I see
calamity as an opportunity for a new relationship?   Is my relationship with
the Giver authentic love, or based merely on hope for a reward or fear of
punishment?

From Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh (#36)

Know thou that when the Son of Man yielded up His breath to God, the whole creation wept with a great weeping. By sacrificing Himself, however, a fresh capacity was infused into all created things. Its evidences, as witnessed in all the peoples of the earth, are now manifest before thee. The deepest
wisdom which the sages have uttered, the profoundest learning which any mind hath unfolded, the arts which the ablest hands have produced, the influence exerted by the most potent of rulers, are but manifestations of the quickening power released by His transcendent, His all-pervasive, and
resplendent Spirit.

We testify that when He came into the world, He shed the splendor of His glory upon all created things. Through Him the leper recovered from the leprosy of perversity and ignorance. Through Him, the unchaste and wayward were healed. Through His power, born of Almighty God, the eyes of the blind were opened, and the soul of the sinner sanctified.  He it is Who purified the world. Blessed is the man who, with a face beaming with light, hath turned towards Him.

Brian Aull, Bahai Chaplain

Exploring Scripture

Kari Jo Verhulst shared a brilliant message last week about creating places for meditation. She also cited how easy it is for us to wander in our thoughts and not get down the business and how meeting together can help us in our meditation and reflection. I say, “Amen.” So, given that personal Bible study can also get bogged down or never done because of distractions, how could we ever get people at MIT to break into small groups that meet to do just one more thing: explore the scriptures? And if we were ever going to do it well, we would have to get through difficult passages like the one just quoted.

Any diverse group of people is going to find some level of discomfort with a passage where people are called murderers and then their city is destroyed, and some are thrown out of wedding parties. So for this idea of meeting in diversity to work you might have to telegraph certain notions ahead of time: like, if from time to time you run into a leader complaining about other leaders, the complaint is probably timeless and would apply to today’s leaders too. So even though Jesus sounds pretty bad-assed and mean, he really was in alliance with the man on the street who just happened to be getting a raw deal from the leaders of the day. So, I think that Jesus would just as assuredly come after Christian leaders in the 21st century, if He is truly aligning himself with the man in the street opposite corrupt leadership. Now, I wish we wouldn’t have to do any telegraphing, but for now, such might be the case. So, back to the issue: if we set up meditation pods, as Kari Jo and many of us might like, I’d like to set them up for scripture study as well, and have enough food and drink on hand to get us through the rough patches. Food and drink do not distract, in fact, they focus. Hungry and thirsty people are no fun, and it’s hard to hate someone you’re eating cake with, or downing a beer with.

And wouldn’t this be a great passage to fiddle with in a meditation and study pod? What does it mean: many are called, but few are chosen? Why does the king call the man not dressed in wedding clothes, “Friend”, and then still toss him out? Is “the outer darkness” code for anything? And what’s with the wedding clothes, why are they such a big deal? The thing I like best about the king is that he’s going to have this party one way or the other, and he does! And why? And even with good and evil alike at the party! And why’s that the case? Sure, I speculate that Jerusalem is the city that Jesus is referring to. But what about Rome? Constantinople? London? Berlin? New York? What city’s kings have ever understood respect for other kings? We’re all pretty self-centered and think we have it all together, and we’re all likely to mistreat anyone who tries to tell us that we’re not the only ones worth celebrating. That’s why we need to take breaks from our businesses and our farms, and meditate together, and study together, and eat and drink and party together, no matter whether we’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Atheist or Agnostic, good or bad, and from New York or Boston or Jerusalem or Tehran. Amen.


David Thom
Coordinator, Cambridge Roundtable
on Science, Art & Religion

On Stillness and Reflection

Tuesdays in the Chapel Readings and Talk from March 13, 2012

Reading One:

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness. The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is a dream. Not that I question the reality of my vocation, or of my monastic life: but the conception of “separation from the world” that we have in the monastery too easily presents itself as a complete illusion .... [W]e are in the same world as everybody else, the world of the bomb, the world of race hatred, the world of technology, the world of mass media, big business, revolution, and all the rest .... This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud .... I have the immense joy of being [human], a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.

Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966) pp. 140-41

“If I could change one thing about this place.” It feels somewhat presumptuous for me to get to play with this question aloud, since I’ve only been serving as a chaplain on this campus since about the middle of November.

But with the boldness of one who doesn’t yet know better, here goes:

If I could change one thing about this campus, I would gather together architects and environmentalists and chaplains and engineers and people from disciplines I haven’t even heard about, to create Stillness Pods throughout the campus.

I have no idea what they would look like, but they would be places on the actual MIT map, not just within our mental or virtual maps, that you could step into and inhabit for a time.

Spaces where you get to Just. Be. Still.

The stillness these pods would cultivate is the opposite of absence. It is not lack. It isn’t wasted time, or the silence of loneliness or despair. It’s not being left alone with the cacophony of internal voices and judgments: rehearsal of our shortcomings, or those of  colleagues, teachers, students; conversations or situations where we didn’t say the right thing, or said it badly.

Rather it’s the stillness born of the freedom that you don’t have to do or be anything to be numbered among those whose shiny belovedness Thomas Merton was blinded by at some random corner in Louisville in the heat of the Cold War.

Merton was a Trappist monk who arrives at this moment in that excerpt Bob read, on the heels of prayer and meditation. He’s someone who tended to silence and yet understood its deep connection to life in the world; to the connections between contemplation and social action.

I’d like to think I could perceive the belovedness, the God-infused shininess of everyone I pass while bustling across this campus, or while rushing my daughter out of the house to get her to school on time, or my fellow travelers on Memorial Drive this morning. But more often than not, they look like people in my way, or people I feel worlds apart from.

It is stillness, midwifed by literal and spiritual places to plant myself within for a time, that softens the defenses, that reorders myself so that the desire to be extraordinary, to matter, loosens its grip, so that I can behold the world around me, behold you, behold even myself, from that holy stance that nearly knocks Merton off of his feet.

This stillness isn’t escape; it isn’t reprieve from the world. It is about slowing down enough so that our senses come back to life—so that we can perceive the wondrous in the everyday.
I’m guessing my vision of Stillness Pods cropping up across campus won’t happen anytime soon. (Thankfully we have this Chapel here already, as a concrete space to enter into.) So perhaps, instead, we can work to become embodied forms of stillness for others—places in which others can experience themselves as whole, holy, lacking nothing; beloved, shining like the son, so they can and we can re-emerge and engage the reality of life at MIT with greater honesty, less fear; a reality fraught with loss and potential, with sorrow and with joy. The mixed, ambivalent, complex reality of life in a body, in this body that is MIT.

Reading Two: Miracle Fair by Wislawa Szymborska translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Commonplace miracle: that so many commonplace miracles happen. An ordinary miracle: in the dead of night the barking of invisible dogs. One miracle out of many: a small, airy cloud yet it can block a large and heavy moon. Several miracles in one: an alder tree reflected in the water, and that it's backwards left to right and that it grows there, crown down and never reaches the bottom, even though the water is shallow. An everyday miracle: winds weak to moderate turning gusty in storms. First among equal miracles: cows are cows. Second to none: just this orchard from just that seed. A miracle without a cape and top hat: scattering white doves. A miracle, for what else could you call it: today the sun rose at three-fourteen and will set at eight-o-one. A miracle, less surprising than it should be: even though the hand has fewer than six fingers, it still has more than four. A miracle, just take a look around: the world is everywhere. An additional miracle, as everything is additional: the unthinkable is thinkable. Rev. Kari Jo Verhulst Lutheran Chaplain to MIT