In full disclosure, I never finished the book. Although I tried to muscle through it, I was—in time—forced to put it on a shelf named DNF (Did Not Finish).
The book I failed to complete was, Warlight by Michael Ondaatje. I was drawn to it because Ondaatje wrote, The English Patient, and I thought I was in the mood for a shadowy, understated story set in post-War London.
Yea, I thought wrong. Perhaps one day, I'll pick it back up again.
But before I would sigh and place this book back on my shelf, I came upon a scene where an adult is guiding two children through a park at midnight in London. In a darkened wood, the adolescents learn from their guide all that was going on around them.
"Rachel felt uncertain in that open darkness, wished to go home, said it was cold. But the three of us kept moving forward, until we were eventually in the trees and the city had evaporated behind us. Around us were untranslatable sounds, something in flight, a series of footfalls. I could hear Rachel's breath but there was no sound from Olive Lawrence. Then in the dark she began to talk, to distinguish the barely heard noises for us. "It's a warm evening…and the pitch of those crickets is in D….They have that sweet quiet whistle, but it's made with the rub of their wings, not by breath, and this much conversation means there will be rain. That's why it's so dark now, the clouds are between us and the moon. Listen." We saw her pale hand point near us, to the left. "That scrape is a badger. Not digging, just his paws moving. Really, it's something tender. Perhaps the end of a fearful dream. Just the remains of a small uneven nightmare in his head. We all have nightmares…But there need not be fear in a dream, just as there's no danger from the rain while we are under the trees. Lightning rarely comes during this month, we are safe. Let's walk on. The crickets might move with us, the branches and underbrush appear to be full of them, full of high C's and D's. They can reach as high as an F at the end of summer when they are laying eggs. Their cries seem to fall on you from above, don't they? It feels like an important night for them. Remember that."
And then comes the preachable statement by the children's guide:
"Your own story is just one, and perhaps not the important one. The self is not the principal thing."
Indeed.
John the Baptist seemed to get this…that is, perspective. He knew that his story was not the principal thing.
"He must increase, but I must decrease," he would say about the Messiah. (John 3:30).
It's natural—human, even--to imagine that our story should take center stage and that the spotlight should focus on our particular narrative. But ours is not the only story.
For those who can remember being cast in a high school musical, the spotlight can physically blind us to what's in the theater. Overwhelmed by the high beam light, the audience and the other actors on the stage melt into the darkness.
Right now, it's good to be aware of one another when our perspective rarely seems to move beyond ourselves. It is a good exercise for us to recognize that many stories are being told by a host of (distant) friends, families, neighbors, co-workers, enemies, strangers, and adversaries.
Learning that we are not the only ones on-stage can provide us with the empathy and awareness we need in this extended Plague Season. At a different time, the practice of being engaged in Church life would naturally lead to moments of intersection. My story and your story would collide and be woven together. Alas, this has not been a feature in our most recent history. If left unchecked, this can become a liability. When our points of view do not bump into one another, the threats of isolation, indifference, and tone-deafness grow.
"Your own story is just one, and perhaps not the important one. The self is not the principal thing."
"He must increase, but I must decrease."
John the Baptist models a humility that is exceeded only by Jesus Christ, our Lord. In a paradigm-shift unlike anything before or since, Jesus demonstrated service and love for the other rather than the comfort of a throne or the thrill of the spotlight.
I hate not to finish a book. Honestly, I do. We have something to learn from one another's stories, and we should be slow to give up on them. To DNF them.
Perhaps it's not too late to pick up where I left off.