It's not a Tribute. It's not a Theodicy. What the Monkey is it?

It has been fascinating watching myself over the past week, if it’s not too egotistical to say so. I have been the poster child of “resistance,” a therapeutic term denoting an unwillingness or inability to “go there” psychologically or spiritually. In Pastoral Care class, we were taught to respect resistance, not to push people beyond where they are capable of going. So in a rare burst of being good to myself, I respected my own resistance. I allowed myself to write trivial little blogs and skirt around the issue weighing heavy on my heart. And what is that issue? Now that I’ve broken through my resistance, I shall tell you:

A little over a week ago, Brother Roger, the founder and leader of the Taize Community, was stabbed to death during a prayer service in the Church of Reconciliation at Taize. I can nearly imagine the scene, not because of any extraordinary clairvoyance but because it was exactly two months ago that I was there, as a worshipping member of the community.

I remember the frail, 90 year old man who shuffled into the sanctuary clutching the robed sleeves of two other brothers, how they processed cautiously, like a child grasping his parent’s fingers to take his first steps.

I remember that he may have been an old man but he was also a gentle, humble and loving man who insisted on praying for us each day with the slurred speech and insightful blessing that come with advancing years.

I remember how, on my last night at Taize, Brother Roger was surrounded by young children eager to take their part in the worship service. At the appointed time, they dispersed through the sanctuary with candles to share the flame, first with the brothers then to us, the congregated worshippers. “And a little child shall lead them.” (Isaiah 11:6)

I remember the young boy, 10 if I had to venture a guess, who came everyday to sit beside Brother Roger in order to assist him with papers or the microphone. He came from the local village, I was told, and he came faithfully because he liked to sit beside a man who made it his life’s task to notice those who never found an audience elsewhere.

I remember reading how Brother Roger sheltered Resistance fighters and fleeing Jews at Taize during World War II. And how, when the war had ended he turned his attention to the prisoner of war camp located in a neighboring village. He spent his days with Nazi officers awaiting trial for war crimes. He was a man who knew it was always the right thing to assist the marginalized whoever they were and wherever they might be. “Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.” (Matthew 25:40)

But mostly I remember how, after the evening service he was available to bless and pray for anyone who desired it. Often, the line snaked to the back of the sanctuary. At first, my Protestant sensibilities recoiled at the pomp and ritual. It was all so Roman Catholic. But, good seminarian that I am, I quickly roladexed through my Reformed theology and realized that letting a man 65 years my senior with at least that many years of ministry to his credit put his hand on my head and say a prayer was definitely Catholic. But Roman? Not necessarily. “There is a reality in blessing. . .It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it and there is power in that. . .Not that you have to be a minister to confer blessing. You are simply much more likely to find yourself in that position. It’s a thing people expect of you.” (Marilynne Robinson, Gilead, p.23) Brother Roger was, to me, Marilynne Robinson’s protagonist, John Ames, in the flesh.

Even in that moment of conferred blessing, I knew he wouldn’t be with us in the flesh much longer. I didn’t know the end would come so soon or in the manner it came but I’m glad for the opportunity I had. It’s reassuring to know that just as his trembling hand was on my hair and his lips muttered a prayer on my behalf, so he is praying and encouraging me even now. That is what it means to be Catholic, part of Christ’s Body and the Universal Church. “Therefore, since we have so great cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1)

But for all the things I remember, there is one I wish I could forget. I can’t get out of my mind the woman who committed this crime. She was suffering from mental illness but surely she is still culpable for her actions. But then, there is something about the nature of psychological disorder that suggests communality. Where was her family? Her community? Her church? Come to think of it, where am I to the poor, the mentally disturbed, depressed, aching and lost souls in my family? My community? My church? Those who suffer mental illness often carry our corporate shame. We make them “the other” so we don’t have to admit our own worries, shortcomings and doubts. In a way, it wasn’t one woman with a knife who committed this act. It is all of us who participate in the sinful state of the world (yes, that means you) and who, in the small everyday-ness of life, choose violence over peace. Perhaps, then, the words of Christ on the Cross, words which found echo in the funeral liturgy of Brother Roger, are for all of us, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)

Ultimately, Brother Roger’s gruesome death at the hands of this woman has been difficult for me to face head-on. I kept hoping a tidy, little theodicy would pop into being and make sense of it all. How does a man committed to God and exemplifying godly peace to the world, die at the hands of human violence? How will a community committed to reconciliation respond when the wrong is so gross and so intimate? How do I go through life in this sin-soaked world knowing that a moment and space I had trusted to be an oasis of peace has been marred by the raw evil I can acknowledge anywhere but there?

Let us be under no illusions, the entire cosmos groans with longing and expectation. Sin permeates every molecule of this world, even our most sacred spaces. Not to put too fine a theological point on it: life sucks. There are no garunteed happy endings, not even (or especially) for followers of Christ, who is the Crucified One.

And yet, despite the circumstances of his death, it is impossible to look at the life of Brother Roger, indeed at the example of the entire community at Taize, and conclude that God has left the world to stew in its own juices. One of my favorite songs learned at Taize was either French or Latin (Matt?) and it said, “Ubi caritas et amor, ubi caritas, Deus ibi est” meaning, “Wherever there is love and charity, God is there.”

A tidy little theodicy? I haven’t got one, probably never will. That may be for the best. Most days, especially on the heels of something like this, the best I can muster up is this:
Life sucks, and yet. . .

And yet, God is.
And yet, the possibility that God isn’t, is too heinous to consider and accept.
And yet, there is love.
And yet, there is charity.
And yet, there is community.
And yet, a life like Brother Roger’s was lived and many more like it.

“Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” (Hebrews 12:2-3)