Viewpoint Moving back to see things in a truer
light
By EUGENE KENNEDY
Recently, my wife and I were
fortunate enough to attend a concert given by a wonderful tenor. By a suitably
mysterious act of Providence, we were seated in the area usually occupied by
the orchestra, in the very first row just below the stage.
Despite our clear view of the singer, there was something uneasy
about this across-the-footlights intimacy. The reason became clear when the
star introduced a distinguished woman violinist.
As the tenor departed into the darkness, the spotlight shone like
the star of Bethlehem on her. She wore a sleeveless formal gown and, as she
raised her arm to acknowledge the swell of applause, this exposed limb revealed
itself like the surface of the moon to us.
There, in the merciless light, the life history of that arm was
laid open like that of a felled redwood tree. The vulnerability of the human
condition -- the index of the little sadnesses that we all wear like battle
ribbons -- was on display in the topography of this intensely illuminated upper
arm.
The musicians true age, all the practice, all the playing,
hints of happiness and sorrow -- all could be read in the loosened struts,
folds and seams of its milk white skin.
This revelation, at once cruel and tender, was granted only to
those of us stationed in the trench that was ordinarily a pit for the unheeding
musicians.
Soldiers on the front line, I was reminded, get such a close look
at battle that they often never speak about it afterwards.
In that moment, I understood why.
I also remembered the words of a distinguished scripture
professor, the Dominican Charles Callan, repeated often in his old-fashioned
preachers voice to us in class, "Tell the truth. But not too much."
Repeat this episode with the current Miss America -- a floodlight
at 10 paces -- and evidence of the imperfections, even of youth, would show up
like bad news on an MRI, along with the makeup designed to hide it.
How wise, then, the old saying that we can be "too close for
comfort" or that certain outcomes are "too close to call." We generally deceive
ourselves when we think that we are getting at the real truth by ruthlessly
inspecting everything with the closeness of the Mars robot rover.
The underside of the violinists arm was but a partial truth
that disappeared when it was allowed to dissolve into the larger truth of the
whole person before us. If we see others whole, we see them as they are, their
flaws hardly crucial or final, in our judgment on them.
Blessed are they who see others whole for they shall see God.
In fact, seeing others whole is the only way we can ever see God.
When we perceive people in their totality we understand how their ability to
love gives them a beauty that transcends and transforms their surface looks.
The truly beautiful people -- think of that little old lady in the nursing home
-- provide their own lighting from within.
As a nation, we have been looking at ourselves from the first row,
so close we can see only the things wrong with us. We are fed so much scandal,
gossip, rumor, private detective reports, car chases, murders and murderers,
all topped off with tabloid dirt, that we have almost forgotten there is good
to be seen in others.
In the final week of the impeachment deliberations, the Russians
tried to open a giant mirror in orbit around the earth. It failed and was
allowed to burn up as it fell from the heavens.
What a symbol for the folly of trying to look at ourselves from
every angle. We need a breather, we need to change our seats so we are not
gazing at the makeup, hair tint, and sweat of the players all the time. Moving
back a little, we will see others, in our neighborhoods and in the world spread
about us, in a gentler, friendlier and truer light.
Eugene Kennedy, a longtime observer of the Roman Catholic
church, is professor emeritus of psychology at Loyola University in Chicago and
author most recently of My Brother Joseph, published by St.
Martins Press. His weekly column is syndicated by the Religion News
Service.
National Catholic Reporter, March 12,
1999
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