June 19, 2022
Darcy* wandered in a bit late to youth group, the rest of us had already begun to eat. Her hair had probably been in a neat ponytail when she left the house in the morning, But by the time she arrived at the church, well that isn’t what stylists mean by a half pony. She did as she always did, she walked along the windows of the parish hall, circled into the kitchen, and made a full circuit straightening anything that needed (or did not need) to be tidied. Once that was done, she filled a bowl with plain pasta, poured a glass of chocolate milk, and joined the rest of us at the tables. When there was a pause in the conversation, Darcy spoke up. ‘Last week in Muggle class we learned that you should wait for others to finish speaking before starting your story.’ The first time she told me about ‘Muggle class’ I had stopped her mid-sentence. What is Muggle class? She was an obsessive Harry Potter fan, so a reference was not unusual. Muggle class she explained was for kids like her. They teach us about what the world thinks is important and expects, and how to act more normal. For example, that first day she mentioned the class, it was how sometimes people say one thing but mean something else. I told her more of us could really have used a Muggle Class. Whatever its real name was, that class was for neurodivergent students. Middle Schoolers with diagnosed conditions such as Autism or Aspergers. Muggle class is trying to prevent Darcy’s from being ‘othered’ out of the mainstream and into the tombs: neurodivergent youth have a higher likelihood of experiencing homelessness.
Our man in the tombs needs a name. Let us call him Bruno. No one talks about Bruno in his chains among the caves beyond the town. Whatever is lost in his heart and mind and functioning, he left the mainstream long long ago. It doesn’t take an expert to see in Bruno what we today would name as a person experiencing serious mental illness and homelessness. Who were his parents and where were they – nearby or somewhere else? Did he have siblings? Playmates? Did it all start with just a little bit of other, a toe outside of the old mainstream, and then did a lifetime of thoughtless utterances built up. A legion of othering that became lostness and separation and hints of violence rooted in all the pain and misunderstanding? The mainstream can be a vicious flow of subtle demonic encouragement in all our lives, inviting even the barely mainstream person to elbow little cruelties and othering jabs for a laugh, to get to the top of the social heap. Was the silence and separation and open sky of the tombs not a punishment but a relief?
Our Psalm could be the voices in the mind of the man in the tombs, It could also be the inner dialogue of Elijah. Elijah reminds me of the voices of faith out loud people I know, persons testifying to being chased out and demeaned for asking questions, for being divergent, for highlighting the difference between how Jesus lived and the costume of nice and nose clean that sometimes gets shipped as ‘blessed’. I take the wonder of Jesus’ healing of the man I am calling Bruno, I am more than willing to take it on faith. I believe a whole lot more outlandish things than the idea that renewal of life is real. Yet I also can see that the way the story is told, this is a foreshadowing of the cross and resurrection. In the gospel plot, we have left Jewish territory. Jesus and his companions have crossed the sea. They are the strangers and they have come into someone else’s home turf. This holy man has released the most ‘other’ person in that community back into the fullness of life. And no matter what they thought about Bruno, the upending of the way things are: scares them stiff.
Three mature Episcopalians were killed by gun violence at a potluck at their church in Alabama on Thursday night. The Episcopal church, especially for someone with my nationwide career and persona, this church is so small. I am a degree of connection away from St. Stephen’s from multiple parts of my vocations. It would be like it happened right across the river, I can see them in my heart from here. So much is still unknown: yet I pray, may the victims rest in peace, and rise in glory. May justice be real. May we quit the moments of silence and find common sense. Anything else is letting the forces of evil use us to destroy ourselves.
The overwhelming witness of the center of the Christian faith is that we are called to doing the deep and hard attentive work of self-examination of working to reduce the ‘othering’ of Darcys. Of listening to the experience of Brunos – and hearing ourselves. Hearing all the little barbs and ignorances we let ourselves get away with Because, like that town sending Jesus away, we think we feel better at peace with the status quo. God whispers: heck no. Our way is not the mainstream but paths washed in the waters of baptism. We are commanded to welcome the widow, orphan, and stranger with divine mercy and loving kindness. That is a straightforward genuine instruction for those vulnerable persons and at the same time a metaphor for everyone who gets ‘othered’. God is whispering in our hearts inviting us into faith and works. God is evaporating the mainstream tickles we get when we join in celebrating subtle cruelties. God is shaking us out of fear and complacency that believes more in the idea that nothing can change, even in the mercy of Jesus’ loving presence.
Sometimes I wondered about how holy our evenings of food and games and night prayer were. I also never saw the young people other, or demean, or laugh at Darcy. I only ever saw helping her, asking generous questions to better understand a reality that was and is not theirs. Sometimes proclamation of the good news looks more like generous listening to the still small voice of God. God speaks through our learning about and listening to Bruno.
*Darcy is a blended character, based on multiple real neurodivergent young persons