253 - Magic Moments

Magic Moments

Everyone can recall a few episodes from stage, screen, and concert hall or from books and lectures that stick in the memory and keep coming back to mind for no apparent reason at all. They may, at the time, seem incidental, and they apparently follow no pattern. But we may well call them magic moments because they can warm the heart and lift the human spirit. Allow a few personal illustrations that may possibly jog readers to draw up their own lists.

I

Some years ago, I think it was a Boston Pops concert when Arthur Fiedler was conductor, Robert Merrill, the operatic baritone, and his tenor colleague, Jan Peerce, gave a rousing rendition of the old Jewish folksong, "L'Chaim" (To Life). Merrill had sung it dozens of times when he played Tevye in the Broadway stage version of "Fiddler on the Roof." Peerce, whose given name was Jacob Perelmuth, clearly followed Merrill's lead, but they both obviously relished their roles, and the music is always inspiring. Jan Peerce, I think, died shortly thereafter, and I remember being impressed by The New York Times glowing obituary retrospective of his long career. He was praised not only for his voice but for numerous personal involvements in philanthropic and charitable causes, most of which he kept to himself. I suppose part of the reason why I think of this as a magic moment is the awed sense of participating in this old Jewish tradition. As a Christian, shamed by long centuries of anti-Semitism, what an undeserved privilege to join in a toast "To Life!"

In the book, The Bridge on the River Kwai, and in the film with Alec Guinness and William Holden, the suspense of the narrative builds to an almost unbearable breaking-point. If correct and stiff-upper-lip British know-how, in this case engineering expertise, seems to prevail over bumbling Japanese imperialism, the conclusion seems predestined to be disastrous. The British Colonel and the Japanese General are killed, as is the American sapper who lays the explosive charges under the bridge, and the train plunges into the river gorge in a huge hissing catastrophe. In the movie, but not in the book, the chaplain of the British regiment comes out of the infirmary to inspect the disaster and, to no one in particular, shouts "Madness! Madness! Madness!" I can't get that utterance out of my mind. It seems to me the ultimate and definitive verdict against war.

254 - Magic Moments

II

The Lincoln Memorial address by Martin Luther King, Jr., Aug. 28, 1963, must be indelibly engraved on the memories of thousands who were there or who heard or read the speech later. It was surely one of the most eloquent orations of our time, delivered by the black leader who was being hounded by J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI, standing defiantly in front of the monumental statue of Abraham Lincoln, preaching without notes to a massed congregation that jammed the Mall. It was not only a moving and articulate political sermon but, according to Coretta King, the conclusion with the refrain "Let freedom ring" was held in abeyance until the last moment. Deciding to use it, King criss-crossed the country, naming regions that people could identify with, and ended with words that are scribed on his Atlanta tomb, "Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last." Along with so many, I will never forget that magic moment which comes back now and again to thrill and haunt me.

In the award-winning film, "The African Queen," directed by John Huston and starring Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart, we are introduced to two very dissimilar personalities who are thrown together to fend for themselves in an unlikely and hostile environment. "Rosie," the prim missionary, and "Charlie," the river bum, learn to make do as they travel down the river only to be confronted by a WWI German warship ready to blow them to kingdom come. When things seem at their desperate worst, Rosie clasps her hands and, looking up, prays: "Dear God, open the doors of heaven for Charlie and me." It is only a fleeting vision at the end of the film, and they are saved from death at the last moment. But every time I see the movie, Rosie's simple, unsophisticated certainty about something beyond death has always gripped me with the force of a primal hope. I suppose, with the passing years, I have myself become ever surer that there is something beyond, and that we are surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses." We don't hear much about this in theological circles or even in sermons, and I sometimes wonder if we aren't being silent about something many people instinctively regard as elemental.

III

Sometimes a familiar passage of Scripture comes alive in unexpected ways. A text can suddenly grab us with new truth and urgency, and often we don't know how or why it happens. For several years, I have read with profit and edification the lectionary meditations by Monika Hellwig in the Catholic journal America. She had, I felt, not only a skillful exegetical talent but a unique way of relating Scripture to today. On one occasion, as she was writing about the miracles of Jesus, she noted that when the blind received their sight, they "saw" something beyond what was in front of their eyes. What they "saw" was the divine presence in their midst, and this opened up a new way of discerning and perceiving reality. The stories about the blind receiving sight, she said, are "about

255 - Magic Moments

us." This insight coming from a Professor of Theology at Georgetown University, writing weekly devotionals, opened my own eyes.

The vastly popular film, "Chariots of Fire," may take its title from the story of Elijah's "translation" or possibly from William Blake's lines:

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

On a low budget and quite unexpectedly, the movie hit the target about what it means to do something with one's life. It suggests perhaps a "pilgrimage" or "hero" pattern, and the pursuit of excellence and the necessity of strict discipline, so important for Western culture, are dramatically unfolded in the story. For me, the magic moment had nothing to do with the Olympics of 1924 or the races run, but with the locker-room scene after Harold Abrahams, played by Ben Cross, is cooling off with a towel around his neck. He sits in a remote corner all by himself. He has just won the race of his life. Two other competitors wash their hands nearby, and one says that he should go over and congratulate Abrahams. But his companion restrains him and says something to the effect, "No, leave him alone. Let him have some time to himself." This episode has stuck like a burr in my memory because it reaffirms the old truism that to win is to lose a little. It is, of course, a profoundly biblical and Christocentric paradox.

IV

For the past ten years, I have enjoyed taking groups of people through the Princeton University Chapel on a window walking-tour. The neo-gothic chapel was designed by Ralph Adams Cram, and the stained-glass windows move through various successions from Genesis to Revelation. On one such tour, with my electric torch directed at Abraham and Isaiah and Erasmus and Pascal, and so many others, it suddenly dawned on me that I was in the midst of a portrait gallery. Here was a theological professor accustomed to logical, discursive, systematic discussions talking not about ideas but about people. And this is true for all the windows devoted to the arts and sciences as well as for the epic literature windows (Dante, Mallory, Milton, Bunyan). The great ideas of Western Culture are personified in stained-glass so that we may "see" the truth.

In this issue of THEOLOGY TODAY, we offer a cluster of articles that could be called biographical and literary theology. They deal with people and literary figures who help us to see ourselves in new and often provocative ways.

Hugh T. Kerr