The Calling Hours

by Cheryl Anne Tuggle

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When my husband and I moved to Southwest Missouri from Texas nearly three decades ago, I had to get used to Ozark speech. Many of the words and phrases I found strange then are gone now, but it’s still possible to hear someone say “I don’t care to” as an expression of agreeableness, and an elderly library patron will still occasionally ask if they should return their books at the desk or “put them yonder” in the book drop. In Ohio, my new home since last month, I’m again getting used to familiar words being used in an unfamiliar way. People don’t mow their lawns here, they cut them. The thing on wheels that holds your groceries as you shop the supermarket aisles is a buggy, not a cart. And when a person has passed away, the obituaries do not list the time of visitation before the funeral, instead they give the hours as 5:30-7:30 (for instance) and say that is the time that friends may call. These are the “calling hours”.

Reading it in the newspapers, I find this expression interesting, and evocative. It causes me to think of loved ones long gone and those oddly warm reunions, those moments of coming-together, that take place in time of death, sometimes over meals, when friends are fonder and family closer, more willing to set aside their hurts and differences of opinion. But there is more than nostalgia to what interests me, what moves me, in the phrase. There is in it, I think, a spiritual lesson to be learned. A slight change of heart in the making.

Friends may call.

Reading the gospels, we see that our Lord had friends. And that he called on them. He sat talking in the shade of a tree with them in the heat of an afternoon, walked along dusty roads in their company and took meals with them in their homes. I’m awed to think of these conversations, how when the God-man sat back in his chair after a particularly good meal his hosts—his friends—must have felt bold enough to reveal their deepest thoughts, to ask the questions that had been burning like hidden fires in their souls. This, incidentally, is by dictionary definition, communion. If intimate thoughts and feelings are being exchanged, especially when the exchange is on a mental or spiritual level, then communion is taking place. It is not a far journey from that definition to Holy Communion, in which the most intimate exchange of all takes place, the spiritual meal in which Christ, the all-gracious Host, comes to give himself as food to the faithful.

Friends may call.

Again, I can’t help feeling the importance of these words, especially when on Sunday mornings I watch people linger longer and longer at coffee hour or trapeza, hesitant to end the fellowship.

Friends may call.

There’s no arguing the fact that while our offline relationship circles are shrinking, on social media they are growing ever wider. But just as there is no app for communing with Christ in the Eucharist—we must be physically present to receive, there is also no technological substitute for face to face communion with our fellow humans. We were created for intimate exchange. It is not just good and pleasant for brothers and sisters to dwell together in unity, it is crucial to our health, both physical and spiritual. If you have ever visited a monastery you have likely been briefly greeted and then offered a little something to eat and drink. This is because monastics know that what you have come hoping to receive: strength, healing, refreshment, begins when you are received in this way. As lay people, hosting one another is just as important. We may “like” the photos of lovely meals prepared and enjoyed in people’s homes that are shared on social media of course, but how much better to be in that home, tasting and seeing for ourselves, breaking bread together, eating and talking, and even laughing, our way into the intimacy that leads to trust, to the place where we can begin to unburden, work out our differences with forgiveness and understanding and, ultimately, to grow like-minded. In other words, the place where what begins with friends coming to call ends in authentic human communion.

In an old Greek cookbook of mine, there’s a recipe for koliva, the cake made of boiled wheat that is served in many Orthodox traditions to commemorate the dead. The recipe is introduced by the author with an anecdote about her husband, who loved the cake and often asked her to make it for him. “I want my koliva while I’m alive,” he said. I think this man was on to something. It’s time to call on our friends while we have them, while we’re both alive to enjoy the visit. And if at times this takes great effort, because there is also no arguing the fact that we are all busier than ever and often legitimately weary, I believe the effort will be rewarded, perhaps with renewed energy and greater strength. Almost always when I’ve roused my introverted self to attend a book discussion or had friends over for dinner—I’ve felt refreshed afterward and wondered why I don’t do it more often.

Friends may call.

Today is the day. Let’s seize it. This moment, and no other, is given for gathering to eat and drink together, to study, to share thoughts, ideas, joys and worries face to face. Now is the time for intimate exchanges to take place on a spiritual level. These are the calling hours.

*Photo by David von Diemar on Unsplash

 

Art, Technology and the Shape of Life

by Cheryl Anne Tuggle

Because I can’t manage time with much of anything to distract me, I’ve sometimes had to remove myself from technology to write. Two months ago I signed back into social media after one of these breaks, having done it enough times to know that it’s a little like hopping a merry-go-round as a child. You stand still for a moment, letting the wheel go around a few times as you get up your nerve, then take a deep, bracing breath and jump on. Even the shouts of your friends welcoming you back is the same, and the feeling that they are only just now realizing you were gone.

A bonus of the break, after taking it, is having a different perspective, the distant point of view compared with the close. Up close technology-based life looks like regular life. From farther away, it looks to be making of life what art does, an imitation.

There is a difference, though, it seems to me, and an important one, between the imitation of life that goes on in the tech-social world and that of art. Such “sharing” often has a charitable motive, dish up a slice of your life, offer a taste of friendship. The sense of being part of a community is one of the many fine things about social media and the main reason I miss it when away. But I am uneasy to see that in my absence there’s been an increase in staging, to use a real estate term, a clearing away of the clutter and mess of ordinary living so life looks more attractive, more Pinterest-worthy to Facebook friends and Instagram followers. There’s no harm, of course, in setting up a photo so the sink of dirty dishes doesn’t show. The danger is subtler than that, I think. It lurks in the careful consideration of how our private selves, or in other words how we, will appear to others in a public post. Psychologists are studying the phenomenon, offering theories that explain why technology has us unconsciously posing, but spiritually speaking, the danger is not lessened because the posing is unconscious. The need to connect, be seen, be cherished, is natural to us, God-given and strong. But let any need become passion-feuled obsession and we are all, even the most honest of us, capable of resorting flim-flam and fakery to satisfy it.

Not so with art, and here is the difference in the imitation. True art, whether it be a sculpture, a piece of music, a work of literature, or a hand-carved iconostasis, inspires. It moves the soul toward God. It generates growth. To grow in the presence of art a soul needs only disposition—a heart that lists in the direction of the divine, and discipline—a willingness to do the work that brings about change. In other words, we are challenged by art to live in a way that changes us because art purposely forms within us the ideal of our humanity, makes us long to have faces that resemble God’s. Technology does not do this for me. The internet is a brightly colored feeder and I am the hummingbird, lazily sipping at sugar water. No work needed, I merely fly in for a nip anytime I like. And if the syrup is a little too quickly gotten, substitute sweet, who cares? I’ve almost forgotten by now what a real flower looks like anyhow, let alone remember the taste of its nectar.

There is a nub of conflict, E.B. White says, between, “The careful form of art, and the careless shape of life itself.” In the conflict, so he claims, lies our destiny.

photo of plants on the table

Photo by Designecologist on Pexels.com

Tech-social society has its place, the sincere cheers of welcome from both old friends and new remind me of that, lifting and encouraging my heart. But it will be good to remember, I think, as I snap an Instagram photo, post a meme on Facebook, that if the thing is not art, it is also not quite careless enough in shape to be life.