EAST CLEVELAND / UKRAINE

Sunday afternoon, Peter and I decided to go for a walk at Forest Hill Park here in Cleveland. Actually it’s straddles the border between Cleveland Heights and East Cleveland, both suburbs of Cleveland. We’d never been to this park, so we looked it up on the map, figured out where to go and of course we got lost. We ended up driving up the west side of the park instead of the east side like we’d planned. We decided to go around the park when we discovered there’s no place to pull in to park on that side of the park except the street.

It was really clear when we were no longer in Cleveland Heights. The park was noticeably less well kept up. East Cleveland is poor, so poor they have very few city services. So much devastation. I’m not sure what the history is, but I’m willing to bet racism and corruption were involved. As we came up to the first cross street that would take us east, I saw some apartment buildings that were 10 or 15 stories high, maybe two apartments wide. They were empty and very, very dilapidated. there were two or three in a row. They effectively blocked easy access to the park from the housing below them. As we turned east, Peter kept turning into the streets looking for a way through.

It was a very surreal experience for me. It was such a perfect illustration of our pastor’s sermon earlier that day. He used Habakkuk:

O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, / and you will not listen?
Or cry to you “Violence!” /  and you will not save?
³ Why do you make me see wrongdoing / and look at trouble?
Destruction and violence are before me; / strife and contention arise.
⁴ So the law becomes slack / and justice never prevails.
The wicked surround the righteous— therefore judgment comes forth perverted.  

His point was that we live in tension between such violence as Russia is perpetrating against Ukraine and Christian hope. The prophet Habakkuk cries out violence, violence where are you God? And God doesn’t seem to answer. Christian hope is to acknowledge the violence and still believe we can make the world better. Maybe not perfect, but better. There is always more we can do.

The violence of Russia invading Ukraine is easy to see, and the huge injustice is easy to recognize. It’s playing across our TVs and our phones and our computers every day. As we drove through East Cleveland on that beautiful, sunny, peaceful day, my mind was crying out violence! Where are you God? Yet, we cannot see the policy violence, economic violence, or the racial discrimination perpetrated in East Cleveland, only the results of these violences. A neighborhood that looked like it had been bombed; dilapidated homes and broken windows and scattered houses that looked well kept. Because the violence isn’t easy to see as it’s being perpetrated, it’s hard to see what to do about it.

As someone who grew up in a society filled with TV shows, movies, and books all portraying poverty as dangerous and equating ill kept housing with bad character, it felt dangerous to be there. I was fearful and profoundly uncomfortable and sad, not to mention embarrassed about being fearful and uncomfortable. I work to rid myself of these associations, and boy does it take time. I realized even in the moment that I was safe. It all felt like a punch in the gut.

It is easy to pay attention to the big, splashy violence of war – especially war overseas, especially when the invaded people are white. And we absolutely should not look away from what is happening in Ukraine. It’s horrible, it’s criminal, it’s brutal, it’s inhumane. Yet, consider also looking at those areas where you live that are experiencing the kind of violence that goes under the radar: the hidden violence of police constantly stopping non-white people, the hidden violence of economic policies that favor white males, the hidden violence of people moving to the suburbs – away from “those” people, the hidden violence of redlining, the hidden violence of corruption, the hidden violence of police not believing women when they tell them they’ve been raped.

We’re all in for Ukraine. Are we all in for our neighborhood? Our streets? Our city? Our state? America?

B

GUERNICA

 I had a whole different post planned, but the news about the bombing of hospitals and theaters sheltering civilians in Ukraine reminded me of the town of Guernica, a Basque town in the North of Spain. Spain was in the middle of civil war. On the afternoon of April 26, 1937, the Germans and Italians flew planes over the militarily-unimportant town in order to test their air force capabilities. It is estimated that there were 10,000 people in town as it was a market day. Up to 300 people died; ¾ of the town was destroyed. 

 

Painted for the Paris Exposition of that same year, Picasso’s “Guernica” depicts the confusion, chaos, and horror of the bombing. The official theme of the exposition was “a celebration of modern technology.” (1) Ironically, it was that same technology that unleashed the horror depicted in “Guernica.” Rather than celebrating that technology, Picasso chose to expose its destructiveness.

Although the overall message is clear, there is no key to help make sense of the symbolic figures within the painting. Picasso refused to explain any of the symbols stating that it was up to the viewer to make sense of them. In doing so, we are participating in an activity that only human beings can do, coming to terms with our history through creating and understanding symbols.

The painting depicts a room full of distorted shadows and contorted angles. Blocks of black, gray and blinding white mock any expectation of order and add to the chaotic and confusing atmosphere. All is chaos and movement; there seems to be no resolution. This lack of any concrete footing creates a visceral sense of anxiety, bewilderment, and isolation. The central figure is a horse with a huge gash in its body, symbolic of Spain, striving mightily to stay on its feet. It has been run through with a spear, the handle of which juts out its back. Its right fore knee seems to form the head of a bull goring the horse. The bull is another symbol of Spain, and this hidden image reminds the viewer of the Spanish Civil War. The horse’s face is distorted in a defiant scream, his voice the only weapon he has left, represented by the dagger like tongue. 

There is another bull to the left of the painting, whose face is distorted but not in agony. He is calmly watching the chaos unfold. Other than his mouth and his tail, which is reminiscent of the smoke rising from Guernica, his body does not move. He is standing still suggesting that Spain has become paralyzed by the civil war and cannot join in the progress being celebrated at the World’s Fair until the conflict is resolved. The chaos of war paralyzes countries as well as individuals. As with the horse, the bull is left with only a scream for a weapon of protest. 

Underneath the bull, a woman holding her dead child in her arms is also screaming daggers, using her voice as her only weapon to condemn the perpetrators to the sky. Women, children, and animals have no voice in the decision to make war and their presence evokes the innocence of the victims. But it is also a sign of hope. The pose of the woman and her child is reminiscent of depictions of Mary holding the body of Christ in her arms and represents the hope of redemption. The woman whose face and arm come in through the window, the candle in her arm offering resistance to the harsh light of the evil eye above, evokes the personification of Liberty. Although shocked and grieved, her face is not distorted which suggests that she is unaffected by the destruction and serves as a witness to the truth as well as a beacon of hope. These women symbolize redemption because women do not make war, only men do. 

In fact, the only man depicted in the painting is a dismembered soldier. Picasso portrays only his head, left arm, right arm, and one leg strewn across the bottom of the painting. His body parts represent the physical and psychological brokenness of the participants, soldiers and civilians alike. The broken sword in his right hand reinforces this reality as it points to the futility of the weapon in the face of the new technology and the impotence of the individual. The flower growing nearby, a biblical reference to making plowshares out of swords, is yet another sign of hope. “[T]hey shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” (Isaiah 2:4, NRSV) 

Above it all is a naked light bulb depicted as the iris of an eye illuminating the scene.  The lighting is harsh and the lamp casts shadows above and behind, creating the feel of a torture chamber. The harsh illumination of the crowded room suggests there is nowhere to hide from evil. But its resemblance to the sun also suggests that nothing is hidden in the, then new age of newspapers and radio. The newspaper of the horse’s body reflects this reality. As Picasso has shown the truth about the events at Guernica, so too will the truth of war be transmitted to the world. Nothing that is done in secret will remain undiscovered.

When asked to interpret his symbols, Picasso responded, “[W]hen [a painting is] finished, it goes on changing, according to the state of mind of whoever is looking at it." (1) The power of “Guernica” to evoke emotional and psychological horror is such that during the Bush administration, General Powell had the painting at the UN covered rather than stand in front of it while making his case for the invasion of Iraq.

What we are seeing in Ukraine is not just a representation of war crimes, but the actual war crimes. Since 1937, technology has evolved so that you can read this on a computer – a device that took up an entire room in 1937 – or even a phone. Whether we see actual bombings or depictions of the horror they unleash, our response matters. Will we let it matter enough to change us, individually and as a nation?

B

Source:

(1) http://www.pbs.org/treasuresoftheworld/guernica/gmain.html

"MY WORK IS TO LOVE THE WORLD"

“My work is to love the world.” That’s the first line of the poem, “The Messenger,” by Mary Oliver. It speaks to me in a way her other poems do not. It’s as if God is speaking directly to me – love is your vocation. That’s it, right there.

To love the world in all its beauty, glory, and messiness. To love the skunk and the deer, the decay and the growth. To love Putin and Biden as human beings, creations of God. To love as Jesus did, by correcting as well as comforting. To love.

To love includes being “astonished.” It includes witness and rejoicing. To love, “which is gratitude” for all the we are and have been given. To love.

To love, and out of that love to act for the good of all the world.

That is my vocation, our vocation. That is our calling. That is our reason for being.

Go out there and love with all you’ve got.

B