“He had become a journalist who didn’t report, a scholar with no time for extended reading, and a global prophet who wasn’t sure what ideas he wanted to spread. In the midst of his triumph, he was already at risk.”—
I think Mr. Tenner points at something here that transcends journalistic celebrity and personal brand. It’s depth. It’s making the time to find it and discover something rounder.
He’s getting at how we all, even the most modest person operating in this contemporary world, are competing within ourselves. Our work and careers, our colleagues and our families, our leisure time and our extracurricular activities are starved for directed attention, for focused time that leads to something that creates connection at the root level.
We need to do a show on this. Who could we speak to that would take us deeper?
Miss you guys on Sunday mornings on WBEZ. Podcasts later in the week are just not the same.
Ah, Musinge, I know exactly what you mean…
You’ve struck a chord that continues to resonate with so many of our Chicago-area listeners who used to tune in to WBEZ. For the past month, folks have been contacting us, asking us what they can do to get On Being back on BEZ’s air.
The best action you can take is to write WBEZ and call the station at 312.948.4600. Let them know you care — and encourage other friends and acquaintances who listen to On Being to do the same.
Thank you so much for reaching out to us on Tumblr. It’s good people like you who make this work worth doing!
Wishing you the best, Trent Gilliss, senior editor
This week’s show features two Christian communities who are now minorities in Turkey’s religious makeup. While they are on the spiritual boundaries of the secular state of Turkey, they are finding new-found freedoms under a government headed by an Muslim prime minister.
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Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I, the spiritual leader of the world’s 300 million Eastern Orthodox Christians, conducts a service at the Sumela Monastery in Trabzon, northeastern Turkey on August 15, 2010. Orthodox Christians held a rare Mass at an ancient monastery in Turkey after the government allowed worship there once a year in a gradual loosening of restrictions on religious expression. (Photo by Bulent Kilic/AFP/Getty Images)
Orthodox priests get ready for the Virgin Mary service at the ancient Sumela Monastery in the Black Sea coastal province of Trabzon, northeastern Turkey, on August 15, 2010. Thousands of Orthodox pilgrims from Greece, Russia, and Georgia attended the Mass, which was led by Ecumenical Greek Orthodox Patriarch Bartholomew I , the spiritual leader of the world’s Orthodox Christians, at Sumela Monastery for the first time since 1923. (Photo by Bulent Kilic/AFP/Getty Images)
Cancer made me feel completely misunderstood and out of place, but it also made me more self-aware. It gave me a new perspective on the world, helping me appreciate simple dialogues with loved ones and strangers. Above all, it was transformative and empowering, giving the knowledge that only an experience like this could impart: to know what it means to be empathetic. This is my story of Tisha B’Av.
The first word for cancer to appear in medical literature, back in the time of Hippocrates around 400 BCE, was karkinos, from the Greek word for crab; it’s a linguistic coincidence, but to me it seems connected to the similar-sounding word kinos, the elegies for Tisha B’Av. Since that hour on my bed at camp three summers ago, I have searched for the notebook where I wrote my own kinos and filled pages with my own pain, but I haven’t found it. Maybe like the old Jewish custom to bury the books of kinos deep in the ground, in the hopes of not needing to use them the following year (with the rebuilding of the Temple), I buried them somewhere deep in my room. What I feared then as my life’s end, like the Temples’ destruction, turned out to require of me the courage to begin again.
If you read one thing today, be sure it’s this contemplative personal history of a young, observant Jewish student who says that “cancer, and a year of chemotherapy, gave me a new perspective on Jewish holidays — starting with Tisha B’Av.”
“Standing in the lowly place with the easily despised, and the readily left out, and with the demonized — so that the demonizing will stop — and with the disposable — so that the day will come when we stop throwing people away. That gives me life, that’s where I want to be. I think that’s where Jesus insists on standing.”—Fr. Greg Boyle, from his interview with Krista Tippett at the Chautauqua Institution
One of the things I find I most enjoyed — and, now, most miss — about my travels to the West Bank, Jerusalem, and Istanbul is the periodicity of the muezzin’s call to prayer. It greets you in so many unexpected ways.
Standing on the Mount of Olives, one call drifts across the valley from the Old City only to be washed over by another one down the way. But walk within its walls and it beckons you to stop. Sometimes sternly and at others as a mother would remind her child.
Walk around a corner in Ramallah and the muezzin’s voice may greet you as a friend and wrap its arms around your shoulders; walk down another alley and it barks at you. Sit atop a rooftop patio in the oldest parts of Istanbul and several voices vie for your affections without competing with one another. The voices of small, underpowered speakers from a nearby local mosque provide background vocals for the melodic mix of the more prominent mosques like the Sultanahmet Mosque, the Blue Mosque, in what seems like a talent show of some of the world’s best.
And, then there’s the greeting from one’s home, as you can hear in the audio embedded audio above. It’s the maghrib athan, the fourth call that summons the faithful to prayer just after sunset, during Ramadan from what seems like an apartment window somewhere outside of Nablus.
One sees so many sites, eats so much delicious food, meets so many wonderful people. But it’s the rhythmic reminder that stays with me, a discipline I’ll cherish long after the memory of such encounters slowly erode themselves in my mind.
About the photo: The muezzin at the Madrassa of Sultan Hassan in Cairo demonstrates his vocal abilities in the liwan. (Photo by Christopher Rose/Flick, licensed under Creative Commons)
“Through the initial physical challenge of the fast, the soul is agitated and its level of maturity is tested. In this way, the physical fast is a means to an inner, spiritual fast. The fast ultimately reveals to you everything that comes between you and Allah s.w.t., every tendency to break down and lapse out of trust in Allah s.w.t. when placed under pressure. How you respond to this discomfort determines the degree of success of your spiritual fast.”—