to washington then he came

to the district of columbia then we came. anticipating some two days of orientation before russia proper, my father and i had two days and an evening wherein we bonded over microbrews, tapas, brick oven pizza, art, et cetera.

on the morning of sunday the thirtieth we went to new york avenue presbyterian church of the pcusa species. the music was traditional (oh! how i miss bach preludes!) and it preferred strong liturgy, and the people kind and predominantly septuagenaric, and how i wish the sermon had been like this:
















instead, it was more like this:
















it was an anecdote about a cancered man and the hope and comfort that may come through conversation. well...that is true enough. but when a sermon is on romans eight and its title "cross-talk", i had such a fervor in me that therein would be talk about the cross, and markedly less fervor ‘bout talk ‘cross the room. for though i surely believe that words have a quality to them, a chance and capacity to comfort, yet how sure or useful is comfort without foundation? i do not wish to dwell on nyapc, for the people were kind and as good as anyone. but i only mean to note that a confusion is subtexted. the message is hope and justice and inclusion (praise be to God for these), but the liturgy makes claims of exclusion immediately thereafter. how are these not in contradiction? can i has a conceptual analysis?

in the afternoon we walked. there was the white house (on the curb nearby there was a protest, and further down there was a game of roller hockey). walked by the washington monument (bigger than it is in film). we went to the holocaust museum.

though it is hard to conceive of that which is spectacular and sobering, the holocaust museum is these. it asks somber reflection on history as well as begs response (a portion of it is dedicated to contemporary instances of genocide and conflict between ethnic groups). here, the museum, like a good text, acts holistically, that is to say, it does not divide intellectual/emotional or historical/ethical.

three interesting moments:

first, even at the very beginning: the pictures taken by american and russian soliders of piles of bodies hurriedly burned at the end of the war. across the horizontal plane a gradient of immolation: at one end charred bones, some with seared flesh, and some entirely corpse. how could one do this to another? if one’s life or livelihood were at stake, would it be any easier? though with all rhetorical boldness i wish to say no, it is a question i hope i never need answer. the german soldiers were men like me. how thin are the walls of my belief, of my love?

second, how glad i was to read about the resistance and rescue that did take place. though the papacy and the state church of germany are often and rightfully criticized for snuggling nazism, the accounts of resistance (peaceful and not) within underground churches in germany are a good attestation to one who loves the church for all its flaws. may it ever be that Christ demonstrates his love in the love of his people, even when their institutions fail.

third, the artifacts. there is a room in the museum full of discarded shoes from men and women that went to the ovens. it is not the sight of these raggedy pieces of leather and rubber giving me pause. it is their smell. must and decay fills the room. these shoes once held flesh and dirt, they stretched and constricted some toes. and those toes are gone to the flame, but the rubber remains.