And indentity

I'm not a regular poetry reader, at least not since I finished my last literature class in undergrad. Yet every autumn I find myself turning to one of my poetry anthologies. Autumn is somehow conducive to reflection. As the leaves, like fireworks, explode in color and then quietly fade, and the cool air pushes summer into memory, I want to turn back the pages of my memory as though flipping through a well-worn photo album.

The particular poem I have in mind is one with which you're probably familiar: O Me, O Life! by Walt Whitman. If you've seen Dead Poets Society--and it's one of my favorite films--it's the poem that Robin Williams recites just after he has the students shred the introduction of their poetry textbooks. He crouches in the center of the classroom and has the students huddle around him as he shares with them his love of language.


For the past few weeks I have found myself pondering the answer to that question, "What good amid these, O me, O life?" "Answer? That you are here--that life exists and identity." Some of the readings from my Face of the Other class have concerned identity. For the existentialist writers we've been reading, existence is relational. There is no self apart from the Other. For me that raises issues of identity. Of course, our existence is in large part relational. I identify as son, brother, husband, pastor, student, and so on and so forth, depending upon my relationship to a particular person. But isn't there a core self supporting all of the relational frameworks? To what extent do we contribute to our own identities?

In the interest of full disclosure, I ask this because a few weeks ago, two people referred to me by a title with which I have never identified myself. Both incidents occurred within a church context. A man from South Africa, with whom I was speaking after the service, referred to me as "father." That was odd on multiple levels. It was odd because pastors in the Presbyterian Church are simply "Pastor" or "Reverend so-and-so." It was odd because he was at least 20 years my senior. And it was odd because I'm still coming to terms with and living into my pastoral identity.

Shortly after speaking with him, I was sent on an errand to buy bread for communion for the installation service. If you're wondering, communion bread at Broadway is a $5 loaf of challah purchased from Morton Williams. (Buying the challah made me develop a sudden craving for French toast.) When I came out of the supermarket, a homeless woman, who regularly comes to the fellowship time after the service for a bite to eat, stopped me on the sidewalk. I had seen her several times before and she obviously recognized me. She grabbed my forearm--not in a violent manner, but to draw me closer to her--and asked for money. What gave me pause, however, was that she called me "papa." Who is "papa"? I thought afterward. "I'm John."

I didn't feel the need to address the way in which I was addressed by either the man from South Africa or the homeless woman. But it made me realize that my identity is not solely my own.