John Orlin "J.O." Schrag was a dentist by profession, but reminded me that one should be very careful to avoid defining anyone solely by what they do for income. I assume he was skilled at cleaning and filling teeth, but that's not what J.O. was doing when I met him. I met in his final years of life which were spent in the nursing care facility where I serve as a chaplain. I came to know J.O. as a poet, a careful observer of life and one who was willing to ask the difficult and necessary questions.
I will never forget the day we were sitting together in one of the more public areas in the health care center, watching residents and staff going about daily routines. The birds were chirping away in the aviary next to us, staff were responding to an assortment of beeping alerts and residents were slowly moving about to various activities and appointments. It was a busy place, and we quietly sat there taking it all in.
At some point I realized that J.O. was looking over at me from his wheelchair. When I returned his gaze he gave a wry smile and asked, "What is the purpose of this place?" His question took me aback. I hoped it was in some way rhetorical. When I didn't immediately reply, J.O. repeated the question, assuring me that he did want to hear my answer.
I don't recall what I said, something about community, honoring the opportunities of life at all stages and giving care and support. It was a mash-up of what came to mind in the face of such an honest, hard question. When I was done he held my gaze a moment longer and then said, "Hmmmm, perhaps." It was clear that he hoped I would keep considering the question.
I do. I keep considering J.O.'s question. I have yet to articulate a satisfactory answer and suspect that it probably doesn't have one, at least not one that would be satisfactory to everyone.
The other day I was on a walk through the cemetery near my home. As I scanned the fields of gravestones my attention was drawn to a black granite gravestone with a large gray circle. I walked closer and was surprised to find myself standing next to J.O.'s grave. I smiled when I saw that his poem "A Dot" was written out in plain script on the dark stone:
a dot
small
very small
we all started as a dot
just a speck
loaded with all the goodies we would ever need
the directions were all there
size, color, sex, numbers of hair
toes and all other details
a loaded dot
where, where did it come from?
from parents?
perhaps
from where did they receive their dots?
dots have no beginnings or endings
just like what we call God
from everlasting to everlasting
God or eternal energy reduced into a dot
we too are part of God
we have no beginning
no ending
J.O.'s words reconnect me with one of my favorite passages of Thomas Merton's writings. In his essay, "A Member of the Human Race," Merton evokes the image of le pointe vierge:
Again, that expression, le pointe vierge (I cannot translate it) comes in here. At the center of our being is a point of pure nothingness which is untouched by sin and illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark that belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God written in us. It is so to speak his name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.
At the heart of our being:
this "dot" of
no beginning
and no ending,
this point vierge of pure being
and unadulterated love
may I know it within me,
may I see it within you,
so that some great light
will guide us in the darkness
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