Читать книгу The Meaning of These Days - Kenneth Daniel Stephens - Страница 11

My Barth volumes went missing on the way to Tuolumne Meadows

All my belongings fit into two cardboard boxes, which I checked on to the bus as I headed for Yosemite the next summer. The Agape Fellowship was a two-year scholarship for Asian students, and the seminary directed me to go and finish my BA degree before going on to my senior year. I had applied to various colleges but they would not accept my credits from India. What was I to do? I had nowhere to go that fall. I trusted that a door would open somehow, but the seriousness of my quandary would sink deeper and deeper as the summer progressed.

Furthermore, it was probably in Merced, where I think I changed buses, that my heavier box containing my theology books, including several volumes of Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics, went missing. I had spent my precious little scholarship money to buy them. I filled out the paperwork when I got to Yosemite, but nothing came of it.

At Yosemite the Curry Company assigned me to work not down in the valley this time but in the back country, up at Tuolumne Meadows at around 8,000 feet. I hitchhiked up to Tioga Pass from the valley in the back of a pick-up truck. My boss was Mike Adams, who I learned later was the son of the famous Yosemite photographer Ansel Adams. He was a breezy, fun kind of person to work for. A jet pilot in the Air Force Reserve, he promised he would buzz our camp while on a practice mission. I was in the kitchen washing dishes when he flew right over. I had missed it.

Again young women and men from all over were my colleagues at Tuolumne Lodge, the blond, blue-eyed beaming Sweetheart of Sigma Chi at the University of California at Berkeley, two young women from Vassar, a dark-haired brother and sister pair from La Jolla, and many others. Many of these names and terms were new to me then. We did kitchen work, cleaned tents, changed bed sheets, served meals. An uncouth, swashbuckling young man with glasses and cigarettes had a pick-up truck, and he and I took the garbage to the dump early every morning. The bears would be waiting, some up in the trees, and we were both anxious to be done.

The care of the horses and the dusty stables was left to the cowboys and cowgirls, seasoned permanent employees. I stole looks at one of them, a tall attractive taciturn woman with boots and hat and sculpted features, as if she was out of a Zane Grey novel or a Gary Cooper movie. She may well have been already attached with another man; I never came to know. She looked stately on a horse, staunch against the mountain sky.

To help with the Sunday morning services and the campfire singalongs I went from tent to tent distributing fliers in the public campgrounds close to the Lodge. The Reverend Woodruff, who had replaced the Reverend Glass as park chaplain, supervised my volunteer work. Who had I to turn to but to him about my quandary regarding what I should or could do in the fall? Out of concern for me he wrote and inquired about the possibility of my admission into Chapman College, his own alma mater, a Disciples of Christ college in southern California. To my great relief Chapman admitted me with two years’ worth of credit for the academic work I had done in India.

A door of opportunity had suddenly swung wide open. Though those were kinder days, I moved through dense clouds of anxiety at Tioga Pass. I was young, alone, in a foreign land, and on the road to anywhere. I shudder to think what might have happened had the Reverend Woodruff not been there for me. To this day I remain grateful to that caring man, a pastor who helped open for me the door to America, the land of the Shenandoah and its smiling valley and rolling river. I learned early that a pastor’s job is to find a way across the wide Missouri. The way to yonder shore is just what Takeuchi calls the bridge of transcendence.

In my spiritual life the religion of the past continued to glance apprehensively at the theological ideas that would guide my future. I was equipped now with words like existential and historicity and such primal and radical information that it was as if I possessed a secret neo-orthodox crypt granted only to initiates at the San Anselmo seminary to decode. But this knowledge still coexisted in my soul with the pictures on the wall and the mantelpiece in my aunt’s home in Ferozepore.

No, Pilgrim, my new learning did not overrule Jesus in Gethsemane, Jesus reaching over the cliff for the lamb caught in the bramble bush, the tearful Jesus with crown of thorns knocking on the massive door of the human heart, the aureate face of Jesus at twelve in a shining robe, the Bible verses and the Gospel songs, the preaching and singing voices of the Bible-carrying missionaries up in Landour, the koinonia and charisma in the ashram of E. Stanley Jones, my grandfather’s unending prayers at Christmas, with the large family sitting on beds and chairs and wicker stools and arrived on famous trains from Lahore and the northwest frontier, the land of the Pathans, and from the ancient cities of Amritsar and Delhi. At those prayers I confess to peeping at times.

That family exists no more. It grew apart, like families do, as the older generation died and the new generation adapted to the circumstances and pressures of the twentieth century. Those sounds and images, however, continued to anchor, guard, and confine my thinking. The women at Tuolumne saw me as different. They went to other men or to no men at all. That they did this left me, I admit, slowly burning inside, a condition I would have to learn to live with. But they had their own lives to live, why should they bother with my tug of war interiority? It was not that I was brown and spoke with an accent. I was myself detached and insecure and afraid. I used my angular kind of religiousness to serve my instincts and keep me apart. I covered up my hungers well.

The days at Tuolumne Meadows grew short. Dragonflies, tiny helicopters, flew up and down the stream cascading down the gently sloping but muscular mountainside. Come, Pilgrim, we will go and sit among the boulders and shrubs, above the Lodge where the ranger presents at the campfire weekly and they sing Amazing Grace and Let Me Call You Sweetheart. Let us sit and watch the inexhaustible energy of the water, listen to the scolding of the blue-jays, and brood upon the sermons of the season.

And I can take you, Pilgrim, further upstream to more pools of unruly waters with swirling twigs and petals and bark and wings and mottled leaves and vestiges of the same, transient beings making their way to the sea. They move and are free and we are glad for them. They have had their high mountain summer in the sun, in the rain, in the cold wind. They became bold in the presence of their enemies, steadfast against the gates of hell, intelligent in temptation. They were delicate in love, and they shone brightly in their day, staying the assault of the darkness. Where then is your sting, O death? Where your victory, O grave? Let them seek out their sea, or their new soil, in a softer place where the sun sets, far below Tioga Pass. We can go to the quiet waters too, the still waters, the softly flowing dreamy and bright waters further downstream, near where the meadows begin, across the winding blue highway.