Wednesday, January 18, 2012

On the Theological Perfection of Being a Clevelander

The other day, as I was driving with a friend in the midst of a Cleveland slushfest, she expressed the opinion that snow is a direct result of the Fall. As I sit at my desk now, watching the snow float lazily down outside, I can't help thinking it's a bit more complicated than all that. While the snow certainly means that we can't gallivant about  naked as we came (at least not if we hope to survive for long), it does teach us certain things. For one, you can't drive like an idiot (though that doesn't seem to stop people from doing so). Second, there is a power out there that dictates some of our choices, even down to very small things (do I wear flip flops or boots? Do I have to take a shower today or can I hide my gross bedhair under a hat?). So it's true: maybe snow wasn't present in the Garden, but it does confront us with our limitations, and reminds us of our mortality. And this side of Eden, those are very good things.
But Cleveland is more than simply snowy. It's also a rusted-out reminder of former glory (back in the 20's, Cleveland was the fifth largest city in America. Now it's almost an afterthought to include it on a map). Not only that, but, to state the obvious, our sports teams suck. The closest we've come to glory in recent history was King James, who was unfairly expected to carry an entire team almost by himself (I can't count the number of times that he scored between a third and half or more of the points in a game. Mostly because I haven't taken arithmetic since grade school and I'm too lazy to actually look up the stats, but I'm sure it's impressive anyway). Regardless of that, when he left for warmer climes, he left most folks around here with a bad taste in their mouths (funny story: when James left, the stories-high banner of him by the arena was replaced with a picture of the Cleveland skyline. So in place of a poster child, we now have a picture of what we're already looking at). Beyond this, the economic downturn has left thousands of homes empty and huge, unused & crumbling warehouses scattered across the region. Add to this the fact that our 'theme song,' "Cleveland Rocks!" is so annoying that it would be difficult to find a more potent psychological disruption tool than forcing someone to listen to it on loop. Such an action would undoubtedly call down heavy recriminations, as well as the wrath of God.
What we've determined thus far: Cleveland is the embarrassing balding cousin that other cities don't like to mention, but wrinkle their noses at the thought of. So where's the good news? Cleveland is like the snow: it reminds us of our mortality, it teaches us humility, and it takes a certain kind of courage to love. Because Cleveland is loved, which is perhaps the most surprising of all. There's something deeply chest-warming about the underdog, even when that underdog is a city that hasn't won any titles other than "#1 Poorest City in the Nation" in decades. Why is that? Maybe it's because we all know ourselves to be the underdog, at some point in our lives. Maybe, even if not consciously, we identify with the broken because we know ourselves to be broken. And maybe, despite it all, we love Cleveland because it is beautiful.
Consider the snow again. Snow is inherently beautiful, from the freshly-fallen fields down to the uniqueness of the flake. It's a beauty that carries a lot of consequences (and doesn't beauty always?), but it is undeniably beautiful. So it is with Sunny Clevelandtown, where the sun nearly never shines. The city is beautiful. You look into the smashed-out-window eyes of the homeless, and, if you're looking, you're looking at Christ. That is where the city's greatness lies: it shows us a face of the suffering Christ. And not just the suffering Christ, but the joy-filled and loving Christ as well. The laughter of Christ resounds in these churches, houses, and streets. Not in any over-spiritualized or abstract way, but by teaching us about ourselves. By recognizing both the depression and the beauty, the rusted-out and the beating heart, and yes, the slush & ice and the sparkling fields, we hold two things in tension. On the one hand is death and decay and isolation; on the other, life and beauty and connection. Both hands are part of our lives. Think of a Browns fan: both great disappointment and hope, even when it makes no sense whatsoever, coexist.
And isn't that the common experience of every Christian? Of gradually coming to recognize our many faults and failings, and even more gradually coming to live that hope that dares to hope that "all men be saved?" We are not true if we cannot recognize our faults, yet we are even less true if we cannot accept being loved even in the midst of those faults. That is why I love Cleveland. It is a blighted city, a remnant of the long-departed steel industry, but it is full of hope, even hope without much real grounding. Think of the snow again: it is not always desirable, but it is beautiful. We are in the midst of it, and all we have is grace, even when that grace functions only to remind us of our limitations.

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