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Long Works
Personal Essays
Joshua Quay
December 8, 2003
Not THAT kind
There the Catholic priest stood. He had known too long, and fought too little. He had been raised with apprehensions of bible reading, only the Pope could interpret scripture correctly. He had worked hard, learning what he could learn and doing what he could, all while trying to not learn or do so much as to seem presumptuous. He dutifully served the church in all piety until. In his first year of service, after having been trained and then consecrated in Pinjum Parish in 1524, Menno Simons first began doubting the accuracy of Catholic doctrine. His interest was sparked as he noticed that the holy sacraments had not become actual flesh and blood after being consecrated. He questioned the idea of transubstantiation (the belief that communion bread and wine literally become the flesh and blood of Christ). Inside himself, Menno challenged the concept, "Was it only symbolic?" For the first time, he opened his bible and began to read. Focusing on the New Testament, he weighed the question against scripture. It was among his first doubts, but many more were to follow.
"Clip clop clip clop clip clop... bang! Do ya know what that is?" my older brother asked me while we sat in the run-down park that was just across the street from where I grew up. I searched through my thoughts, desperately shuffling through my brain to figure out what I could be, but I had no answer. I had no idea. I looked up at him, and in all naivete answered, "Nah, I don't know what it is." He smirked and revealed the answer to me... "An Amish drive-by shooting!" He laughed mildly, satisfied by his witticism; I also broke into laughter. I didn't fully get the joke at the time, but I wished to be like my older brother... and so I laughed. I knew who the Amish were; I had been to the Shady Maple Restaurant regularly. I had visited The Amish Country. I remember having gone to the wax museum, and the candle making place, see Dutch Wonderland, visiting Sight & Sound theatre, and learning the at the Mennonite Information Center. Lancaster and I were tight.
I guess that's why it's hard for me to make connections with the Amish and Old Order Mennonites. I grew up with them being a tourist attraction. The Amish were no more to me than the faceless dolls I had seen in the Lancaster area. Kind of like the pictures that hand on the walls of the Shady Maple Restaurant. These large, sculptured pictures that have three-dimensional scenes of Amish and Old Order Mennonites lives. There was one picture of an Amish barn raising, another of a girl throwing seed on the ground. When I was little, my parents would pacify my younger brother and I by letting us walk around and look at all the pictures; there were about thirty. I look back at them now, and despite being wonderful pieces of artwork, t hey boxed my entire perception of the country folk. The Amish were framed in these mock poses in my head, nothing more than to be looked at, for my own entertainment.
There the Catholic priest stood. He raised his h ands in prayer, consecrating the holy sacraments to God, preaching the words of a ritual he no longer believed. He spoke the words of papal infallibility, a speech sanctioned by some pope along the way... one of the few who could interpret without error. Menno no longer believed in transubstantiation, but this wasn't enough of a discrepancy for him to break from his faith. He was a priest, should he be so heavily questioning these topics? Should he be so interested in the teachings of Martin Luther? Why was he so bothered by the executions of those who were supporting and participating in re-baptizing (the practice of baptizing at an age of consent, even after being baptized as an infant)? These things weighed heavily on his heart, but still he continued to perform the rites of a Catholic Priest: giving communion and performing infant baptisms, preaching what he knew in his heart had grown wrong.
One time a few years back, I was out on the porch of my house, talking to my brother and sister-in-law (before they were married). We were hanging out in the early evening, talking about all that was going on in our lives. A middle-aged man running crazily down the street quickly interrupted our conversation. The man, clothed only in his boxers, was tripping… I could assume on acid. He flailed about for a bit, and then ran over to the tree in front of our house and immediately began biting it. It was an increasingly comical moment. My brother went in to call an ambulance, as my sister-in-law and I kept an eye on the guy while he munched away at the bark.
An ambulance soon arrived, an ambulance carrying one of the best EMTs I've ever seen. He was bulky guy, kind of short, with a rustic New York accent. He came strutting out of the ambulance and walked right over to the guy, as his assistant pulled out one of those transporting bed/stretchers. The EMT surprised me by pulling the guy off the tree in one hard thrust. The drugged up guy started screaming, "Where's my mommy! I want my mommy!" The EMT assured him that he wouldn't be seeing his mommy tonight. The man was eventually restrained to the bed and then taken away. As the ambulance drove off, t he three of us (my brother, my sister-in-law, and I) continued conversing. It was a little weird, but not the strangest thing to have ever happened. We got talking about drugs in general; my brother and my sister-in-law were both, at one time, entangled with drugs. It was great conversation, which overshadowed the scene we had just seen simply because this was not an abnormal thing to happen in my hometown.
It was sixth grade when I was in my Language Arts class and Ms. Smith was talking about the Mennonites. We were reading some poetry that came from the area, Pennsylvania, and this class was focusing on a story about a little Mennonite girl's lifestyle. She opened up the section by saying, "Who in here knows who the Mennonites are?" Well, I of course knew the answer to this one, so I raised my hand in all hopes that she would call on me, and she did. I proudly answered, "The Mennonites are a Christian denomination [I didn't really know what that meant at the time]. Some Mennonites live in Lancaster. I know 'cause I'm Mennonite." Ms. Smith followed up my answer with a surprised gasp of excitement and then the trademark question, "So, when you go to church do you say, 'Going to meeting?" And I responded, "I'm not THAT kind of Mennonite."
There the Catholic Priest stood. Reformer blossomed all around the Parish where Menno was serving. He didn't budge. He was holding still to the Catholic faith, because it was so "Scripturally" based. At the time there was small group of believers being raised up. They believed in the second baptism, and they did not agree with transubstantiation. They were a group emphasizing peace and productive lifestyles: this group went under the auspice of the Anabaptists, in spite of the derogatory nature of the term. It was a term that referred to those who had been baptized by heretics and wayward bishops, a term that negated the validity of their baptism principles. Menno's formerly Catholic beliefs were growing closer and closer to the beliefs of the Anabaptists, but he was still Catholic in name and practice.
Every morning I wake up to the Mennonites passing by my apartment on Main Street in Kutztown, PA. You could set your watch to them. It was unnerving when I first moved here, like the Mennonites had invaded Kutztown. It really bothered me that horse and buggies were passing down the main street of a place where I as now living. I didn't want them here. They freaked me out, not that I'm really sure why. I mean, I was raised Mennonite, for goodness sake... not Old Order, but Mennonite none-the-less. Despite being raised a Contemporary Mennonite, I was not prepared for the Menno Simons clones that were passing by my apartment building each morning. I had heard about them, I had seen them; they lived about an hour away from my hometown. I should have been emotionally prepared for when they would come passing by, but I was not. They were right in front of me; they could have reached out and touched me. I saw the Amish often, but they were never so close before. This was not what I was used to, I was used to the crazed druggies randomly running down the streets, no horse and buggies.
Maybe it seems weird to other people that I'm so freaked out by the Old Order Mennonites and the Amish. I did not really have that much exposure to them having grown up in a town. There was not much that I had to do with them, I didn't have to talk to them, sincerely think about them, or interact with them on incredible dynamic levels. They were foreign, and more so than anyone coming form a different nation. Two houses over from the house I grew up in (in my hometown) there lived a host family for high school aged foreign exchange students. Consequently, I was the first high school aged American student that many of them met, and often the last one to wave them good-bye. I know people from all over the world, from as far as you can get form PA, but none of them seem so foreign as those Mennonites. Unfortunately, just because I'm not racist, didn't mean that I had not developed prejudices.
There the Catholic Priest stood. He stood there a few moments longer before falling to his knees. He was familiar with Catholicism. It was the "only" way, his life, and all he really knew. He considered all that he had been questioning, contemplating his disillusionment with the beliefs he had once so firmly upheld. How could his beliefs be shirting to the ideals of those "heretical" Anabaptists? Menno wasn't sure how to deal with the fact that his former perceptions of the Reformist group might be wrong. They might not be as crazy and irreverent as the Catholic leadership would assume them to be. He had many risks to consider, his reform would have carried much more weight, he was Catholic Priest, and he would have been put into danger for choosing this heretical religion, many Anabaptists were being forcibly drowned and burnt at the stake for their denominational differences; but the bible spoke of different concepts, and the moving of the Holy Spirit was calling him to a change.
Mennonites in general are a group that: believe that all scripture is divine, with an emphasis on the New Testament because is follows Christ's atonement; hold an especially high view of the Sermon on the Mount; strive to a moral standard of perfection, a perfection like that of Jesus; believe that certain Old Testament practices were based on the "permissive will" of God, rather than his "divine will;" reject practices that are not expressly mentioned in the Bible; reject lifestyle choices that are overtly worldly, even if not considered sinful; strive for peace and unity. Despite having the same basic doctrine, t here are many different types of Mennonites. A common mistake of the layperson is to assume that the different sects of the denomination are the same... an erroneous assertion.
When William Penn partitioned the land, he offered some to the Anabaptists and Mennonites who had become mostly synonymous with each other by this time. The group started coming over to the US in the 1680's and eventually became the Mennonites and Amish that most Lancaster visitors are familiar with. The main point of difference between the different Mennonite groups tends to revolve around what and how much they allow and do not allow of secular and worldly ways to be incorporated into their lifestyle. Old Order Mennonites tend to be very strict, living separate form the English (secular peoples); they do not use cars, own TV's, where in-style or overly elaborate clothing, read certain books, etc... sometimes not even using electric that has been produced outside of their community. Then there are the "Black bumper" Mennonites. These Mennonites are less strict: they tend to be less restricted in their clothing (while maintaining modesty), they can drive in cars as long as they are black and all the chrome is painted black (hence "black bumper"), they often use electricity, and are more involved with the English. One group that has separated from the Mennonites, but is still closely associated and often mistaken for t he Mennonites are the Amish. The Amish broke away from the Mennonites because they believed they were becoming too worldly. The Amish are the strictest of all the groups, becoming as self reliant and separate from the world as possible. The last main Mennonite group is Contemporary or Modern Mennonites, which is what I grew up as. Contemporary Mennonites believe in the main doctrinal principles, but are least restricted in the periphery lifestyle areas. They often live in a secular culture, drive and own cars, dress in common clothing, and carry the basic idea of "Being separate while living in the world."
I was raised much like anyone in any Christian denomination. I went to a service with contemporary worship (and hymnals also), current messages, the freedom to dance or lift hands when worshiping, a commitment to serious prayer and Bible study, a strong evangelistic ministry, etc. I was not raised wearing a plain outfit, living on a farm, and trying to stay away form anyone outside of the church, riding horse and buggies, bicycling to wherever I had to go. I think this is the main reason why I was bothered by the Mennonites, because I am one. I was Mennonite, but I was not one of them. I felt like they were so drastically different, and basically creepy, that I didn't want to identify with them at all. Over my entire life when I introduced what denomination of Christianity I came out of, I would say, "I'm Mennonite, but not Old Order." And this is the way most Contemporary Mennonites answer, because it is easy for a lay person to mistake us for Mennonites who do ride horse and buggies and wear all black. It is much easier to identify with a group that seems more "normal" than one that does not. People, in general, don't understand nor care to understand those who follow the stricter Mennonite doctrines, but considering that we have the same roots and share a consistent history, I am growing to change my perspective. I'm pressing harsh against conceptions, and hopefully I will one day be free of this prejudice. Maybe one day I'll ask that horse and buggy that passes every morning for a ride.
There the Mennonite Bishop stood. Menno had renounced the Catholic faith in January of 1536. He had made the bold choice to drop what he had known for so long, and to go with what was right. It forced him into hiding for the following year, where he was able to meditate and pray, study and seek God's face on how we are to worship him. After this time, Phillips (leader of the Anabaptist movement) approached Menno and asked him to take over the leadership of the Anabaptist group, to which Menno eventually agreed. He then emerged as a great leader, protecting his flock and tuning them to a firm theological foundation based on Bible study and Prayer. Protected by God against the gross persecution that his Protestant brothers and himself were enduring, facing death daily to uphold the beliefs that had transformed his life. Menno Simmons passed on to be with God on January 31, 1561. He was the founder of the Mennonites. I am a Mennonite.
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Joshua Quay
September 23, 2003
Walks In Cemeteries
Brainstorming
I grew up in the midst of a town-a ghetto, as I prefer to call it. It wasn't really a ghetto though, just a little city of a depraved generation. I grew up in a strong Christian family. My parents were very protective of their naive and impressionable children. "Don't cross the street; the drug lords will get you." And so we feared. And so we hid. And so my siblings and I imagined an entire world outside of the context of the real one, but within the confines of one household and a tiny backyard.
My brothers, sister, and I grew up fabricating a reality. It was a reality that was extravagant and eccentric. We made stories. Lived lies. We had fun. The house I grew up in was transformed into incredible worlds. There were many different tales of adventure from the house of Quay. I was often the emperor of a mystical kingdom, set there by God to rule this magical world surrounding my siblings. My brother would then come after me. With a curtain rod as his sword he would threaten my sovereignty. Sensing the severity of the situation, I would take out my broom and swing it around as if it were a giant scepter. A dramatic fight would ensue, but as my younger brother would fight valiantly for the cause of his elfin people, I would always evade his blows by suddenly being invincible thanks the magic quilt that happened to be sitting on the couch, our floor for such an epic battle... Another time, the house would be a setting of a futuristic world, where we had to escape a danger that was never even named. At other times, the back yard shifted into the arena of a giant kung-fu match between wild and ravenous mutated men. Sometimes the afghans were folded into giant nests, and we were Fraggles. There is a mass of story.
We had fun. It was great in so many ways. I sometimes have a problem controlling my urges to constantly exaggerate everything as a result of such a schizophrenic childhood. It contributed itself to my need to create. I so often find myself approaching writing much the same way I approached creating these worlds as a child. I love throwing down my ideas, despite how random and misguided they may be. Embracing those arbitrary and fleeting thoughts that randomly pop through my head. I love writing down stories, now in a much broader context than originally. I obviously don't run around just having fun in my own little world... or do I?
I do. I enjoy life. I love it. I want to share it with everyone that I meet. I want to share it with those people who I will never meet. That's why I write. I like to share my life with others. I like others' lives to be shared with me. I enjoy knowing that God put us all here together, gave us totally complex and intricate lives, and then gave us mouths and hands to tell all about it.
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"Books are for the scholar's idle time." (Sommers, p.181) It is often the mistake assumption of the common man that a scholar must be an incredibly well read individual, and while that is often the case, it is not the absolute resolution of the matter. A scholar is made by a wise approach to the world. Wise, meaning that this individual takes the world, as presented to him, and formulates his understanding of it in a way that will appeal to others. While this individual may find inspiration in books, the greater inspirations come from life itself and the living thereof.
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"Maybe I got the sentence wrong. Maybe it is that 'Love (as well as writing) involves a radical loss of certainty." (Sommers, p.178) Love is unconditional. True love does not depend on the circumstances that surround it, but simply on knowing that it is there. It doesn't make sense, and is no way rational in the way it works. Writing is much the same way for many individuals. They don't really even understand, themselves, the way that they write; all they know is that they must write. They were meant to write, just as we are meant to love.
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"I have come to believe that it is the flesh alone that counts. The rest is that with which we distract ourselves when we are not hungry or cold, in pain or ecstasy. In the recesses of the body I search for the philosophers' stone. I know it is hidden there, hidden in the deepest, dampest cul-de-sac." (Selzer, p.344) Writing doesn't matter so much as living does. People have lived without having ever read or written a single word, and they still led a generally happy existence. Writing is meant to enhance life. A writer should never forget that writing is an extra when considering the whole scheme of life, what truly matters is life. The rest is based in our prerogative of life in some aspect, that we reach deep in ourselves and pull out our take on things.
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Collecting
I used to write poetry with my best friend. This is when I was in elementary school. We wrote a lot. I learned a lot. She was the first person I ever had a real crush on. We used to give each other shiny beads after we got off the bus. I walked her home everyday. We were tiny. We were cute. She was cute. I don't have any of those beads anymore. I only have memories about them. I don't see her anymore. I only have memories of her. I have a few poems. Some of those poems that we used to write together. I read them every once in a while. I learned so much for being so young. I learn every time I read one of those poems. I have that time of my life every time I read one of those poems. They mean a lot to me. I hope to have them until the day I die. Those words, as inarticulate as they may be, revive my entire childhood. Writing allows me to live... again.
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There is a process to preparing to write. Writing is taking information that you have in yourself and putting it together, in a formalized way, that others can read it. Where does a writer get this information? Well, there is a multitude of places. There are, first of all, life experiences and the individual's perspective. Then there is external information, which might be gathered from such sources as books, library, etc. In either case, there is a need to bring up memories and ideas, leaving out the main body of those thoughts, keeping only that which is essential to presenting a specific pieces purpose. A writer takes these snippets of information and glues them together, placing them on the piece of paper to form a beautiful creation that only captures a memory of the intended glory.
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"I want to know how to segue from one idea to the next, from one thought to the fragment lying beside it. But the connections don't always come with four-leaf clovers and the words GOOD LUCK neatly printed beside them." (Sommers, p.179) It's hard for a writer to bring together his mass of ideas into a neatly organized, concise work of writing. There is often no motivation, except that the writer wishes to bring clarity to his slew of thoughts, which a reader might not otherwise have understood.
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"Did you ask me why a surgeon writes? I think it is because I wish to be a doctor." (Selzer, p.248) Writing has the ability to heal emotions, hurt, and more. It has the ability to touch lives in a very intimate and poignant way.
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Process
I have lived in an off-campus apartment at Kutztown University since my freshman year (I'm currently a sophomore). I've learned a great deal from this. Every day I walk the same path to get to school and everyday it is different. I often get distracted, taking on little adventures, finding the treasures down this or that street, the streets I might have never gone down. Sometimes I just stop and look around enjoying the view, lying in the grass, sitting on a bench, climbing a tree. I eventually return to the needed path, the way by which I will get to the needed destination. I know the path before I even start on it, at least, I have a somewhat formulated idea of how I will go about getting to where I want to end up. It's the same process every time. When I finally get to the campus I'll be able to share with my friends everything they missed while I was away. I generally have a story brewing in my head during the entire walk, but it ends up being changed by the walk. My finished product is never like I originally intended it to be, but it generally ends up being better.
I have written since I was a little kid (I'm currently not a little kid anymore). I've learned a great deal from this. Every time I write I go through the same process and every time that process is different. I often get distracted, wandering into my other thoughts, finding epiphanies within this or that train of thought, the thought I might never have thought. Sometimes I just stop and dwell on a side thought, thinking incredible things, not really thinking at all, just flowing. I eventually return to the needed path, the way by which I will get to the needed destination. I know what I'm writing before I even start writing, at least, I have a somewhat formulated idea of how I will go about getting to the point that I want to make. It's the same process every time. When I finally finish a piece I'll get to share with everyone all these little revelations that they didn't hear me think. I generally have an idea of what the story will be like from the time I begin it, but it ends up being different, changed by the process. My finished product is never like I originally intended it to be, but it generally ends up being better.
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"WHEN YOU WRITE, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner's pick, a wood carver's gouge, a surgeon's probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow, or this time next year." (Dillard, p.3) The writer is guided by the paper, lead by the words; he knows that there is something important that must be expressed. He starts off with a few notes and a couple of jotted words, but before long, the work takes over and he is consumed in it.
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"The civilizing influence of an essay is that it keeps the conversation going, chronicling an intellectual journey, reflecting conversations with sources." (Sommers, p.183) Someone once said to me that a true friend is not someone who knows all the answers, but, simply, someone who asks the same questions. If a piece made it apparent that it was the finality of the subject, not many people would want to read it. People like to be engaged in what they are reading.
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"Life is our dictionary." (Dillard, p.68) There is no greater influence in what a person writes than what the writer has lived.
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Finish
I like to take walks in cemeteries. Not in a morbid, "I have a black cape." kind of way (although, I do have a black cape). But in a reflective, this is where it all ends kind of way. We all will die, unless raptured, that is. I latently hope that I will be raptured. I don't specifically want to die. I don't think I would necessarily mind it, except the whole dying section of death. I almost died within the last year, quite literally (sometimes in the metaphoric and spiritual sense also). I was in Florida over the last Spring Break (that would be 2003), and I went out in the water to about my knees. I don't know how to swim-a friend assured me it would be safe as long as I stuck close to her. God had other plans that day. I was sucked under in a current and ended up way too deep. Drowning. Dying. I would have ended up having to be buried in one of those cemeteries.
That was one of my thoughts as I was drowning to death. That when I died, they would have to send my body back up to Pennsylvania, to be buried in my hometown. I was more worried about how my family would find out. I was worried how the friends I had gone with would take my death. I was worried it would upset them enough hat they wouldn't be effective on this missions trip. I was worried that my death would be a hindrance to the entire reason we were down there. I opened my eyes as I was running out of air, and saw how beautiful the water was around me. I was thankful that God had given me a wonderful place to die, a beautiful sight as my last one. I really felt at peace when it came to my own death. I just wished that I had had the chance to say some things before I went. I was sure I was drowning.
I did get to tell people some of the things I was thinking, some of those things that I wanted to say before I died, because I didn't die. Some guys who had stopped to look at a dead jellyfish on the beach heard the initial cry that I let out as I was going under. After realizing what was going on, they jumped in, swam over and rescued me. It was about six guys that rescued me. They surrounded me and while swimming dragged me to the shore. I was going to be okay. God had saved me with those guys. The following day I went to the evening conference (there was a meeting each night, being that it was a missions trip). During the testimony time I got up and told what had happened to a few thousand people. I told them how God had not only saved my soul, but that he saved my life that day. I told them my story. I told them what I was thinking.
I could have ended up in a cemetery. I could be dead. Everyday we all face death. Tomorrow is not promised. If you have something to say, say it. There is so much you'll wish you had said as you flail about wildly in water, seeing the surface and not being able to reach it. It's the importance of writing-sharing what needs to be shared while you still have time to do it. While others still have time to listen. If you want people to hear what you have to say, then you have to say it before you are dead. "If a tree falls in the forest and on one is there to see it fall, does it make a sound?" No, if you have something important to say, and never tell anyone, that prolific epiphany will never touch anyone. I take walks in cemeteries because I will eventually die. Everyone will eventually die. It's a needed perspective. That's why I take walks in cemeteries.
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