Tag Archive | Family

My Cancer is the Least of It

My Cancer is the Least of It
David R. Weiss – February 7, 2025

Rather early in the Narnia Chronicles (by C.S. Lewis), there’s a scene where the children hear of Aslan for the first time. Aslan, of course, represents Jesus in this saga. While I’ve grown to disagree with much of Lewis’ theology, I still appreciate the way he describes Aslan/Jesus in this scene.

Susan, one of the four children who tumble through the Wardrobe and into Narnia, is surprised to learn that the King of Narnia, whom she will soon meet, is not a man, but a lion. “But—is he—quite safe?” she stammers. “Safe?” responds the Beaver in equal surprise. “Who said anything about safe? ’Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”

Profoundly good. And Lewis gets this much right. Goodness is not safe. To place oneself in the company of goodness—or even to aspire to be a channel of goodness oneself—is to reckon something more valuable than safety.

I have long aspired to chase after goodness. Indeed, I’ve done so with some modest successes here and there. (Also, alas, with some dramatic failures.) But I’ve often hedged my bets around safety. Kept my risks “reasonable” and my passion mostly within the range of “socially acceptable.”

Has cancer changed that? Perhaps. It has certainly framed my remaining years with a bold sharpie marker of mortality. I’m not on borrowed time just yet, but finitude has shifted from an abstract concept to a dynamic consideration in how I spend my time. And how much energy I’m willing to invest in keeping my risks “reasonable” and my passion “socially acceptable.” Bottom line: I find that I’m willing to burn bridges, if necessary to make my desire for goodness unmistakably clear these days.

(If you missed that cancer memo, it’s here: “When Cancer Comes Calling.”)

I need to be clear: my life is (still?) pretty intact. True, my prostate is home to a pervasive and aggressive set of cancer cells right now. But I have zero symptoms and zero pain. I just know the cancer is there, actively plotting against my future. It will be removed on March 5, although the threat of recurrence will be with me for the rest of my life—and at odds far higher than I wish. That’s where I “feel” the cancer already. Reshaping my long-term prospects for years to come … and intensifying in the short term my deep hunger to be a channel of goodness in the world. Which is where those burning bridges come in.

I’ve been overwhelmed—humbled, steadied, gratified, amazed, and more—by the outpouring of support from people as they’ve learned of my cancer diagnosis. There really are no words to acknowledge has much the messages—coming in by card, text, Facebook, email, my blog, phone call, and in-person—have been a gift to me.

That’s why I noticed—viscerally—when several of those undeniably kind messages fell flat. Two came from a cousin. Just a couple years apart in age, we grew up almost side by side and were especially close during the years she was in college, and I was in seminary. We’ve stayed in touch, and I’ve been uncomfortably aware that our political values have taken very different directions over the years. Her open support for Trump—her confidence that his election would make her life better—has mystified me and bothered me. But I didn’t engage. I wasn’t going to risk burning any bridges over it.

Until now.

Partly, on account of cancer. It was, after all, her kind words in response to my diagnosis, that didn’t sit right. But partly, too, on account of all that is happening in America these days. The collision of my cancer, Trump’s presidency, and her note was like striking steel to flint, and by the time I finished responding to her second message, I suspect there was a bridge ablaze.

Both messages were sincere and brimful of “innocent” well wishes: strength for “the fight ahead” and encouragement to allow myself “moments of tears and anger.” And even a bit of heartfelt wit and wisdom from our past years playing BINGO at family picnics: “Remember, don’t clear your card.” Because we played from straight line to four corners to full card, it was a reminder to keep building on the faith, values, and preparation already on “my card.” All well-intended. All offered from a place of care. Nothing should have tied my stomach in a knot. But it was. Knotted and then some.

And I knew why. I could not reconcile her effusive care for me with her vote for Trump and her “celebration” of his election. And it was time for me to say so. And I did. I wrote:

Thank you for your kind words, both your text and this Facebook message.

I must confess, though, the biggest “fight” on my hands these days is responding adequately to all the damage Trump and Musk (and others) are intent on doing to our country. I am numb with grief and frantic with rage.

My housemates—two FINE brown-skinned Brazilians—move with fear these days, as do the Brazilian couple who lived with us last year. Although here legally, they know Trump’s rhetoric breeds danger for them. The same is true for least seven members of my immediate family includes two daughters, two sons-in-law, and three grandsons—all brown-skinned, all Spanish speakers, all marked as “unwanted” (or worse) by Trump’s rhetoric.

A young adult transgender friend is deeply fearful (her parents, fearful and enraged) that the medications absolutely essential to her health, may be denied to her because Trump has such contempt for anything he doesn’t understand. I probably have two dozen or more good friends, persons I’ve known for years, who are trans. Every one of them wakes with dread each day. Both for the uncertainty of their access to medical care and the assault on their human rights. And for the certainty that the public contempt being stoked upon them will lead to physical assaults sooner or later.

From my years working as an Ally for the acceptance and affirmation of LGBTQ persons in church and society, I have at least! 200 gay or lesbian friends. Dear friends! Many of them married, nearly all of them now living in daily fear that their rights, too, will be unwound by a man and a political party that lives by sowing disdain for those who are different—in God-given ways.

As someone who traveled in Uganda and has maintained close friendships in that beautiful land (there is a little 8-year-old boy named after me in Uganda!), I tremble for the sheer death being vented their way as Trump unravels USAID programs that have fought malaria and HIV/AIDS in the very communities I visited, among the very people who welcomed me there.

After writing for years now about the peril of climate change, I despair at Trump’s determination to bring it on faster, hotter, more deadly for my children and yours. He will lay waste to the world if he can. More than just people, countless animals, even entire species and ecosystems, are having their obituaries written right now in his executive orders and mandates.

And having spent my whole adult life—from educating my mind (and heart) to ransacking all my words, from burning midnight oil to marching in the streets—in pursuit of a world where all persons might feel honored and safe, I am beyond aghast that Trump, Vance, Musk, and the cult-like culture they have created take such perverse joy in belittling others and destroying institutions that while imperfect, at least imperfectly sought the common good. The wreckage they will leave in their wake—the wreckage they’ve *already left* in less than two weeks!—will take decades to undo. Some of it will wound the world for generations.

Right alongside my cancer diagnosis, I have watched them gleefully swing a wrecking ball at the civilized world, intent on creating chaos, from which they are sure to turn a profit. I cannot begin to count the number of faithful and dedicated civil servants and foreign service workers (in development and medicine!) whose vocations and careers will be cancelled by Trump’s narcissistic vengeance and the inhumane ideology of those who ride on his coattails. And I weep for the (millions of!) lives that will be lost on account of their recklessness. From infants to elderly, from Minnesota to Indiana, from the United States to Uganda and around the globe, Trump and his accomplices are not so much “unleashing” suffering as they are knowingly and intentionally creating it. With malevolent satisfaction.

No wonder I don’t sleep well. It has nothing to do with my prostate. Everything to do with those in Congress—and those in cities and towns across America who fall prostRate before this evil. (And those who welcomed Trump’s election precisely because they saw it as an invitation to wreak their violent racist-homophobic-misogynist anger in the open now.)

Listen, I remember back when you were in college, and we would occasionally have long conversations while I was home from seminary. Our minds—both bright—traveled far together, measuring ideas and ideals. Asking BIG questions about what could be and wondering how we might leverage our lives to make those “could be’s” happen. Good memories. Such good memories. I call back to them now.

Trust me, with whatever time I have left, I intend to leverage my cancerous life undoing the damage done by this man’s wickedness. Never before have I encountered a political agenda that runs so counter to the values I hold, the values instilled in me by my family and my faith.

As my surgery date approaches, and as Trump’s nightmarish vision unfolds, I promise you, through tears and anger, and keeping family and faith close, I have no intention of clearing my card until I place enough chips of freedom and justice, peace and honor, to make for a full card BINGO that includes every person and every group that Trump and his cronies dehumanize. This drives me like nothing else.

Finally, I hope your thoughts and prayers can include not only me, but all the members of my family and all my friends directly targeted by Trump’s rhetoric and by the swirls of hate it stirs up.

Truly, my cancer is the least of it. But I thank you for your kind words. I will surely need them for the fight ahead.

Sending you thanks and love, David

I took a breath—and hit “send.” I immediately reread the message and asked myself, “Too much?” And I instantly answered my own question: “I barely scraped the surface.”

Donald Trump, JD Vance, Elon Musk, the architects of Project 2025 (now embedded in our government), and most of the GOP who now eagerly pursue Christian nationalism/fascism, white supremacy, deregulation, and the destruction of our democracy—these people and their initiatives have declared war on my people. Really, on most people—and on the planet as well. And I will not keep my risks “reasonable” or my passion mostly within the range of “socially acceptable.” I will burn bridges, if that’s what it takes to make my desire for goodness—for the wellbeing of my people (most people) and the planet—unmistakably clear these days.

Who said anything about safe? Sometimes choosing goodness is like striking steel to flint. Bridges be damned.

*******

David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.

Four-Score: A Love Story

Aug12

NOTE: Most of you know me and Margaret well. For those who don’t, here the briefest context. We met—and dated seriously for a year—in college. Then, after other marriages, we reconnected around 40 and married each other. Now, after 23 years of marriage, we both feel the urgency and peril of the socio-ecological crises confronting us … and I cannot help but reflect on our love story in that light. Hence, “four score”: four sets of 20 years (more or less); three now behind us, and one just ahead …

Four-Score: A Love Story – From Beginning to End

Act 1: Beginnings
Barely twenty,
our meeting seemed no small miracle.
We talked and walked and talked some more.
Our joy was electric—and tactile.
Over tennis and racquetball,
our bodies supple and athletic,
our love was sweaty and sweet. And kind.
Our dreams were big; our future all possibility.
Until that future seemed impossible
to us.

Act 2: Adulting
Fast forward to the near edge of forty
and the far side of heartbreak.
Other marriages no more, we met again
and somehow our impossible future
became just possibly possible again.
(Or perhaps truly possible for the first time.)
Now full grown,
and each with a nest of children,
nonetheless our love felt new.
No longer young, yet still so
electric, tactile, sweaty and sweet.
Our future complicated
but chosen and committed to
with joy.

Act 3: Aging
Now, sixty sits several years behind,
and neither of us is who we once were.
Our nest all empty; our children all grand.
Somehow despite our active lives,
and despite love that remains
electric, tactile, sweaty, and sweet,
our bodies now host aches in abundance.
And in the stillness, we hear finitude’s whisper
that it will have its say at last.
But we counter, trading knowing glances:
we have written love
in our bones and breath,
and in our hearth and home.
And even this aging cannot untell the truth
of who we’ve been
together.

Act 4: Apocalypse
Now entering our fourth score,
and leaning as we are
into an apocalypse of planetary proportions
our love frets for sure—
but does not flinch.
Holding hands on quiet walks,
we sense the coming storms:
the twisting air and heat and flood;
the material want and political tumult
that will frame this score of years
(both ours and yours);
and the burgeoning grief
for all that is being lost.
Our hands hold tight—
our love,
once so electric, tactile, sweaty, and sweet,
now settles for weathered and wise,
weary but unwavering,
tested and tempered. And kind.

So that as the world unravels
our hearts remain well-woven
as well to other hearts beyond our two.

So that these hearts can somehow
hold the world’s grief
and still be grateful each new day.

So that our children and our grands
can navigate this new unknown terrain
by referencing that familiar love
writ well in our own bones and breath
and marking out
right to the end
a path to hearth and home.

So that from first to last,
from opening to ending,
our love has made a map of joy.

David R. Weiss
August 10, 2024

The Last Word: Fred Weiss – Man of the Evening

Aug1

The Last Word: Fred Weiss – Man of the Evening
August 1, 2024 – David Weiss (with Debbie Weiss Reagor and Deon Weiss Bishop)

Fred Weiss was among the first to arrive at the Nest Community Shelter Appreciation Dinner in downtown Michigan City. He slipped quietly into a seat at an empty table in the back of the room. That was his style. Aim to be early. Happy to be there. Happy to support the shelter. Just as happy to be unnoticed. He didn’t realize he was the man of the evening.*

But we did. Invited by Harry, the shelter’s executive director, Deb, Deon, and I (David) had gotten there fifteen minutes before our dad. Deon had driven 180 miles and I’d driven 475 miles to join Deb (who lives right in Michigan City) so all three of us could be present tonight. But Dad didn’t know that either. So, you can perhaps imagine his 87-year-old mix of surprise and outright confusion as he squinted through the lavender lighting to the front of the room and saw, first Deb, then Deon, then me. Who? What?! How?! Why?!

We walked back to greet him. Of course, he was happy to see us. But the sheer surprise of our presence left him almost speechless. “Hi, Dad.” “What—are you all—doing here?” he stammered, head turning left to right as though trying to confirm that each one of us was actually there. “Well, we know the shelter means a lot to you, so we thought we’d just show up to join you at the dinner tonight—besides which, Harry suggested we sit at that table up there at the front. The one marked as ‘reserved.’”

“What is all this?” He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he got to his feet and followed us to the front table. Once seated he opened the evening’s program—and the proverbial cat was out of the bag. At the inside center, left of the staples, in large font and bold print: The Weiss Award. And right below: “Named in honor of tonight’s recipient.” That’s when it hit him. He was, in fact, Fred Weiss: Man of the Evening.

First, however, there was some chit-chat (or “networking” as the program called it). The four of us chatted with the other two persons who had joined us at our table, learning about how they came to be Nest Community Shelter supporters. Then a fine catered meal, after which Harry took the stage and offered a “Year in Review” of the shelter: accomplishments, challenges, and goals. Then to the awards …

Our dad received the inaugural “Fred Weiss Award,” created to honor individuals who’ve demonstrated exceptional service to Nest Community Shelter. Harry took a few minutes to explain why this award was given to—and named for—Fred. What I offer here is a mix of Harry’s remarks with some extra context for those not familiar with the shelter history.

Fred receiving the award from Harry Holtkamp, Nest Executive Director

Early in 2002 a couple of “church ladies” at the local Presbyterian church began to explore how they might engage their congregation and other local congregation in a mission to ensure that homeless men in Michigan City had a safe warm place to be during the winter months. Very quickly St. Paul Lutheran and Fred Weiss (along with Pastor Reshan and a handful of other congregants) became involved. When the PADS (Public Action Delivering Shelter) project launched in the fall of 2002, St. Paul Lutheran was the shelter site on Friday nights. And Fred Weiss was among the initial and most faithful volunteers to help staff it.

Faithful is perhaps understatement. For nineteen years, from fall 2002 through fall 2020, on every Friday night from October through April, Fred was at the men’s shelter in the basement of St. Paul Lutheran. Harry said Fred never missed a night. Fred says he did miss “just a couple,” adding that he always found his own replacement, so the shelter wasn’t put in a pinch. Still, that’s about 535 Friday nights at the shelter, most of them covering the 10pm-1am shift and the hardest-to-fill 1am-4am shift. (His grandchildren recall how, when visiting from out of town, Friday nights always included “quiet time” so Grandpa could rest before going down to the shelter. Never seen as a limitation on their fun, it was simply the way the rhythm of service shaped time at their grandparents.)

“Unwavering dedication,” Harry called it. In fact, not content to show up at 10, Fred made a point to head in early at 9pm so he was around for a bit before “lights out.” And he came bearing gifts. A couple 12-packs of pop and a couple boxes of sweet treats (Hostess or Little Debbie items) to give the men a little snack at the end of the evening. He did this not to be noticed, but to be kind. But noticed he was.

As Harry tells, before long many of the men, who would often doze in the evening after the meal, would set their alarms for 9pm in order to be sure they woke up when Fred arrived. Always bearing treats—and dignity—in abundance. Freely offered. Thus, in truth, it wasn’t on July 30 at the dinner, but over those 535 Friday nights across nineteen years that Fred became “man of the evening.” Heralded not with applause or a plaque, but with grateful words and smiles from men who knew that Fred’s kindness and respect was genuine.

At other times Fred went (on his own) to several local retailers to collect returned clothing items—especially socks and underwear—that the men appreciated. Over the years Fred and his wife, Carol, made many financial gifts to PADS, then ICPADS (Interfaith Community PADS) and finally, to Nest Community Shelter, when it moved into its now permanent location in the former Sacred Heart Catholic Church on the city’s west side.

Much of Fred’s time at the shelter was unnoticed. From lights out at 10pm until the cook arrived at 4am, Fred was on his own reading news magazines or working sudoku puzzles, occasionally listening to one of the men who couldn’t sleep. Unnoticed, but deeply impactful, helping the shelter do its work while offering the men a quiet presence of stability and a foothold on hope.

As Harry summed up, “Fred’s service has become our gold standard, a shining example that inspires staff and volunteers alike with his compassion, consistency, and advocacy for the shelter’s cause in the community. He’s left an indelible mark on our shelter community, and this award, known henceforth as The Weiss Award, will serve as a lasting tribute to his legacy and inspire future generation of volunteers to follow in his footsteps.”

Along the way, Fred was treated (I’m sure to his bemused embarrassment) to four rounds of applause. I guess, finally, it’s hard to go unnoticed when you’re the man of the evening.

Afterwards, we three kids joined Dad back at the house, where he commented repeatedly about how “overwhelmed” he was by the evening: the unexpected award and our unexpected presence. We asked if he could recall what had sparked his initial involvement with the shelter.

One factor, no doubt, was that around the time that Dad started volunteering at the shelter, he and Mom also began offering shelter to our older brother, Don, still trying to maintain sobriety after years of battling alcoholism. It was in a bedroom they provided to him in his early forties that he finally came to hold his addiction at bay, though a lack of job and health coverage led to his early death from COPD at age 46. But in 2002—and for all the years since—Dad must’ve known that there were a lot of Don’s in Michigan City without family to help them find home again. And his years at the shelter were one way of extending their back bedroom into the St. Paul Lutheran basement.

But the story he told us kids on Tuesday night went back a lot further than that. He was himself a little kid, walking along Franklin Street with his mother, just a block down from St. Paul Lutheran. On the sidewalk in front of the old Warren Building a man missing both legs kept a small stand and sold wooden pencils. Dad’s mother (our grandmother) always stopped to buy a couple. One day young Fred whispered to her as they walked away, “Mom, we already have plenty of pencils at home.” And even as a kid, he knew they didn’t have money to spare. But she replied, “Frederick, if his need isn’t genuine, that’s his sin. But if his need is genuine, and we don’t respond, that’s our sin. So, I always buy a pencil or two.” That struck home with Dad.

In some ways you could say my dad spent those nineteen years at the men’s shelter “buying pencils.” In more ways, you could say that describes his whole life. Which is why all three of us—Deb, Deon, and myself—couldn’t have been happier to spend Tuesday night with our dad, Fred Weiss: Man of the Evening.

* There were actually two men of the evening. Ed Merrion was also recognized for his lifetime of service to the shelter with an award named in his honor, but this piece reflects simply on our experience of the evening with our dad.
Also, one of Dad’s favorite news magazines, The Week, always concludes with a piece called “The Last Word,” often a poignant human-interest story. My title suggests that this is the type of story worthy of The Week. 🙂

* * *

Family Secrets – More than a Matter of Degree

Jul7

Family Secrets – More than a Matter of Degree
David R. Weiss – July 8, 2023

I suppose all families harbor secrets in their distant or recent past. The family member whose attitudes or actions are cause for scandal. Poor (embarrassing, unethical, disastrous) choices we’d rather not be reminded of or let others know about. Facets of ourselves we haven’t yet figured out how to be honest about with ourselves or others. Scattered vignettes or whole chapters of our familial past get covered over with silence. Skip that initial “I suppose.” All families harbor secrets. It’s just a matter of degree.

And the truth is, we negate our own potential wholeness so long as we allow the secrets to hold sway. (See my June post, “Unsealing Family Secrets … with Grace,” for some reflections on that.) But today I’m writing about family secrets of a different sort—an altogether different tense, in fact. There are also family secrets in our future. These secrets, too, are a matter of degree—but also, much more, as I will explain. And these secrets, too, negate our own wholeness so long as we allow them to hold sway.

Monday (July 3, 2023) brought the planet its hottest day on record since global air temperature record-keeping began in 1884. It lasted just one day, as if July 4 was already whispering, “Hold my beer,” as the sun rose. And then July 5 did the same. We won’t set a new global temperature record every day this month. But historically July is Earth’s hottest month—and there’s an El Niño in effect right now (a cyclical ocean-driven warming pattern)—which makes it very likely that July will become the hottest month since 1884. Except—

Except the past 75 years of industrial-driven warming have already made us such an outlier compared to the centuries before records were kept. And science has shown us the broad temperature ranges of earlier eras. Which is why, numerous atmospheric scientists have said that this year’s July will likely be the hottest month ever—by a long stretch. Since the Eemian period. About 125,000 years ago.

How’s that for a family secret? We have now so altered the chemistry of Earth’s atmosphere that my kids and grandkids are heading into a future more like a past 125,000 years ago than anything in my childhood.

My son, Ben, just turned 36 years old to my 63. In the next 27 years, as he “flips” his age and reaches 63 for himself, every single heat record for every single day, week, month, and year will have been broken multiple times. By his 63rd birthday in 2050 (when my other kids will be: Susanna, 54; Meredith, 64; Megan, 66; Leah, 68; Laura, 69), if Ben is “fortunate,” the planet will have inched its way upward to 1.7^o C (3^o F) above the pre-industrial era, effectively ushering him and all his siblings into a whole new world. If he’s less fortunate, the planet will have stepped right past 1.7^o C and moved on toward 2^o C (3.6^o F). A mere fraction of a degree, but with catastrophic effects rippling across ecosystems, economies, societies … and, of course, across the lives of my kids (and yours.)

But, family secret—really? Well, how often have I discussed this “inheritance” with Ben (or my other children). Not never. But not often. And not at length. And not with anything close to the seriousness these few degrees will bear on their lives. No, this is truly a family secret hiding in their future. Surely not easy or comfortable to discuss. But just as surely, their ability to find wholeness in that future rests on their ability to wrestle with this secret with honesty and wisdom. If that isn’t the business of family, I don’t know what is.

And, of course, family secrets traverse generations—impacting more than just kids. I have nine grandkids. The youngest, also named Benjamin, will match my 63 in July 2080. By then the other grandkids will be: John (66), Eli (66), Gretchen (67), Nora (68), Landon (69), Waverly, Kaleb (71), Tomas (73). Hard to imagine these children older than me. Harder still to imagine their world in 2080. Painfully hard. These are children I’ve doted on. And by 2080 they will have grown into their adult years through decades more daunting than any I have lived.

Nothing can be said with exact certainty about that future. The details remain secret to all of us. But what we know is not encouraging. The Paris Agreement originally hoped to achieve a 1.5^o C (2.7^o F) limit in temperature rise but settled for aiming at anything less than 2.0^o C (3.6^o F). Yet the net effect of policies in place since the Paris Agreement have us on a trajectory to 2.7^o C (4.9^o F) by 2100. And the actual practices of fossil fuel corporations and government deals to build new pipelines and develop new projects continue to pretend like these targets don’t really matter. While all the science tells us they matter more than ever.

But, as I indicate in the title, this family secret is more than a matter of degree. Because it isn’t just about the numbers on a thermometer. Ultimately, this is about whole systems that teeter on the edge of collapse. Ecological systems. Economic systems. Political systems. Social systems. And they won’t wait until 2080 or even 2050 to start teetering—they already are.

The smoke from Canadian wildfires that played havoc with your breathing recently? That’s the smell of collapse. A symptom of a hotter planet (drier soil, more bark beetles, higher winds), but even as the wildfires burn, the carbon-laden smoke set up the atmosphere to trap yet more heat to drive the cycle further, harder, hotter, the next time. And this dynamic plays out in a whole host of interconnected planetary systems. So much so, that once whole systems begin to irreversibly tip (they are already teetering!) all those “degree” targets will become wistful projections for some bygone world—no longer our world at all.

Those stock market jitters that just won’t go away? That’s the rattle of a growth economy feeling the inexorable pressure of a finite world where finally there is no such thing as an externalized cost. Our economy, like OceanGate’s Titan submersible, is held together by hubris (rampant pride). Within decades the pressure of our finite world will leave our economy looking like that submersible does today: twisted wreckage.

That nearly unimaginable rightward lurch of the Republican party and the Supreme Court? That’s the instinctive human reaction to ecological and existential anxiety. This desperate political maneuvering, intimately tied to the preservation of white supremacy, is also a textbook scenario of how privilege responds to the mounting pressure of collapsing ecosystems and economies. And those polarized views, flavored by xenophobia and manifest in rampant violence and other wholesale fraying of our social fabric? That, too, is the evidence of ecologically-driven societal collapse—already well underway. It is what has always happened when civilizations outgrow their fit in the world.

We are on the cusp of a societal collapse never seen in the lifetime of anyone alive today. Not a downward turn in the economy. Not a conservative swing in politics. Not an era of social discontent. And least of all a brief interlude of warmer than usual temperatures. Collapse. And it is entirely inevitable at this point. There is no technological breakthrough or government regulation that can stop it. Because it is linked to an ecological collapse the likes of which no human being has EVER experienced in all of human history. Our future is literally unthinkable.

Well, not so much mine, which will run another 20-30 years or so. That future is bleak. Hard to imagine. But the future my children and grandchildren will face, that future is unthinkable. And that is a family secret—an uncomfortable truth kept in the shadows by consensual silence. And it threatens to leave them wholly unprepared for what is to come. There is nothing I can do to stave off collapse, but there are a whole set of insights, appetites, skills, habits, that I might bequeath to them … that might better equip them for this inheritance. But to do so, I need to break the silence of this most hidden of family secrets about their future. Hidden not least by the desperate hope it might not be true. And the fearful knowledge that it is.

* * *

David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, doing “public theology” around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, diversity, and peace. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in writing Community Supported Theology at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.