First Man


Dear Eugene,

I was determined to not write this morning: I really should be reading more.  Then I walked by the house of my neighbor who suffered a stroke and thought about Hans Küng.

It is dangerous to think about heroes, especially gigantic ones, for you would need to confront how ordinary you are.  Whereas I no longer find myself as infused by the thoughts of Küng as I once was, over 20 years ago when I first started to get serious about theology and, really, life in general, his presence is always there--here--at the bottom of my heart, a stone that anchors.  He was the first man on this moon.

I was a late adopter to email. My first address was hans_kung@mybc.com.  Don't try to reach me there; the domain name doesn't exist anyway.  Alex doesn't live there anymore.  I was young then and Küng a true rock 'n' roller to me.  He's never run out of dynamite ever since he blasted himself into the scene.

In 2013 he wrote about how he was considering euthanasia for himself; he has Parkinson's.  "I do not want to live on as a shadow of myself," he said in his memoir.  "I also don’t want to be sent off to a nursing home.  If I have to decide myself, please abide by my wish."  For a person who writes long sentences about difficult stuffs, these as-if final words sound like a child's prayer.  Yanking them out of the context you think he's just taking side on an issue; knowing the man you see he's just getting ready for an encore.  His two-volume memoir is 1,200 big pages long.

Extraordinary life is in no fear of ordinary death, in fact finds it most appropriate and gets ready for the call when and by folding laundry.  In this way I always feel the hero's touch.

Yours, Alex

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