If every 1000:1 e-mail sent before this one, I strictly limited the accompanying text to 1000 words. This one breaks that guideline a little; I think it’s worth it. Many of you who followed my life in the spring know about the loss of Daryl Schmidt. Many of you also noted that my biggest “processing” time with his death would be when I started taking Greek classes again. You were right.

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It takes something special beyond meeting a curriculum requirement to get students to enjoy taking a class a 8 A.M. Daryl had that special something. Maybe it was donuts every test. Maybe it was his ritual words (which signaled us to wake up): “Kali heMera” good day/morning. Maybe it was the reassurance that he would preciously ignore students who drifted in and out of consciousness for the lighter sections of the class. He even had the methods down for jarring students subtly: a quick staccato burst with slightly elevated volume of some grammatical intricacy would pull off the haze ever-so-subtly. There was something special about Daryl.

Daryl died this spring on March 21st. It shocked us all, but some of us were fortunate enough to see him before he died. My roommate, Richard Newton, had one of the best reflections from his visit. It’s worth the read.

The memorial service at TCU followed some time later, April 2nd, and for one afternoon I saw more community in the Religion Department and the university than ever before. That’s saying something since Daryl had already helped make the department a treasure for TCU with his leadership as the department chair.

For those who didn’t know me that well in college, here’s a quick synopsis of how much I liked Daryl: he was my academic advisor throughout my undergraduate career; I took seven classes with him (21 academic hours) — which, according to Brittney Smith, means that I minored in Schmidt; I was his student assistant, office helper, and paper reorganizer, in which, even though he was an environmentalist and avid recycler, paradoxically was a professor who handed out repeat copies — JUST IN CASE we couldn’t find the last one he gave out; not counting having lunch with him every Monday, I was lucky enough to have three Greek meals with him, an Easter dinner, an Italian smorgasbord, three Saturday department picnics in the park, two department dinners and at least half a dozen receptions where we would tag-team the buffet lines while in conversation.

No matter how hard I try, the memories are slow to return, but through some reading I’m finding other nuggets on the essence of Daryl Schmidt.

The image above is perhaps the best narrative tool I can use to springboard deeper into this. Oh, and for those clicking on the picture, it will take you to the full browser-size version in a web page. If you are on the page, click the “Download Photo” button on the right-hand column and the full-size, zoom-able image will save to your computer. Or, if you don’t want it on your computer, look to the upper-right corner adjacent to the Share Photo button. The magnifier takes you into a 100% zoom. In any case, the detail makes it worth it.

Daryl was one of the head translators for the Jesus Seminar. He was a linguistic translator as well as a scholarship translator. During the early 1990s, the Jesus Seminar put out a new translation of the Gospels (don’t worry, Paul’s and other letters are in-process even with the stumbling blocks). The text in the upper-left is Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. Daryl’s ever-processing mind was constantly working on how one would say the word “makarioi” in today’s vernacular. “Blessed” is the version used by most translations, but that’s old! Who talks like that? Blessed are you since you’re hearing this. The official version was his contribution and it’s close to brilliant: “Congratulations!”

Then he would look squarely at his disciples and say:
Congratulations, you poor!
God’s domain belongs to you.
Congratulations, you hungry!
You will have a feast.
Luke 6:20-21

The pejorative jest “oh, that’s just semantics” had no effect on Daryl. Semantics were everything for him! Realizing that Luke was closer to the original of what Jesus would have said, was key for him. Daryl stressed to his students that Matthew’s version of “the poor in spirit” wasn’t likely to come from a man coming from “po-dunk town like Nazareth.” Nathaneal’s comment in John 1:46 was exactly what Daryl wanted to emphasize: what does it say about a town when someone is shocked that anything good can come from there? Ironically, I had the same view of Texas for a while … until I experienced it.

For my eulogy at the memorial service I had to remove a section in the sake of time Here’s the basis of what else I had to say.

In my last year in Ft. Worth, we had finished the structured Greek class and were doing independent reading sessions in his office. Our in-office readings started from gospel parallels of Jesus’ sermons on the mountain and plains and finished with some light (yeah, if that’s possible) reading of the early sections in Revelation and then referencing back their grammar to that in Daniel and other prophets in the Septuagint.

There was one phrase which showed my complete incompetence, even though he reassured me that it was “bastardized Greek” — I think he just wanted me to feel better. The phrase was “ho own” (for those Greek readers: I know it’s not the correct transliteration, but you get the point). The passage was from Revelation 1:4 and I had no idea how to translate it. Daryl asked me what it was. A relative pronoun? No, look at the article, he said. A proper noun? No, he said, look again. I was clueless. He carefully guided me through the recognition process; the scales couldn’t come off too quickly or the effect would be lost. Piece by piece we ran through the possibilities until he told me to look at a different verse, from way back in the scriptures: “ego eimi ha own.” I still didn’t understand until he said to translate it as the pronoun I wanted it to be and see what it sounded like: “I am who I am.”

Indeed, he replied. The effect was instantaneous: is it seriously quoting Exodus? That knowing grin told me all I needed to know … except for the parsing of the phrase, that is. The explanation was a fun one. It’s a participle form of the verb “eimi,” which means “to be.” It’s that simple. Well, I guess it is existing, which isn’t the simplest action, but still: it’s one of the most complex forms of one of the most basic words. Now to translate it; this is where Dr. Schmidt was at his finest. For the Revelation passage, Daryl pulled out his parallel version of translations, Richard and I grabbed some from the wall, and we compared: “he who is,” “him who is,” “him which is,” “the One who is,” “him that is,” “Him who is.” All of the translations did it as a pronoun. We knew we couldn’t solidify a translation we loved, so out came an Andy Fort (TCU Religion Prof.) version: “the ‘am’-ing thing.” Only a Buddhism professor’s influence could cause us to think that convoluted construction actually made sense each time we re-read it.

That whole process was an instance that didn’t cha
nge our minds over the text; it did, however, show Daryl’s gift to us. He could have told us in an instant what the phrase was, the logical choice of translation, and instantly skipped to the next verse. He was in it for the fun of watching us learn. He was present to the situation and present to our lives, which may, when the semantics boil down, be the best meaning for “ho own;” for sure it’s the most pastoral meaning.

The text on the lower third of the image that flows to the right is from the end of Romans 8. Richard’s account of his last visit with Daryl tells it best, but perhaps Daryl’s translation of the text says it my favorite way:

37 In spite of everything, the one who loved us brought us victories beyond measure. 38 I am convinced that nothing—not death or life, not heavenly messengers or cosmic forces, not anything already present or yet to come, not any kind of power, 39 not the greatest height or the lowest depth, not anything that exists in all creation—will ever be able to isolate us from the love God exemplified through the anointed, Jesus, our lord.

He had a way with words, and his life touched so many people. I’m anxious to see how his gap can even possibly be filled.

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Peace and Blessings,

Adam

PS – For those who knew Daryl: what are some of your memories? Little bits from others trigger new ones for me.

Every time I have a transition in life it takes time to adjust. While that wasn’t a prolific statement, it’s what I keep telling myself as I situate in Chicago. Don’t read into it too much. Things are great. I know where the grocery stores are; I walk more than I did at TCU and spend a lot less on gas; I’m even batting over .500 on churches that I’ve visited and liked. At the same time, every transition also requires a lot of space to adjust.

Beyond the cargo of clothes, books, computers, kitchen supplies and beverages, it takes a lot of space-discovery to create comfort in new homes. I didn’t think anything of it when I was unpacking. My bed, refrigerator and a bookcase fill up one wall while the opposite has the rest of the books and computers and the window has a desk underneath it. Pretty simple, right? Well, one of my friends from TCU who also is up here, Vy, showed me what a complex thing space could be.

Vy is the head resident this year at the Disciples Divinity House and he has one of the biggest rooms on the third floor. I thought my room was huge (bigger than home and my old one at TCU), but his is almost one and a half times the size of mine. He spent an entire afternoon after we moved his stuff up there to figure out how he was going to arrange it. With that much space to use, and that much experience from previous years, Vy stressed the need for a well-planned, compartmentalized layout. He settled on three areas: living space, fun space and work space. Living space was the obvious one with his bed, dresser and lamp. Work space was also pretty self-explanatory with the desk, file cabinet and several bookshelves. Then came the fun space. Leave it to a UChicago student to have his (yes, a large percentage are male) fun space include his many shelves of former school books. No, in reality, Vy’s books are the dividing walls between all of the spaces in the room. They’re pretty effective for that; how fitting.

Vy’s whole process made me reexamine my space in my room. Like in most areas of life, compartmentalizing has its obvious benefits and downsides. It’s dangerous because the false distinctions can blur reality and cause certain things to be overemphasized. However, it’s also beneficial when it organizes workflows and provides a healthy sense of balance. So how is my room to function like Vy’s by having different uses for different sections? I still haven’t found that answer, but what I did find shocked me.

Looking back on my past two years, I can pinpoint different stages and different lifestyles. Studying at TCU, my room was arranged similar to my current configuration; I had the open area (the “white space”) be in the middle with all of the room’s contents pressed to the walls. My living space was the same as my work space which was the same as my fun space. There wasn’t a large difference among any of the areas; there still isn’t.

The distinctions CAN be drawn from a different labeling system; it became all-too-apparent when I looked at my travels through the past year. In Florence I had all of my belongings in my backpack and a carry-on. Even with little constant space, I still had distinctive places where my lifestyle maintained (or tried to maintain) its balance. The system that works for me contains my intensive space, walking space, and calming space.

My room is my intensive space. It’s the place where I do computer programming. It’s the place I usually study. It’s the place I toss and turn in my bed. It’s my first place to go if I need to “do” something. My walking space is part of where I do my best thinking. This obviously differs on where in the world I’m at, but each location has a different walking place. In Seattle it was to and from work; Doug and I didn’t talk much during the walks (probably since we both just enjoyed the time to walk and think). Ft. Worth’s walking place was on the Stairmaster in the recreation center. In Boston, I intentionally walked to the grocery store frequently; it was therapeutic. In Florence it was my trips to class. Often verging on work-out length, those walks were my time to do some last-minute studying, people watching, and atmosphere absorbing.

The place in each location that remains the most difficult to pinpoint is the calming space. This space is one where I seek solace; sometimes seek it incredibly often, and sometimes incredibly sparingly. In Ft. Worth it was obviously South Hills Christian Church for me. Choir practices, sunday school and youth group were all times to take a break from the pressures of school. In Florence it was more difficult to find that calming space. While there were amazing churches and art galleries around, the most calming for me was one of the simplest. The Chiesa di San Miniato al Monte is a Basilica that is run by the Benedictine monks living next door. What was the most calming aspect of this “mega-church” was its crypt. At the end of the central nave, and down below the altar, was a burial room with a chapel at the front. It was a simple place; the benches were a sturdy and well-worn wood, the devotion centers in the corners were un-intimidating, the lighting was perfect. The picture above doesn’t do the lighting and ambience justice, but the simple image reminds me that my few times (a total of four, I think) I went to San Miniato made it my calming space.

My Chicago calming space is still undiscovered. I know it exists … somewhere. I’m not in a panicked rush yet, either; I will find it when I need it.

This is probably the best time to set the record clear: my grandma, Dotty (“Gram”) Raun, is not a poser. Those closest to her probably doubt that statement, but it’s true: in both senses. She isn’t a fake; she also isn’t one who likes to stand in front of a camera. Here’s my case:

As long as I can remember (almost at two decades now), I can most vividly remember Gram in three contexts.

1. For me, she’s the one who instituted the “Dillan hello/goodbye.” Each person’s entrance or exit is pretty much a big hug chain.
2. She’s also the one I could count on to referee the food lines. While in recent years this was an obstacle, it was always a help when I was younger. Think of it: what four-year old doesn’t need a person there to help them get watermelon, without spilling it, off of the counter just above arm’s reach?
3. She’s one who hugs at the same level. Those family members who have watched most of the grandkids throughout the years are probably laughing at this one, but Gram is teachable. My brief sojourn from 4’8” to 6’3” was one where Gram quickly had to learn new hugging etiquette. 80 years old and she still learns new tricks. The hugs went from hugging just over my shoulders to the awkwardness of hugging up and over my shoulders (much to the dismay of both of us) to finally attaining the torso hug. She has it down to an art, save for one thing: the 3-part back slap … I’m still working on that one!

All of this goes to show that Gram is real; she takes her grandma role very seriously.

One of the inside (well, it is out now, I guess) family jokes among the Raun side is our dismay with Gram’s pictures. She has virtuously stuck with film cameras throughout the years and, while her pictures are still good, the process remains tedious. First there’s the announcement: “ok everyone, come over here for the picture.” Once we have moved, it’s time for the countdown. Her cameras through the years have all had stuttering light meters that give it a NASA-esque effect: there’s always at least one delay. Five; four; three; two; one. (Pause). (Pause). (Click).

The pictures are mostly wonderful: they’re properly exposed, they capture at least one facial reaction during the process, and they’re taken with love. The process, though, is taxing for all involved. Here’s a story my uncle Mark reminds me of every now and again:

My family took a vacation to Cancun during February of my 6th-grade year. It was a safe trip. None of the cousins were in college yet, it was in February, and we were at a resort with good facilities. Several family members and I decided to take one extended afternoon and drive over to Tulum, a site with ancient Mayan ruins. I was thrilled since I was a nerd even back then and was studying the Mayans in my social studies class. Seeing the ruins, though, was slowed down by Gram’s camera. Retrospectively it’s funny that I was so impatient — it’s not like I would miss the ruins changing! In exasperation, after two aborted posed countdowns, I muttered under my breath “I wish her camera would turn to stone.” Apparently it wasn’t as muffled as I expected because all of us standing in that group started laughing.

Now that I’m most-often on the other side of the camera, I’ve noticed that Gram rarely likes being on the other side of the lens. She reacts like most people by ducking out of the way, if possible, or else doing a forced face, which she knows through past experience looks pleasant, but at the time strains the muscles. Gram is definitely not a poser. My best pictures come when she doesn’t even know I’m there.

Through the years Gram has taught me a lot. Just by watching her tendencies and instincts, I see a clearer picture of myself. Her sleep schedule hasn’t rubbed off on me, but her constant willingness to play the hospitable host is one I joyfully work on. She surrounds herself with reading material, although in her case it’s mostly periodicals, to the point that she finds new and innovative ways to pile in all dimensions; yeah, I’m guilty of that too. She is also a creature of habit. She’s able to multitask by playing card games with my grandpa at the same time that she watches “Wheel of Fortune”; I haven’t found my equivalent, but it probably borders on writing papers while chatting with friends online and watching music videos at the same time.

On Saturday, September 3rd, 2006, Gram turned 80. Thinking of my amount of memories in my 22 years, the ones in Gram’s life have to almost suffocate her. With Gram and I, the irony abounds: we both want to be memory capturers, but mostly to the extent that we’re capturing those of others. Gram, however, through her non-posing attitude, rubbed off on me by showing me the importance of capturing memories with pictures.

The pictures aren’t essential because they show every moment of the event or memory. How could they? No, the pictures are important because they create memories in themselves. With some pictures I get the response: “wow, this is even better than seeing it in real life.” Of course the hyperbole is ridiculous, but it also alludes to another truth: photographs allow us to not worry about remembering every detail of a moment as it happens since we know that there will be another lens to view it through later. One of Gram’s most unnoticed, but incredibly important gifts for our family is her scrap-booking and memory collecting. It’s a gift which is wearing off on the future generations and one which lets us all realize, through our own lenses, how little of a poser she is.