Pits of the Earth

The anaphora, or Eucharistic prayer, of the Liturgy of Saint Basil contains a petition that has always struck me. As the choir sings the Hymn to the Theotokos, “All of creation rejoices in you,” the priest offers a long series of intercessions for the saints, the living and departed, and those who bring gifts and offerings for the service of Christ’s Church, particularly among the poor. Then he continues, “Remember, O Lord, those who are in the deserts, mountains, caverns and pits of the earth.”

Until recently, I always associated this petition with hermits and other monks, who for various reasons found it necessary to flee from the world. Many, like Saint Anthony, sought the quiet and solitude of the desert, in order to draw nearer to God. Others, like the recently deceased Romanian spiritual guide, Father Cleopa, fled to caves and other shelters in the wilderness, in order to escape the political oppression that would have effectively terminated the invaluable ministry they performed among countless spiritual children. In any case, the “caverns and pits of the earth” seemed to be something of a metaphor for those whose primary concern is to hear “the still small voice of God.”

In January of this year, we were all struck and saddened by the tragic deaths of other people who spent much of their time, and finally gave their lives, in the pits of the earth, namely the coal mines. At this writing, fourteen miners in the past weeks have been lost in the coal pits of West Virginia, prompting what will most likely be a reevaluation of all mine-related procedures and a tightening of safety regulations. Yet this will do little to bring consolation to the fourteen families who have suffered the ultimate loss. Then, too, we might think of China, where the official statistics of miner deaths are staggering, and they clearly represent only a small percentage of those who actually suffer and die each year in those seemingly God-forsaken places.

It takes events like this to make us remember something very important. That is, that a great many people, who for most of us remain nameless and faceless, risk their lives every day for our sake. And they do so in near-total obscurity, in the mines, on the battlefield, or in the ghettos that still blight our urban areas.

I remember as a child seeing photos and newsreel shots of miners emerging from the shaft that represented their only way out of the darkness in which they had spent their day. It was only years later that I made the association between that subterranean realm and the “deep darkness” of Job and the Psalms that is a synonym for Sheol, the Old Testament realm of the dead. Those miners emerged tired, weary, and covered with soot. Their clothes were matted with coal dust and sweat, and they looked exhausted.

But this was their life and their work, carried on for generations in their families. So I took it as being perfectly natural, a normal state of affairs, not much different from the “natural” and “normal” conditions black people used to live in on the far side of the southern town where I grew up. Black people just lived in shacks, that’s all. It was natural, normal. It never occurred to me, until I got beyond childhood, that life in those shacks was less than ideal, with no plumbing, no electricity, and the walls papered with newspaper, to keep the wind and rain from coming through the cracks. There, too, there was soot everywhere, spewing forth from the potbellied stove in the middle of the tiny, main room of the house. As a little child I supposed that if these conditions weren’t acceptable, the people could simply move. It seemed the same way with the miners. If they didn’t like their working conditions, if they were afraid of black lung disease or emphysema, or if the pay wasn’t enough to cover the monthly bills, then they could just move on and find a job elsewhere. After all, nobody forced them to live and work in the pits of the earth.

Insouciance is a big word to describe what I later came to realize was a shameful attitude of unconcern. I had no idea of the cultural hold a vocation in the mines has on so many people, of the personal and social tradition that type of labor represents. Fathers and grandfathers had worked the mines, and now it is the turn of this generation. There is well deserved pride in that labor. It is hard, challenging work, but it can foster the kind of comradery and communal fellowship that have been very much in evidence recently, what with the West Virginia tragedies. It’s dirty work, and it’s exhausting. Whatever new regulations may be put into effect, it will remain dangerous work as well.

But thank God they do it—not only because the national economy depends on it, but because these people are upholding a tradition and maintaining a culture that is a vital part of the fabric of our national life. All of us need their service, we depend on their labor, and we should all suffer acute pangs of grief and loss when yet another miner dies in some tragic accident.

As we move into the period of Great Lent and begin once again our Sunday celebrations of St Basil’s Liturgy, perhaps for just a moment we can single out that petition, offered for those “in the mountains, caverns and pits of the earth.” Not all of them are spiritual giants, accepting a life of ascetic struggle by willingly depriving themselves of the most elementary comforts. Many are there against their will, as political prisoners or victims of poverty. Many others are there because they have accepted to labor on our behalf, to help keep us warm and fed in an economy increasingly threatened by an energy crunch. Still others are there just because they want to be, because they are miners, and proud of it.

In any case, those who work in obscurity and harsh environments, whether or not their labor serves us directly, deserve our prayer. They are a symbol—and a striking one, given the accidents that claim so many lives—of all those out there whose daily task it is to serve the rest of us, often in dangerous, boring, dirty and exhausting conditions.

At the same time, they are a symbol of ourselves. Most of us, in one way or another, have made our own sojourns in the pits of the earth, whether or not it was our job to do so. May God remember all those who struggle and labor in the nether regions of deep darkness. May He remember and have mercy on all of us, insomuch as we have been there ourselves.