Finding the Common Ground: World Communion Sunday
My friend Kris is writing a journal entry every day in 2010. As she posts them via Facebook, I have been reading her entries almost daily. Sometimes entries are about work, or being the parent of a marching band student (which this band nerd and band director’s wife really enjoys!). Sometimes entries offer contemplation on the weightier issues in life, and, well sometimes, it’s just on the weighty issue of Tootsie Roll candy in the cubicle next door! One such entry combined both work antics and food news recently and it was predicated by a thought for the day:
Food is our common ground, a universal experience. ~James Beard
This next Sunday, October 3, 2010 is “World Communion Sunday.” In light of the observance, these words offer confirmation of why it is important to share this “common ground” as Christians.
With origins in Presbyterian congregations as far back as 1936, World-Wide Communion Sunday, as it was called back then, was initiated with the purpose of bringing together churches of all denominations in the United States and around the world to affirm Jesus Christ as head of the greater “Church.” Today, denominations observe this sacrament in a number of different ways, in various settings and practices. Some share in this holy sacrament weekly, others only once a month, and still others only on special celebration days of the church, yet all recognize that our host for our gathering is Jesus Christ.
Christians of all creeds, colors and denominations are invited to a table together. It matters not how we met the host or who we know that knows someone who knows him. We are not invited because of our merits and we are certainly not included because our theology matters to him, for he invites us one and all regardless of and in spite of our theology. We are all present because we have accepted the invitation to the table of Communion and as such we can celebrate our “common” “union” in Christ, to Christ, through Christ and with Christ.
Few events in recent days have dared to affirm any common ground in this “us against them,” sensationalistic society. In a note written in 2007 to her community of faith, Carol L. Pavlik of the United Churches of Christ wrote these words:
World Communion Sunday may come and go without much fanfare, foregoing celebrity hype and lacking attention-grabbing scandal. But in an increasing [sic] globalized world, where differences can be divisive, sharing in the elements of the Lord’s Supper is the quiet constant that unites believers of Christ.
In a time when fear seizes the hearts of many peoples of the world, we are given an opportunity to respond to an invitation borne out of love, hope and peace. What great joy awaits us when we celebrate with Christians in every culture and denomination, breaking the bread and pouring the cup together this week. We will indeed be a whole body of believers –One in Christ. As we transcend the divisions of this world and look to Christ in that moment, surely he who is the Prince of Peace will be well pleased in his children.
Thanks be to God.
Listening to the Dead
In the fall of 1980, when I was 12 years old, I went with my dad into downtown New Orleans to his office on Magazine Street. Driving down Canal Street, the home of the beautiful and historic Saenger Theatre, I noticed something strange happening, and the Saenger Theatre was the epicenter of it all.
The Grateful Dead was set to play a few nights at the Saenger, which meant that a few days before the first show DeadHeads from everywhere converged upon New Orleans and set up camp along and all around Canal Street. Being a budding student of all things 1960s, this fascinated me to no end. Though I’ve never been an honest-to-goodness tie-dyed-in-the-wool DeadHead, it was about that time that I really became interested in them; it was about that time, in my pre-teen years, that I began listening to the Dead.
Listening to the dead . . .
In perhaps one of the very funniest Three Stooges short films, Shemp dies and then is sent back as a ghost to try to reform the cheating, lying and face-slapping Moe and Larry; assuming, of course, that Moe and Larry will listen to the dead.
Charles Dickens brings Jacob Marley’s ghost back to haunt Ebenezer Scrooge and to announce the coming of the Ghosts of Christmases past, present and future. Why? To bring about a conversion of sorts – a reformation of Scrooge’s greedy, merciless and isolated self; assuming, of course, that Scrooge will listen to the dead.
Listening to the dead . . .
Jesus tells a story about a nameless rich man (see Luke 16:19-31). The rich man, who thoroughly enjoyed everything his money could buy, was blind to the needs of another right outside his window. The rich man was deaf to the cries of a person in great need – crying at the end of the driveway every time the rich man drove by in his top-of-the-line luxury car. He never paid any attention to poor Lazarus reaching out for some assurance that his humanity mattered.
The only thing Lazarus ever got was a good view of the rich man’s DeadHead sticker on the back of his Cadillac.
But little did the rich man know, even with his buildings named in his honor at the universities and denominational offices and local church compounds, that he was blocking out God. For God came to the rich man seeking compassion. God came to the rich man seeking mercy. God came to the rich man seeking mere crumbs from the table. God came to the rich man as one of the very “least of these” – but the rich man never saw; never heard.
By building his barriers to keep his comfortableness in and the uncomfortableness out, he had also put God “out of sight” and therefore “out of mind.”
When both die, though, it is Lazarus that is hanging out with Father Abraham, while the rich man is now suffering down in Hades. The last has been made first. The valley has been brought up and the mountain has been made low.
In the spirit of Uncle Mortimer sending Shemp back from the dead, the rich man begs Father Abraham to send Lazarus back from the dead to warn and reform his brothers. But, as Jesus points out in the story, people have more than enough opportunities from those living around them to hear the Truth and follow the Way; people simply are not prone to listen to the dead.
People simply are not prone to listen to the dead.
Thousands and thousands of years of teachings and examples of compassion, mercy, community, sacrifice . . .
and thousands and thousands of years of selfishness, greed, isolation, war …
if only we knew that in building our walls and putting up our fences and locking our doors and turning up our radios that we were not only securing ourselves from unpleasant sights, smells and sounds around us, we were also securing ourselves from God himself.
And if we won’t even listen to our Scriptures today …
And if we won’t even heed the words of the prophets today …
why then would we even listen to the dead?
Listening to the dead . . .
I have received only one speeding ticket in all my driving years. Early one morning on my way to work, I was driving along a wide-open four-lane highway with little traffic. A great song came on the radio, and as great songs are wont to do to me, I became entranced. My trance was broken when I noticed the police car right behind me. I got clocked doing a whopping 8 miles-per-hour over the speed limit.
The song? “Baba O’Reilly.” It is a great song of course; but its by The Who. Had I been listening to the Dead, perhaps I never would have gotten into trouble.
If we would just listen to the dead . . .
But then again, so few of us will even listen to the living . . .
A Shattered Dawn Redeemed
August 5, 1998 started out like any other day. It wasn’t.
Three hundred fifty miles away from where I lived (and live) in Kentucky, my mom, Juanita Duncan, was starting her morning normally. She had awakened, pulled on her robe, and made her way to the kitchen to make coffee and wait for my dad, Arthur, to awaken. With the coffee started, she glanced out the kitchen window across the farm on which she had lived for most of her adult life. Dawn was breaking.
As she sat down to have her first cup of coffee, she heard the sound of vehicle in the driveway and assumed it was a neighbor, someone who worked for Dad, or maybe my sister, Carolyn Aden, making an earlier-than-usual morning visit. When she heard the expected knock at the door, she opened it to see Terrell Patterson, an acquaintance just slightly younger than I am. Terrell’s wife, Joyce, worked in the Soil Conservation office. She and my dad had become acquainted after he was elected President of the local Soil Conversation District and later of the Missouri Soil Conversation Districts.
“I need to talk to Arthur,” Terrell told her.
“He’s just getting up, Terrell. Come in and have a cup of coffee and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“No, just tell him I need to talk to him out here for a minute.”
Having someone come to the house to talk to Dad was not unusual. Given his many interests and involvements in the community plus his willingness to listen to other people’s troubles and help them find a solution, folks often showed up.
It was a little before 7:00 a.m. when Mom told Dad that Terrell was outside and wanted to talk to him. When Dad came to the door, he, as had Mom, invited Terrell inside. Terrell again declined saying, “I just need to talk to you out here for a minute.”
A few minutes later, three hundred fifty miles from the carport where Dad had gone to speak with Terrell, Donna and I were finishing our breakfast when the phone rang. My sister was calling from our parents’ home. Before I heard her voice, my mind took in the background noise. There was the sound of too many voices for an early morning. Over all the noise, I could hear my mom crying. The dawn of a new day was about to be shattered.
Her voice cracking with emotion, Carolyn spat out the words, “Dad’s been shot!”
It’s amazing how much can go through one’s mind in a matter of seconds. My dad, in spite of all his goodness, had been involved in a multi-year affair with a local woman. The affair had wrought havoc in all our lives. Had the woman gotten mad and shot him on one of his overnights with her? Had one of her children? Was there another upset lover who had done the shooting?
“Is he . . . ? I managed to get out.
“No, he’s alive but it’s bad. He’s lying at the end of the carport. He’s been shot in the stomach. It doesn’t look good.” She went on to tell me that the Sheriff, a neighbor was there and that he had radioed for the emergency squad and had a helicopter on the way from Cape Girardeau, a small city seventy miles away. I had served as a volunteer EMT in our community for almost ten years. I knew what a gunshot to the stomach meant. A victim on the ground and seventy miles from a hospital had little chance of survival. Carolyn knew this, too.
As Carolyn and Mom waited for the helicopter, Donna and I hurried to pack clothes, including funeral clothes. I ran by the church office to tell my secretary what had happened. I called our chairman of deacons. We headed toward Missouri, knowing that at any time our cell phone would ring with the expected news.
The phone did ring. Carolyn reported that Dad had survived the flight to the hospital and was in surgery.
Dad had been able to tell the Sheriff that Terrell was the shooter. Police throughout the area were notified. Before they could apprehend Terrell, he had driven back to New Madrid, gone to the home of his wife, from whom he was separated, and shot her numerous times, killing her instantly.
When Donna and I arrived at Southeast Missouri Hospital in Cape Girardeau, eight hours after the shooting, Dad was out of surgery. His doctor was cautiously optimistic.
Within an hour of our arriving at the hospital, Dad’s condition worsened. His blood pressure was dropping. The doctor, fearing there was a bleeder, rushed him back to surgery. The hospital staff began those actions which pastors know happen only when the worst is anticipated. Coffee and pastries were brought into the waiting room for us. The hospital chaplain came and spent time with us. While some of the family was moved by the kindness of the staff, I knew their kindness was an act of caring for a family whose loved one would not survive.
The one bullet that entered Dad’s abdomen perforated his intestines in four places, destroyed one kidney, and passed through the spinal column, coming to rest right beside it. Dad survived the night. We were even able to talk with him the next day. True to his character, he had instructions for Carolyn and me. We were to go to the funeral visitation for Terrell’s wife Joyce, to be his representatives. By this time, I had become to wonder if there had been something besides a work relationship between Joyce and him. He assured us there was nothing.
The following day, Dad slipped into a coma and for the next thirty days he teetered between life and death. Numerous times, we contemplated pulling life support. That we didn’t was the result of a tenacious doctor who kept saying, “It’s not time to do that yet.”
Dad remained in the hospital for forty-five days and spent another forty-five in rehab. He lost the one kidney and was left with partial paralysis of his right hip and leg. With the aid of crutches, he learned to walk, though the manner of his walk brought immense pain and sadness to those of us who were used to seeing this strong, six foot one inch man move with grace.
Three months after the shooting, I walked alongside his wheelchair as a nurse pushed him toward the door that led to the car in which I would drive him home. A few feet from the door, Dad pulled the locks on the wheelchair and announced that he was “walking out of this hospital.” The nurse tried to argue, but she was up against an opponent with a much stronger will than hers.
The joy of Dad’s homecoming was marred by the changed reality of his life. So much had been lost and would never be recovered. So many things he had done were now beyond possibility. Our lives, not merely the dawn of August 5, had been shattered.
Late on the night of the shooting, Terrell Patterson was arrested in Arkansas where he had holed up for the night. Months later, I would sit with my family, Joyce Patterson’s family, and Terrell’s family in a Kennett, Missouri, courtroom for the trial. Terrell was convicted and sentenced to life for the assault with intent to kill of my father and to life without parole for the killing of his wife.
One year later, I returned to Missouri to accompany my parents to an appeal hearing for Terrell. It was to be his last appeal. It took place in the same courtroom as had the trial. At the hearing, Terrell, who had not testified at the original trial, took the stand. It was there that we heard his story. He and his wife had been separated for months, the separation caused in part by his drinking and drug use. He had begged her to let him come home. On the night before the shootings, he drank heavily and used drugs. During the night he stated that he had tried to kill himself, putting gun to his head, but pulling it away just as he pulled the trigger. Police investigations had revealed that a gun had been fired into the ceiling of the motel room where he was staying. He then said, “That morning I knew I had to get things sorted out and I knew that Arthur could help me do that. I went to his home to talk and get advice; but as I turned into the driveway, in my mind, he became the problem.” Terrell had no conversation with Dad that morning. When Dad stepped outside, Terrell pulled his gun from the back of his belt and shot. He had intended it to be a headshot. By Dad’s quick reaction, he was able to pull Terrell’s hands down so that the bullet entered his abdomen rather than his head. As Terrell spoke that day in court, I could see and hear his remorse.
As we left the hearing, I stopped to buy gasoline. When I got back in the car, Dad said, “Drive back to the Sheriff’s office. I want to see Terrell. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but I knew better than to argue with Dad.
When Dad told the Sheriff that he wanted to see to Terrell, the Sheriff asked, “Arthur, why do you want to see him?”
“Well, I’m not here to kill him. I just want to talk to him.”
We were ushered into the Sheriff’s private office. A few minutes later, the Sheriff opened the door and allowed Terrell to enter the office unescorted. That probably was not good police work, but it was good work of another kind.
Terrell looked anxious as he entered. In the next moment, I saw my Dad stand taller than I had ever seen him. Dad pushed himself up from the chair in which he sat. Placing his left hand on the desk to steady himself, he reached out his right hand to Terrell. Terrell slowly extended his hand.
“Terrell,” Dad said, “I hate what you’ve done to me, but I need you to know that I don’t hate you. I forgive you and I hope that your life can be as good as possible.” Three grown men—a shooter, his victim, and a son stood, embraced, and wept.
Dad lived another eight years. He chose to live life as it was and not to dwell on the might-have-beens. He broke off the affair and he and my Mom experienced good years together. Forgiveness set him free. It was real forgiveness—forgiveness that was repeated seventy times seven.
Through an act of forgiveness, a shattered dawn gave way to the brilliant light of new day.
What Do We Say About Aliens?
I sometimes wonder about the term “alien.” Growing up when I did, that word brings up images of “little green men,” or “War of the Worlds,” or Sigourney Weaver in a space ship, or something else that would scare me if I think about it too much. I can’t count the number of times I was sure that I saw a flying saucer when I was a kid, and many of my stress-induced nightmares have involved the aliens that I could imagine had broken into my house and come for me. I still pull the shades at night, just in case they’re out there, in the dark, watching.
Oddly, there are a lot of other people in my country who seem to get a similar feeling of terror whenever they hear the word “alien.” Where I have images of shadowy figures coming for me in the dark, they have images of darker-skinned people who also speak a strange language; with motives that they don’t understand; listening to strange music; eating unknown foods; influencing our children and culture; and living off our tax dollars. My fear of aliens held me tightly in its grip for a very long time, until the night that I realized that I imagined these kinds of things because I was under a lot of stress, and it was my brain’s way of expressing the fear that was buried deep in my subconscious. Other people seem to have that same fear about people that we call “aliens” who live amongst us, and I can’t help but wonder if their fear proceeds from several of the same reasons that mine used to.
I can’t speak for other people, but when I am feeling afraid I am able to take great comfort in my personal faith. It’s not just that it lifts me up and sometimes gives me a sense of well-being — in fact, there are many times when it does the opposite — but it often puts me in touch with a heritage that I cherish and helps me make a lot of sense in a world that often defies sense. How strange it seems, then, when people who claim a faith that is similar to mine do so while justifying such fears, rather than alleviating them and making sense of what it happening in the world. A faith in a man who was noted for his concern for the poor, the downtrodden, and the marginalized — to the point that he was put to death for being so disruptive to the established order — is now being used to justify such behavior now, rather than confronting it. I’m really not sure how people get there, and I have to admit that I don’t see a lot of people providing their faith as an outright justification for hating and fearing aliens, but I can’t help but wonder how people of faith can tolerate such a thing.
And here’s where faith lends itself to some interesting interpretations. I know that most world religions tend to divide along the lines of their more progressive and fundamentalist elements. It goes with the territory. What’s strange to me, though, is that fundamentalists tend to distinguish themselves by insisting on extremely literal readings of their scriptures. Thus, when I read from a scripture that both the Christian and Jewish traditions hold as sacred that: You shall have one law for the alien and for the citizen: for I am the Lord your God. (Lev. 24:22); or “You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice.”(Dt. 24:17); or “When you beat your olive trees, do not strip what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow.” (Dt. 24:20-21); or “You shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.” (Ex. 22:21); or a host of other things that clearly instruct us to protect the “aliens” who live among us, I have to wonder where all our fundamentalists, who are otherwise so insistent on the direct interpretation of other scriptures, have gone.
I remain concerned that there seem to be so many people who, when push has come to shove, have chosen to listen to the voices of their fears; of expediency; of political pundits; of their greed; or of something else other than the clear voice of our scriptures and our heritage. I can’t easily comprehend how people who claim to follow such scriptures and celebrate the life and teachings of Jesus can fail to feel compelled to both speak out and act out on behalf of the aliens who live among us. As I read the scriptures and in my experiences as a Christian minister, I don’t see that I have a lot of choice as to who I am going to love; to whom I am going to deny justice and dignity; and to whom will I deny the chance to have the things that I have.
So when I think about faith and immigration, I have a lot more questions than I have answers, but mostly because I don’t believe that I have much “wiggle room.” I remember watching some pundits on television a few years back, commenting on the “problem” of all these “aliens.” At some point in their conversation, one of them spoke out about how all those Christians out there, following their conscience, rather than the laws as they are written, are making the “problem” worse, since they provide care and compassion for people who would otherwise “get the message” that “they’re not wanted here.” Every time this subject comes up, my thoughts go back to that political hack’s complaint.
Will there ever be a time that some hatemongering pundit comes on the air and denounces me as being too “Christian?” What will I have to do – what stand do I need to take – in order to be seen as having a faith that leads to “obstructing” someone who wants to oppress another? Christianity is a religion that cut its teeth on being persecuted for not going along with the state cult. Have we now reached a time when we can, once again, show what we’re made of and reclaim that heritage? Or are we just going to let our fear provide us with new nightmares about the aliens who are coming?
The Micah Standard
We have all heard the advice: if you want to be healthy, eat right and exercise. If you are like me and have struggled with your weight most of your life, this is very frustrating advice. Eat right? What does eat right mean? What kind of exercise? How much exercise? What about sleep?
Now there are some folks who just seem to naturally make the right choices in food, stay reasonably active and, thus, are able to keep themselves healthy. For other folks, myself included, it is not so easy. We can resolve to eat right and exercise all we want, but without guidance, specifics, and support we tend to fail.
My own experience has been partially successful. I have mostly managed the exercise part. If you knew me six years ago, you will see that I have lost about 50 of the 100 pounds that I was supposed to lose. I did it by following a disciplined program and setting external goals. I train for particular races. Without the knowledge that if I slack off on training I will not complete my next marathon, I would probably sleep in more often. Furthermore, I have a community of other runners who support and encourage me.
On the other hand, the eating right part does not always work out so well. Even though I know several different eating approaches, some quite detailed, I do not always have the will or discipline to follow them. Thus, I am not as healthy as I would like to be.
In this week’s Haftarah reading is one of my favorite lines of the tradition that was, in fact, my father’s favorite line.
It hath been told thee, O man, what is good, and what the Lord doth require of thee: only to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy G-d. (Micah 6.8)
I love this verse. It tells us the bottom line of divine expectation. Importantly, it tells us that if we feel compelled to judge another, it is to measure them by the way they treat other people, are they just and kind? Do the interact with others as equals or are they arrogant?
The problem with the verse is it does not tell us how to get to the place of doing justly, loving mercy, and walking with humility. As with the naturally healthy, there seem to be spiritual ringers who radiate a sense of fairness and kindness and who tread gently through the world, not feeling the need to clomp about loudly, announcing their presence.
Unfortunately, for many of us, trying to meet the standard that Micah gives us leads us to the spiritual and ethical equivalent of sitting on the couch, eating ice cream, watching the latest p-90x infomercial thinking; I really should get in better shape. That is, regardless of intention, without a guide to right conduct, a way of judging our actions, discipline, and a community of support, we have little hope of reaching Micah’s ideal.
This does not have to be a religious practice and community-I know many avowed atheists who meet the Micah standard, though they would fervently deny even the smallest religious impulse, better than many an avowed religious person and communities of support do not have to be religious ones. However, having a religious tradition and ethical system to draw upon and a community for support is helpful. It was not only for the integrity of the community that Hillel advised, “do not separate yourself from the community.” (Avot 2.5). He knew that we often require the support of our community of friends and like minded people to be the kind of people we want to be.
I want to be very clear here. I am not talking about coercive community standards or of uncritically taking on the full panoply of Jewish or other practice. Rather, I am saying that if you find Micah’s standard to be attractive, having a tradition to draw upon and a support system is helpful.
Even with a tradition, a community, and a resolve to meet a standard, it can be very difficult to be the kind of people we wish to be. Finding the discipline to take advantage of what you already know can be extremely hard, especially in our world of endless choices, pervading culture of materialism, and uncertainty about what it might mean to act justly or kindly in particular situations.
The fastest growing self description in the United States today is “spiritual but not religious” If this is one’s orientation but one still wishes to meet the Micah standard, it is important to note that this standard is mostly outward directed. Other than the acknowledgement of G-D in how we move through the world, what is required? One must be a force for justice in the world. One must love chesed, what is translated above, inadequately, as mercy, but implies a life of kindness and love. And one must be humble, which has a whole range of implications for how one lives in the world. Just trying to find cosmic connection and going on one’s merry way does not meet the Micah standard. Meeting the Micah standard implies action. In short, it requires that one, like my father was, be a mensch-a word that implies the fullest expression of honor, kindness, and gentleness expected of a Jew.
Just as your physician says as you leave your annual physical that you should eat right and exercise, I, too, will give you a general prescription. However, as your physician’s words imply much more than they seem and are considerably more difficult to follow than one might think, so to are my closing words, no more original than your physician’s. To fulfill them is the work of a lifetime.
It hath been told thee, O man, what is good, and what the Lord doth require of thee: only to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy G-d.
From a sermon given by Seth F. Oppenheimer, student Rabbi at Congregation B’nai Israel in Starkville, MS.
Dinner Guests
If you could have any person who is living or who has lived as your dinner guest, who would you invite?
For me, that is not as easy a question to answer as I once thought it was. Who would I invite? I might invite Abraham Lincoln. What was it like for this socially awkward country boy to rise from frontier poverty to the Presidency? How would he view his place in history?
. . . or maybe my guest would be Nelson Mandela, the former President of South Africa, who came to that office only after spending decades in prison for his protest against apartheid. What is it that keeps a man’s spirits up when he is denied freedom and normal human contact with family and friends? What keeps one from merely giving in to the circumstances of life and giving up?
. . . but I also would enjoy spending an evening with Andy Griffith, particularly if he brought his guitar and was willing to move to the front porch after dinner. Who knows, we might think about going down to Gomer’s filling station to get a bottle of pop . . . or we might just sit and rest in the cool of the evening.
What about Jesus? Wouldn’t he be a great guest with whom to spend an evening? Maybe; though as I think about the dinners at which he was a guest, I recall that more often than not he made his hosts uncomfortable and, I suspect, more than a few of the other guests.
The truth is that any one of these might-be guests could cause me to be uncomfortable. Lincoln might remind me that the price of union is the willingness to tolerate difference while assuring all people freedom no matter what their race, culture, or religion.
Mandela might well challenge me to discover that inner peace is not determined by outward circumstances but by the causes to which one gives one’s life.
Dear, gentle Andy might dare to suggest that community means putting people first and that doing so sometimes means bending rules, being true to the troublesome folk who are part of the community, and finding goodness in the smelly town drunk.
I can’t have dinner with Lincoln and it’s very unlikely that Andy or Nelson Mandela will be sitting down to a meal at our house. Jesus does eat here—each and every day. Each and every day, he makes me uncomfortable. I’m sometimes tempted to disinvite him; but, while I sometimes try to ignore him, I never tell him to leave. Am I masochistic?
No, I am hope-filled. If I eat and walk with him long enough, it may be that I will walk more like him and that those at my table will be those whom he would welcome to His.
Ah, that may make me the source of someone else’s discomfort.
Umm! If there were more uncomfortable Jesus-followers, might the world be more comfortable?
Help for Haitians
The terrible earthquake that devastated Haiti may have slipped from the front pages of newspapers, but the real needs of the people continue. Many congregations continue to find ways to provide food, shelter and medical supplies to the Haitian people.
One congregation is using a video to raise awareness of the ongoing needs of Haiti, and to motivate persons to be part of the caring.
This church could have continued their program of support in Haiti without the video. But using a video to help tell the story of their ministry is smart. Because it is one more way to engage and involve people in these good works.
The video also gives the surrounding community a sense of the nature and values of this particular congregation in middle Georgia. So many times, we leave public perception of the church to those who seek it (usually extremists). While this quiet piety is admirable in its humility, the reality is that congregations must do a better job of telling the stories of their work and ministries. It is a part of defining the church, and of defining the Christian faith to the larger culture.
I applaud the way Lizzie Chapel is using media to raise awareness and support for this critical ministry. What stories should your congregation be telling?
Changing My Mind
People say that I have a mind like a steel trap, and I’m beginning to think that they’re right. It’s impenetrable, can only be worn down by time, and I might hurt myself or others if I use it. Lately, though, I have been encountering things that are changing my mind. For now, I’d like to focus on the way my mind has changed about environmentalism. I grew up in the Boy Scouts, and spent the majority of my formative years camping, fishing, and hiking. Since nature and the outdoors have always been such a significant part of my life, I have always been a proud environmentalist, bending over backwards to be as “green “as possible. Recently, however, I read a book titled Whole Earth Discipline: An Ecopragmatist Manifesto, that convinced me that my “green” ideals, well-intentioned as they were, were hopelessly out of date.
If you’ve not read the book, I highly recommend it. It’s not often that someone can come along and, in a scrupulously apolitical way, argue you into re-thinking things that you thought you had firmly settled in your mind. In my case, i was forced to revisit my thoughts on the environmental effects of large cities; the “danger” of nuclear power; the “population crisis,” and the “threat” of genetically modified crops. 20 years ago, I would have unthinkingly bought into any of these concepts, and, once settled, I was inclined not to truly think about them any more. Being a happy “green,” I had no need to really think about some of the more important issues of the day, and then came this book.
I’ll spare you some of the intimate details, since you really should read this book for yourself, but here are some of the things that I took away from it, For starters, big teeming cities with slum areas are not “bad” in the larger sense, since they are engines of community and innovation that cram a lot of polluters in one place, instead of spreading them out all over the countryside. It’s sort of like the way a huge, smoke-belching bus is not as bad a polluter, since it moves so many people at once, rather than having them all in separate cars. “Population crisis?” What population crisis? In some areas of the world, we don’t have enough people, and birthrates are declining everywhere. “Dangers” of genetic modification? Really? We’ve been doing this for thousands of years and are just now getting worried about it? In reality, every food crop in the world is “unnatural,” growing as they do in cultivated fields. And what of the thousands of people who are condemned to starvation while the “greens” deny them this so-called “frankenfood?” Finally, it’s about time that we admit that global warming is a deadly serious problem, but it’s not new. Human activity has been driving temperatures up for a very long time. We’re just a lot better at it now. In the face of this undeniable danger, we are a LOT better served embracing the still theoretical danger of nuclear energy (especially thorium-based nuclear energy) than the proved danger of pumping megatons of coal-based pollutants into the air.
I’m not saying that your mind has to change, as mine has, on these issues, but I encourage you to read the book and start re-thinking some of the things it talks about. In the midst of all this, I wonder what else we’re missing. Churches are notorious for becoming places that teach “comfortable” theological positions that rarely, if ever, change. Many people come to congregations precisely because they are looking for that kind of comfort and reassurance. But when you look at the big picture, does that attitude really help? Should we not, instead, become places that work to change hearts and minds, including our own? Or should we not think about that, since it’s uncomfortable and messy? How is your mind going to change?
A Way to Walk
Remember when you were a student and had a big paper or project due? Remember hanging out with your friends, or reading that novel, or watching that movie, or playing that game instead of working on the paper? Remember the panicked feeling as the deadline approached and you had not yet started work? Consciously, you knew that you could have had all of the fun, without the uneasy undertone, if you had done the work first. Yet, for one reason or another, you procrastinated until the deadline towered before you to push you into action. Procrastination remains one of my besetting sins.
Remember when you were a kid and there was a toy you really wanted? Or perhaps you were a teen and worked doing chores for neighbors to save for game or piece of equipment you knew would be really fun, but when you got the toy, the game, the special scooter or bike, it turned out to be not so special. Perhaps it ended up gathering dust and you regretted the effort of pleading for a gift or the sweat invested in working to save for the special thing. This is a sadder case than the one of procrastination. In procrastination, there is at least some level of choice-here one is working for a goal one truly thinks will bring a measure of enjoyment of even happiness and one finds that the goal is flawed and a disappointment.
R. Aryeh Kaplan translates the beginning of the 55th chapter of the book of Isaiah from today’s Haftorah as follows:
Say there! Every one who is thirsty, come and drink. He who has no money, come, buy and eat. Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to Me, and eat what is good. Let your soul delight in abundance.
This Haftorah is clearly tied into the beginning of the Torah portion in Deuteronomy 11:26: See, I am placing before you a blessing and a curse.
Isaiah is saying to us, in G-D’s Voice, “Listen here, Dweezel, you know what to do. You have a clear choice between blessing and curse. Just follow the rules you have been given and all will be fine. It ain’t that hard!”
There is a problem with that. We are working with old maps. The terrain has changed, there are new roads, old roads have been consumed by forest or waste, and seismic shifts have blocked off formally open land. Time and again, throughout our history, we have had to rework our maps, striven to follow the course that has been laid for us in a world that shifts even as we set our sights on the next goal. Some courses, such as the command to wipe out some other peoples, have become repugnant to us. Much of the time, though we may have a sense of direction, we are stumbling about in that part of the chart marked “here there be dragons.”
Even when we know what we should do we often don’t do it, as in the case with procrastination. We know we should get down to work, but for any number of reasons we delay. We are tired of working, we need a break, we are worried that we will not do the kind of job we want to do, or we just want to have some fun. We may think there will be plenty of time later, only to have the hours slip away or something come up that swallows up that plenty of time and turns it in to a heart pounding race to the deadline.
Worse than this is the case were we think we know what we should do, what the right road is. We work hard, are focused and dedicated. We reach our goal, sometimes after years of work, only to find it is not where we want to be. Think of all those people who seek only wealth to find, even great success, unsatisfying in the end. There is the saying that he with most toys at the end wins and the response that he with the most toys still dies in the end. Don’t get me wrong, we are supposed to enjoy life and material pleasures, but the emphasis on this aspect, sold so vigorously in our consumer society, often finds us with a sense of unease and unfulfillment—a sense of the lurking abyss of meaninglessness that can reach up an grab the wealthy and the poor alike.
The problem is, perhaps, in seeing happiness and meaning lying in some goal out there or up ahead. There is nothing wrong with goals; I frequently set them and work to achieve them. They can give direction and impetus to life. Yet, we are foolish to think, “If only I have this or achieve that I will be happy.” I have no prescription or method for finding the right goals in life. It seems to me that neither does Judaism. We are not selling salvation in this sanctuary. I suggest that the previous analogy of a map is no longer valid, if it ever was.
What we have for sale is a set of rules of the road. Indeed, we are giving them away for free. General rules such as “Love your neighbor as yourself”, “Love the stranger, for you know what it is to be a stranger”, “What is hateful to you, do not do unto others”, “In a place where there are no human beings, strive to be a human”, and specific rules about rituals that help keep us in touch with our people and G-D, rules about eating that keep us mindful about the way we interact with the Earth and the other species living here, rules about rest to help us balance the doing and being in our lives. We are not always rigorous in our adherence to these rules—who has not set that cruise control at 69 mph in a 65 mph zone, or changed the radio station when driving though we have been urged not to. Yet, as the traffic laws, when generally adhered to, keep driving safe and pleasant, these rules of life can help us moving along life’s highway and take pleasure in the journey, even if we do not know where we are going or even why we are traveling at all.
Our driving test is the living of our lives. Every road can be a path of kindness; every highway a trail of justice. It is all in how you choose to drive it. The Hebrew word for Jewish law is halacha, which comes from the root for walking. We are literally offered a way to walk through our lives. Yes, as with the maps we have been offered, some rules may be out dated, need to be changed or reinterpreted, yet, as we wrestle to adapt them to our ever shifting world, they can make the way smoother even when we feel lost in the journey of our lives.
We pray that we have the wisdom to know what our tasks and directions should be in the grand course of our lives. May we have the strength to do what we should do when we discern what it is. Remember, though, even if you do not know where you are going and are unsure of your direction, you can always walk in kindness, always take pleasure in the beauty and joys, no matter how small, that present themselves along the way, you can choose to be a good traveling companion to those who walk beside you, even if it is only for a little while. You will find that the best way to be blessed in your travels is to be a blessing yourself. Good journeys, my friends.
From a sermon given by Seth F. Oppenheimer, student Rabbi at Congregation B’nai Israel in Starkville, MS.
I Want To Sing You a Love Song
Songs have a way of speaking to us in ways that nothing else can. When I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m frustrated, when I’m lacking the ability to feel emotion… I turn to music. There have been many nights when I’ve played a single song on repeat – driving family, roommates or neighbors crazy, I’m sure. But there was something about that particular song that resonated, that spoke healing to the dark places of my soul. And so I listened, trying to glean every last ounce of the balm that the combination of notes and poetry offered.
I hardly think I’m alone in that. Movies – even “silent” varieties – are filled with song. Restaurants, shopping malls, dentist offices – even elevators – showcase music designed to put us in a better mood. Many of us are so surrounded by music, that we hardly hear it. Like the movie characters, the songs that surround us are merely part of the action – a soundtrack to our lives.
Isaiah must have known something about music (Isaiah 5:1-7). He doesn’t just speak his message – he sings it. He announces to the crowd, “I have a love song to share” and they gathered in to hear his sweet sentiments. The women gathered were prepared to swoon. The men were hoping to pick up a great line to try out. The skeptics in the crowd were waiting for an opportunity to tease the poor, unfortunate sap.
The song started well enough. Isaiah describes the beloved’s vineyard. While a vineyard might seem a strange image of love to us, it was very familiar to the Israelites. While we sing “you are my sunshine” or “I want to hold your hand,” the Israelites compared their special someones to vineyards. Unless you are a particularly skilled poet, I don’t recommend trying this today. Very few people melt when compared to a viney plant.
Nevertheless, the vineyard that Isaiah sings of is beautiful. The gardener chose the perfect location. The hill overlooks a gorgeous valley. The soil is ideal for planting. The gardener has spent countless hours pulling weeds, removing rocks and tilling the soil. He then purchases the best vines that money can buy and carefully planted them. He built a watchtower so he could keep an eye over the whole vineyard. He was so confident that the vines would produce that he dug out a wine vat to store the wine he would make.
As he sings, Isaiah paints a picture of deep love. This beloved is deeply cared for. In our terms, the lover is prepared to “climb the highest mountains” and “swim the deepest seas” – only, planting a vineyard is actually believable – so perhaps the ancient writers knew something about love songs after all.
Just as we are beginning to really admire this gardener – and perhaps get a bit jealous of the amazing relationship this couple must have – the song turns. “He expected it to yield grapes, but it yielded wild grapes.” The gardener has been so careful – so caring. The result is obvious – vines full of beautiful, sweet grapes. But instead the vines are full of wild grapes – a grape with a large seed and little meat. They are bitter and maybe even rotten.
The object of the beloved’s affection does not return his love. We might understand if the grapes just didn’t grow or if they politely suggested that they had different interests from the gardener and would prefer to be sliced up in a vat of chicken salad. But these grapes – this desired individual – didn’t politely reject affection. Instead, the grapes spit in the face of the caregiver.
This reminds me of Anne Lamott’s latest novel “Imperfect Birds.” The story focuses on two desperately broken individuals – a mother and her teenage drug-addict daughter. The book is heartbreaking and ugly as it describes the girl’s continuous search for her next high, while Mom is beside herself trying to figure out how she can possibly help her daughter. It seems each attempt pushes the daughter farther down the rabbit hole of addiction.
The mother’s heartbreak is evident. Every time she hears a siren, she fears the police are coming to tell her of her daughter’s death. Her attempts at love, at rescue are met with whines and cries and more and more and more destruction.
While this mother is certainly flawed, she continues to love her daughter even when it seems she shouldn’t; even when she feels it is beyond her ability, she loves.
The heartbreak the gardener feels is perhaps similar. He has done everything imagineable to care for his loved one. He tended and tilled and watered – and was careful to provide space for growth. His actions were perfect. His loved one, on the other hand, laughed and spat and ripped out his heart.
He cries out “why? Why has this happened to me? Why did my garden yield such heartbreak?” And, of course, it is an unanswerable question. We don’t understand why a person could respond so harshly to such evident love.
But before we can take up our stakes and go after this horrible person, Isaiah turns the story yet again. God is the gardener, and we are the vile individuals.
At this time in Israel’s history, the nation is in crisis. They are at war – and losing. Israel is on the verge of destruction – and will be, in fact, destroyed. Isaiah is letting the people know that they are responsible for this, that God is leaving them with their desires. And he offers reasons – “he expected justice, but saw bloodshed; righteousness, but heard a cry.”
The Israelites aren’t caring for one another. They have become more concerned with themselves and their own desires and are ignoring the pain and suffering of their brothers and sisters. By giving up on each other, the Israelites showed that they had given up on God.
And lest we believe this is an indictment on some other nation at some other time, let’s examine our own neighborhoods. I tried to research the homeless population in St. Louis. I couldn’t find any actual statistics for the City of St. Louis, but did learn that Gateway Homeless Services served over 1,000 individuals from 400 households in 2009. Think about that: one organization provided housing for more than 400 different families. How many sought help elsewhere – or didn’t find help at all? In parts of our city, people know to stay inside on certain nights because a shooting is scheduled to take place. Young, single mothers work multiple jobs to provide food and shelter for their children. We are surrounded by hurting people. The writer Mary Pipher has suggested that “We have cared more about selling things to our neighbors than we’ve cared for our neighbors. The deck is stacked all wrong and ultimately we will all lose.”
The end of this song makes it seem like all hope is lost. God has given up – walked away from God’s people. But the book of Isaiah doesn’t end here. While the metaphor in the song makes it clear that God has every right to abandon the Israelites – to abandon us… God’s love is too strong. This song isn’t about the God who walks away, but is a wake-up call to a nation that doesn’t recognize what it has. It’s a call to remember the God who has given everything, the God who relentlessly loves a broken, messy, seemingly worthless crop of people; the God who dreams of a restored vineyard – spoken of later in Isaiah 27.
This God is waiting outside the gate, ready to return to the watchtower, continuously singing a new love song. How will God’s people respond? Will we continue to spit in the face of the divine? Or will we begin to see others in our own community the way God does – with love, compassion and a yearning for justice? The planting has been done. The watering and feeding has occurred. Predators have been kept from the garden. What will our vines produce?
Read more from Jennifer at her blog.
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