Simchat Torah
I move through predawn darkness,
star crusted sky fills my view.
Is there less wonder because I have seen the sky before?
Is there less beauty?
No and no.
Beyond the static beauty,
the runner who runs this morning
is not the runner who ran last week.
The lightening flashes
thunder rends the air
Wind howls
almost covering the warning siren.
Is there less awe because I have seen storms before.
Is there less a frisson of fear spicing my amazement?
No and no.
Beyond the raging glory of the storm,
the one who rides out the storm
is not who sat in the darkness last month.
The green silence of deep forest surrounds me.
The stillness of ancient trees
the distant drip of water
the gentle sursuration of leaves far above.
Is the peace diminished because I have hiked in this wood before?
I there less of a sense of connection with what is truly real?
No and no.
Beyond the living whole of the forest
The one who hikes the hidden trails
is not the one who did so an autumn ago.
I pray the morning liturgy,
alone,
wrapped in tallit and t’fillen.
The seal on each blessing the same as the day before.
Is the power of the prayer set aside because I have prayed it before?
The beauty of the dance between kevah and kavenah diminished?
No and no.
Beyond the comforting song of prayer
The one who prays this morning
is not the one who prayed yesterday.
I roll the scroll back.
Past Devarim,
Bemidbar
Vayikra
Shemot
To the beginning
I say
Bereisheit
once more.
I read again through the ancient stories
the explanations that once satisfied my ancestors
the laws that need new meaning and new application
and I ask
Is there any less wisdom because I have read the text before?
Are the truths contained somehow less true and revelatory?
No and no.
Beyond the the eternal story of creation, revelation, and redemption,
The one who reads this year
is not the one who read last year.
Confusing Contemplations
Last week I participated in what was to be the final meeting of a contemplative group that I had participated in bi-weekly for the past two months. Anyone who knows me would recognize the irony of my involvement in such a group. I am a unique individual. I think much, perhaps too much. I am loud, frequently too loud. And I have never been accused of being too serious in my approach to matters of faith. In fact, some would consider my approach to theology as being to flippant, too irreverent, or too unorthodox for the vocational ministry to which I have committed my life. However, I chose to engage in this community of Christian believers for the sake of finding peace within myself. I was invited by a friend who frequently assists in my search for peace, a friend I trust, and so I took a chance on being an outsider in the midst of a journey inside. I was seeking clarity so I could have certainty for the journey of my future; I was seeking what I would not find.
Throughout the four meetings of this group of twelve searching souls we explored faith through the eyes of poetry, photography, music, cinematography, and community sharing of story. There were moments in which I was frightened by my inclination to so easily trust in this group. So many different dynamics were present for me, and for everyone, but somehow we found our way to a courageous journey. We found our way to unknowing.
I began a journey of a contemplative path praying that God would provide some answer to the confusion that sometimes overwhelms me in my day to day life. I live out moments praying that I will find some sort of clarity or wisdom that will mean hope or direction to a desperate soul that is hurting, or even for myself. I want to be able to give the answers that are sought, that control makes me feel comfortable in my role as a minister. I want to be able to make hurting stop, but I forget my place in those moments of desire to meet needs that I cannot answer. In those moments I am not equipped to provide cessation of hurting or an answer for a God big enough to defend Godself. In those times I am to embrace the moments of misunderstanding and heartache with a stranger and be present as an ambassador of Christ. I am a tangible shoulder without an answer, without explanation; simply present and honest. The journey with strangers and friends, toward answers and resolution, brought only reconciliation within me; reconciliation with the unknowing that I face and fear each day.
In the deepest moments of the contemplative group when I was sent from a large meeting into a moment of solitude for reflection, I found myself distraught to the point of tears and trembling at the un-definable mystery that surrounds the movements of the Trinitarian God in, with, and through the human journey. I found myself afraid at the inexplicable presence and absence of God in my prayers and wondering, and yet my faith remained. I found myself asking what had driven me forever forward through my life and led me from one love to another, out of darkness and into light. I found myself asking if it was happenstance or God. The answer came comfortably, but at the root of a question asked with much difficulty; God.
I am sustained by a God that I cannot always name; one I cannot adequately protect from the anger and hatred from some in this world- as though that were my job at all. The reciprocity of the love I hold for this immeasurable, indefinable, incomprehensible entity is found in my submission to un-answers to questions held delicately in the delicate palms of my prayers. This submission brings more powerlessness, but deeper love. I read John chapter three with new eyes, “..John replied, “A man can receive only what is given him from heaven. You yourselves can testify that I said, ‘I am not the Christ but am sent ahead of him.’ The bride belongs to the bridegroom. The friend who attends the bridegroom waits and listens for him, and is full of joy when he hears the bridegroom’s voice. That joy is mine, and it is now complete. He must become greater; I must become less.”
I am called to the service of God, the service of God’s people and Church. I seek answers to know that I am prepared for the task, at least to a point. I continue seeking, not for the sake of preparedness, but for the sake of expertise that will justify my place in leadership because I do not feel worthy to lead. To know a great deal of theology means that I have read a great deal on the topic of God. To lead in God’s church, to minister, does not mean claiming authority- at least as this world would define it. To minister, in a manner that is honest to the Christ who ministered first, we submit to questions put forth through our path and the journeys that intertwine. In becoming less, we acknowledge that we are not now, nor can we become enough to answer the questions believers and our minds bring to us. In becoming less we settle for the mystery and unknowing that come from moments of contemplation and inexplicable hope at our darkest moments. Then, when we- our minds and ideals of control- are less; then God, our love wound up in the overwhelming sense of Divine, is more.
I Refuse!
Last night, I was “treated,” if that’s the word, to a blog where someone related their story about an argument that they got into at a Starbucks. He talked about how he met people who were repeating patently false rumors about the president, and how he got fed up, got in those person’s faces, and demanded that they provide proof of their claims, which, of course, they couldn’t. I admired his pluck and determination, if not exactly his choice of words, in confronting such hurtful falsehoods, uttered, as they were, in a public place. I also felt good about the responses he received, both from the other people in the immediate vicinity and the commentators on the blog. It got me so fired up that, when I saw someone on my Facebook page was making similar comments, I got all fired up and composed a similar response.
Shortly after I posted that response, I apologized to all concerned. As I told the other guys, it’s not good to get upset over the fabrications of someone who makes his or her living deliberately making people upset with each other. Evidently, that explanation only made things worse, since, to them, it was a direct attack on someone in whom they have come to an almost religious, cult-like, faith. After all, these people excel on making us angry by telling us what they think we want to hear, and they egg us on to, as they do, “score points” in a never-ending argument. Telling people that they are repeating another person’s lies, or forcing them to provide some sort of proof, or resort to applying logic, is, in this venue, the worst of insults.
I joined a group called the Coffee Party last spring. It’s not that I want to get all political or anything, so much as they passed two important tests for me. First, they claim that they exist to bring civility back into the political process, where they take all the punditry and fighting out of things and get back to just trying to help people speak honestly and openly to each other. Second, Glenn Hinson joined before I did, and I’ll enthusiastically follow any cause that he would willingly join. In occasionally dropping by to see what they’re talking about, I took note of the expected commitment to being honest and fair in our conversations, and not picking a fight for the sake of picking a fight.
So, it is in that sense that I have finally decided to refuse. I refuse to let people deliberately lie and engage in character assassination in my presence, or repeat the manufactured lies that they have heard from whatever professional provocateur or terrorist they are listening to. If they do so, I will challenge what they say. In doing so, however, I also refuse to sink to the level of personal attacks, angry speech, manufactured hatred, or other divisive tactics that seem to be the current standard of discourse promoted by such people. I will no longer play that game. I refuse.
I’m no better than anyone else at this, but for months now, I have been blogging and complaining about the fact that our society seems to have lost the traditional virtues of civility, honesty, integrity, and tolerance. Recognizing that I’m going to fail from time to time, I realize that we’re not going to get such things back by shaking our fists at each other or complaining that our world has passed us by. Instead, it’s going to take a determination from each of us that it is important to return to a vision of humanity that involves decency and compassion, rather than rapaciousness and exploitation. I refuse to settle for anything less.
Coal Ash & Environmental Justice
What follows is a statement given to the Environmental Protection Agency Coal Ash Hearings held in Louisville, Kentucky, September 28, 2010.
I come this morning, not to advocate for one side or the other on the regulation options before you (you are being hammered with plenty of information from both sides). Besides, I do not know the science well enough to make such a recommendation. But rather I come to bring to you a word encouragement and direction from the churches. I cannot speak to you for all churches or communities of faith, but I can speak to you from my experience of many of them, and I want you to know this morning that there is a “turning” happening in the churches. It is an awakening a truth that has always lied deep in her bones and close to her heart, but present day applications of which has perhaps been slow in dawning upon her.
Words of Jesus that have long resonated in causes of justice and peace are now being heard in the pews as relevant to how we are treating planet earth:
Matthew 25:37-40 – Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’
I want you to know that the faith community is waking to issues of environmental justice. I say this to you not as a sermon, but as a word of encouragement from faith communities. I want to tell you this so you can know that doing the right thing for all citizens, children, wildlife, the elderly and the voiceless is what we really want, and thus it will be recognized and affirmed by the churches. I say this so you may know that it is increasingly felt in communities of faith that our future is not to be trusted to big business or Wall Street and those who lobby for them. It is being increasingly recognized that the future lies with attention and care of those who have to date been shoved aside for the sake of development and sidelined for corporate profits, cheap oil, agribusiness and the short-term gain of a few.
Today you have before you one of those choices that has, as its subtext, a question of what kind of society we are going to be. This is a choice about values, priorities, wisdom and justice. It is a choice about whom and what is valued in our society. It is a choice about the value of our children, our unborn, our health and our wholeness. Pope John Paul II has written:
A society will be judged on the basis of how it treats its weakest members and among the most vulnerable are surely the unborn and the dying.
There are unborn at this hearing, and they are depending on others for their voice. They are those children who will be drinking the waters, playing in the spaces, breathing the air and eating the food on the planet we leave to them. There are also the dying – those who are telling you stories of toxins and sickness, cancers and death this day.
I am here to let you know that the churches are beginning to understand that the business of America is not just business but also the health and happiness of its citizens, and to the best it can, those of the world outside her borders. In taking care of the least, we take care of all of us – the rich and poor, strong and weak.
Let me share these words from Roger S. Gottlieb, professor of philosophy at Worcester Polytechnic Institute, from the introduction of his book, A Greener Faith:
More recently, institutionalized religions typically held favorable attitudes towards the rise of industrial civilization. . . Most religious leaders took it for granted that economic development and technological progress, as long as their fruits were distributed with a modicum of fairness, were good things. . . .
. . . Religion is now a leading voice telling us to respect the earth, love our non-human as well as our human neighbors, and think deeply our social policies and economic priorities.
I know you have been hearing “facts” from all angles, lobbyists from all sides, and voices of all kinds. I am not here to declare to you the answers from among all those voices. I am here, though, to implore you to do the right thing for the health and happiness of all the people. By so doing, you are aligned with the rising voices of the present and future church.
I can confidently declare this before you as a man of faith – the right thing is not defined by short term service of the almighty dollar or selling out the future for the present or the weak ones for the powerful. Please do the wise thing, the right thing, the good thing, and I dare say, the holy thing.
The Rev. Jerry Cappel is Associate for Justice Ministries, St. Matthews Episcopal Church and President, of the Kentuckiana Interfaith Community in Louisville, Kentucky.
My Dreams Last Evening
My dreams last evening were full of beautiful and humbling revelation. I began walking down the small, suburban streets surrounding the campus of the University of Louisville. I didn’t now the specific area, but the houses were reminiscent of the 1950s structures that line the edge of Eastern Parkway. I could see light beaming through brilliantly green trees overhead. I could smell the grass, sweetened with the topping of morning dew. There were no people out in the areas around me. It will still and quiet. I was uncertain of my direction, but felt only a twinge of anxiety at my unknowing. While walking up and down the hills of the unknown neighborhood I came upon a young man. He was a white man who looked to be in his thirties. I don’t recall having ever seen him before, but it’s unlikely I pulled that visage from thin air. He came to me. He was upset and confused.
“I don’t know how to get home. I don’t have what I need to get home.” He held out his hand. In the opening fist I saw tiny pieces of silver-mechanical things for which I have no name. He stared at them in puzzlement.
“I need a bearing. If I get that then I can put it back together and make my way home. I just need a bearing.”
He shoved the handful of silver at my face, expectant of some resolution. It was in this moment that I felt myself fear. “I don’t know what a bearing is. I don’t know what it does, but I will help you in any way that I can.”
His response was not one of anger that I had anticipated, it seemed hopeful and assured. “Okay…,” he nodded his head quickly, “Okay, then. I’ll follow you.”
“Sir, I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what a bearing is. I don’t know if you want to follow me.” I tried to clumsily explain my position of powerlessness for his dilemma. I didn’t want anyone to follow me toward an answer that I could not name in order to seek. I was simply walking along rolling hills admiring what God had laid down for me to journey through.
“I know. I heard you say that, but followin’ you is something. Otherwise I’m just waiting around with and for nothin’.”
I had to acknowledge that truth in the statement. “Okay, then. I’m Katie, which direction do you think we should go to find this bearing?”
“Katie, I’m Bobby.” He extended his empty hand while putting the hardware into the pocket of his well, worn jeans. “I’ll follow you ‘til we figure something else out.”
I return my hand to meet his with a slower pace of shaking and speaking. “Pleased to meet you, Bobby. Let’s find our way.”
At this statement we start walking down the same street; each in stride with the other, but neither speaking another word. I don’t know the mentality of this presence in my subconscious, but I know that I was afraid. I was afraid of not being able to find a damn bearing to help a man put an engine, or whatever, back together so he could find his way home. So, I walked with him toward no place and no answer. I walked and prayed to my God, “Help me help him.”
After a couple of blocks we came upon a couple. They were older, maybe in their fifties. They were African-American and seemed somewhat more refined. The walked up to the two of us, but spoke only to me. The wife asked, “Do you know the way toward a seat for the ride?”
She seemed as desperate as the first man, as did her husband. He chimed in, “You know with the bars that hang and the red cushion? We need it to get home.”
I was thoroughly confused by their answer and their desire to ask me. I answered with the polite uncertainty that I had spoken to the first man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ll help if I can.”
The woman almost jumped out of her skin and she leapt forward to hug me. “Oh, thank God! Someone who can help us find it.”
My response was born out of my fear, which had now increased exponentially. “I don’t know that I can help you do that. I don’t know what you’re talking about and Bobby and I don’t know where we’re going. We’re just going instead of waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she shook her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Going is better than waiting any day, especially if you’re going with somebody. We’ll just go, too.”
Now, wrapped in my fears and unable to even imagine that peace I had prior to gathering this crowd of people seeking, I put feet to my prayers. I smiled at each of the faces that had come to me on my walk. I felt the weight of their desperationg and I offered what I could to their search, “Lets go together, then. God’ll take us somewhere.”
They each nodded and turned to walk with me again. We walked. The same scenery, the same houses, trees, and light shown in the path around us, but I didn’t feel serene anymore. I felt lost. I felt shame for not knowing the way to lead. I felt fear for the resentment that would take the place of trust in these three who followed me.
Finally, a young woman came up to our growing pack of persons seeking a way. She was a young woman. I’m not sure of an ethnicity, but her skin had a lovely tan, olive hue. She had big, beautiful black eyes that were crested with tears. She said to me, “I need a spring to put it back together. If I get the spring, then I can make it work again and I can take it home. Just a tiny spring, but it has to be the right one. You see how tiny?”
She too held out her hand. It was full of gears and springs of different sizes. They looked like they might be pieces to a music box or a clock.
Once again, now more familiar with the expectation, I offered what clarity I had. “I don’t know where you can get a spring like what you’re looking for. We don’t have a real plan, per se, but we’re all searching for things together. You are more than welcome to join us. We’ll help you if we can.”
I had decided that the community had formed and I diverted the responsibility for helping from myself. At this point I was frustrated by the requests being set forth; a bearing, a seat cushion, and a tiny spring. I looked up as the woman introduced herself to the rest of the group. I saw something beyond the trees ahead of us, it was a pile of junk. I have been to junkyards in my life and I know that you can find a lot of stuff there. It wasn’t ideal for any of those that were searching, but it’s what I could offer that might meet all of the needs in the foreseeable future. I turned to them, “I see a pile of junk up there. I know it’s probably not what you guys were thinking of as an answer, but it seems like we might be able to find some of what you’re searching for there. What do you guys think?”
They all looked at me, trusting. There wasn’t a snide comment or rebuttal of any sort. They just looked at me. The young woman answered, “You’re the one who said you’d try to help. We’ll follow you.”
I think I felt less fear before I heard those words come out of her mouth. We’ll follow you is daunting to hear from the mouths of desperate people. I almost cried when she spoke it. “God help me, please help me,” I thought over and over again in my head.
“Let’s get going then. Y’all need to make your way home. Is everybody alright right now?” They each turned and looked at one another, waiting for an affirmative answer. Once consensus had been reached we began walking again. It wasn’t far for us to travel to the heap, maybe a block. We each walked, still silent, up the hill toward the junky horizon. Each man and woman, each generation represented in step with the other; we all marched in step like a quiet, peaceful, seeking army journeying toward hope.
We made our way to the heap. There was an entrance. It seemed to be inside walls of stucco. We walked in and the walls were lined with shelf after shelf of this and that’s and things and springs. It wasn’t like anything I had seen before and I didn’t know if the people would find what they sought, but they spread out and began looking. I wanted to know if I could direct them toward their items, but I didn’t. I found my way to the stairs. The stairs led downward to another floor full of this’ and that’s and things and springs; and then there was another. After a little while of wandering the youngest woman came to me, tears in her eyes. “I found it! I found the perfect one.”
She held up a tiny spring and showed it to me. It was almost miniscule, but seemed to be a mighty treasure to her. She hugged me, “Thank you for helping me find this place. Thank you.”
She then ran down the stairs to the floors below us. I felt myself breathe a little easier for the answer she had found. I didn’t have to find it. I didn’t have to do anything except lead her to a pile of junk where she found her treasure. I was so thankful for her answer.
I continued on down the stairs, a smile on my face, searching for the rest of the crowd that had followed me there. I didn’t have to go much further until I came upon the middle-aged couple carrying this large, swing-like contraption. They set it down and then came over to me. “Thank you for bringing us here. We found it. It was just sittin’ over there in the corner gathering dust.”
I smiled and squeezed the frail shoulders that embraced me. I was so happy for them. They had found some resolution. They had found what they needed. After they finished with their thanks and hugs they picked up the swing and headed down the steps in front of them. It was the last flight. I could hear other voices speaking with them as they made their way down. I wanted to follow and I began to, but was stopped before I reached the steps. The young man slapped me on the back, laughing. “Ha-Ha! I found it. This is the baring for my engine. This’ll take me right home. Thanks for bringing me to it. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t come upon you.”
I was startled by his quick, excited presence, but then settled into excitement with him. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for. You take care of yourself on the way home, now. Alright?”
“Will do. Thanks again.” He smiled as he hopped down the stairs.
Once again, I was pleased to have helped. I didn’t do anything, really. I don’t know why bringing people to a junk pile held the thing they needed, but God does many things I don’t understand. I was just happy to be a part of Bobby’s journey.
That was it. So, all the members of our traveling band of trust had found their way out of the heap, all members besides me. I stood for a moment looking around the walls. What did I need? Why would I have been sent to this place? I assumed it was to help the others. I took in the beauty of the many this’ and that’s and things and springs and was thankful for the answers they would be to people. I smiled and headed down the last flight of stairs. When I reached the bottom I was amazed at what I saw. It was a fine, well kept, old home. It had hard wood floors and beautifully ornate window coverings. There was a counter with milk and cookies beside the door. I saw two figures standing there. They turned and smiled at me. I knew their faces, but never had they seemed so radiant. Joe and Liz Hayes had been members of the church I served. They were in their eighties and inseparable. They were some of the kindest, most intelligent, and gracious people I had ever known. They loved each other beautifully. The end of their two lives was separated by a span of only a couple of months. They loved each other with all of themselves and found their peace together. I walked over to them, almost overcome with joy to see them again. I was greeted with a warm embrace from Liz. “Hi honey, how’ve you been?”
“I’ve been very well. You look beautiful. What are you doing here?” I asked.
“This is your dream. What am I doing here?” she answered.
I had to think for a moment, even in my dream. Why would I want Jo and Liz here? They were dead.
Liz answered my thought, “We’re not gone. We’re home. Thank you for inviting us here. It’s good to see you using what you got for God’s people.”
I was surprised by her answer, mostly because I’m unaccustomed to people answering my inner dialogue, but also because it was a poignant answer to receive. “I’m doing the best I can,” was all that I could say in response.
“And that’s fine. You’re doing just fine.” She smiled and hugged me again.
Joe walked over and put his long, lanky fingers upon my shoulder. His bright blue eyes shined as he smiled and said, “You’re doing a fine job. Just keep payin’ attention.”
After Joe had finished speaking the two of them joined hands and walked into another room. I was happy to see them again. I was happy to see them so peaceful, it was overwhelming. They were home. This was home for them. I don’t know that I thought to seek anything else, but I know I turned to walk out the pristine, front door into a beautiful yard. As I walked I heard a voice from behind me. It was the pastor of my home church, Tommy Valentine. He has been with me throughout my entire journey of ministry. He walked toward me with a smile, just like he always does. “Hey there trouble, how are ya’ doing?”
I smiled at the familiar, friendly greeting. “I’m fine, Tommy. How ‘bout you?”
“I’m alright… alright. I hear you’ve done some good work here today,” he said.
I was very confused by that comment. First, I knew it was a dream. Second, I wasn’t sure I had done anything at all. So I ask, “What good work?”
“Well, Joe in there said you got a whole crew here; that good work.”
“Tommy, I was just walkin’. I didn’t do anything. They just followed me here and found what they needed. That wasn’t me, it was them.” I was very confused at this point and feeling frustrated at my lack of understanding.
“You see, Katie, that’s what we’re called to do. Just get ‘em here.”
“Where is here?”, I answer in my frustration.
“Doesn’t matter where here is.”
“Fine, I get that I’ll understand it later or somethin’ like that,” I muttered as we walked along the sidewalk of the neighborhood outside the house.
“No, I think you understand it now,” was his reply.
I tried to figure it out, but I still couldn’t quite add the words to what was brewing inside my head. I looked in front of us at the crossing streets of the neighborhood and asked, “Which way do I go?”
He smiled and answered, “I don’t know. Which way are you called to go?”
I felt myself afraid again, uncertain of which direction. So I asked my friend, my pastor, who had led me this far down the path, “Can I just walk with you for a while?”
He smiled again. “No,” he answered. “We end up in the same place. We both help people find what they need to get home, but we’re called to different paths.”
It hurt to hear that I was alone again. I had begun alone and wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid of the journey. I loved the peace, but now, knowing that I would be met with others who would want me to guide them to whatever it was they were seeking made me afraid. “How do I know if I’m doing it right? How do I know if I’m messin’ up or not?” I asked him, trying to hold back my tears.
He put his hand on my shoulder, turned his body toward an adjoining street, and then spoke some wisdom I needed to hear. “God isn’t like a lot of people, Katie. The fact that you’re trying makes Him happy and that’s plenty right.”
He then turned, put his hands in his pocket, and began walking down the street to my right. I watched him walk down that street for a while. I watched for a while and felt my tears fall as breath left my body. I cried for the relief that came from his words. I then faced forward; before me was the long, beautiful, hilly road that brought new faces to my journey. I began a journey back down to wherever it was that I had been. I could know that as long as I keep walking and try to help people find what they need to get home, God will be smiling at my wayward stroll.
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.
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