Another anniversary…

I remember, like millions of others, the bright, warm, September morning - the ordinariness of it all banal by now. And the horror that followed those morning routines is recalled so many different ways.

I was not there. I was miles away, ensconced in the old house in Connecticut where we were going to make our home for the next few years, or so we thought. Like millions of others, I watched on television, frightened, awestruck and not quite believing what I was seeing. A trip into the city just one week later brought me in touch with the loss, the grief and to my mind hopefulness and hopelessness expressed in those “missing” posters around Union Square, Penn Station and Grand Central.

So what do I feel on this 8^th anniversary? Sorrow – aching sorrow. There is grief for all the lives lost and anger over the way this country’s leaders led us into wars and terror on a new scale. But overwhelming sorrow… for what cannot be returned, for what was lost in the rubble, for the greed and belligerence that the event engendered.

After the attacks, I believed that this was an opportunity for us (citizens of the United States) to rise to our best selves. United in grief, we would seek justice but not vengeance. We would model a righteous peacefulness and we would rebuild in new ways. Naive hopes, perhaps, but I believe it still, even though I am more convinced every day that humanity may not reach this state in my lifetime. I must believe it is possible.

For me, these thoughts are almost a daily presence. Reports on the “progress” of the wars in Afghanistant and Iraq, the economy warped and ravaged by those wars, the rebuilding of “ground zero and the value of real estate in Manhattan… every day, opportunities to reflect on how the attacks of September 11^th invade and affect our lives in one way or another. I don’t brood over the memories, but I sense the interconnections, the reverberations in all that happens now..

So let me say this: just as I hoped for and advocated a peaceful response to those attacks, from the beginning I believed that no new towers should be built on that site. There is plenty of commercial real estate available in New York City.

Might not the site already be reopened if they had simply built some kind of memorial museum-like building in a park-like setting that focused on two still, reflecting pools marking the “footprint” of each of the World Trade Center towers. Simple, peaceful, full of memory and maybe even hope… why do we have to make a buck on this extreme event? Each year people are moved by the “absence” memorial created by the twin beams of light that reach into the night sky on lower Manhattan.

My heart still breaks. But my heart must still have hope.

Woodstock – the short version

As soon as I heard about Woodstock on the alternative rock/FM station out of Philly, I was sure I was going. Just that it wasn’t with the person I had originally planned to go with – but that’s another story. So I went with a boyfriend* and his best friend. We arrived late Friday night… avoided some of the traffic jam by taking back roads in “upstate” NY. Pitched a tent and woke up Saturday morning to this amazing scene of thousands and thousands of people all around us.

But as my family knows, the bummer of my trip to Woodstock was that we left early – to beat the traffic, I think, and because the best friend wasn’t picking up chicks easily enough (maybe it had something to do with his Army Ranger beret, haircut and demeanor – well, he was going to ‘Nam soon).

Did see and hear some of the concert (Country Joe McDonald; some forgettable group called Quill; and Santana – who was as hot and cool and revolutionary as they say!!!). But missed the big names.
Cannot recall what we ate – there is a memory of eating cheez-whiz on crackers and rinsing just-brushed teeth with 7-up. Obviously I was not involved in planning (or had not yet become the serious “trip organizer” I am now). And there were some folks camped near us who did plan well – frying up bacon for breakfast on their little camp stove. And the port-o-johns were an experience…
I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I just pulled a hippie-chick thing and refused to leave on Saturday (I really wanted to stay) and tried to find my own way home. Clearly, I was not a hard-core flower child!

It was an unforgettable experience –even if most of it only lives on for me in hours of classic film footage. Watching yet another documentary last night, it was cool to see the acts I did see featured – wow, man! I am glad I got to go – even though I was just a little part of it, Woodstock remains a big part of me.

Desert Blooms

It was late on a cloudy, rainy day in Canyonlands. I could see the mesas stretched out below us, with the deep gorges carved by the Colorado and Green Rivers. It was magnificent, but I groused about the dim light, the misty, hazy view. My pictures would not be nearly as dramatic as I had hoped.

We reached our last stop for the day: Mesa Arch. As we parked in the lot near the trail, the rain started up again. No umbrella, no rain jacket – do we go? I was committed: we had come this far and really, what else were we going to do? But because of the rain, I left my camera in the car. The trail up was an easy one; scent of juniper and pinon were in the air. As we strolled along, the rain was slowing to a sprinkle.

I was busy looking up at the sky, debating with myself if I should turn around and get the camera, when Mary pointed out the small cactus plants just alongside the trail. There were tiny red buds on top of the spiny, flat plants that seemed ready to burst open. The thirsty desert plants needed this rain. Rain drops clinging to spiky leaves offered a little desert mouse a welcome drink. This kind of a day was a blessing for them.

And then we neared the top of the trail. There was the arch – wonderful, magnificent, awesome! The clouds broke up and the sun peeked through. Looking through the span of the arch out into the canyon below took my breath away. For a moment, I deeply regretted not having my camera to record this. A gentle poke in the ribs from my trail companion reminded me that the picture was not the point.

Seeing this amazing vista, this harsh and beautiful landscape, the result of eons of wind and water and moving earth, even as it may appear harsh and alien, it is still part of us and we are part of it. This planet that evolved out of light and dust and air and water is flowing in our own lives. I didn’t need a camera to catch that. As I write this, here in Salt Lake City, I’m thinking about all the opportunities we have to feel this connection every day.

It needn’t take a great canyon or an ancient sandstone arch to remind us of the magnificence and terrifying beauty of creation. And despite the seeming constant rains of mid-June, summer brings us more opportunity to feel the mystery and wonder of the world around us, whether in a city street or a lush green garden or a sandy ocean beach or a shaded mountain trail.

I hope you will use this time to breathe in the mystery of creation and rejoice in its beauty. Even when things are not as we would like them to be; even when things seem to conspire to rain on our parade or ruin our plans; even when events near and far seem to threaten our peace and security… even then we need to look, feel and remember, as the poet Mary Oliver says:

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things. (from Dream Work © Mary Oliver)

After leaving the arch behind and making our way back to the car, I grabbed my camera and made my way back to that small group of cacti. One of the tiny red-tinged buds had fully opened in the late afternoon sun. I hadn’t noticed it before. Was it there the first time we walked by? Maybe; maybe not. But it was lovely and worth the wait!

Commencement

It was a little odd, sitting at graduation ceremonies at Meadville-Lombard, feeling the warmth and pride of the moment, the strong sense of community. And then there was this little bit of dislocation. There were words spoken to the graduates that brought me up short.

The majority of those receiving degrees that day were completing their Masters of Divinity studies and the remarks were addressed to those embarking on their ministerial careers. What in heaven’s name was I “beginning” with this doctorate? For sure I was returning to the same job, the same congregation, the same work.

Then again, we are always “beginning” something in our lives, and in each day we are changed. And then those lines from a Denise Levertov poem crept into my reflection (probably because I used it in a sermon just a couple of months ago… perhaps you remember it?). She begins:

But we have only begun
To love the earth.

We have only begun
To imagine the fullness of life.

How could we tire of hope?
-- so much is in bud.

The poet suggests that we are not yet be done with our work here on earth, even when something seems to have ended. There are so many hints at the possibility of “justice and mercy”; we are only now coming to understand our relationship to all creation. And

We have only begun to know
the power that is in us if we would join
our solitudes in the communion of struggle.

We are always beginning. And so I settled into myself, listening to Dr. Ysaye M. Barnwell speak to us from her experience, with her powerful voice, singing us into this new beginning. And I realized how fortunate I am to be in this company, in this community.

Returning home from Chicago - as it is returning from any journey - is a new beginning. There are lists I could be making of “what to do next,” thinking about what new project should fill the space created by completing this goal. And then I realized that the point is not so much to fill up the time with a new plan, but to find ways to deepen what is already here.

So it is for the congregation as well. We undertake projects and programs to express or fulfill our mission. We revise By-laws and reform our structure and rededicate our selves to the work of “being” this congregation. We might think we are “done” after the Annual Meeting or when a term of service ends - but we are not. We are all beginners, and the work goes on.

So much is unfolding that must
complete its gesture,
so much is in bud.

The Common Good

Well, it seems that Facebook has overtaken "blogging" for me, at least for awhile. I was never very regular anyway. Sometimes it seems like my thoughts and opinions and reflections are too many for even one post!
Right now, for example, I am focused on the idea of the common good - an ethic foundational to democracy and one from which we have strayed.
Years ago, Robert Bellah offered some pointed critiques at the Unitarian Universalist Association’s General Assembly, basically warning us of the dangers of rampant individualism. As a society and a culture, we in this country have lost sight of the common good. The current situation makes the motto “greed is good” of the 1980’s mere pabulum. Even in this economic crisis, when things are looking pretty dire and people utter the word “depression” and they’re not talking about Zoloft, it’s all about “me and my needs” and not “rescuing” all those undeserving people.
But as Mr. Spock would say: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one."
What's got my dander up is yesterday's anti-tax "Tea Parties". One sign read "My Money, My God, My Guns" or something. It had a slightly silly but rather dangerous anti-Obama feel, from what I saw. It was silly and shortsighted... the Gingrich-Limbaugh-sore loser Republicans grasping at straws. Don't they get it? We cannot continue that road of “what’s good for me is good for me, and that’s all that matters.”
Can we look back to some older notions of democracy and how government is "of, by and for” the people... and that the people serve one another?
I feel a little like Galadriel offering a warning: "The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true. The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true."
Ah, the drama!

Restoring American Values

Back in July, I bought a wooden cutting bard at one of my favorite Hyde Park spots - Medici Bakery (and I recently read in the NY Times, this is one of Obama’s favored spots as well). This is no ordinary cutting board though… it has marked on it these words: “Restore American Values - Competence, Integrity, Intelligence, Peace, Compassion… ELECT OBAMA IN 2008”.
So far we’ve done the last part - Barak Obama is President-elect. And as I listen to the short acceptance speeches his newest team (today, National Security) are making, I feel that the first three of those “values” are already well in the works. If all goes as hoped, the other two should follow.
Some people/pundits have been carping about the choices Obama has made thus far - they do not seem to represent “change”. But change is more than a new nameplate on the door. Change is a fundamental shift in attitude and in actions. I expect these people, accepting these roles in the Obama-Biden Administration, will be taking on very different values and viewpoints from what we have known in the past eight years.
Folks may have ties to the most recent debacle of an administration or roots in the last Democratic presidency… but what they bring to the table may be skills and knowledge that, when properly directly, will bring about the change we need, change we can believe in!
These post-Thanksgiving thoughts lead me to truly believe in the essential Christmas spirit: compassion, hope, love and peace.

Between the Lines…

The National Guard Armory where I vote is a specious gymnasium kind of room. The tables and voting cubicles for the different Districts in this Ward surround the perimeter of the room. Usually it’s a calm scene… a few voters wandering in, poll workers chatting with one another. I freely stroll across the room to the table for # 26 (which I never remember from year to year, but I know the spot they occupy and recognize the man standing next to the “booth”).
But this morning… this morning! What a scene. A traffic jam at the narrow entrance to the small parking area. Surrounding streets parked up, and people crossing busy Hamilton Avenue with apparent energy - at 6:40 AM in the morning!
The voting area was filled with people - filled. Lines snaked around, each heading to one of the cubicles. It could have been chaotic, but it seemed to be working just fine. I thought we were going to be there for an hour at least.
The people jamming the room, the folks having to wait in the long lines, were mostly African American and people of color. They were there, as were we all, to have our say, cast our vote in this momentous election.
At our District there was no line. A five minute wait and I was in the “booth”, pressing those little boxes on the touch screen. I hope that the people staffing these other Districts’ booths are going to make the wait and the process as easy as possible for everyone.
And I hope the people all over this country will have patience with this process, hang in there and wait to vote, even when the lines are long and the mood perhaps not as patience and cheerful as this morning. We all have to hang in there with the process.
And if things go the way I hope [and if you could not tell, I am a dyed-in-the-wool “blue state” girl], we will have to be patient again. There will be a process of transition and a process of change that is not going to happen overnight. But it will happen. It may not happen exactly as the campaign speeches promised - but it will come. The turning will be slow, but turn we will.
Yes we can. Si se puede. Yes, we can!

You’re a Winner!

Those are words I always long to hear after I’ve bought a raffle ticket or entered a sweepstakes to win a trip to France or Italy or the Caribbean. But I never do. Except for yesterday.

It was a moment straight out of “A Christmas Story”, except it wasn’t a crate with Fragilé written on it. It was a white plastic envelope with something soft inside. I tore it open…

The cover letter informed me that I had indeed won something in a special sweepstakes for Amtrak riders who departed from one of their stations in a 75 mile radius of… Yankee Stadium. To accept the prize, I had to “agree to” a page and a half of single-space typewritten sweepstakes rules. I wondered - did I break a rule just by opening the package? But I’m not sure how I could break the rules even if I wanted to.

Because all I had won was an official Yankees polyester jersey - a $250 “value”. And I’m a Mets fan.

So the disappointment is multi-pronged: it’s polyester; it’s huge; it’s for a Yankees fan. Okay, so I love New York, and the large “NY” logo that is on the front is, in and of itself, not too shabby. But what in heaven’s name am I to do with this? Is this a foreshadowing of disappointment to come?

Or is it a sign that I am one lucky son-of-a-gun and I ought to be grateful for whatever the universe - or Amtrak and MasterCard - send my way! This shirt may make its way to eBay. Me, I’m staying hopeful…

wink, wink; nudge, nudge... say no more!

I’ve relied on that little “winky” emoticon to denote when I am teasing or being a little flip in an e-mail message. I physically caught my fingers reaching for the keys earlier today and had to stop myself. I just can’t go there… after last week’s Vice-Presidential debate, I just can’t do it any more.

Not to get too political here, but I am really worried about the state of things. If a folksy, cutesy, snarky persona is all that is needed to get elected… I don’t even know what to say.

I, as a citizen and as a Unitarian Universalist, value democracy. I prize reason and intellect. I “get” ambiguity; I know that it (whatever "it" is - the world, our little lives, the meanings we make of things…) is all full of gray areas. Yea, that may be our very creed! We don't need it boiled down to simplistic messages or cheer-leading slogans.

So to see this immensely important election grinding on and twirling itself about on winks and jumbled facts and distortions makes me want to run and hide… is this what it's really all about? Oh, and I'm not talking about the hokey-pokey, either!

The race is on...

Hard to believe my last posting was before the Democratic Party’s Primary here in New Jersey. We’ve come a long way since then, baby!
Part of the silence was due, I think, to the sheer “Alice in Wonderland” kind of world I seem to live in… paralyzed by the sheer number of things I can worry about or get worked up about, so that the simpler reflections I might write then seem trite, even if they are what we need right now!
Just when I started to feel like the voice was coming back into balance, I read a piece in Monday’s paper (the New York Times, what else?). Another of those worries of mine I tried to categorize as “irrational” or “paranoid” is affirmed by someone who actually knows whereof he speaks. Check out this Op-Ed piece by Brent Staples on race and the presidential race: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/22/opinion/22observer.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

“Mr. Obama seems to understand that he is always an utterance away from a statement — or a phrase — that could transform him in a campaign ad from the affable, rational and racially ambiguous candidate into the archetypical angry black man who scares off the white vote. His caution is evident from the way he sifts and searches the language as he speaks, stepping around words that might push him into the danger zone. These maneuvers are often painful to watch. The troubling part is that they are necessary.”

Since I cast my vote back way back in the Primary, I kept telling myself Obama was too good a candidate to have it come down to this. Naive of me, I suppose. So white folks speak in Jim Crow code, a hockey-mom in a beehive pretends she is Presidential enough and mocks “community organizing” as a real job… and I am supposed to take democracy seriously?
I will and I do… Lord, give me strength!!!

I, Too, Sing America
by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,"
Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

After a really "super" Super Bowl…

Oh those NY Giants - gotta love ‘em! The last minutes of the game were worth the hours spent in front of the TV - wow. I probably could have done without those pastry-wrapped hot-dogs, though!
And now tomorrow is “Super Tuesday”. I still don’t know who I am going to vote for in the Democratic primary race. We face a monumental opportunity - to see either a woman or a person of color elected to this country’s highest office.
And in this we are forced to confront two of our society’s controversial identities. Issues of racism and patriarchy/misogyny lie just beneath the surface of these campaigns - maybe not emanating directly from them but certainly swirling all around (and certain to come from the opposing camps!).
It makes me sad, and it is frustrating, to have to deal with bickering that reduces the campaign to a kind of argument about the hierarchy of oppression [it’s women’s turn - we’re ready to lead; it’s about time a black man led this country; we’ve suffered longer (both sides could claim that one)]. No one wins that argument.
Here we are, in the 21st century, surprised by joy at the possibility and worried if it could really come to fruition. Either has the potential for greatness. Any way you look at it, wouldn’t that be magnificent? Isn’t it about time?

Rare bird...

I had just gotten home from a very busy Sunday at the Unitarian Universalist congregation that I serve. The house was quiet; the afternoon was grey and dreary. As I stood in the kitchen, my coat and gloves still on, I happened to glance out the window and noticed a lot of activity at the bird feeders.
Then I saw it. Leaves were being vigorously tossed about on the ground by a bird obviously foraging for a tasty snack. But what bird was this? It sort of looked like a robin, and in fact there were some other robins in the yard farther off. Yet this one was different.
So I carefully approached nearer to the window and stared and stared. Indeed, this was no robin. It had colors similar, but unique markings on its back and wings. All I could do was watch intently, not wanting to lose sight of it.
Then I decided I needed a closer look. So I tip-toed over to the bookshelf where my binoculars are kept, all the while hoping the bird hadn’t flown. (Well, not actually on my tippy-toes, but I did walk quietly and quickly so as not to disturb the birds - who were, may I remind you, outside!)
No, he was still there. So I looked some more, verifying the appearance and markings, committing them to memory. However, I didn’t think to also grab my camera and take a picture.
When the bird was gone, I got out my Peterson's Guide. There was no picture of this bird there, but a hint that it might have been a Varied Thrush - a “casual winter straggler from the Northwest” right here in my backyard! I then went to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website and confirmed my identification.
Yes, it was a rare visit to New Jersey from a northwestern species. But without a picture, you just have to take my word on it! Unfortunately, NJ Audubon or any other group that tracks such things will not just accept my assertion that this is what I saw.
All I’m asking is that you accept it on faith.
Now where have I heard that before?

When the Catholic Bishops say I shouldn’t watch something, it’s an irresistible draw for me to go and see it!

I read an article a few months ago that wondered if the film distribution company was going to have any problem selling “The Golden Compass” since it is a movie about atheism. Because of its obvious connection to their religion, Christians were able to promote the Narnia movie easily. “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy, while not overtly religious, at least did not openly challenge the authority of their scripture or story.
But here comes a story that is written from an atheistic point of view! Pullman creates an imaginative, rich world - almost a parallel universe to our own. He infuses these books with a sense of wonder, but it is science-based and refreshingly not the supernatural view of creation.

A young person in a Unitarian Universalist congregation I was serving a few years ago thrust a copy of the first book of Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” Trilogy (The Golden Compass) in my hands, telling me I must read this. I didn’t at the time, but kept it on my bookshelf. We moved twice since then, and each time I took the paperback off the shelf and wondered whether to pack it or not. But it made the trip from Connecticut through Queens to New Jersey. And when I heard there was concern about how (or whether) to promote a movie based on a story that (purportedly) promotes atheism to young people, I knew now why I had to read it! Parents are being warned against taking their children to see this film lest their faith be challenged. So of course I wholeheartedly recommend the books and the movie to you.

If you take your religion seriously, and enjoy thinking about the world we live in, read this. The scars we all bear from those religious teachings that stress human sinfulness and how power coalesces around the control of thought and belief are just some of the themes you'll find here. It is classified as “young adult fantasy/fiction”, but it really is a book for us adults, too. And to my mind, it is much richer in its approach to life and death than the Harry Potter series.
Indeed, in the film as the character Lyra begins to discover her purpose in life, she is told about the coming war - the purpose of this struggle will be the preservation of human free will. And all this against a background of a world (and worlds) increasingly severed from its origins.
When a presidential candidate openly warns against a “religion of secularism” and advocates keeping God in our politics, we need this message more and more!

Cherish your doubts…

A month or two ago there was a flurry of commentary on line and in newspapers about some personal writings of Mother Theresa. Considered a “living saint” during her lifetime, she was a woman whose apparent selflessness and dedication to the destitute and dying in India was a model, for many, of unshakable faith.
Yet a book of her correspondence with various confessors reveals that as firm as she was in her call from god, she also was given to feelings of detachment from god, to being lost. Many reacted to these revelations with surprise, or even shock. Some were dumbfounded and others even attributed these feelings of hers to the work of the devil trying to tempt her away from god.
All human beings experience what poets call the “dark night of the soul” - moments, days even weeks of doubt, wonderings, questions or feeling adrift. That one so good, so “holy” should experience this is in no way a sign of evil or an indication of a lack of goodness. For us such questions or explorations might even be the sign of a deeper religious experience, of a different kind of “sainthood”.
Now we religious liberals aren’t usually given over to spiritual ecstasy or hopes of halos and wings sprouting from our shoulders. We don’t look for miracles. But we are deeply religious. And our doubts, when accompanied by a thoughtful, reflective, honest and feeling quest for meaning may be our road to “sainthood”. Doubt is the testing of belief, the ground of reformation, the fountain of renewal. For when we question, when we wonder, we discover.
We can be reassured not so much in the outcome, but in our very ability to do this. And we must then be thankful for this particular religion and this congregation that celebrates and encourages such doubts, questions and wonderings.
Perhaps we aren’t destined for halos nor are we expecting miracles to result from our very being. But we can dearly prize this great gift of doubt. And as more people learn of us, perhaps from those magazine ads, we can welcome and encourage more and more the questions and wondering that lead to understand, to truths and new meanings!

I am so sick of this - of someone's sexual or affectional orientation seen as a shameful condition. What is this - the 1960’s so pointedly portrayed on the AMC series “Mad Men”?
This latest case - a Senator who was caught “soliciting”, they say, sex in an airport men’s room - has led to firm and furious denials of “being gay” - am not and never was. As if there’s something wrong with that.
Oh yeah, I forgot. This is the United States in the early 21st century... there is something wrong with that, in some people’s eyes. But it’s hard to listen to the news on NPR and hear people asking for his resignation because of this.
You see, it’s not clear if he ought to resign because he lied, was arrested and pled guilty to something. If those were the reasons, fine. He is not trustworthy and shows poor judgment.
Or he should resign because he is homosexual - a closeted gay man in a homophobic, straight world.
In my heart I think it is because he may - or may not be - homosexual. That is the crime, the transgression. I have to think that hurts every gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual, any queer person. To hear, over and over, how unacceptable we are - even if it’s only inferential. Sigh…

After the Wedding

They were of different religions. The ceremony was not to be overtly religious - no trace of Hindu or Muslim religion - but inclusive of some cultural traditions.
And it also had to bring together the 500 people gathered that day: family from England, India and across the United States; generations assimilated but clearly tethered to tradition and family; and friends who created “family” when parents and relations are separated by ocean and continent. What to do?
What I preached in the ceremony was the universal message and meaning of marriage - love, commitment, understanding, common purpose, respectful of differences, et cetera. The words reflected sentiments expressed in both sides’ wedding traditions without quoting either of them.
Later, after dancing and drinks and good food, we were all feeling uplifted by the day. It was a beautiful event, and the handsome couple carried themselves with grace throughout. Their joy and affection for each other showed through all the words, glittering finery and rituals.
Many people stopped to tell me that they enjoyed or were moved by the wedding ceremony. This is not unusual for Unitarian Universalist clergy, in my experience. And I am not immune to compliments and frankly was glad to know I had hit the mark… and most relieved to not have offended anyone!
But to hear “Your words were just right,” spoken with smiles, relief and appreciation, and then have it followed with something like “If we could only all live by them outside in the world.” brought a sigh and a bit of sadness. Yes, if only.
This got me to thinking that maybe, just maybe, if we keep doing things like this enough - if we get comfortable living in the borders that the world creates; if we lose the fear of difference often enough to risk loving and accepting one another - drop by drop, bit by bit, the balance may tip in favor of beloved community. Just maybe…

Refulgence…

Well, there’s a fifty-cent word if I ever used one! I first encountered it in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s famed Divinity School Address of 1838:
In this refulgent summer, it has been a luxury to draw the breath of life. The grass grows, the buds burst, the meadow is spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers.
As I step out onto the patio, about to tackle the weeds taking over the herb garden, Mr. Emerson’s phrase comes to mind. The air is hot, a little humid. Insects buzz about. I watch seven or eight small white butterflies dance gracefully through the catnip blossoms. The sun is shining brightly as a few clouds drift overhead in the hazy blue sky. In many ways, a perfect summer day!
Indeed, it is a luxury to breathe deeply this abundant life. Soon, the tomatoes will ripen and the peppers will grow fat. And I write this after spending the past week thinking, listening, preaching and breathing sermons. What Emerson said to those young men on that July day ushered in a revolution in religion, and served as a guiding principle in that course now completed: The true preacher can be known by this, that he deals out to the people his life, — life passed through the fire of thought.
Yet on this refulgent day, I am no less stirred by his charge to those 19th century ministers than I am by the joys (and drudgery) of the backyard gardens in July and August. Both demand my awareness, my attention and my whole self. For now, though, I will give myself over to the luxury of tending these green and growing things. And sipping a tall, lemony iced tea now and then.
I know I am lucky to have these moments, this respite from the day-to-day. The world, with all its cares and woes, is not far from my elbow as I bend to pull one more weed. To draw that breath of life is, indeed, a luxury. Gratitude fills my heart as I know I will turn from this orderly patch of earth to wrestle life’s greater concerns soon enough.
May the rest of your summer days be a balanced combination of work and play, of reflection and action. more soon…

Men with Guns

The killings at Virginia Tech occupy all the news. What happened, who is to blame… should the university “shut down” sooner? What kind of strong police response would have helped? What have we learned?
In the midst of all this - grief, unmitigated grief of parents, family, friends. And fear.
And at the root of all this is the influence of our gun culture. And by “gun culture” I don’t just mean 2nd Amendment rights. I mean the culture where violence is a right and a response.
Some of you know I am a “Law and Order” addict. And I watch a lot of re-runs on USA network, where I get to see way too many ads for World Wrestling Entertainment bouts. This so-called “entertainment” promotes violence, revenge and the settling of differences by throwing one another about.
Now, I watch and enjoy plays and films where violence and battle scenes are part of the story. And I understand this “wrestling” is all show. As a child I watched (secretly - my mother would have had a fit) those old wrestling programs with Bruno Sammartino and Gorgeous George. But that was so fake, and so silly. And I don’t see this WWE wrestling as the same as Lucha Libre.
This is different. This “raw” wrestling, with our without “the Donald”, is brutal even as it is theatrical. And the screaming fans - portrayed as ordinary guys - yelling, veins bulging.
It’s a culture of violence that allows the disinherited, the deranged, the disappointed to think that the only way to settle themselves or their disputes is to take it out on someone else, not with fists but with guns, semi-automatic weapons, rifles. And then take it out on themselves.
Whether it is a murder-suicide in a suburban tract house or urban apartment, or a mass slaying in a school or business, it is too much. Enough. Enough. We are so far beyond any “debate” about gun-owners’ rights and freedoms.
This is no easy thing. I listened to the voice of a soldier in Iraq on television last night. He spoke about the conflicting message of the religious injunction against murder “thou shalt not kill” and the order to shoot that must be obeyed. How he prayed the man in his sites would stop running away so that he did not have to kill him. But the man ran, in fear perhaps, and the soldier “had” to shoot him.
How can we ordinary citizens find a way to end this country, and our society’s addiction to violence and guns? What have we learned? Law and order, indeed!