I was told about a letter from Albert Einstein. It was written in response to an individual that had sought advice in overcoming the loss of a loved one.
It reads as follow:
A human being is a part of a whole, called by us ‘universe’, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest… a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
I was sent this article and asked my opinion:
Clergy must navigate traditional boundaries in new social media world Developing policies is a challenge, observers say By Mary Frances Schjonberg
[Episcopal News Service] When the Episcopal Church's Province III
Youth Ministry Network earlier this month issued a set of guidelines
for interacting with young people through social media, it was on the
cutting edge of a growing effort to help guide ministers as they walk
through the digital landscape.
Two or three years ago when Elizabeth Drescher was researching her
book "Tweet if You ♥ Jesus," she said, the "big conversation was about
why do we need to do this at all -- why does it matter?"
Now, she said, "that conversation is pretty much over … now they're
really starting to wrestle with what's the best way to do that in
light of our standards and practices for professional ministry. That's
just unfolding. There's not really a clear standard for how that's
working."Full story: http://www.episcopalchurch.org/79425_130316_ENG_HTM.htm
My answer:
This is the old split between recruiters and witnesses writ large and new.
I believe that the social media is a great tool for organizing the people we have, but that the spirit will move people to join us through onwe- on- one witness to God's action in our lives. I tell my story, I act on God's insiration and people see it and want to join. ("Look how they love one another.)
Others believe that one must "sell" christianity and convince people to see the light and turn to jesus. For them the social media are a great sales/recruiting tool and they believe that they must channel great effort into using if well for that purpose. ("and in all 3 thousand souls were brought to Christ")
There is nothing new here, it is the same difference in what we think of as what church is, what missionary work is. Is it servant-hood, helping the Other because the Spirit moves us, or is it spreading the word of God to bring more souls to Christ? Is it inspiring by example or saving souls
to be the agents of God? Each one of us has to decide what one believes and then find a church which most closely fits that theology.
I will never stand on the corner and preach hellfire and damnation. I will pontificate to a semi-captive audience. I will never do a commercial market analysis and then change my church to conform and therefor recruit better. But I will look for ways to serve the community and therefor make my church useful, helpful and welcoming. But there are others, and have been others within Christs church who believed differently: the missionaries to the heathens of Africa and Fiji, the Inquisition, the Crusaders, elements of the Pilgrims, elements of the protestant churches in America at the turn of the 19th to 20th century, and so on.
Clergy must navigate traditional boundaries in new social media world Developing policies is a challenge, observers say By Mary Frances Schjonberg
[Episcopal News Service] When the Episcopal Church's Province III
Youth Ministry Network earlier this month issued a set of guidelines
for interacting with young people through social media, it was on the
cutting edge of a growing effort to help guide ministers as they walk
through the digital landscape.
Two or three years ago when Elizabeth Drescher was researching her
book "Tweet if You ♥ Jesus," she said, the "big conversation was about
why do we need to do this at all -- why does it matter?"
Now, she said, "that conversation is pretty much over … now they're
really starting to wrestle with what's the best way to do that in
light of our standards and practices for professional ministry. That's
just unfolding. There's not really a clear standard for how that's
working."Full story: http://www.episcopalchurch.org/79425_130316_ENG_HTM.htm
My answer:
This is the old split between recruiters and witnesses writ large and new.
I believe that the social media is a great tool for organizing the people we have, but that the spirit will move people to join us through onwe- on- one witness to God's action in our lives. I tell my story, I act on God's insiration and people see it and want to join. ("Look how they love one another.)
Others believe that one must "sell" christianity and convince people to see the light and turn to jesus. For them the social media are a great sales/recruiting tool and they believe that they must channel great effort into using if well for that purpose. ("and in all 3 thousand souls were brought to Christ")
There is nothing new here, it is the same difference in what we think of as what church is, what missionary work is. Is it servant-hood, helping the Other because the Spirit moves us, or is it spreading the word of God to bring more souls to Christ? Is it inspiring by example or saving souls
to be the agents of God? Each one of us has to decide what one believes and then find a church which most closely fits that theology.
I will never stand on the corner and preach hellfire and damnation. I will pontificate to a semi-captive audience. I will never do a commercial market analysis and then change my church to conform and therefor recruit better. But I will look for ways to serve the community and therefor make my church useful, helpful and welcoming. But there are others, and have been others within Christs church who believed differently: the missionaries to the heathens of Africa and Fiji, the Inquisition, the Crusaders, elements of the Pilgrims, elements of the protestant churches in America at the turn of the 19th to 20th century, and so on.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Langston V Santorum
Thank you Rick Santorum. By plagiarizing a gay black man's poetry you have reminded me of what formed my soul:
Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Monday, January 17, 2011
New Year
Wouldn't it be great if we could wipe all our mistakes and blunders and hurts and pains off the board and start fresh?
I remember being appointed to the job of green board washer. Our school had a small janitor's closet in every room, and in ours hung a galvanized pail and a scrap of bath towel. The student appointed would fill the pail with clean water and follow the "eraser" to wipe the boards off with the clean water. The "eraser" would take the felt erasers out onto the sidewalk and bang them together. He would often come back covered with chalk dust. Meanwhile, I would finish the wiping job and empty the pail and wring out the rag and hang it to dry over the bail handle. We would then sit and watch as the board air dried. The dark green would fade and if I had done my job well, there would only be a few very light streaks left of the chalk dust. We would be ready to start the next lesson.
I have a hard time believing that God has let me wash my chalk board. I go through the motions faithfully, confessing and praying, and taking communion. But do I really believe that the slate is clean? I act as if the job was badly done, streaks of chalk showing up as the slate dries off, making it difficult to start the next lesson. That chalk is stubborn; it clings to me and will not be wiped off. Some days it feels as though the board is so covered in erasures and rub-outs that the new writing cannot even be seen, let alone read.
I baptized an infant and this image broke into my mind. I stood at an old woman's bedside as she lay dying and this image broke in. For both the parents and the son at the bedside, I wondered, "Do they sense my ambivalence? Do they understand my weakness?" Of course, it was not about me, but about them. I prayed that their faith graced them at their time of need, and understood that mine was unnecessary. But when I am on my deathbed, when I am in need of erasure and wiping clean, will I still have doubts? When it really is all about me will my faith withstand doubt and allow Grace to enter?
It is times like this in my journey that I lay aside faith and embrace Hope.
I remember being appointed to the job of green board washer. Our school had a small janitor's closet in every room, and in ours hung a galvanized pail and a scrap of bath towel. The student appointed would fill the pail with clean water and follow the "eraser" to wipe the boards off with the clean water. The "eraser" would take the felt erasers out onto the sidewalk and bang them together. He would often come back covered with chalk dust. Meanwhile, I would finish the wiping job and empty the pail and wring out the rag and hang it to dry over the bail handle. We would then sit and watch as the board air dried. The dark green would fade and if I had done my job well, there would only be a few very light streaks left of the chalk dust. We would be ready to start the next lesson.
I have a hard time believing that God has let me wash my chalk board. I go through the motions faithfully, confessing and praying, and taking communion. But do I really believe that the slate is clean? I act as if the job was badly done, streaks of chalk showing up as the slate dries off, making it difficult to start the next lesson. That chalk is stubborn; it clings to me and will not be wiped off. Some days it feels as though the board is so covered in erasures and rub-outs that the new writing cannot even be seen, let alone read.
I baptized an infant and this image broke into my mind. I stood at an old woman's bedside as she lay dying and this image broke in. For both the parents and the son at the bedside, I wondered, "Do they sense my ambivalence? Do they understand my weakness?" Of course, it was not about me, but about them. I prayed that their faith graced them at their time of need, and understood that mine was unnecessary. But when I am on my deathbed, when I am in need of erasure and wiping clean, will I still have doubts? When it really is all about me will my faith withstand doubt and allow Grace to enter?
It is times like this in my journey that I lay aside faith and embrace Hope.
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