Sesame Street: Little Children, Big Challenges: Incarceration -- Sizzle ...

Condescension

I remember being offended by the thought of missionaries going from my church to the western natives in the Southwest US and to the Pacific islands. I thought it was arrogant and condescending to "take civilization to the heathen." What conceit to believe that one could benefit them merely by talking to them and telling them about how great our culture is. Certainly, these missionaries were carrying the Word of God; the Bible commands us to carry the good news to all the corners. (Mark 16:15)

But as early in my life as 9th grade, I had begun to question that the good news that Jesus was proclaiming was that people didn't have to listen to conceited, condescending missionaries, didn't have to submit to the power of armed gunboats in the lagoon. The good news was that eventually, "powerful" people would not feel the need to use power, that Love would persuade. It was a shock and revelation that there were people who read, "I am the Way and the Light. No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6) and heard "If you are not a Christian you will not go to Heaven."

As I have aged, and as people have hugely misheard me, I can understand that even as he spoke, Jesus' words were being twisted and turned into power messages. Not surprising that the apostles argued amongst themselves within His hearing about who was the first among them. And not so shocking that someone remembers a Kairos weekend more for the community formed among the missionaries than for the meeting of the prisoners.

As we go into the world to minister to the sick, oppressed, imprisoned, hungry and unclothed in the world; as we go into the corridors of prejudice and power imbalances, it is a good idea to be constantly on guard against the very human temptation to feel superior to those to whom we minister.

psalm 30

Argos the yellow lab has cataracts. He never did like precipitation of any sort. Even though he is a Lab, he was born in Arizona and didn't experience water except in his dish until we got him at age <2 .="." a="a" and="and" at="at" back="back" be="be" been="been" behind="behind" but="but" called="called" cold="cold" comes="comes" could="could" covered="covered" darkness="darkness" dog.="dog." door="door" drifts="drifts" excavating.="excavating." feels="feels" fills="fills" finally="finally" garden="garden" gave="gave" get="get" got="got" gotten="gotten" guy="guy" had="had" happy="happy" has="has" he="he" heaved="heaved" hid="hid" himself="himself" his="his" house="house" i="i" in="in" into="into" joy="joy" like="like" lost="lost" morning="morning" my="my" nandi="nandi" night="night" no="no" nose="nose" now="now" on="on" out.="out." p="p" panicked="panicked" pee="pee" ran="ran" rock="rock" sadness="sadness" saw="saw" smelled="smelled" snow="snow" so="so" soil="soil" stayed="stayed" t="t" the="the" then="then" there.="there." things.="things." think="think" thinking="thinking" this="this" to="to" toward="toward" up="up" us="us" voice.="voice." walks="walks" wandered="wandered" wants="wants" was="was" wasn="wasn" went="went" wet.="wet." wet="wet" when="when" where="where" wish="wish">

IS Jesus your personal savior?

Will Christ save us, or will he be the entrance to our salvation?

Today I heard someone say, “Get ready to be saved. Christ our savior will save us from our sins!” But Jesus said “I am the Way.” And he said “Unless you follow me, you cannot enter the Kingdom.” When asked if he was King by a soldier/governor, Jesus responded, “YOU said it.” And “My kingdom is not of this world.”

 

I believe that Jesus came to be flesh not to rescue me as a maiden is rescued from the ogre’s tower, but as a teacher and leader to point the way to salvation that God provides. Using images, I believe Jesus does not scoop the drowning man out of the water, but instead throws a lifeline. The drowning man still has to pull himself up.  Is Jesus my personal savior? Will he rescue me? To the drowning man, the one who throws the rope is his savior.

 

Yet another image arises:  Jesus is the gate. He will not carry me into the sheepfold; I must go in on my own feet.  What does that mean? Knowing that my salvation is assured; knowing that I am forgiven, I must act as one who is saved. Not “fake it ‘til you make it;” not “earning one’s salvation.”  I must take on the mindset of a saved person. I must act as a member of Christ’s body. I do not ask ‘what would Jesus do?” I ask what a saved person would do.

 

I do not have to do anything to be saved or to be a member of the Church Universal. It is there like a ripe fruit on a tree, waiting to be picked and eaten and be nutritious. It is up to me to make the decision, to pick it, to eat it. But, having eaten it, it becomes a part of me. By nourishing me, it has become me. I am changed into “that person who ate that fruit.”  Most importantly, I cannot, nor can anyone, divide what was once apart and is now together. If I sin, if I give up, if I fail, that fruit is with me in that failure. If I grow, if I love, if I shine, that fruit is with me in my joy.

 

Those who do not eat, those who refuse to grasp the rope; they will continue to be offered the rope, offered more fruit. God continues to wait for us to accept His salvation. Jesus continues to hold open the gate.

We just finished the Star Bake Sale. Sadly it was a poor turnout. But it was fun meeting our long-term customers, and we gave some food to our shut-in, "L". The security guard got a banana bread, as well. Lots of love and nutrition too.

My Chapter of Order of Eastern Star, Corinthian Fellowship #322 has a bake sale every second Saturday. I made fifteen banana breads, 16 mac and cheese, 5 baked beans, 5 scalloped potatoes and 5 herbal stuffings. This month, one of the ladies made roast chicken, stuffing and a teeny tiny packet of cranberry sauce, One lady made 12 mini meatloaves, someone made single serving chicken parm over ziti. We each try to do something different as well as the staples. Peanut butter cookies, still warm, and brownies. One lady made molasses cookies and her 36 year-old son came to visit and ate all 24. We also had brownies and some sugar cookies, some chicken rice and spirals with mini meat balls.

This is a ministry of presence and visitation. The customers get to see us, talk to a "vendor" and give us their orders for next month, we also patronize their breakfast before we "open shop" and the members of the Chapter get to contribute to the project. The customers get good home style food at a bargain rate, the Chapter gets money to help with the rent and we all have a great time.

I love the work of making the food the night before. My oven gets a workout, my mixer gets used and my home smells of banana bread for a couple of days. The dogs don't like being sequestered, but they enjoy the activity. Best of all, there is one night a month I can't collapse into my easy chair. It's good for me, body mind and soul!

I have a dear friend from 10 years ago (we connected in California and our friendship burst into bloom very quickly) who is going through a heavy reaction to a breakup. He is in dire pain, and I am not going to be able to visit him. The best I could do was write this to him.

Roger, my brother, reach into your heart for that small still quiet voice. It will affirm that you are loved, deeply, sincerely and without limit. It will also tell you that I am one of a crowd loving you from outside your skin, waiting for a chance to kiss you with warm affection.

The Invisible God

I work as an occasional chaplain at Strong Memorial Hospital. Our chapel was built in the 20's, I believe. It was built as an Interfaith Chapel, with no religious doctrinal decorations. But in their naivete, the donors and builders erected a worship area that faces north, and in beautiful Tiffany glass tesserae, applied the 23rd Psalm to the liturgical east wall.To us in the 21st century, the attempt at "interfaith"fulness was sincere but unsuccessful.

I spent some lengthy time there as I wrestled with my membership in the Episcopal Church. I believed God was calling me to parochial ministry, but the Diocese, in the person of the Commission on Ministry and the Canon (man) who led it, did not agree, so I was cast aside. As I sat grieving the loss of my happiness and anticipated fulfillment, I noticed that the workmen who applied the mosaic had not made the golden background random. Like many of the eye exercises making the rounds of the internet, where you can see Marilym Monroe and Albert Einstein in the same photo depending on hw near or farsighted you are, I began to realize that there is a message in the tiles. There are four or five shades of gold, but in one section, the lighter pieces spell out "I am with you."

I have pointed it out to several people, and some can see it and some cannot. There are days when I am unable to see it myself, but I am convinced that it is there.

It struck me that we believe in an invisible God, one who does not make himself known, in part because that would limit God, and play into our limited perceptions. But like the message left for me and for many, God speaks to us, not in riddles, but through others and in a way that we have to be prepared to receive.

Someone bustling in to "do" a worship service, busy with preparations, setting up the podium and microphone and turning on the broadcast system would not notice God's presence. Nor would an overwrought relative, seeking comfort in a group of worshipers. But the solitary person, sitting quietly, asking God for the grace to accept what must be accepted, might see the message. And once seen, it is always there, even if the eye does not perceive it.

My faith is like that. It took me more than a year to understand that God had not played a trick on me, nor had the Church betrayed me (although they treated me badly) and that I had not been psychotic or egotistic. But as I sat quietly and contemplated, as I calmed and asked, I heard that still small voice saying that I had rushed to conclusions and had gotten lost. "I am still with you." "I am faithful." "I love you." and most important, "Your efforts to please me please me."

I bless that workman who did not randomize his material 90 some years ago.

A prayer for the busy and irritable

The best prayer I have heard in a long time!!!!

Heavenly Father, Help us remember that the jerk who cut us off in traffic
last night is a single mother who worked nine hours that day and is
rushing home to cook dinner, help with homework, do the laundry and spend
a few precious moments with her children.
Help us to remember that the pierced, tattooed, disinterested young man
who can't make change correctly is a worried 19-year-old college student,
balancing his apprehension over final exams with his fear of not getting
his student loans for next semester.
Remind us, Lord, that the scary looking bum, begging for money in the
same spot every day (who really ought to get a job!) is a slave to
addictions that we can only imagine in our worst nightmares.
Help us to remember that the old couple walking annoyingly slow through
the store aisles and blocking our shopping progress are savoring this
moment, knowing that, based on the biopsy report she got back last week,
this will be the last year that they go shopping together.
Heavenly Father, remind us each day that, of all the gifts you give us,
the greatest gift is love. It is not enough to share that love with those
we hold dear. Open our hearts not to just those who are close to us, but
to all humanity. Let us be slow to judge and quick to forgive, show
patience, empathy and love.
If you send this on then you have a chance to touch people.

You won't get any wish for material things, however you might just find a
piece of serenity and the warmth of God's touch.

If the eyes had no tears, the soul would have no rainbow.

Where/Who I was in 2004

In 2004, my vestry asked me to write a short essay on who I was, so they could consider recommending me to the Bishop for ordination as a priest. It is a little long, but I ran across it today and want to share it with you.

I am a cradle Episcopalian. My mother’s parents emigrated from Britain 100 years ago. My father’s family are Russian and Austrian refugees of the pogroms and anti-Semitism of the early 20^th century. One grandfather was a miner, the other a pharmacist. I am the eldest grandchild of both families. I was christened in a hand-made 4-foot long lace gown. Both my parents served in World War II. My father was career Army, serving in Italy and France. My mother was a Navy nurse, serving in San Diego and on a hospital ship in the Pacific. They met as students under the GI Bill at the University of Michigan. I was born in Ann Arbor and we lived in Dexter until my father was commissioned. We spent the next several years at military posts in the U.S. and Germany. My elder sister was born in Fort Bragg, my brother in Stuttgart. Dad became a teacher after he left the service, and also worked as a circuit preacher for the Methodist church in Michigan. My younger sister was born in Harrisville. We moved to Livonia, an extensive suburb of Detroit, then to Long Island, New York. I attended Earl L. Vander Meulen High School, the last of the central schools of Long Island before the suburbanization of the Island. I worked on a farm in the summer of my sophomore year. The next year the farm had been made into a subdivision.

My father didn’t teach us much theology, but made sure that we were involved in the life of the church. We worshipped every Sunday, went to Sunday school, summer Bible school and participated in every social aspect of the church, first the Methodist, then returning to the Episcopal. We moved back when the Methodists hired a fund-raising firm to finance a new building. It was a very divisive decision: almost half the congregation left. For the next year we didn’t go to church, we had Bible Study. All six of us would sit around the dining room table. We would read a passage, then try to understand what it meant by either applying it to our lives or the world around us. Dad would ask leading questions, and trick questions, too. But I remember trying to use the Gospels to learn what God and Jesus wanted me to accomplish, and how they wanted me (and the rest of the world) to behave. When the family moved to Detroit, we rejoined the Episcopal Church and I went to Confirmation class.

I prided myself in high school that I wasn’t like anybody else. I was a bookworm, but made a lot of friends, was active in Scouting and DeMolay and gave up lunch hour and study hall to be able to take choir, band and orchestra. I worked nights cleaning the bowling alley in Ronkonkoma and Franklin National Bank and a couple of doctor’s office buildings. I was Salutatorian. I gave a barnburner of a speech about going out to change the world (it was the Viet Nam era) and no one remembered it because the Valedictorian said in his speech that “Education is a merry-go-round and I’m getting off. I’m gonna be a forest ranger.”

My struggle was with asking what was right, what was just. Not only was the nation mired in an ethical battle over the war in Viet Nam, but with civil rights and the sexual revolution. I was a contender for the Newsday High Honors competition. It came down to four of us: my best friend, Jeanne Lapham, and I represented Long Island, and two other students represented New York City. We were interviewed one at a time by a board consisting of a nun, a general, the editor of the paper, a professor from Columbia, a congressman and two or three others. The question which was posed was, “Is Martin Luther King right to broaden his campaign for civil rights to include protesting the Viet Nam War?” My response was, “Shouldn’t every minister preach against all the evil in the world, not just what affects him and his family?”  The winning response was, “He has a right to his opinion on the war, but he will lose supporters because he has brought in another issue, and civil rights will suffer.”

I questioned myself about whether I was content with my answer. I decided I was, but I came to doubt using a question to give it. One consolation was that Jeanne also lost because she challenged the question rather than answering it.

She and I had had fun “shopping” for a church. We went to a different church every Sunday we could, listening to the sermons, seeing how we were welcomed, and asking what the people of the congregation did for God on weekdays. We really were a couple of smart-alecks! I am ashamed to admit that I enjoyed discomfiting the people I saw as “part of the problem.” We ended up back in the Episcopal Church; the sermons were good lectures, relating the Bible and the Church to current events, the congregations were friendly and many of the people in the congregation could speak about the church to us. And the priests were not offended by the term “shopping.” We attended Christ Church, Caroline Church and St. Anselm’s in Port Jefferson, Setauket and Miller Place,

In high school, and then in college, I had to decide whether to enlist, accept the draft, resist the draft or escape the draft. I wasn’t physically acceptable for R.O.T.C. My joke with my family was that teenage boys don’t think about sex all the time, they think about war. I spent a lot of time in the chapel trying to understand the world outside the campus. I temporarily lost my 1-A status, and was drafted. I was astounded that my father, whom I had always thought was a hawk, fought mightily to regain my deferment. He succeeded just as I was being told to step forward and raise my hand to be inducted. I was back in the situation of having to decide for myself. After talking about the experience with fraternity brothers, friends and faculty, I discovered I had been more upset about having the decision taken away from me than the possibility of having to serve in the army. The Episcopal Church was silent on the issue. Father Stott and Father Brewster were sympathetic, but the Church was inactive.

I joined the Episcopal Church congregation at school. We had a mission on campus and a parish downtown. I served with the University’s crisis hotline, babysitting fellow students who were having bad acid trips. The Church did not have any ministry for them. I was the altar guild for a while, and served as acolyte. I joined a fraternity, Alpha Chi Rho, founded by three Episcopalians at Trinity College in Hartford. I joined the lightweight crew.

My sophomore year, a faction of the black student body took over the student union and was seen carrying automatic weapons. Again, my thoughts about the civil rights movement and my growing opposition to violence were in conflict. The campus was torn to pieces by the confrontation. I witnessed the black students’ demands being forgotten in the debate about their decision to use violence. The fear they provoked didn’t prove their point that all white people opposed them. It proved that violence can alienate your allies. The churches of the town and the churches on the Hill spoke out, but took no actions.

New York’s entry into the abortion debate happened about the same time. Roe v. Wade was 1973, but New York made abortion legal in 1969. The debates I participated in late at night, in the dorms and fraternities were much less heated than the ones about the war. Many of my fellow students knew or were related to a girl who died from infection or bleeding after a black market abortion or a coat hanger abortion. Today, we talk about 6 degrees of separation, but then, almost every high school and college had an abortion death or dramatic near death. The church didn’t participate much, either. It was the high school and college students who were arguing. It was personal to us. I went with a young woman to NYC. She had waited too long and had entered her second trimester. At that time, there was no place Upstate for her to go. The trip was a unique experience for me. I mostly listened as she talked herself out to me. We spent a weekend together in the Village, then went to the clinic. I held her hand in Recovery.  She swore to me that she would never forget to take precautions again. The trip back was very quiet. I wondered what her life would have been like if she had dropped out and had the baby. I’m sure she wondered, too. I never thought to go to the Church for help or guidance. She did, and rejected the thought out of hand.

The Stonewall riots happened then, too. I had been doing pretty well keeping my sexuality separate from my life. I didn’t think it was dishonest to avoid revealing that one little detail. In high school, I had talked with the other students about falling in love, but I was not that intimate with anyone, so I had no occasion to reveal that much. Jeanne must have wondered in high school, but we did experiment a little, and we were friends, not lovers. The discussions had remained general. In college, the discussions were even more general. We discussed romanticism, free love and the strictures of the antiquated system of our parents, all without discussing our personal doubts and anxieties. It was easier to talk about the War than interpersonal relationships.

As it turned out, it was a political action, a radicalizing action to come out.  I had fewer opportunities to pair off privately after I came out than before. I spent so much time being out I didn’t have time to be gay. I organized the first delegation to the Pride March the following summer, corresponding with the radicals in NYC, doing public speaking and Guerilla Theater. The mayor of the town attacked us as we marched holding hands and occasionally stopping to kiss. The local TV station had us on as guests. We negotiated with the school to become a recognized student organization.

To me, that school year was the pivot. I was confronted by a member of the downtown Episcopal Church. She said she knew I was pre-med. and she had called Albany to make sure I couldn’t get a license. “Moral turpitude” was considered “cause” for denial of medical or teaching certification. The Campus Crusade for Christ sent people to visit me as a sort of trial by fire. The mayor attacked physically and politically. My family discovered I had an FBI file. Once again, my ability to choose was being taken from me. I was being denied a profession, my privacy, and my safety. As a result I turned on my enemies. The Church was opposed to me because I was belonged to a group, so the Church was an enemy. The school refused to allow us to meet, so the school became an enemy. The Greeks felt obliged to speak against us, so they became the enemy. The mayor declared himself an enemy, so we agreed. The State discriminated, so the State was an enemy.

I lost my membership card in Christianity. My Church had forgotten its founder’s instructions, and so had I. I had no love left for those in the pews or the pulpits. The Order of Holy Cross came recruiting, and I did Guerilla Theater on them. I marched fiercely as well as proudly. If my family, clan and tribe had evicted me, then I would found a new one. If the FBI thought I was an enemy, I’d be one.

I didn’t envision myself as Abraham, but the metaphor almost fit. It certainly felt right. A group of us tried to re-think everything. (I continue to hold that, being outside of mainstream society, gays and lesbians should not yearn for marriage. It is an opportunity to create a new family style.) Several communes grew up and lived and died. I agreed to support the campaign for gay marriages because I opposed denying people their right to choose. The anger died quickly. I immersed myself in doing what I thought was right, and it is hard to maintain anger while being constructive. The antagonism toward me and mine was like the weather: something you have to plan around. The radicals set up support systems. When Castro evicted the Gay Braceros who went to help with the sugar harvest, it became apparent to many in the gay movement that we could not look to the revolutionaries for empathy. The Black movement, both the church and radicals, soon disappointed us, as well.

Eventually I had to graduate, and moved to Rochester. I devoted time to the U of R GLF, eventually serving as vice president when we were kicked off campus. I served as a counselor for people coming out, and joined the Speakers’ Bureau.  What money we had, we shared. We owned little that we couldn’t live without. The houses we lived in were meeting places, where marches and demonstrations were planned, sympathy given, support in hard times found and dreams shared. We visited men in jail, put there by the routine police roundups on Court Street and North Street. I even worked a while (very part time) as talent on a radio show called Green Thursdays. There were times I really thought we were forging a new society for ourselves, based on our values, not those from outside.

Of course, the world intruded. The Women’s movement intruded. We men were admittedly still unreconstructed chauvinists. The lesbians needed to separate. As the men who were left aged, security and stability became important to us. The new society we were trying to form didn’t offer enough security and stability, and as they grew apart, critical mass was lost. The radical furor was lost, too, and the movement became institutional. We had more members, but we were accomplishing less. I fell away, too. I got involved in renovating a house in the Third Ward, and most of the group didn’t feel like coming to see me, they wanted me to come to where they were. Eventually, I dropped out.

I didn’t stop talking to God, though. Through all of this, it was God’s people who were the enemy, not God. I had figured out early on that they just didn’t understand what He was saying. They looked on the covenants as treaties, not as gifts. They waved the Book around but couldn’t understand the story it told. I told Him this over and over. My prayers were, “Lord, let them show a teeny bit of love. Please!” When I was really angry, my prayer was, “Lord, please give him his reward, NOW!” But mostly, my prayers were for forgiveness for falling into the habit of hating instead of working to love. They still are.

I have become the middle aged, middle class, and middle-of- the-road man I made fun of thirty years ago. I have a house, a car, credit cards and I joined the Masons, volunteered to serve as an advisor for a youth group. I’ve even served on a couple of Boards of Directors. I even overheard myself being described as “a pillar of the church.”

Lately, however, the ironies of my youth are making me uncomfortable. I believe that I should have stayed with it, back there in school. I should have gone for my license and sued the State if it was denied. I should have stayed in the Church, staying out of the closet but sitting in the pew to be a reminder to brothers and sisters that gays were people they knew personally. I have begun to see that I have been hearing a call all my life, but that I haven’t had the inner ear to hear it clearly. I cut myself off from the community which could have helped me understand that call. I have been striving to do what God wants: live in love and serve my brethren. But I have been trying to do it without His Church. I found employment in social work. I created my own charities. But I had to be the one in control. I wanted the Church to be active in the World. I didn’t realize that I was the Church myself.

I believe that what drove me away from the Church, what radicalized me is: people have a hard time hearing what God has said and is still saying. When a vestry member is so mad at a teenager that she calls Albany, she’s not listening. When a man comes out of a house and shoots at peaceful demonstrators, he’s lost his way. When a police chief orders men to be arrested on Court Street at two in the morning, claiming he’s acting because of citizen complaints, God is being ignored.  When a young man traumatizes a monk who has done him no wrong, the Kingdom moves a little further off. We’re all confused and lost in the forest.  I have come to enjoy the metaphor of God as a compass, pointing the direction we want to go, but trusting that we know how to walk. Lost souls are walking in circles, making no advance. To me, being saved has become a daily prayer for strength to look at that compass and maintain the course. Ideally, belonging to the Church is finding others heading in the same direction, helping them on the trail, offering guidance or accepting it when we stray. And ideally, the Church is many congregations, heading in the same direction. Offering and accepting guidance, too.

What’s the goal? I am most uncomfortable talking about Evangelism and about the City of God. But I think the City is the goal. Not Heaven, but God’s City, a true Philadelphia. A “place” in the sense we used it in the sixties and seventies. I want my “head to be in the right place.” And my developing sense is that I am called to talk about that goal. I want to tell people. I want to show people how to use the compass, not as a step-by-step map, but as a guide. I want to show people that God can be found in consensus, consultation and cooperation, but He is speaking with the voices of the dissenters, of the malcontents, also. I want to show people the quandary: that conviction is good, but certitude and rectitude are dangerous. I want to be a guide, and that’s Evangelism.

Leaving the metaphoric forest, I am still discerning what way is prepared for me to walk in, in the Episcopal Church. I believe that God will work through my brothers and sisters to make it clear.  Meanwhile, I am not just maintaining. I have decided to work on my Masters degree the better to suit me for work as an employee of the Church. I accepted an invitation last summer to take donated clothing to Johannesburg for the victims of the flooding in Mozambique. I was rewarded with a magnificent tour of the country and an introduction to the people and cultures. I was also able to be a witness to the uneasiness of the country, the harvest of Apartheid and its failure to teach the tribes how to live in justice and peace. This summer, I was invited to visit Panama. I spent time living with and working with three seminarians and several people working in the Episcopal Church of Panama. Returning to Rochester, I brought back a rebirth of the enthusiasm I thought had become casualty of middle age, and a real appreciation for the blessing of being who I am and where I am.

Dinner with an old friend

Fifteen or more years ago, I met a brash, tall young man of about 16. I was old enough to be his father; I wanted to do good for him. I wanted to be for him the elder family who cared for him and advised him with wisdom and love and knowledge. Of course, he had a dad, two grandads and a couple of uncles, but I wanted to help. When he acted up, as teens do, I wanted to get him to behave. When he was perplexed, I wanted to be there to help him figure it out. When he took up with a girl I had bad vibes about, I wanted him to listen to me and be cautious. I wanted. I wanted. I wanted.

I did have a lot to give, but I wanted to feel good and to have hime acknowledge and appreciate it. He had a lot of shit yet to live through, and I wanted to help. Not only him, but a couple of others, too. So when his father was unable to father him, when his grandfather tried (and failed) to control him, when life took a dump on him, I wanted to help. But I only was around one day a week. I couldn't break out of the limitations my own life had placed on me. And his girl was soon there 24/7. So he pretty much went through all of it without me. And all the others had prior claims. He went his way, and after about five years, we lost touch. My brain let go of him, and I remembered him less and less.

I had dinner with him tonight. Facebook really is a great invention. As I sat and looked into his grownup responsible eyes, much of that fondness and desire to make his life better came back to me. And my inability to help began to frustrate me. I can't help. It is not in my power to help. He is doing fine without me. The strength I saw in him at 16 has carried him through the shit that came down, both the stuff I worried about and stuff I had no idea would happen to him. And he stood up to it. He has made a place for himself in the world.

What I wanted to say to him, and was too shy to say was, "Brother, I loved you as a child and prayed and hoped for you. Now I can start right in and love you as a man and pray for you and hope for you as we are. I am glad I knew you, and I'm glad to know you again."

Once more, my own thoughts and feelings give me some insight into theology. And maybe into my Dad's brain and heart, too.  If one can see Christ's face in the passers by, do you see God's in the mirror, if you really look hard? And do you see you father in that same mirror? Is that the wheel of history? Kalachakra?
I felt really powerful, warm and solid as I drove away. He is a good man. I knew him when he was a boy.

Am I going Crazy?

Why do I have such a hard time controlling my temper? What makes me easy to trigger? I resigned my job as Chaplain at the nursing home Saturday. My boss yelled at me and I yelled back, and when she called again and said  we had to have a corrective interview, I told her I quit. I am willing to make a mistake, but I get stubborn and when an authority figure loses it, so do I. Now I am a nervous wreck. I had been deciding what to do about my growing discontent there, but I had not intended to act rashly. I didn't sleep at all Saturday night. I was up half of Friday night with aches and pains and then a patient crisis. I wonder if my constant lack of reserves is a contributary condition?

Quote from Albert Einstein

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.

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.

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!

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.

Anti ACLU e-mail

I received this e-mail from a friend of mine. I have been receiving a lot of anti-ACLU mail forwards lately. From the headers and footers, this one had been forwarded several times, with copies to hundreds of people. Below the original e-mail is my hurried response



AGREE OR DELETE


This is by a daughter of a murdered couple in Raytown , MO ,
who had a Bible and Bookstore on 63rd street ..

When I had to testify at the murder trial of my parents a week ago, I was asked to raise my right hand... The bailiff started out "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

I stood there and waited but she said nothing. She said "Do you?"

I was so stunned I blurted out "What happened to "so help me God'?"
She came back with "Do you?" I replied yes, but I was perplexed.

Then the judge said . "You can say that if you want to."

I stopped, raised my right hand, and finished with "So help me God!"

I told my son and daughter that when it came time for them to testify, they should do the same.

I don't know what can be done about it, but it's time for us to step up and DO something.

NBC this morning had a poll on this question.. They had the highest number of responses that they have ever had for one of their polls, and the percentage was the same as this:

86% to keep the words, 14% against.. That is a pretty 'commanding' public response.

I was asked to send this on if I agreed or delete if I didn't.

Now it is your turn.. It is said that 86% of Americans believe in God.

Therefore, I have a very hard time understanding why there is such a mess about having

"In God We Trust" on our money and having God in the Pledge of Allegiance.

Why is the world catering to this 14%?

If you agree, pass this on, if not, simply delete....
In God We Trust
If You Choose To Delete
Perhaps Then You Are Part Of The Problem
Me? I'm Passing It On.
It seems to get worse daily.



Dear friend. Thank you for your e-mail. I will delete it after I respond. I will respond as a friend, as someone who respects your intellect and your sincerity. But frequently people pass on and forward mail because it strikes a “bumper sticker” chord, but they don’t stop to think what it really says about them that they forward it. So here is my response:




If you were in Turkey as a tourist, and were assaulted, when it came to trial, would you be willing to say "In Allah's name?"

If you were in India would you be willing to swear by Vishnu?

Would you be willing to ask Buddha to judge your truthfulness in Tibet?

In Africa, would you raise your hand to the spirits of the ancestors surrounding you in the court room?

Closer to home: in Lockport, NY would you swear to the Great Spirit of the Forest and testify to the Tortoise who bears up the world?

How can we, a country formed out of many nations, a country which depends on the equality of all individuals and pledges to support the rights of everyone, citizen or alien, force someone else to swear to our personal interpretation of God? Or require that they do so in order to receive justice? What kind of America would that be?

How can you, as a Christian, whose God tells you to honor and respect the alien resident within your walls turn around and get insistent that the court clerk say exactly what you want and how you want it? Whether or not it disrespects and denies the alien in your presence?

I cannot judge you. Judge yourself, as you know you will be judged. And God bless that woman whose parents were murdered. I hope and pray her grief does not damage her soul.

better than a hallelujah

God loves a lullaby in a mother's tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.
God loves a drunkard's cry, the soldier's plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries, God just hears a melody.
Beautiful the mess we are, the honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

The woman holding on for life, the dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.
The tears of shame for what's been done
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

(Hymn composed by Sarah Hart and Chapin Hartford, sung by Angie Lenzo and Sam Asher at the "Faith in Action" banquet of the GRCC)

E-Mail joke about immigration

This morning I received an e-mail from a woman who is very nice and kind. It was a piece of propaganda disguised as a joke, and it was the straw that broke my tolerance camel's back. I am going to have to take her out to lunch and ask her to not provoke me any more. Here is the e-mail:

LET ME SEE IF I GOT THIS RIGHT!!!
IF YOU CROSS THE NORTH KOREAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET 12 YEARS HARD LABOR
IF YOU CROSS THE IRANIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU ARE DETAINED INDEFINITELY.
IF YOU CROSS THE AFGHAN BORDER ILLEGALLY, YOU GET SHOT.
IF YOU CROSS THE SAUDI ARABIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE JAILED.
IF YOU CROSS THE CHINESE BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU MAY NEVER BE HEARD FROM AGAIN.
IF YOU CROSS THE VENEZUELAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE BRANDED A SPY AND YOUR FATE WILL BE SEALED.
IF YOU CROSS THE CUBAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE THROWN INTO POLITICAL PRISON TO ROT.
IF YOU CROSS THE U.S. BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET
1 - A JOB,
2 - A DRIVERS LICENSE,
3 - SOCIAL SECURITY CARD,
4 - WELFARE,
5 - FOOD STAMPS,
6 - CREDIT CARDS,
7 - SUBSIDIZED RENT OR A LOAN TO BUY A HOUSE,
8 - FREE EDUCATION,
9 - FREE HEALTH CARE,
10 - A LOBBYIST IN WASHINGTON
11 - BILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF PUBLIC DOCUMENTS PRINTED IN YOUR LANGUAGE
12 - AND THE RIGHT TO CARRY YOUR COUNTRY'S FLAG WHILE YOU PROTEST THAT YOU DON'T GET ENOUGH RESPECT.
        I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE I HAD A FIRM GRASP ON THE SITUATION.  Are WE dumb or what ?????

My answer is below:

Thank you for sending me this little humorous piece about Illegal immigrants. Remember I was a welfare worker for almost thirty years, so I feel capable of answering the author from experience. See my responses below. I am trying not to get angry, but this is an example of someone starting a lie and others building it into prejudice, suspicion and discrimination.
And remember, that SOMEONE let illegals stay in this country for years and years, and so now their children, BORN HERE 18 years ago are now in high school and college. But the CHILDREN are citizens because MOM was allowed to stay 18 years ago.

Let me say that again: 18 years ago. That would be President Bush the elder and the Republican congress. and before that was Reagan and the Republican congress and Ford and Nixon and even Eisenhower. This country has had a messed up "ignore it and it will go away" attitude since 1950. So I want Congress (yes the whole bunch of 'em not just the Dems) to get off their backsides and earn the 150K a year we're paying them. Or I will work to get them jobs picking grapes in California.

And I humbly remind you that my forbears came here without "permission" from INS. And instead of erecting fences, we built Ellis Island to screen out the sick and criminal, but not to prevent anyone from coming in because of quotas or the color of their skin. My forbears mined coal and gold, waited tables, picked nuts and vegetables in the miswest. The others sold vegetables from a cart, collected rent for the owners of tenements, waited tables in delicatessens and worked as housemaids in NYC. Except the color of their skins, I come from people JUST LIKE THE ONES YOU WANT TO SHIP HOME. How far back do you want to go to select the evicted ones???

1 - A JOB, picking cotton or strawberries or gutting chickens. You want that job? I'll get it for you
2 - A DRIVERS LICENSE, NOT TRUE
3 - SOCIAL SECURITY CARD, anyone can apply for a social security card, even if they are out of the country
4 - WELFARE, Nope, not a chance
5 - FOOD STAMPS, nope, also a bald lie
6 - CREDIT CARDS, see social security card. and that is private banking's decision, not yours
7 - SUBSIDIZED RENT OR A LOAN TO BUY A HOUSE, subsidy, nope another bald lie; loan see #6, you socialsit
8 - FREE EDUCATION, nope, only citizens.
9 - FREE HEALTH CARE, which we all should have. Please check with someone from Canada, Panama or South Africa
10 - A LOBBYIST IN WASHINGTON who will represent citizens rights even more vehemently than the illegal visitor
11 - BILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF PUBLIC DOCUMENTS PRINTED IN YOUR LANGUAGE really? Spanish is not an AMERICAN language? Says who? We should be speaking GERMAN, but that bill lost by 1 vote in 1789. Seig Heil, Meine freunde!
12 - AND THE RIGHT TO CARRY YOUR COUNTRY'S FLAG WHILE YOU PROTEST THAT YOU DON'T GET ENOUGH RESPECT Just like the Irish the Italians and the Swedes do in states a little to the north. HMMMM

Well, I still haven't learned to stop and take a breath to keep from acting out of anger. Someday I will learn. But what part of America was meant for only the first ones to get here? Doesn't freedom lose a dimention when we deny it to "others"? And where will any curtailment stop? What did all those soldiers and freedom fighters from 1776 to 1976 fight and die for if not to be the BEACON OF LIBERTY??

Welcoming Spring

Saturday, April 10, 2010


As I was trying to compose my essay on Easter for presentation at the Hospital, it occurred to me that I had not deeply connected to the rebirth surrounding me. I have always enjoyed being in the midst of nature. One of my earliest memories is of lying on my back in the meadow behind our house in Harrisville, Michigan. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old. I remember feeling a part of the earth, connected by invisible cords to the growing, never silent but rarely loud life beneath and around me in that meadow. Grass, insects, birds, an occasional toad, mole cat, and the neighbors’ cattle all around me, soaking up the sun as I was, gaining strength and living only in the present.

I decided to regain that connection, and went out to my own tiny meadow, my front yard. Thirty feet by ten, it is the dusty apron of our old woman of a home, anchored by a boulder left by the builders 80 years ago. Curtis and I tore off the scaly-bug-infested Euonymus several years ago, and I dropped pieces of lichen sedum and moss on it to give those colonists a head start. This year, the rock is the centerpiece. I sat next to it for quite a while, until my bones protested the inactivity and chill. But I did begin a quiet return to the joy that 8 year old boy felt.

I understand the cycle of apparent death, sleep, rebirth and growth in the temperate Northeastern climate. Writings about Easter have all too often used the season as a metaphor. But there is a different message there, too. As the cycle turns, the individual plant, or insect or vole may not return with the spring. We can and do change roles from sprouting spear of green one spring, to the rotting thatch of the next. We are not entitled to be the green; we have to accept being the mulch eventually. But I am having a hard time accepting that. I continue to rage against the dying of the light. I continue to grasp for, continue to crave, an assurance for the future, and for a legacy. My egoism refuses to accept being mulch for a lawn. I must have significance, I must have permanence, I must have assurance. My attachment to these desires only yields for a moment as I sit on the cold ground and feel the sun warming my rock, feeding my crocuses and daffodils. As the week progressed toward Easter, I had to stop frequently to restore that feeling of connection to the cycles, big and small. I am constantly trying to live in the present and to remain observant of those around me and of myself. It is ofttimes hard.

Thursday evening, I was called to the Hospital to attend in the Emergency Department. I sat with the spouse and good friend of a man who had collapsed and died at home. He was 57. The woman pleaded with me to anoint him, even though she knew I was not a priest. The man asked me to “pray him into heaven.” I sat and listened to them tell me about the deceased, and then prayed over the body for them. They were at the stage of asking why their mate and friend had been cut down and taken away so quickly. I listened to them work on it. It didn’t take much talking on my part. After they left, I sat with the body a while longer. I just sat and tried to keep still.

On my way out, I stopped to greet the operators who call me in when needed. It is a good idea to check, so that they know I have been in and they can let me know if any people have been told to wait for the day shift. There had been one, and I went to see him. He has been in and out of the Hospital for several months. He was HIV+ when I first met him. Now he has full blown AIDS, has suffered a stroke and his wife has to be begged to bring in his 4 year old son. I sat with him as he cried and swore to me as his witness that he regretted all his sins, and implored God to relieve him of his pain and sorrow. We cried together a while, and then he told me to go home. I was called again in the wee hours to attend in the MICU, for a man who coded three times during the night, and whose family had decided to change to DNR. While I was barreling up the expressway to get there, he coded again, died and the family went home. I arrived to an apologetic staff including a young resident who was having trouble coping. I stayed with them for a while. I prayed over the body and blessed the staff, and made sure the chart was completed that the patient had received spiritual care as well as medical.

A few hours later I was in the State Correctional Facility, talking to two men in their twenties about what brought them to prison. (Not their crimes, but their lives.) They told about their childhood and youth. As they spoke, I could palpably feel their pain from abandonment, dysfunctional parenting, and poverty and for one, lack of treatment. But I could offer only a listening ear, not solutions. For them, they have already arrived at the destination of criminality. Serving time, I have noticed, does not make one a better person. It will be up to them, and to the other men in the group, to talk, and think, and learn and change habits that at 23 or 26 are already ingrained and will be hard to see, let alone alter. I hope that those two men will find, in the death of their sentences, the time, change and friendship to make a change in how they live in this world. That their lives may re-start in prison, to grow and blossom when they are released.

The promise of summer, of autumn and winter too, and of repeated turnings of the seasons is built into the tiny bud of an ornamental red maple tree. The promise of apparent death and resurrection and the quiet blasting of life out of what we mortals perceive to be a tomb are found there, too. We can only sense ourselves as part of that flow. Any effort to resist, to withstand that onward rush is futile. While I am a green bud, I can strive to be a great green bud. I hope to be great mulch, too.

Dirt

       Sunday, we watched a video about breath at Alan and Sue Dailey's. The video started with a discussion of us as "fragile, divine dirt." The speaker posed the idea that breathing in and breathing out is the equivalent of speaking God's Name. That when we are born the first thing we must do is speak, and as we die, the last thing we do is speak God's name. I went off onto a private tangent, with my breath control for meditation. Breathing, and awareness of our breath as an avenue to peace for meditation and prayer has always been mystical for me. I remember, untrained at the time, sitting in my dormitory room, lights out except for a primitive light board, and concentrating on making my breating regular and calm. My roommate came home 6 hours later to find me in lotus and so quiet it scared him.
     I also remember almost drowning when I traveled to Southern California for Seminarian Summer. I got caught in a rip tide and was being pulled north and out and down. I remember my fear, remember straining, remember being determined not to lose a single breath, and when the surfer came to lift me up, I remember pausing with him holding me to get my breath back. I was overwhelmed by gratitude, and when I got back to shore, I was also overwhelmed by my awareness of my breathing. I lay there for an hour, feeling myself inhale, pause, exhale, pause. The slow pulse of my life.
     Yesterday, I was able to participate in the Ash Wednesday services at Highland Hospital and at Unity Living Center at St. Mary's. Each began days earlier with a flurry of organizing, deciding on what to do, printing flyers and bulletins, arranging for ashes, deciding the  tactics. On the day, both sites held a short service in the chapel. Lay-led at Highland, priest-led at St. Mary's. Then we chaplains took containers of ash to the floors. For rooms with infection alerts, we used medical swabs. But most people I was able to touch. The ash in my little container was so fragile, so ephemeral, but the looks on the faces of the patients family and staff as they received it were stunning. I was exhausted. This morning, that fragile ephemeral ash is still embedded in my thumb pad, under the nail and in the cuticle. Divine dirt.