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.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
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)
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)
Thursday, May 20, 2010
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??
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??
Saturday, April 10, 2010
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.
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.
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