Love is what we came here for...

Late in the afternoon yesterday, after walking about our small

downtown's "upstreet cultural center," we saw "The Butler."  For those in the know, this film traces the life experiences of one African-American man and his family through the social, political and cultural changes rocking the United States between the 1920s and 2008.  It isn't a perfect film, but it is a powerful one and I found myself weeping a number of times throughout: not only did I care about the main characters, but I resonated with the careful portrayal of each of symbolic cultural epoch considered in the arc of the story.

The clothes and visuals were spot-on without calling attention to themselves (something I initially found problematic with the early episodes of "Mad Men.") The music was organically accurate - avoiding the "best of the 50s, 60s and 70s" retrospective that sometimes marred "The Big Chill" (a film I still enjoyed) - and quickly situated each transition in time.  And most importantly, "The Butler" portrayed life in a contemporary African-American family with both pathos and honesty - this in itself is ground-breaking in American motion pictures - another vital development in my nation's all-too-slow transition from American apartheid to equality.  As Forrest Whitaker's character says in a voice-over scene revisiting his share-cropper origins:  America often points to the best of our tradition outside of our experience - condemning injustice and intolerance abroad and challenging the likes of Hitler and other oppressors - but our own internment camps in the South existed for 200 years... (not a precise quote but you get the point, yes?)

Later in the evening, as I worked my way through another chapter in Henri Nouwen's notes for spiritual direction (collected and published posthumously), the exercise included the following question:  "How has a period of discontent or an encounter with a special person changed your life or changed your life course?"  Nouwen's reflection centered on his own movement from growing up in the safety and isolation of his uber-Catholic past to his work in a wider reality.  He writes:

My first twenty-four years of life were basically years to prepare myself for the Catholic priesthood. I was born and raised in a Roman Catholic family, went to Roman Catholic schools and lived a live in which I related exclusively to Roman Catholics.  It was a time when all the boundaries were clear.  I was a Roman Catholic and not a Protestant; I was Christian and not Muslim, Buddhist or Hindu; I was a believer and not a pagan; I was a man and not a woman; I was white and not black... (in time and experience, however, I learned) that Protestants belong as much to the Church as Catholics; that Hindus, Buddhists and Muslims believe as much in God as Christians; that pagans can love one another as much as believers; that the human psyche is multidimensional; that theology,psychology and sociology are intersecting in many places; that women have a real call to ministry; that homosexual people have a unique vocation in the Christian community; that the poor belong to the heart of the Church; and that the Spirit of God blows where it wants. All of these discoveries gradually broke down many fences that had given me a safe haven and made me deeply aware that God's covenant with God's people includes everyone...

Nouwen then tells the story of how his life was changed at L'Arche Daybreak - a community aligned with the ministry of Jean Vanier to people with both physical and intellectual challenges - by having to care for Adam, a young man who was unable to walk and talk.  Over a period of months, during which time Nouwen bathed and dressed, fed and accompanied Adam through his days, he realized that he himself was being changed from the inside out.  "First" he writes, "Adam taught me that being is more important than doing, that God wants me to be with him and not do all sorts of things to prove I am valuable... and second Adam taught me that the heart is more important than the mind... and finally, Adam taught me something else about community: doing things together is more important than doing things alone."

Story-telling is personal and anti-ideology.  It invites others in rather than builds wall to exclude. Vanier puts it like this in Becoming Human:

Spiritual masters in sacred scripture often tell stories to reveal truths and awaken hearts. Jesus spoke in parables; Hasidic Jews and Sufi teachers tell tales; Hindu scripture is full of stories. Stories seem to awaken new energies of love; they tell us great truths in simple,personal terms and makes us long for light. Stories have a strange power of attraction. When we tell stories, we touch hearts. If we talk about theories or speak about ideas, the mind may assimilated them but the heart remains untouched.

All of which is to say that I know that this phase of my ministry - which is clearly closer to the end than the beginning - is all about the heart and story telling.  I, too, have moved beyond the early boundaries that defined me as a straight, white, middle class Protestant man in the United States. When I look back over the years I find that what has become essential for me is picking up the mantle of creating shelter from the storm for others.  When I needed it the most, the church became a safe place - a hiding place - for me and it saved my life.  

In time, what was given to me by grace was also required of me as well: it became my responsibility and joy to give back as profoundly as I was given. In Michigan this happened among young families; in Cleveland it was with children in the city schools as well as those in the AA community; in Tucson it took the form of solidarity with the LGBTQ world; and now in Pittsfield I see it growing among musicians, teens and a variety of others on the fringe.  

All ache to know that God's grace is real and that Christ's love cherishes them

as beloved.  They yearn for a safe shelter from the storms of life and the assurance that God will not abandon them.  What a privilege it is for me to try to live into this calling of tenderness.  It is far from perfect, right?  And more often than not, I blow it. But what a treasure to have been called - and healed - and challenged to return the blessings by giving to others what was once shared with me.  

My spiritual director in Cleveland once told me, after hearing my confession, that my work in life was to live like the Samaritan woman Jesus forgave at the well.  She returned to her people restored and filled to overflowing with such joy that everywhere she went she pointed to the healing grace of the Lord. "Go and do likewise" he said to me - and so it goes all these years later.  Thanks be to God.