There has to be a better way...

Reading through this morning's NY Times was an exercise in fear and trembling - and I don't mean the kind born of awe of the Lord. In addition to the fear and loathing of the Middle East - from the breach of trust fomented by Israel 's recent election to the escalating war against the so-called Islamic State in Iraq, Syria and Yemen - American social conservatives and religious fundamentalists are at it again confusing hatred with Jesus and punitive policies with the kingdom of God.  Whether it is the vicious lies of Ted Cruz and his presidential campaign or the outright ignorance of social manipulators like Bobby Jindal, trouble has risen to the surface of American politics for those who are committed to the common good.

+ In California, a ballot initiative to actively execute gay and lesbian people has been presented to the Attorney General under the title: the Sodomite Suppression Act. (check it out here: http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/26/us/politics/california-seeks-to-head-off-initiative-to-execute-gays.html?ref=todayspaper&_r=0)

+ The same wizened cast of characters who brought us the first round of culture war skirmishes is back for polarization and chaos in the US 2.0 in their opposition to the candidacy of Jeb Bush. God knows I had hoped that people like direct mail guru Richard Viguerie and Tony Perkins of the so-called Family Research Council had finally been discredited and passed over - but no such luck. (check it out here: http://www.nytimes.com/ 2015/03/26/us/politics/2016-elections-conservatives-jeb-bush.html?ref=todayspaper)

+ And please don't miss the well coordinated fundamentalist attack on higher education that threatens both free speech and ideas grounded in tolerance, science and caring for the common good.  Last week the regents in North Carolina ousted the well respected president and now the same ugly bigotry has raised its head in Mississippi. (check it out here: http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/26/us/thousands-protest-plan-to-oust-university-chief-in-mississippi.html?ref=todayspaper)

Maybe it has something to do with my starting James Carroll's intense analysis of Christian Antisemitism, Constantine's Sword, that has heightened my sense of dread. It could have something to do with my preparations for Holy Week, too as I revisit how people in the past have had their darkest fears manipulated into violence and social chaos. It could also be that my commitment to cultural care and renewal is working overtime as we prepare for our time away on sabbatical. Who knows?  It is becoming ever more clear to me, however, that there has to be a better way to challenge the on-going social/spiritual antagonism of mean-spirited and bigoted fundamentalism than politics as we know it. 

Of course, there must be a political challenge and corrective. The courts and elections have a place in all of this and I trust those far wiser than myself to get on the stick. And, there needs to be more - a balm in Gilead - an alternative and even antidote to this hatred.  Mako Fujimura wrote recently about the importance of Harper Lee's world changing novel: To Kill a Mockingbird.

Just like the mob in front of Tom Robinson's jail cell, our culture is still prone to create

scapegoats, dodging our own culpability and responsibility over cultural or systemic problems by blaming them on innocent individuals or groups. We still blind ourselves to the dehumanizing forces this unleashes. For any given provocation, we are egged on by our instant, omnipresent media to unleash our basest instincts-we might think of them as cultural "fight-flight-freeze" responses-rather than committing ourselves to the slower process of seeking truth. (One genuinely new thing is the virtual mob, which can be just as inhumane and culturally damaging as any physical mob.) This self-debasement of our humanity in desperate and irrational fear of the "other" is a result of poor cultural stewardship. Little wonder that our culture is still bedeviled by cynicism, apathy, and anger. Cycles of violence and revenge are an ongoing reality. And when we focus on headlines and newsfeeds, we come to expect more of the same. 

How would-how do-we respond when faced with an angry mob ready to commit an atrocity against us or some "other"? Would we want to fight back, fire against fire, hatred against hatred? Scout offers a better model. She does not even confront bigotry by arguing for justice. What she does in her naiveté is to step into the mob and remind people that they are her neighbors. She becomes a bouquet of flowers in the heart of conflict. Reminding people of our common life-that we are neighbors first-is a task of Culture Care.

Mako is not ignorant, nor is he an idealist. He is a person of faith who knows that between breaths a crowd can easily be manipulated away from "Hosanna" and into cries of "Crucify." He is what Niebuhr would call a Christian Realist.  He is also an artist and a theologian who seeks to enflesh the values and spirit of Jesus within our culture wars. He notes:

The arts present the most powerful form of nonviolent resistance. Scout's actions in Harper Lee's creative lens-her willingness to step into a conflict and take a personal risk in order to call out for both sides their deepest humanity, highest ideals, and deepest longings-anticipated thousands of peaceful marches to come. Culture Care affirms this language of empathy, which is a fruit of love toward the "other."  We need to create cultural contexts where this love toward the other, toward those outside our tribe's borders, is cultivated and modeled organically. A Culture Care environment will nourish and steward our abilities to dream even in the face of injustice, intolerance, and persecution.

Jesus told his followers, "I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves" (Matthew 10:16, NIV). Poets, artists, and creative catalysts can, like Scout, remain determinedly "innocent as doves" while being "wise as serpents" in using their creativity. Reminders of beauty can present justice in words, images, and songs that draw us in and captivate our attention until their truth can reach our hearts and transform our communities. Culture Care is the logical extension of nonviolent resistance to injustice.

Such a calling is not easy nor without risks - but it is a better way than just trusting electoral

politics. On Monday evening I met with my small group of mostly older men for a presentation of my paper: "Jazz for the Journey: Three Essentials for Appreciation." After my talk, each of the 11 men was asked to respond and offer comments and insights. Some found my thoughts challenging because, as one friend said, "I apparently don't have any musical intelligence." I know that to be a common concern - not entirely accurate - but widely held. Others sensed that the way of music - and the arts - create another conversation where differences can be honored and hard questions asked without volatility. One man said, "I can see why you are so passionate about this work: it is peace-making in a gentle form."

If the rise of fascism in Europe teaches anything it is such hatred must be challenged from the start. It cannot go unquestioned or unopposed because human fear is so easily organized and manipulated. Please read the articles noted above. Please find ways to publicly support those politicians willing to take the hate-mongers head on. And please use some of your time and resources to support the artists in your community who are on the front line of culture care. They are some of our society's most important non-violent warriors for shalom - and they need our vigorous support.

Moanin'...

On Monday night I shared my paper, "Jazz for the Journey: Three Essentials," with the Monday Night Club. At the heart was my groovin' to a song Carlton turned me on to - Bobby Timmon's "Moanin'" - as interpreted by the incomparable Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. Damn, but doesn't this song have just about everything you could want? It pulses and seethes, it swings at the right time and resonates with heart and soul throughout. There is incredible call and response along with a smokin' solo by trumpeter Lee Morgan and an out of this world improv by both composer Bobby Timmons on piano and Benny Golson on sax. And don't talk when bass player, Jymmy Merrit,  does his thing! 
Today it is FINALLY spring in the Berkshires and the freakin' snow is FINALLY melting! So before I sit down to pull together my Good Friday meditation, let me share Barry Wallenstein's poem, Blues 1 and 2, with you.

Blues 1
You
catch my breath with your walking

a calf moves closer to its mother
(slumbering)

some brother leaves his home
to bring me what I need.
It doesn't work & I call you back -

Sugar - I call you Sugar

no rest in my slumber
no sugar in my bowl.

Blues 2

Such accidents do happen
dancing: she says
I'm dancing beneath your loving blow
so I stagger

staggered, he says no:
it wasn't a blow
it was a brush - feather light;
I fly round the world for your gold

another time
she tries so hard
to make him well,
it makes her sleepy

more lately
they share their tricks
but never their secrets
set in codes, dark and changing.
They can barely read what they say, 
and when they do, they forget.

Skipping sleep on the way to palm sunday...

For reasons beyond my knowledge, I couldn't sleep last night. Lord knows I tried, but at 3 AM, then 4:30 AM and finally 5:45 AM I was groggy but awake. I got a lot of reading and thinking done, but I would have preferred rest. 

This day was given to writing - some for Palm Sunday - and a lot for Holy Week. I don't know how clergy do it leaving their reflections for Saturday night. I guess some people thrive - or are addicted - to stress, but it just makes me crazy. I need to work my way through study and prayer in a deliberate way early in the week so that I can walk around with my message well in advance of Sunday. Here's my brief reflection for this Sunday to be shared before our long multi-person rendering of the Passion Narrative. Thanks be to God for both Walter Wangerin and Ayanna John Watkins. We will use Wangerin's "Way of the Cross" reader's theater to proclaim the Passion Narrative. And I found the article by Ms. Watkins in the current Christian Century profound and insightful. Both servants guided my prayers and thoughts about Palm Sunday with their deep wisdom and faith.

+

The whole movement of this day in worship, Palm Sunday 2015, urges us to recall how easily our expectations are disappointed – and how such disappointments can become deadly.  We like to believe that we are in control.  We often act as if we know what is needed – or what will help – when life goes south and we’re hurting or afraid.  We go through life certain that we truly know what kind of change would really make a difference in our finances, our health, our politics and just about everything else.  In a word, most of the time most of us are so full of ourselves that there isn’t room for God’s still, small voice to be heard in our hearts.

+ So Jesus comes to us today on a donkey – not a stallion, not a Humvee, not a Mercedes or a private jet – a donkey. 

+ Like the disciples, we have orchestrated a parade for our man – a public display of affection and commitment – because we LOVE parades. In our community we have a parade for everything:  Halloween, the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving. I’ve never lived in a place that loves a parade as much as our town. All of our political leaders – and many of our economic and civic institutions – come out for these parades.  Intuitively we know that these are times for celebration, times to show what binds us together, times to honor our past even as we march into the future.  

Parades also point to a culture’s expectations – they paint a picture of what we honor and value – they offer a very clear public portrayal of those things we hold near and dear to our hearts. They speak volumes about how we understand the world to work - and Jesus shows up on a donkey. In fact, Jesus chose a donkey – a young, inexperienced one at that according to the Scriptures – so at the start of Holy Week I need to tell you that the donkey matters more than the parade in this story.

The Hebrew prophets often used symbols to speak God’s truth in ways that cut deeper than words:  the prophet Ezra once tore his outer garments and pulled out some of his hair and beard to express God’s sadness over the destructive habits of the people; King David wore ashes and sackcloth as he mourned the loss of Abner, commander of King Saul’s army; and John the Baptist’s chose to wear a shirt of camel hair tied with a leather belt to remind Israel of Elijah, God’s prophet who came to proclaim the coming of the Messiah.  So let’s be clear that when Jesus chose to ride the donkey into this parade, he was acting with prophetic symbolism.

Specifically he was telling this disciples and the whole of Jerusalem that he – and God – would NOT “ride above their sins and suffering.”  God is with you in all your fear and sadness – in all your trials and pain – and if you have any doubt look at this donkey! (Ayanna Johnson Watkins, Christian Century, March 18, 2015)

+ It is the beast of peace – not war or power – it is a beast of burden not ceremony or parades. And I am riding it. I am not towering above you, I am not putting on airs, I am here on your level looking into your eyes with love.

+ Remember what the prophets called Jesus before he was born? Emmanuel – God is with you – not above you or beyond you – but the God who is with you. That’s what the donkey is all about:  God is with you.

Now in the moment – in the midst of the parade – almost nobody grasped the meaning of this

prophet symbol. They wanted a STRONG, powerful Messiah who would not only physically vanquish the Roman occupation troops, but restore Israel to a place of power and prestige. And Jesus showed up on a donkey: no wonder after first shouting, “Hosanna” the crowd quickly takes up the chant: "Crucify, crucify, crucify that man!"

+ Their expectations were not only disappointed by that damn donkey, they were shattered.  But that’s the way God works. God doesn't give in to our expectations nor does God feed them; most of the time, God turns our desires and wants upside down and tells us:  this is where I am – in your sorrow, in your confusion, in your disappointment – on a donkey.

+ Like you and me, the disciples missed all of this on Palm Sunday – and quite frankly throughout the rest of what we now know as Holy Week, too – they let their expectations blind them. But, in time they got it. And in that there is hope and grace for each and all of us.

So today we open the door to a week of walking in the way of that donkey – Holy Week invites us to let go of our expectations about God’s power in order that we might experience the presence of God’s love in our ordinary lives.  In that spirit, I invite you to come to the Lord’s Table, to share your gifts for ministry and open your hearts to meet the Lord as we break ordinary bread with one another…

credits:

1) stphilipsoconnor.org.au

2) www.textweek.com

3) www.slideshare.net

Aching to go...

Our "countdown to May 1st Sabbatical calendar" tells me that it is 5 weeks, 38 days and 919 hours before we leave. I've been reading jazz poems for the last few days and now I am sipping tea and savoring three of them on a frigid but sunny afternoon in the Berkshires. My work at church over for the day, I leave soon to give a "paper" tonight at our men's club about syncopation, call and response and improvisation in jazz. I am aching to leave. Holy Week is coming. I am aching to go - and there are 5 weeks, 38 days and 919 hours to go before we leave. For now the poems and the songs are solace.

Jazz Dancer - Cornelius Eady
I have a theory about motion.
I have a theory about the air..
I have a theory about main arteries and bass lines.
I have a theory about Friday night,
Just a theory, mind you,
About a dry mouth and certain kinds of thirst
And a once-a-month bulge of money
   in a working pair of pants.

I have a theory about kisses,
The way a woman draws a man across a dance floor
Like a ship approaching a new world.
I have a theory about space
And what's between the space

And an idea about words,
A theory about balance and the alphabet,
A theory concerning electricity and the tendons,
A hunch about long glances from across a ballroom
Even though there's a man on her harm
Even though there's a woman on his arm

And Fire and the Ocean,
Stars and Earthquakes,
Explosions as sharp as new clothes
   of the rack.
When I leap,

Brushes strike the lip of a cymbal.
When I leap,
A note cuts through glass.
When I leap,

A thick finger drams on a bass string
And all that sweat,
All that spittle,
All those cigarettes and cheap liquor,

All that lighthearted sass and volcanism,
All that volatile lipstick,
All that

Cleaves the air the way a man and woman
Sweet-talk in a bed.
When I leap,
I briefly see the world as it is
And as it should be

And the street where I grew up,
The saxophones,
Kisses 
And mysteries among the houses

And my sister, dressing in fron of her mirror,
A secret weapon of sound and motion,
A missionary
In the war against
The obvious.

Soloing - Philip Levine
My mother tells me she dreamed
of John Coltrane, a young Trane
playing his music with such joy
and contained energy and rage
she could not hold back her tears.
And sitting awake now, her hands
crossed in her lap, the tears start
in her blind eyes. The TV set
behind her is gray, expressionless.
In is late, the neighbor's quiet,
even the city - Los Angeles - quiet.
I have driven for hours down 99,
over the Grapevine into heaven
to be here. I place my left hand
on her shoulder, and she smiles.
What a world, a mother and son
finding solace in California
just where we were told it would\
be, among the palm trees and all -
night super markets pushing orange
back-lighted oranges at 2 A.M.
"He was alone," she says, and does
not say, just as I am, "soloing."
What a world, a great man half
her age comes to my mother
in sleep to give her the gift
of song, which - shaking the tears
away - she passes on to me, for now
I can hear the music of the world
in the silence of that word:
soloing. What a world - when I
arrived the great bowl of mountains
was hidden in a cloud of exhaust,
the sea spread out like a carpet
of oil, the roses I had brought
from Fresno browned on the seat
beside me, and I could have
turned back and lost the music.

Speed Ball - Yusef Komunyakaa
Didn't Chet Baker know
They made each great white hope
Jump hoops of fire on the edge
Of midnight gigs that never happened?

Miles hipped him at The Lighthouse
About horse, said not to feel guilty
About Down Beat in '53. Chet stole
Gasoline to sniff, doctored with Beiderbecke's

Chicago style. But it wasn't long
Before he was a toothless lion
Gazing up at his face like a stranger's
Caught by tinted lens & brass. Steel -

Blue stare from Oklahoma whispering for
"A kind of high that scares everyone
To death." Maybe a bop angel, Slim
Greer, pulled him from that hotel window.

There is such romance, heartbreak and courage in these songs. They are defiant in the face of great odds and and at the same time so earthy, hopeful and real. I love them dearly.

Words and contemplation...

From time to time the words we read and write unlock another part of the sacred mystery. Words alone, of course, have their limitations when it comes to spirituality. After all, this is the realm of experience and encounters, not explanations. There is a place, however, for careful descriptions of God's peace that passes understanding that can clarify or correct our quest for intimacy with the Lord. Poetry and some spiritual prose can illuminate in ways that offer "aha" moments.

I think of the late Karl Rahner who wrote that "the answer to the question, 'Who is God?' is always 'love your neighbor.' "Faith, as Northrop Frye concludes, is not developed by 'clogging the air with questions of the 'does God really exist?' type and answering them with equal nonsense, but in working in words and other media toward... a peace infinite in both its source and goal.... (such words help you) genuinely transcend yourself in a properly incomprehensible
unselfishness, so then you will know what is meant by God if if you were never to hear the word or name God." (Ralph Heintzman, Rediscovering Reverence: the Meaning of Faith in a Secular World)

I received one such incomprehensibly unselfish epiphany yesterday while reading Richard Rohr's Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps. In a section entitled, "Four Assumptions About Addiction," Rohr writes:

Some form of alternative consciousness is the only freedom from (our false self) and from cultural lies. If the universal addiction is to our own pattern of thinking (too often 'stinking thinking') which is invariably dualistic, the primary spiritual path must be some form of contemplative practice, once just called 'prayer,' to break down this unhelpful binary system of either-or thinking... Praying is changing your operating system. When religion does not move people to the mystical or non-dual level of consciousness it is more a part of the problem than any solution whatsoever... it is largely incapable of its supreme task of healing, reconciling, forgiving and peace-making. When religion does not give people an inner life or a real prayer life, it is missing its primary vocation.

Now I have long known - and sometimes even practiced - various forms of "letting go" in prayer. Sometimes this is playing certain songs or types of music. At other times it has included deep Centering Prayer. Or sitting meditation that is grounded by praying the Psalms. I have known experientially that when I have cultivated a reservoir of grace through regular contemplative prayer, I am more at peace and better able to manage the challenges and stress of real life. When my inner life becomes more sporadic, my focus and presence in each day becomes less peaceful. 

Through prayer I have tasted and seen something of God's liberation experience, but until I read the words Rohr wrote I didn't comprehend why this was true - and now I do.  The contemplative path interrupts my own pattern of thinking long enough for the deep truths of grace to take up residence. As Fr. Keating says of centering prayer, it is sacred psychology taking place at a profound level. It is changing how we think and what we think about; it is building up a reservoir of peace within that can be tapped into whenever it is most needed. Prayer interrupts my addictive thoughts and gives me time with an alternative consciousness born of grace. Over time and practice, my old stinking thinking is replaced by gracious thinking. In another place Rohr puts it like this: what you resist, persists.

I give thanks to those who wrestle hard with language so that people like me might discover an epiphany - and grow closer to the One who is Holy.  Here's a poem the obliquely grasps this very truth:  A Life of Sundays by Rodney Jones.

Down the street, someone must be praying, and though I don’t

Go there anymore, I want to at times, to hear the diction

And the tone, though the English pronoun for God is obsolete—

What goes on is devotion, which wouldn’t change if I heard:

The polished sermon, the upright’s arpeggios of vacant notes.

What else could unite widows, bankers, children, and ghosts?

And those faces are so good as they tilt their smiles upward

To the rostrum that represents law, and the minister who

Represents God beams like the white palm of the good hand

Of Christ raised behind the baptistry to signal the multitude,

Which I am not among, though I feel the abundance of calm

And know the beatitude so well I do not have to imagine it,

Or the polite old ones who gather after the service to chat,

Or the ritual linen of Sunday tables that are already set.

More than any other days, Sundays stand in unvarying rows

That beg attention: there is that studied verisimilitude

Of sanctuary, so even mud and bitten weeds look dressed up

For some eye in the distant past, some remote kingdom

Where the pastures are crossed by thoroughly symbolic rivers.

That is why the syntax of prayers is so often reversed,

Aimed toward the dead who clearly have not gone ahead

But returned to prior things, a vista of angels and sheep,

A desert where men in robes and sandals gather by a tree.

Hushed stores, all day that sense a bell is about to ring—

I recognized it, waking up, before I weighed the bulk of news

Or saw Saturday night’s cars parked randomly along the curb,

And though I had no prayer, I wanted to offer something

Or ask for something, perhaps out of habit, but as the past

Must always be honored unconsciously, formally, and persists

On this first and singular day, though I think of it as last.

credits:
www.pxleyes.com
pastortimseals.com

It's a vision thing...

I have a vision - or is it a dream - of calling together a down-to-earth, no bullshit inter-faith potluck followed by a jazz performance. It could be part cosmic Eucharist, part "who makes the best hummus" contest and part life-meets-death meditation on the question "can I really listen to you in both the sound and the silence?"  I don't know all the details yet, but I have a hunch about some of the players: they have to love dogs and children, they have to know how to count and swing, they have to groove to that grace that is greater than themselves but is never limited to one brand name or another, they have to laugh at themselves even while striving for greater beauty in their art, they have to have "met" and "experienced" forgiveness - I mean the "taste and see" kind of encounter with the Divine that changes your life - they have to be playful but grounded and... they have to ache for tasting the common bread of life among all the broken peoples of the earth that exists even if only for a moment. 

I know some of these cats. I know others are out there, too. So I'm going to sit with this dream - or vision - for the next six months - especially during the time of our sabbatical (that starts in just 40 days, 965 hours and 57,922 minutes) and see what percolates while we're away and when we get back home. I know it has something to do with jazz - broadly defined - and breaking bread together and taking it out to others beyond a small circle of friends so that we start listening and talking and trusting one another. In a very earthy way. Fr. Richard Rohr says if it is too abstract - and too lofty - it is NOT the gospel. And I don't mean the gospel in any narrow way: I mean something like love supreme. 

Poet C.D. Wright put it like this in "The Secret Life of Musical Instruments."

Between midnight and Reno
the world borders on a dune.
The bus does not stop.

The boys in the band have their heads on the rest.
The dream like so-and-sos.

The woman smokes
one after another.
she is humming, "Strange Fruit."
There is smoke in her clothes, her voice,
but her hair never smells.

She blows white petals off her lapel,
tastes salt.
It is a copacetic moon.

The instruments do not sleep in their dark cribs.
They keep cool, meditate.
The have speech with strangers:

Come all ye faithless
young and crazy victims of love.
Come the low life and the highborn
all ye upside-down shitasses.

Bring your own light.
Come in. Be lost. Be still.
If you miss us at home
we'll be on our way to the reckoning.

Can we bring a traveling jazz potluck to a mosque? A synagogue? An African-American church Another country? Can we eat and talk to one another? Can we play deeply meditative jazz - and then some shake-yer-booty funk? Can we talk about what we feel and sense and know and experience in the music? And the meal? And our prayers? And our life together? We are all victims of love. Sometimes we've been low life and other times highborn and always we are upside-down shitasses.

Someone asked me recently, "Why do you want to quit doing your work with the institutional church?"  That is NOT what I said - or meant. Yes, I don't have the stomach for the politics or the bureaucracy. Oh well... what I really mean is that it is just time for somebody else to do those things - not me. I have other things I want to do cuz this a vision thing - a dream thing - a thing about my heart. It is something like the prophet said oh so long ago: "I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young shall see visions." I have a dream... let's see how it blossoms.

Going into the emptiness...

When Nora Gallagher wrote about what she wants/needs from a church - or a community of support or a collection of people woven together by faith, hope and love - she touched something deep inside me. Her description of her own longing begins with the story of Jesus and his healing of a blind man from Bethsaida in Mark 8: 22-26. She puts it like this in Moonlight Sonata at the Mayo Clinic:

What I want... I see now is a look between human beings that says we are knitted together, standing in a circle, holding each other up, waiting for the next ax to fall, rather than persons following a crowned Jesus, believing in an oppressive creed and tinny, false hope.  That "religion" is about wanting the thing to last forever and make the pain go away. The reality is, instead, more about Jesus kneeling in the dust making a paste of spit and dirt. The reality is much more raw.

Truth be told, I haven't paid much attention to this story over the years, most likely because my own health has been solid and good. But in going back to it I see new significance in this seemingly small but earthy event in a long forgotten place. There is archaeological debate about the exact location of the historic Bethsaida - most scholars think it existed east of the Jordan River in the north of Israel (what is now the Golan Heights) on the Sea of Galilee - but we know that it was known as the House of Fishing in Aramaic (beth-tsaida) and was the home of Philip, Andrew, Peter, James and John (disciples of Jesus.) It was also the locale for an event the New Testament calls the miracle of the loaves and fishes where 5,000 were fed.

Gallagher tells us that when she was in the midst of her most unsettling confusion concerning the possible loss of her vision, she walked a labyrinth. It was an act of faith outside the traditional church and an act of hope while in exile from the religious rituals that had once been so comforting. When she got to the center, she remembered two things: the first time her husband spoke the word "we" in solidarity with her medical fears, and, the story of Jesus kneeling beside the blind man from Bethsaida. She writes of her thoughts from within the labyrinth like this:

I picture again the blind man in Bethsaida. He sat beside the road begging, alone. More than alone, defiled. Jesus took him by the hand and led him. I had thought of this as Jesus helping him, or, healing him, the holy man looking after the poor beggar. But just then I felt, rather than saw, that that was not what happened that day. Instead, this blind man felt someone take his hand and walk with him. He felt someone put his hand over his eyes. He understood that someone had joined him in his suffering. Someone had said, "we."

More and more I feel this, too. It is a longing for "we" - it is a quiet and tender meeting in compassion - it is the embrace of real people who own their brokenness while being open to a love greater than our wounds.  As I've noted on other occasions, I most often experience this sacred "we" - the great I AM as some have called it - while making music. Playing Bill Evans' "Peace Piece" with Carlton at a recent funeral was emotionally cleansing and spiritually healing. Singing/playing "Deep Within" with my band mates earlier this month opened my heart to the holy.

At the start of Lent we added a "time for contemplation in sound, silence and song" to the heart of worship and I think we will continue with it after Easter. This part of the liturgy begins with the Psalm of the day and a sung antiphon. It is followed by the morning's gospel. Then for 5-7 minutes we sing some of the songs of Taize, light candles in prayer and sit together in silence. In ways that are still a mystery to me, this shared act of contemplation not only grounds me in God's grace in ways that I need, but also prepares my heart to speak to the gathered faithful. As someone said to me a few weeks ago, there is so little silence and quiet in my world; this feels like a reprieve from the busyness. I couldn't agree more.

Jean Vanier of the L'Arche Communities has said, "What is the impossible? It is liberation: to liberate people from the demons of fear, of loneliness, of hatred and of egoism that shackle them. To liberate people so that they also can love, heal and liberate others. In order to do that, you must go in poverty and experience the life of God flowing within your own flesh." Gallagher would add that you must sense the solidarity of "we" - the quiet assurance that you are not alone - that God's grace is greater than any of our wounds. I know that is why the song by David Hass, "Deep Within" evokes a sense of serenity within me. It reminds me that I don't need more information to follow Jesus. I don't need more encouragement to become more engaged in the world either. Mostly what I need is the refreshment of grace and the food of forgiveness and then I can't help but respond in gratitude.

Richard Rohr closes his book, Falling Upward, with this sage advice: do not waste a moment of time lamenting poor parenting, lost jobs, failed relationships, physical handicaps, gender identity, economic poverty or even the tragedy of abuse. PAIN IS PART OF THE DEAL. If you don't walk into the second half of your own life - where you can learn from your failings and wounds - it is YOU who do not want it. God will always give you exactly what you truly want and desire.  So make sure you desire - desire deeply - desire yourself, desire God, desire everything good, true and beautiful.

Rumi writes that the longing - the emptiness and aching - is part of the answer: so listen to it, trust it, honor it and go deep into its silence.

credits:
1) labyrinthsinstone.com
2) www.episcopalcafe.com

A bright sadness...

This may sound like a rant to some, and perhaps it is knowing that our

shadows often obscure the truth from us. But it feels more like a lament. I will trust the wisdom of your replies even as I listen to the emptiness of my own heart, too. Simply put: I am done with working towards reform within the institutional church. It doesn't really matter whether I am talking about my once beloved United Church of Christ, my liturgical affection for the Anglicans or my love/hate relationship with Roman Catholicism. The time has come for me to say: not my circus, not my monkeys.

Don't get me wrong: I am not going into early retirement (yet) nor advocating a breach of covenant with those I love and respect in the local churches of my community. Not at all. My own small congregation continues to faithfully struggle to be the Body of Christ and I see that happening on the local scene all around me. Not so much with the wider church. So even as I give thanks to God that the Presbyterians have found a way to widen their loving embrace - they just officially collected enough votes to support full gender equality and marriage justice - and continue to rejoice in the ministry of Pope Francis I, it is time for me to step back from participating in the larger structures and let others take up the cause. 

From the vantage point of my journey in faith, caring for my denomination no longer matters to me. Some celebrate the United Church of Christ as a champion of progressive theology and radical social justice. I don't disagree. But these days it also strikes me as a bloated bureaucracy entrenched in irrelevancy and self-righteousness. On too many levels, the "wider church" maintains no meaningful connection with local congregations and precious little interest in developing them. Our official proclamations on social justice sound shrill and self-serving to me as they are so rarely born of grassroots organizing. We continue to practice a top-down, theological elitism that transcends race and gender. And we apparently have no interest in changing. Over the past few years I have heard myself saying: we like to eat our young, slander our servants and reward our hacks. That is too cynical - although true - and I hear both my grief and weariness speaking. I know that there are good and loving people all through the super-structure. So let me pray for them, but get out of the way, too.

Richard Rohr suggests that such impatience and frustration is normal and natural. As our faith journeys deepen, he writes, it used to be that you "could go off to the side (at this stage of life) and become a monk or a nun, but now even religious life suffers from the same institutionalization" that so wearies so many of us. What I am discovering - and finding words to describe - has much more to do with me than the institutional church. Yes, I am sad that so much of the work I have done over the past 30+ is over. I am already missing it. 

But such is the "bright sadness" of this stage of faith. It is time to let go of even more of the busyness of my life so that I might go deeper into the calling of my contemplative heart. Small wonder this sabbatical is saturated in music, prayer, poetry, rest and caring for my deepest loves, yes? Rohr writes:

Silence (is often) the only language spacious enough to include everything and is what keeps us from slipping back into dualistic judgments and divisive words. Poets like Gerard Manley Hopkins, Mary Oliver, David Whyte, Denise Levertov, Naomi Shihab Nye, Rilke and T.S. Eliot now name your own inner experience... Mystics like Rumi, Hafiz, Kabir, John of the Cross, Therese of Lisieux, Baal Shem Tov, Lady Julian of Norwich and Rabia will speak to you perhaps more than people from your own tradition ...Like Jesus, you may soon feel as though you have 'nowhere to lay your head,' while a whole set of new heads are now making sense to you! This is true politically, too. In fact, if your politics do not become more compassionate and inclusive, I doubt you are on the second half of the journey.

When I read Rohr's words in Falling Upward two nights ago, I actually laughed out loud. I had just finished reworking our Good Friday liturgy that conflates the words of Christ's passion narrative with the poetry of... Naomi Shihab Nye, Mary Oliver, Robert Bly, T.S. Eliot, Denis Levertov and Allen Ginsberg. What's more, earlier this week I was rereading Wiesel's book on the Jewish mystics, Souls on Fire. I give thanks today for wise elders who are able to help aging mystics like me discern where we are in life's journey. There are seasons for engagement and seasons for solitude, yes? To everything turn, turn, turn...

Being clear about what we might do next after Israel's election...

As hard as it is for me - and it is hard for us all - as both the Serenity Prayer and the wisdom of Meister Eckhart make clear:  reality is the will of God - it can always be better - but we must always start with what is real. I note this given the sobering and sad results of the recent election in Israel. I say sad, of course, for those of us who cherish shalom and ache for authentic loving kindness to be extended to Palestine. For the time being, reality makes clear this is not to be. The Serenity Prayer is quick to point out, however, that there is a wisdom that knows how to discern between what must be accepted as immovable and what must be changed. Two recent articles speak to this:

+ The first, from The Jewish Forward, was written by Jay Michaelson, and is entitled: "We Might Have Lost - But We Were Right about Bibi." I share it for your consideration.

Obviously, the Israeli election was a disaster for Jews everywhere who favor making peace with the Palestinians. But as much as we lost, and lost badly, we should also learn to say three words. We were right.

We were right when we said that Har Homa, the East Jerusalem neighborhood, was built there to block a Palestinian state. We were right when we said that settlements were bleeding Israel’s economy dry, far more than official statistics let on, while the Jewish state shredded its social safety net. We were right when we said that Benjamin Netanyahu never really wanted a two-state solution.

We were right when we said that he and his allies do not regard Arab citizens as equal, and play on Israeli fear, racism, and hatred. We were right when we said that the right is made not of hawks, but of ostriches, their heads in the sand, ignoring demographic and political realities, and running counter to Israel’s own intelligence services — all in the name of extreme nationalism.

For all these assertions, we and our allies in Israel were pilloried by the Supposed Jewish Mainstream , or SJM as I’ll refer to them, that numerical minority of the Jewish community represented by the flag-waving nationalists at the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, the boards of most federations and the donor lists of many (most?) synagogues. They said we were naive, stupid, anti-Israel, anti-Jewish.

But in the waning hours of the 2015 election, Prime Minister Netanyahu expressly validated all but one of these assertions — with disclosures from the World Zionist Organization confirming the other assertion about the economics of settlement growth. Of course, as with everything Netanyahu says, it’s best not to believe him too much. Just as his Iran speech was intended, as Paul Krugman aptly put it, to wag the dog away from economic issues and toward security ones, so, too, his barrage of far-right statements was aimed more at gaining votes for his party than at anything else. By opposing a Palestinian state, denying the citizenship of Arab Israelis and bragging about settlements, Netanyahu made it easier for voters for the far-right Jewish Home to choose his party instead.

But he still said all those things, and they cannot be unsaid. This changes the American Jewish reality.

First, the SJM can no longer pretend that it is supporting peace by supporting Revisionist Zionism, a movement that was co-founded by Netanyahu’s father and that for 75 years has consistently rejected peace with Arabs and insists on Jewish dominance by force. We were right, SJM: Your guy is a liar. His strategy, other than to win elections, is exactly what we have said it is: consolidate Greater Israel, settle in for a long occupation, shift the focus elsewhere and fight endless skirmishes, like last summer’s adventure in Gaza.

So, SJM — and my friends who claim to be pro-peace but still go to AIPAC conferences — you now have to choose. It’s one or the other. Either you support a revisionist regime that is racist and rejectionist (and re-elected with enormous influxes of Adelson cash), or you support the Zionist dream of Herzl and Ben-Gurion. It’s time to choose.

And to my friends in the pro-peace camp, it’s time to take off the gloves. Or, if you prefer an androcentric metaphor, it’s time to man up and grow a pair. Conveniently, J Street’s conference comes just a few days after the election, in Washington, D.C. To them, I say, enough of the policy of coexistence with the SJM, AIPAC and nationalistic partisans. You can’t coexist unilaterally, after all, and the SJM has never returned the favor. [It won’t let you into its undemocratic, self-congratulatory, money-wasting “Presidents Council.” It won’t let Hillel’s president enter the Walter E. Washington Convention Center when you’re there. They think you’re treyf.

So start acting like it.

Make it clear: You reject Revisionist Zionism, and those who support it have spent too long in the Disney-like Israel of Taglit-Birthright Israel and not enough time in international geopolitical reality.

Make it clear: You want the Obama administration to pressure Israel.

And make it clear that Revisionist Zionism is morally and politically wrong. Sure, it feels good to wave Israeli flags and reflect on the Zionist miracle. Nationalism, patriotism and ethnocentrism often feel good. They express a basic human desire to be part of a group. But that doesn’t make it right, or smart, to do so. Wave too many flags and you’re going to hit each other in the head — which is what the SJM has done.

Because just as we were right about Netanyahu, we are right about one other thing: Israel’s greatest patriots are threatening Israel’s existence.

In the name of catering to a base that is part racist, part deluded, part terrified and part messianic, revisionists are creating a pariah state. Like their American friends in the Tea Party, they are deluded by patriotism. Their hearts have gotten the better of their minds.

We were right about the right’s intentions; Netanyahu has proved that.

And we are right that his Israel will become a pariah state. Alas, time will prove that too.

+ The second comes from Churches for Middle East Peace and tells of the challenge currently facing those in Gaza who need to rebuild their homes after last summer's war.  What is at stake is simple: those whose homes have been destroyed need shelter. There is a way to do this even with Israel's impositions on supplies and equipment.  You can act to help. Please  read the whole article here - and response as you can from your heart: : http://action.cmep.org/p/dia/action3/common/public/?action_KEY=19822

Thank you for your love and consideration.