tell me by what you do...

Not long ago I was smitten by Krista Tippett's interview with Padraig O'Tuama on the radio show ON BEING. (For more information, please go to: http://www.padraigotuama. com) Maybe it was because we were driving home from Brooklyn after the blessed news of Louie's recovery from 
meningitis was confirmed - and he was going home. It might have had something to do with my affinity for spiritual leaders who help bridge the gaps between people in conflict; O'Tuama's work with Corrymela in Belfast in one such blessing in a world too torn apart. And it might actually be grounded in O'Tuama's gift for gab: he is, after all, a Celtic poet with a love for nuance. He knows that sound and meaning can dance around together and bring to birth new possibilities. I am still not certain why it all came together for me that afternoon, but I am still smitten. Take, for example, this poem:

Affirmative Action

In the Irish language, there is not a word for ‘yes’. There is
not a word for ‘no’ either.

You can only answer in the affirmative – you can say ‘I
will’, or ‘I won’t’. You can say ‘I can’. You can say ‘I am’
or ‘I am not.

It is appropriate that a language so poetic as to suggest
a bridge between the world for exile and the word for
weeping would be rooted in an earthy solidity that requires
answers to be linked to an action. Affirmative answers are
indicated by action.

Let your yes be yes and your no be no.

Let your yes be seen in your doing.

Let your no be not-doing.

If you say yes, but do-not-do, it is a no.

So, forget all your talk.

Tell me by what you do.

Doesn't this ring true? Now is the time for those of us of faith to simply let go of the BS and tell one another what is most important by what we do.
Earlier this afternoon, O'Tuana got to me again when he wrote:

The call (of the sacred) is to go beyond (obligation)... "I pray God rid me of God" Peter Rollins is fond of quoting, and he's right. Our ideas of God sometimes get in the way of the truth that we are already acting upon, and God is the excuse that hides the lie. The deepest impulse of religion is to move from obligation to something entirely more intuitive - the telling of truth, the doing of truth, the living of a life, the confrontation of what we truly want.

easter 2017: pay day...

My Easter homily for this year. I had written a more formal and traditional message during my away time in Ottawa ten days ago. But the more time I spent on the story I retell below, the more it was clear I was speaking to a non-traditional group of seekers. So, I scrapped the old one, reworked the biblical studies and set it up like this...

Introduction
There’s a story I want to tell you this Easter morning – a story of hope and a little bit of healing in the middle of an ordinary life – but first I need to set the stage. And let me say right out of the gate that because this is the Feast of the Resurrection – THE most sacred day in the Christian tradition – I want to give you what I’ve come to trust is the essence of Easter: intimacy with our Lord Jesus. So bear with me for a moment…

About 10 days ago I walked into a club in Ottawa, Canada and a white bluesman was playing this exact tune. To paraphrase the late Otis Redding: I’ve been loving the sound of this song too long – at least for 50 years. It’s by Mississippi John Hurt, a sly and humble little guitar player from Avalon, MS, who owns a style of playing called “country blues.” It’s country because it tends towards the quiet and gentler sounds – finger picking the strings – but it’s the blues too because it’s about living with the disappointments of life while hanging on to the possibility that things could get better.

Well I did all I could do, and I can’t get along with you
Gonna take you to your momma come pay day
Pay day – pay day – gonna take you to your momma come pay day

Now here’s the thing about country blues: there’s no blame and no shame in these songs. Just the heart of things simply stated: life can be tough and things don’t always work out at first. So, come pay day, you have to regroup, get another chance and move on. The second verse makes this even clearer.

Well the rabbit’s in the log, I ain’t got no rabbit dog
And I hate to see that rabbit get away
Get away – get away, Lord, Lord – and I hate to see that rabbit get away

No blame and no shame going on here, just a little sorrow mixed with a taste of ironic humor and set to a sweet, mellow tune…

Insights
The great, Alberta Hunter, gospel and jazz singer extraordinaire once said: “The blues means what milk does to a baby. The blues is what the spirit is to the preacher. We sing the blues because our hearts have been hurt and our souls have been disturbed… but this ain’t the end of the story.” Bono of U2 called the Psalms of the Bible written by King David the first Jewish blues song for they describe the aching of the human heart and flesh with stunning clarity even as they reach out to the Lord for comfort. Today’s Psalm puts it like this: We may be hurting, but suffering is not our only reality; we may be frightened, but our limited imagination does not inhibit the Lord; for even our stumbling blocks can become the source of new faith and blessing if we have eyes to see.

And this takes me back to the story I started to share at the outset: when I walked into that blues club in Ottawa and heard this very song being sung by John Carroll, I knew something was up. Something special was brewing. Something infused with the holy in the midsts of this all too human joint – I just didn’t know what it was. 

So I ordered a glass of French red wine, a small appetizer salad and sat back in anticipation – and let me tell you what happened. The cat playing the blues was really good – amazingly good – bigly good! And that was treat enough. I’ve been to enough dives to know that the quality of the music can often be… let’s say uneven in these places. But his music was well-honed and masterfully executed. He did songs by the Rev. Fred McDowell like “See That My Grace Is Kept Clean,” a number of originals as well as a wildly entertaining take on Talking Heads.

After about an hour, things were kind of slow so the waitress sat down at my small table and began talking about her day. I can’t tell you why she chose an old guy like me – maybe she thought I was Arlo Guthrie, I don’t know – but she started to tell me how hard it was to be a young woman working in a blues club. Too many guys get trashed and act out; too many women treat her with disdain because she’s young and cute. And too many people in general don’t tip enough. I didn’t exactly grasp what was happening in this conversation for a few minutes, but then it hit me: this was a secular confession. After all, it was almost Holy Week, and she was talking to me about the state of her soul. So I started to listen more carefully. Now please understand that she had no idea that I was clergy.

I don’t go around wearing clerical collar or a robe – especially in a blues bar – but she needed to unburden herself during the break… and I was paying attention. There were two things that were confessed that evening that hit me hard. Working in a blues bar has caused her to construct a high wall around her heart in order to get through her day. “I need really high boundaries” she continued “so that I don’t get jerked around. Let’s just say I’ve learned this the hard way.” My reply had something to do with the story of Adam and Eve in Genesis: “You know that story in the Bible about Adam and Eve being kicked out of the Garden of Eden? It’s like what you were talking about,” I told her. “A double whammy – they received knowledge of good and evil – they learned how the real world works – but it was a costly lesson, too for they gave up some peace and innocence. Wisdom,” I said ruefully “always comes with a high price.”

She pondered that for a moment in silence and then something that blew me away: with a real sadness – a genuine case of the blues – she told me that she’d tried going to church but it didn’t work out. “Too much judgment there. When people found out I worked in blues bar all they could say was that I had surrounded myself in sin and was corrupting my own soul. It was a Pentecostal Church,” she added, “and I loved the mix of people and the music. But damn – all that judgment and shame – I couldn’t take it even though I wanted to get closer to God’s love.”

And THAT, dear people, is my point for Easter Sunday – and maybe for the rest of my time on God’s green earth: Jesus would have hated what happened to that young waitress. He did not come to the earth or go to the cross to fill us with more guilt and shame. He came to set us free for joy. He came to sing the blues with us so that we might know that suffering is NOT the end of the story. So I told her as the blues man was getting ready to start his second set: “What happens in many churches would make Jesus throw up. But don’t give up. God’s love for you is stronger than the stupidity of the church.” She returned a quiet and vulnerable smile and then brought me a little more wine – on the house – before getting back to work.

And I can’t quit thinking about this confession as it relates to our gathering today on Easter Sunday. So let me suggest to you three “take aways” that have been strengthened in my heart. 

First, so many of the people all around us are lonely, afraid and filled with a shame that the church should be cleansing not reinforcing but we're not paying attention.  Fr. Richard Rohr recently wrote: When Christians defined Jesus on Easter in a small way—as a mere problem solver for human sin—we soon became preoccupied with sin itself, which is a largely negative foundation. We became blind to so much else that was going on in this world except sin and its effects, that sin became the preoccupation of monks as well as reformers. One well- known Protestant preacher actually spoke of “total depravity” to characterize the human situation; another said of human nature that we are “a pile of manure covered with the snow of Christ.” With such a negative anthropology and without a place for inherent human dignity, it is very hard for even a good theology to succeed. Grace can only build on—and perfect—nature; it cannot undo it, says a deeper truth. That is why we must start where the Bible begins in Genesis 1: “When God created It was good, it was good . . . it was very good. Our focus on shame and guilt, atonement and reparation, as if we were children frightened of an abusive father must be up-ended and deep-sixed so that we start sharing the gospel of grace and hope rather than our obsession on shame.

Second, any place can become a holy place – even a blues bar or the burial place of Jesus – if we have our eyes open and expect God to show up like the women who went to the Lord’s tomb in anticipation. Unlike the other gospels, Matthew tells us that the women went in anticipation of something life changing. They had been silent for most of this story – watching and waiting – listening carefully to both the Lord’s teaching while he was alive and the promises he gave foreshadowing his death. For them as well as for you and me, greeting the resurrection requires both a profound inner stillness as well as a sweeping commitment to trusting that God’s steadfast love that endures forever will show up in the most unexpected places. When I walked into that club in Ottawa I wasn’t anticipating anything profound until I was awakened by the blues – and then I found myself hearing a secular confession and offering the blessing of absolution to a wounded waitress. Whoda thunk it?

And that brings me to the third take away for Easter Sunday: the women in our story today are well schooled in paying attention and providing for those all around them. Professor of New Testament theology at Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis, Holly Hearon, writes: 

When the women are first introduced in Matthew’s gospel we learn that they have followed Jesus from Galilee and have “provided” for him. That word “provide” (Greek: diakonei from which we get the word deacon) reveals a good deal about these women because it is used for only s a highly select group of souls. After Jesus had been tempted in the wilderness, angels come and “provide” for him (4:11). The next person to “provide” for Jesus is Peter’s mother-in-law after she has been raised from her sickbed (8:15). And in Mt. 25:44 the sheep are those who “provide” for Jesus by tending all who are hungry, thirsty, strangers, sick, or imprisoned.

Think about that: angels, those who have tasted healing not shame and isolation, and people who have learned how to see the face of Jesus in the least of these our sisters and brothers are identified as those who provide a measure of God’s grace to a broken world in Matthew’s story. On Easter, the women from Galilee are joined to the great cloud of witnesses who keep the love of Jesus flowing. The (male) disciples never come near this word. In fact, the only other person associated with the word diakonei in Matthew’s gospel is Jesus himself, who declares that he has come into the world not to be provided for, but to provide others with blessings for the healing of the world (20:28). These women were no latter day tag-alongs. They have been intimately bound to Jesus from the very first days in Galilee. And in following him, have pursued the path of discipleship that Jesus’ himself models.

Conclusion
Every day as I wrestle with the pain of the world – from the fear-mongering, saber-rattling antics of this hour to the cynical gassing to death of Syrian children and famine in Sudan – I hear Jesus singing the blues. I hear his heart breaking with a grief that causes me to weep along with him. I hope you are weeping, too and not too busy for Christ’s tomb in our day. 

At the very same time of my tears, however, I also hear the women of the Easter story calling to me me: if you hear the blues, man, pay attention because the blues always lead you to some place unexpected. You could find yourself blessed by some extraordinarily beautiful soul music in an unexpected club in Ottawa. Or maybe be called upon to provide a little compassion and encouragement to a stranger who feels lost in the brokenness? 

Until last Thursday I would never have considered Mississippi John Hurt’s little country blues song a call to prayer, but the Spirit of the Lord has awakened my eyes to see and ears to hear. That’s what happens to the women who watch and wait in the spirit of Easter – even our blues become a way to provide for God’s grace in a broken world – and what was true for them once is true for us today.

good friday 2017...

On one of the walls in my study at home, I have hung an assortment of my favorite crosses and crucifixes. They hail from all over the world including Russia, Scotland, Mexico, France, Italy, Germany and the Congo. One was carved by the senior minister of my home church in anticipation of my ordination; the late Alfred Schmaltz made certain that I had his blessing even in absentia. 

In these later days of ordained ministry, I find I am experiencing a quiet and profound sadness in my soul that is simultaneously interwoven with a gentle sense of gratitude.  Last night I dreamt of times when I was furious with some of the people I have shared ministry with as well as other times when I was the source of failure and disappointment. This dream included loved ones dying - which filled me with dread - only for them to reappear more fully later at a banquet table for a feast. Small wonder I woke up exhausted. As Good Friday takes shape and form in my heart as well as in our Sanctuary, I look forward to gathering around a Cross and singing the meditative prayers of Taize in community. Letting go in order to trust the foolishness of the Cross is a work in progress for me - and probably for us all, yes? It recalls Denise Levertov's poem, "The Harrowing of Hell." 

Down through the tomb’s inward arch 

He has shouldered out into Limbo 

to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber: 

the merciful dead, the prophets, 

the innocents just His own age and those 

unnumbered others waiting here 

unaware, in an endless void He is ending 

now, stooping to tug at their hands, 

to pull them from their sarcophagi, 

dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas, 

neighbor in death, Golgotha dust still 

streaked on the dried sweat of his body 

no one had washed and anointed, is here, 

for sequence is not known in Limbo; 

the promise, given from cross to cross 

at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn. 

All these He will swiftly lead 

to the Paradise road: they are safe. 

That done, there must take place that struggle 

no human presumes to picture: 

living, dying, descending to rescue the just 

from shadow, were lesser travails 

than this: to break 

through earth and stone of the faithless world 

back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained 

stifling shroud; to break from them 

back into breath and heartbeat, and walk 

the world again, closed into days and weeks again, 

wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit 

streaming through every cell of flesh 

so that if mortal sight could bear 

to perceive it, it would be seen 

His mortal flesh was lit from within, now, 

and aching for home. He must return, 

first, in Divine patience, and know 

hunger again, and give 

to humble friends the joy 

of giving Him food—fish and a honeycomb.

I almost never try to explain the beauty and insight of this Holy Day, Good Friday, any more than I do Easter Sunday. In flesh and blood days like our own, we can only grasp a glimmer of its truth. Bonhoeffer asked that contemporary people of faith not give in to the impulse of either romantic mysticism or ignorant sentimentalism - especially as we embrace these sacred mysteries. Best not to even speak of that which we cannot yet comprehend. As St. Paul taught: now we see as through a glass darkly, later we shall see face to face. 

I trust this. I choose to trust this, too in spite of the obvious contradictions. Not because of doctrine or well-crafted theology or hymns. But rather because I have experienced in life a love greater than life or death. And this is why I choose to sit in silence and song with the Cross. Next year at this time I will not be leading worship. Next year at this time I will likely be with another gathering of pilgrims sitting in candle light before the Cross as a participant. Next year at this time so much will have changed within and beyond me. And so the journey into the foolishness of the Cross continues.

a lost cross...

This movement beyond traditional ministry is unsettling - as it should be, right? While I have experienced a variety of ups and downs over the past 40 years (including seminary internships) - and a plethora of wounds and blessings from the six congregations I have served (internships included) - this part of the journey feels like fresh and uncharted territory. More of a beginning, it seems, than an end. I wasn't expecting it at all.

Earlier this week the cross that hangs around my neck disappeared. I have had this one for over 20 years and treasure it. It was made by a First Nations artisan outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico and contains a small turquoise stone at the center.  After searching everywhere I put on another favorite cross made of desert wood from Tucson, Arizona that I have used for worship. It hails from the Desert House of Prayer on the edge of the Sonoran Desert. And before going to sleep on Wednesday, it too fell off. Later that week Di found my silver cross hiding under the radiator in the kitchen. "Hmmmm..." I mused to myself, "what's the deal with these missing and breaking crosses?"

I like to explore these things, ponder what my heart is telling me about my journey of faith through the songs I hear and the people I meet, so I've been listening for clues. One showed up in the spiritual memoir I'm reading by Padraig O'Tuama, In the Shelter.  He quotes a stanza from poet David Wagoner's poem, "Lost" that resonates right now:

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger.

O'Tuama is the spiritual leader of the Corymeela Community, a Christian witness to peace-making in Northern Ireland, as well as a poet and theologian.  His commentary on Wagoner's poem speaks to me as I encounter the newness of this time:

The truth of this poem is old truth. There are the places you wish to go, there are the places you desperately wish you never left, there are the places you imagine you should be, and there is the place called here. In the world of Wagoner's poem, it is the rooted things - trees and bushes - that tell the truth to the person who is lost, the person with legs and fear who wishes to be elsewhere. The person must stand still, feel their body still on the ground where they are, in order to learn the wisdom. This is not easy wisdom, it is frightening wisdom. In Irish, there is a phrase... that translates as 'for fear of fear.' It is true that there are some things that we fear, but that there is, even deeper, a fear of fear. So we are prevented from being here not only by being frightened of certain places, but by the fear of being frightened of certain places. So, 'stand still' the poet advises. Learn from the things that are already in the place where you wish you were not.

Some old things are falling away, it would seem, even as other old things reveal new possibilities. I felt genuinely "naked" without my old cross - and relieved when it was returned to my flesh. I spent three days in Ottawa last week mostly reading, writing and reflecting on my transition from one ministry into another that is still emerging. On either end of this retreat there were two days of driving. Five full days of quiet thinking. Next week, after the close of Holy Week and some necessary church administration, we leave for three weeks in Montreal. So much for standing still, right? 

Yet that's what the wisdom of the lost crosses feel like for me: letting go of treasured resources so that I might tenderly enter unexpected places to practice "sacramental listening." To be fully present in the Spirit of Jesus in the world seems to be part of being refreshed and new at this moment in my life. No longer fully rooted in an institution - or at least the institution I have cherished and served for the past 40 years - more like practicing the "religionless Christianity" Bonhoeffer advocated.

Tonight, I will gather with my small community for Holy Thursday Eucharist and Maundy Thursday tenebrae. The invitation from Jesus this night is to "love one another as I have loved you." That is, to be on our knees as servants of compassion in a broken world. That part of the tradition continues to feel right for me - a soft-spoken counter-cultural presence for peace amidst the macho madness of this hour is where I need to be  - so I will stand still in this liturgy and await what the wisdom may come from this grounding.  My favorite part of this holy night feels much like my old cross as we all sit for a spell in community before praying the Lord's Prayer in total darkness. It always feels like the first time. It always feels cleansing, threatening, and empty with a hint of hope. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

judas is the first to be forgiven...

Today I rewrote my Easter homily. I did all the research and crafted a fine message for Easter Sunday 2017 while I was in Ottawa last week. But something was haunting me about it being too "mainstream" in style and these times are anything but main stream. So acting on a hunch - the blowing of the Holy Spirit ? - I reworked my message so that it better fits what I sense the Spirit is saying to the churches through me. Then we rehearsed our Maundy Thursday "tenebrae" liturgy. This ancient monastic retelling of Christ's betrayal uses readings, song, silence and the extinguishing of candles and can be moving but needs careful orchestration lest it descend into sloppy sentimentality. 

This will likely be my final Holy Week and Easter serving this congregation. For me, it is a time filled with quiet fears and joys unlike any other. Tonight as I led the readers through the sacred texts of Holy Thursday - and collaborated with them one more time on the best way to choreograph the lighting with our faithful sexton - I... had a moment. I am grateful to be with this crew this year in ways that transcend words.

When I got home, I prepared my favorite fattoush salad for our supper and read these words from Buechner:

THE SOLDIERS ARE there with their swords and lanterns. The high priest's slave is whimpering over his wounded ear. There can be no doubt in Jesus' mind what the kiss of Judas means, but it is Judas that he is blessing, and Judas that he is prepared to go out and die for now. Judas is only the first in a procession of betrayers two thousand years long. If Jesus were to exclude him from his love and forgiveness, to one degree or another he would have to exclude humankind.

Maybe this is all in the mind of Jesus as he stands there with his eyes closed, or possibly there is nothing in his mind at all. As he feels his friend's lips graze his cheek, for an instant maybe he feels nothing else. It is another of his last times. On this last evening of his life he has eaten his last meal, and this is the last time that he will ever feel the touch of another human being except in torment. It is not the Lamb of God and his butcher who meet here, but two old friends embracing in a garden because they both of them know that they will never see one another again.

- Originally published in The Faces of Jesus

sacramental listening...

To follow-up on yesterday's musing: Henri Nouwen not only practiced but embodied "listening as a form of spiritual hospitality." What a gift this can be to those yearning to be honored and affirmed. It is my hunch that many people - young, old and in-between - are so lonely and ignored everyday that they literally ache for what I am starting to call "sacramental listening." Placing oneself as a tender and trustworthy ally, willing to hear the heart of another beyond the noise of shame, fear and the emptiness of culture, especially in unlikely places, strikes me as a way of bringing blessing into our broken reality. It is a quiet and cost effective way in which the Word becomes flesh through us.

That was my deep point re: why many bars and music venues seem more accepting and compassionate than churches. I am not saying that bars are more sacred than our houses of worship, they're just less judgmental. And as Fr. Richard Rohr has written: for too long the soul of Christianity has been shaped by shame, guilt and immature notions of atonement. The time is past due for us to grow up and celebrate the joy of the Lord - even in the most wounded among us. As Jung used to say:  when did we see Thee Lord and not love, clothe, feed and cherish you applies as much to each individual as it does to society.

Now this may strike some as weird but I have experienced BOTH AA and some wonderful bars as soul kitchens; they strengthen, support and nourish people when they are at their most vulnerable. So I love 'em both. In each setting I have found radical hospitality and unconditional acceptance in ways that are too often none existent in our faith communities.

retreat, reflection and the arrival of holy week 2017...

Part of last week was given to retreat: reading, writing and reflecting on our observance of Holy Week to come as well as my sabbatical of exactly two years ago in Montreal. I wrote up my review/conclusion as required by the Lilly Foundation grant and will share it with them after Easter Sunday. There were three surprises for me as I took the time to carefully reflect upon this journey:

+ First, while I knew I was growing weary of the day-to-day politics of

parish ministry, I had no idea that during this sabbatical I would discern that God was calling me out of the grind just as clearly as God had called me into it in 1968. Moving into a part-time ministry has been soul food for me - and I would not have gained the clarity to make this change had it not been for the four months away. The bone-rattling grief I experienced while facing the reality of re-entering public ministry was palpable in the closing days of my sabbatical. Clearly, the Holy Spirit was grabbing me by the soul - and throat - and screaming: "For Christ's sake (and your own) will you please take stock of all of this? Just as I called you by name to serve me in one manner, that is now ending. But know this, too: my claim to your life does not mean ministry is over. It is just changing." Knowing the exact form of this shift takes time - and is still emerging.

+ Second, during the first year after the sabbatical, much of my ministry was shaped by music.  We worked long and hard on our presentation of Paul Winter's marvelous "Missa Gaia" (Earth Mass) for November 2015. We also created two fascinating jazz improvisational liturgies for Christmas Eve 2015 and 2016. And then celebrated the 50th anniversary of John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" by fashioning another improvisational liturgy for Good Friday 2015. Oddly, the following year saw precious little musical innovation or collaboration. I was startled and sobered by this reality and have still not fully grasped all the reasons for this reality. Suffice it to say that when we wound up spending the second half of 2016 in an obsession with budgets, an ugly, wet blanket was thrown upon our collective creativity. This experience not only necessitated but exacerbated my move towards part-time ministry. It also continues to have a impact upon us all. Which is not to say that we haven't shared some incredible music or that individuals haven't been faithful or creative, but there has been precious little energy for collaboration this year. And we'll have to see where this leads as spring moves into summer and fall.

+ Third, as a result of my sabbatical - and last week's retreat - I am truly ready to get on with the call to use my musical gifts in the work of community building. I was speaking with a young waitress last week in Ottawa during a break in John Carroll's set who told me that from time to time she sometimes still goes to worship but feels she can't be her full and honest self in that community. "I like parts of church," she said with some embarrassment, "but if they knew I liked to go out to bars - or dressed like this (crop top t-shirt was part of uniform) and worked in a bar, they would be horrified. They'd judge me without knowing me and life is too short for that. So mostly I don't go any more." My reply was that all too often the church is full of shit and bars are more accepting and supportive. "This would have made Jesus crazy" I concluded, "but there you go..." 

I listened to a lot of music while on sabbatical - and a fair share last week in Ottawa, too - and know that there is a link between making certain types of music and feeding our need for community in service of the Spirit. Sadly, turning Sunday worship into entertainment is a lousy solution. So over the next few months I'm going to put together some alternatives that blend earthy music, poetry, silence, food and drink with helping others make the connections I hear so many people of all ages, races and genders talking about. 

Small wonder that I'm moving in this direction given that I experienced a call to ministry in the Potter's House (Church of the Savior.) It was (and is) an experimental coffee house born after WWII as an outreach to artists who had tons to say about a lonely and alienated world when the churches were not interested in listening to what they had to say. Like Paul Tillich learned after WWI when abstract expressionism came to light, it is often our artists who confront, name and challenge the hard issues of the day. The dominant church tends to keep its head buried in the sand while artists wrestle with the ugly pain of war, race hatred, sexual exploitation and the growing divide between the rich and the poor. The Potter's House brought artists together with people of faith (some of whom had just returned from WW II) for conversation, creativity and compassion. I heard the call two months after Dr. King's assassination in that hallowed place and it still reverberates in my soul all these years later.

The Spirit continues to be right:  one door closes on ministry even as another starts to open.  So onwards to Holy Week - and then a time for more reflection and music in Montreal.

reflection on palm sunday 2017...

NOTE:  Our small ecumenical cadre of Christians and seekers will gather on Sunday, April 9th @ 10:15 am on Park Square for a shared blessing of the palms. From there we will process back to our respective Sanctuaries and encounter the new/old story of Christ's passion. Prior to reading the Passion Narrative from Matthew in community, I will share something like this by way of introduction.

Introduction
On this day when we initiate a full week of contemplation on the Cross, there is no need for a sermon. Any attempt to summarize this multifaceted story – the very death of God – would only wind up simplifying or sentimentalizing something so profound that we might actually convince ourselves for a moment that we comprehend the foolishness of the Cross and the paradox of the Word made Flesh. As one colleague put it:

If our words communicate that a story like this is easily condensed, we risk communicating that Jesus’ whole story itself can be abridged into accessible and understandable digests; when Jesus does not bring salvation with précises but through his presence in our lives and the promises that that presence creates” in our complex and nuanced lives. (Karoline Lewis, Working Preacher)

What I am learning these days from the starting point of all theology and religious language beginning as auto-biography is that while the entire Passion Narrative is moving to me – and essential – certain parts of this story speak louder to me in different ways every time I confront it. And the better I listen to that part of the story and let it speak to my heart and mind and life, the more I trust that my encounters with God are just as real and valuable as those included in the Bible and our hymns.

· Are you with me on this? Do you hear what I’m trying to say here? What touches us in this story of the Lord’s Passion needs to be honored and strengthened so that we genuinely trust that our experiences of these events in our 21st century lives are of the Lord.

· You see, too often we hear these stories as a nostalgic but essentially irrelevant look backwards; we may even shed a pious tear or two without making the connection between what happened then and what is going on today.

But more than ever, we need to empower people to read the biblical texts and give witness to what they have seen and know. We need to embolden our one another to speak out and speak up when we see the Bible being used in ways it was never meant to be. We need to encourage those who come to worship to trust that their encounters with the living God are just as valuable as those whose voices seem louder. (Lewis, ibid)

We need to enable the faithful to call out decisions, executive orders and behaviors that do not line up with the God we have encountered in Jesus. And we need to endow people with power for proclamation, to pronounce loudly and boldly their own Palm/Passion Sunday witness.

Insight
This year, for example, I have found myself particularly riveted by the despair of Judas. You’ll hear his role in the story in a moment, but notice how trapped he becomes in his misery. Some of the Bible authors paint him as an agent of Satan but I don’t find that useful. People who hurt us are often demonized and trash talked without any second chances for healing or repentance. We do it to those who frighten us as well as those who confuse us – and we are particularly good at doing so with those who are weaker than ourselves. And look what happens to Judas in this double-bind:

· He wanted to pull the plug on Jesus’ ministry for a host of complex reasons one of which was that both the Romans and some of the religious leaders of Israel were turning up the heat. Some wanted to stone Jesus. Others were finding ways to silence or incarcerate him. And what we often forget is that Judas loved Jesus – and Jesus loved Judas. So it is my belief that the fundamental reason why Judas collaborated with those who hated Jesus had something to do with how those in power manipulated Judas’ love and fear. “Hand him over to us and we’ll keep him quiet” was the promise they made to Judas.

· And as our story will tell us in just a moment, when Judas saw that his beloved rabbi and friend had been condemned to death, he repented – changed his heart and mind – and confessed: “I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.” And he was laughed at, humiliated and discarded like used toilet paper by the very leaders he once trusted. Hmmmmm…. We could spend WEEKS with just the implications of that part of the story alone.

But after being thrown away – with no hope for forgiveness or reparation – what does Judas do? He goes out and hangs himself. He was so broken hearted and cut off from spiritual and social connection that he committed suicide. At that moment in his life death felt better than any of his other options: Lord, have mercy! In my heart I trust that Jesus would have – and indeed already has – forgiven Judas. Jesus offered salvation and grace to the insurrectionists nailed to their respective crosses on either side of him.

And he cried out at the end: Father, forgive them for they know not what they do. So I have no doubt that in the life beyond life even Judas has been welcomed back into the love of God. There is a Sufi story, you know, about just that moment that describes Jesus pacing the halls of heaven at the end of time. As creation as we know it is about to come to an end, God the Father notices that Jesus is fretting and nervous as he watches all the redeemed sinners of history find a measure of blessing and release. As the final moment approaches, God says, “My dear child, you are anxious and upset, tell me what is the matter?” To which Jesus replies: “Judas, Lord, I’m still waiting for Judas to be welcomed into the kingdom of grace.”

Conclusion
That’s me – I am ever more keenly concerned about grace, forgiveness and not closing the door on anyone’s sins because God does not do this. I’m not good at it – and I want to go deeper into a tender and nonjudgmental way of being - both because I know I need it and also sense that is part of what I have to offer during these later days of my ministry. You may find that other parts of this story speak to you with as much passion as this does for me. People of God:

We are living in a time when solidarity in the face of tyranny, resistance in the midst of oppression, and truth-telling to stave off ignorance are not only essential civic duties but acts of faith. Testimony – telling our story and connecting it to God’s story - is the rhetorical stance required when injustice has become an operating principle. Testimony counteracts hypocrisy. It names that which has been swept under the proverbial rug far too long. It shatters pretense and privilege. It decries demagoguery. It calls out dishonesty. (Lewis, ibid)

In this spirit, then, let us read and honor our story within the story of Jesus and the Cross…

horror penetrates our bones but at the same time there is joy...

What a challenging week: it is one that will only grow more complex

with each passing day. It started for me with a profound healing taking place in the small body of Louie after he had moved perilously close to death. It continued with pastoral meetings, midday Eucharist and a long drive in the rain to Ottawa. At the border, I encountered the future as immigration officers puzzled over whether to allow me entrance. Ours is now an era of fear, loathing, and intimidation. Clearly the Canadians were only reciprocating the dismantling of trust the US started. I understand that you can't put the jinn back in the bottle once it has been opened. Nevertheless, it was a shocking encounter with powerlessness that will become normative until a still to be disclosed time in the future.

The week ripened into a day of walkabout in Ottawa with both jazz and blues in the evening. Then I settled into the rhythm of prayer and writing for Holy Week and was able to complete both my Easter homily as well as a short reflection for Palm Sunday. There was an afternoon of music therapy with my friends at L'Arche Ottawa - and supper with the community, too - then a chance encounter will local blues man, John Carroll, and the joy of hearing another set of his most excellent songs. Just as I was about to depart, my cell phone informed me that the US had started to bomb Syria.

I am currently reading Peter Matthiessen's novel, In Paradise, about a retreat to bear witness at Auschwitz conducted by an international group of spiritual pilgrims. It is sobering and stark - every bit as horribly real as I remember my pilgrimage to that place of death - and Matthiessen offers no simple answers or pious promises about redemption. It is achingly insightful with glimpses of both beauty and anguish woven throughout the text. 

One particularly vexing encounter involves the chanting of prayers in the crematorium that morphs into an ecstatic dance for life led by one of the rabbis.  Soon, most of the pilgrims are dancing together under the sway of the Spirit, while a few stare in disgust and others flee in condemnation. Afterwards, no one quite understands what happened. Or why? They are baffled that there could be dancing at Auschwitz - and that somehow it could feel like prayer, confession, and forgiveness all at the same time.

(The protagonist, Clements Olin) is relieved that so many others will testify to 'something not known to anyone at all but wild in our breast for centuries' (a favorite line from an Akhmatova poem)...with the advent of this something-not-known (which he scarcely dares consider lest it vanish) the metastasizing animosities among the witness bearers are dissolving, as if the Dancing were sealing their acceptance of all woe-begone humankind in all its greed and cruelties as the only creature capable of evil and the only one - surely these two are connected - aware that it must die... "Horror penetrates our bones but at the same time there is joy" says the daughter of an SS doctor. "Who would have expected joy at Auschwitz?"  (pp. 167-9)

In my soul it feels as if the part of creation I know and live within is not only about to celebrate Holy Week, but is living out a 21st century, 1984 version of it on steroids. It is a time when horror penetrates while at the same time joy ascends. One preacher, Karoline Lewis, wrote:

More than ever, we need to empower people to read the biblical texts and give witness to what they have seen and know. We need to embolden our one another to speak out and speak up when we see the Bible being used in ways it was never meant to be. We need to encourage those who come to worship to trust that their encounters with the living God are just as valuable as those whose voices seem louder. We need to enable the faithful to call out decisions, executive orders and behaviors that do not line up with the God we have encountered in Jesus. And we need to endow people with power for proclamation, to pronounce loudly and boldly their own Palm/Passion Sunday witness.

And now begins my generation's descent into Jerusalem...

 

thoughts after a day of wandering...

One of the things I do when I am away and by myself - beyond resting, reading and reflecting on life - is to go on walkabout and see what life on the street is saying. In Ottawa right now, there are precious few tourists. It is almost spring after a hard, snow-filled winter. The guests will arrive once life becomes warmer in these parts. They will also flood the city for the nation's 150th birthday. So, with the streets much emptier than my previous visits in the summer, here are a few observations:

+ The local merchants are convinced that springtime is arriving. A number of the outdoor terraces - wooden eating/drinking areas outside a club, bar or eatery - are being repaired from snow/water damage. The sound of circular saws fill the air and the smell of sawdust is omnipresent. Locals say this is a good sign that winter really is finished.

+ The folk who are out on the street, both the mentally ill and addicted homeless, are fewer in number but more aggressive and even frightening. They gather outside upscale bars and clubs and verbally assault customers who don't fork over some change. Three times during my walkabout yesterday I was screamed at by unhinged souls demanding money because they are homeless. I'm usually chill about this sad reality but some of these souls seem like they are on the edge of physical violence.  (NOTE:  It is my conviction and experience that unless a person is willing to establish a relationship with one who chooses to live on the street - and help them get some type of treatment - giving up some spare change is more about dismissing the problem and ignoring the pain than doing good. I believe that giving a street person a few bucks is really saying, "I don't have time for you." And that's probably true. Moreover, most of us don't have the skills to deal with schizophrenia or other diseases of the mind so we shouldn't attempt a quick fix. It is unsafe for everyone involved. Thirty five years of urban ministry is clarifying.)

+ Local people called yesterday's grey day without rain "beautiful weather, hey?" It made me smile every time someone said that; yes, it was a type of beautiful day but it wasn't balmy or sun-filled. Just a little warmer and without tons of rain. Perspective is so important, yes? Today it will rain again and not quit until Friday.

random reflections about this retreat experience...

With the affirmation that Louie is recovering well - and now at home with his loving momma and poppa - I felt I could reschedule the long overdue final retreat of my sabbatical commitment. I am at a lovely, quiet and contemplative Franciscan Pilgrim Prayer House in Ottawa, CA that is just what the doctor ordered. Here are some seemingly random reflections on what I've experienced to date:

+ The drive from MA to Ontario was shaped by rain, rain and more rain. The ground in Northern NY State is saturated with flooding already taking place. The streams and rivers were ragging in wild torrents and it will only go from bad to worse as more rain falls and more snow melts. My usual GPS did not work so I had to use the Google Maps app on my IPhone which took me through places along Route 12 and 26 I had never seen. It was an adventure of sorts because this system only shows you 50 miles of the map at a time so I had NO idea where I was for most of the sojourn. 

+ After about six hours of travel I wound up at the Seaway/Three Nations Bridge Crossing. This is in the middle of freakin' NO where and it was a bit trying to get into my beloved Canada. Call it the new reality of POTUS 45 or the beginning of a martial law like culture across all nations but these border guards were not excited to see me coming. The first had no idea what a Franciscan Prayer House was - and really was not at all interested in finding out. So I had to "park under the canopy and present my credentials to one of the immigration officers inside." They were pretty damn suspicious too. Granted, I'm a long haired Christian showing up in the the boonies on my way to a time of contemplation. Pretty dangerous, ok? Well, these two rascals didn't know much about retreat centers either. But they did know about the ambiguity of Canadian immigration law and were very interesting in exploring my cell phone and computer for hate mail, child pornography and other contraband that might inhibit me from entering this wonderful country.

So they confiscated my electronic devices - which the immigration laws in Canada might allow - demanded passwords and then searched my car. There was no one else around but me and the immigration officers prompting both an earlier start for my prayers and the realization that I was experiencing what so many of those I love from other lands face all the time: suspicion, judgment and intimidation. 

In time, all they discovered was a 35 year old copy of the Book of Common Prayer, a novel by Peter Matthiessen about the Holocaust and pictures of Louie and the wider family.  As one officer handed my belongings back he said, "Sir, I thought you should know that as we searched your car we found these..." I had no idea what he was showing me so he said, "They are marijuana seeds... I know (presumably from reading my emails or collected sermons on the lap top) that these aren't yours. They are too old. See how red they are? But you should know because this happens in rental vehicles all the time." I almost puked with anxiety but kept it together. He concluded, "Thank you for your time, sir, have a nice visit to Canada." All I could think was: welcome to the brave, new world...

+ The rain and fog outside of Ottawa was fierce so this slowed me down and delayed my arrival. During this extended drive I listened to CBC where they dedicated two full hours to the newly appointed commission re: Missing and Murdered First Nation Girls and Women. It was a riveting broadcast about a long-standing problem. And it was on the national radio station.  Not NPR or Pacifica or something Amy Goodman produced: national Canadian radio. 

Two thoughts struck me as I listened that stand in bold contrast to my own homeland. First, Canada is openly wrestling with its violent and racist past while the US is trying to bury our original sin. The veneer of British gentility is obvious in this pursuit but the progressive players know that British/
Canadian white racism was and is every bit as vicious and brutal as that known in America. The big difference is that Canada is trying, albeit in complicated and often incomplete ways that are challenged time and again, to come to terms with their sins against Native Peoples. As one commissioner put it: when we are told that "it is time to put this behind us and move on, I ask: why don't you move on from memorializing our war dead? Or your relatives journey as immigrants? We don't move on because we must remember - and change. And it begins by hearing the horrifying stories of what we did and where we came from over the past 150 years." 

Second, given the Trump regime - and Attorney General Sessions - we are living to the polar opposite of Canada's journey. The US is now actively engaged in denying past wounds around race and violence. We are committed to intimidating and marginalizing those who are courageous enough to tell their stories out loud and in public. And we are in a race to turn back social history to a time when white power was supreme. I am not idealizing my neighbors to the North, just noting the very different trajectory of our cultures in 2017. It was a sobering leg of my journey.

Once I arrived - after 7+ hours in the car - I needed to walk. My host was gracious and got me settled and then I walked for a few hours around the Market in the light rain. I stopped into a pub for a brew. I took in the sights of repair in this part of the city after a snow filled winter. And I started to let go of my anxieties in all their forms and nuances. Today was walkabout time - nothing serious - and I'm headed out to a lovely wine bar for jazz, salad and a bit of chill out. Tomorrow I'll write for Holy Week and then visit my friends at L'Arche Ottawa for music therapy and supper. Friday will be more prayer and writing and a time in the Glebe neighborhood. I give thanks to God for all that has taken place and for the rest and safety to go deeper.