a quest for tenderness...

When friends and loved ones ask, "So what are you going to do now?" - meaning what are my plans for retirement from pastoral ministry - I have two answers. One is direct and hails from the music of Todd Rundgren who wisely proclaims: "I don't wanna work, I just wanna bang on my drum all day!" More often than not, after I sing a few bars of this, the questions stop.



But for those who want to go deeper, and some do, there is a second reply: "Mostly I want to be quiet and listen for the still speaking, but ever so quiet voice of the Lord prompting me towards Jesus." Some really stop asking when I say this, while a few continue, "Can you say more?" To date I have discerned five, interrelated parts of this prompting:  1) Devoting time to our grandchildren and their precious families; 2) Going deeper into the L'Arche Ottawa community; 3) Creating and performing new music with trusted and beloved friends; 4) Supporting Di in her calling as ESL teacher; and 5) Researching, honoring and writing about a spirituality of tenderness. My emerging summary of this new calling is: music, little ones, laughter and contemplation.

Everywhere I turn I hear a cry for tenderness. Mother Earth groans, strangers shriek, fear has infected families to such a degree that many can no longer share supper together without shouting. The wounds of our broken sexuality are rising to the surface as righteous wailing calls justice to roll down on predators like an ever flowing stream. And people of color refuse to be silenced in their march towards equality. Our tyrants, personal and political, still rant in pursuit of "divide and conquer." Yet all of this anguish is really nourishment in our quest for a shared tenderness: it is a 21st century encounter with the Via Negativa - a spirituality defined more by what is absent than realized - writ large. The late Henri Nouwen once wrote: 

Gentleness is a virtue hard to find in a society that admires toughness and roughness. We are encouraged to get things done and to get them done fast, even when people get hurt in the process. Success, accomplishment, and productivity count. But the cost is high. There is no place for gentleness in such a milieu. Gentle is the one who does "not break the crushed reed, or snuff the faltering wick" (Matthew 12:20). Gentle is the one who is attentive to the strengths and weaknesses of the other and enjoys being together more than accomplishing something. A gentle person treads lightly, listens carefully, looks tenderly, and touches with reverence. A gentle person knows that true growth requires nurture, not force.

My contemplative research, prayer and writing all suggest that the path of gentleness - a spirituality of tenderness - offers a quiet alternative to the status quo. And as Richard Rohr notes: "It was not bad people who killed Jesus."

(It was) conventional wisdom crucified him. Jesus taught an alternative wisdom instead of the maintenance of social order. Prophets and wisdom teachers like Jesus have passed through a major death to their ego. This is the core meaning of transformation. Yet most of Christian history tried to understand Jesus inside the earlier stage of (the status quo.) Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount is anything but maintaining the status quo! Theologian Marcus Borg (1942-2015) wrote:

The gospel of Jesus—the good news of Jesus’ own message—is that there is a way of being that moves beyond both secular and religious conventional wisdom. The path of transformation of which Jesus spoke leads from a life of requirements and measuring up (whether to culture or to God) to a life of relationship with God. It leads from a life of anxiety to a life of peace and trust. It leads from the bondage of self-preoccupation to the freedom of self-forgetfulness. It leads from life centered in culture to life centered in God. [1]

This is the path of what some have called mysticism. Jean Vanier speaks of it as a change of heart born from an authentic and profound experience of Jesus. So bring on the music, the little ones, the laughter and contemplation. I am so ready!

living into eucharist...

Yesterday, I shared some thoughts that bubbled up from one of Jean Vanier's books, Befriending the Stranger, including the following (albeit slightly modified today):

... One of the reasons I cherish the Eucharist is that it gives me time to quietly listen to Jesus and welcome him back into my home. It also does so in community. I was talking with my dearest Sunday School teacher a few days ago, a man who is 86, and an active Quaker. He said that he has never really appreciated Eucharist. "I don't get what is so special about this ritual." 

As I listened it occurred to me that the horizontal aspect of the feast had not been part of his formation. I know that I had not really spent much time considering this being raised in the liberal Reformed tradition where Holy Communion is more of a rite than an encounter with the sacred. After all, so much of the liberal Protestant realm is profoundly personal - more a head trip than anything sacramental - where ideas rather than incarnation rule the day.

Nevertheless, I still vividly recall a time when I was 15 sitting in worship with a little cube of Pepperidge Farm white bread in my hand sensing the mystical presence of Jesus with me. After that, Eucharist has never been an abstraction for me - nor merely a formal religious ritual. Since then, I have given a great deal of attention to reading various Eucharistic theologies, and, practicing meditative contemplation in adoration of the body of Christ. 

As my beloved mentor told me of his experience, I replied, "I love the Eucharist - celebrating it or receiving it - for in addition to the mystical truths I have experienced, the meal also puts me in relationship to sisters and brothers that Jesus calls me to love. The horizontal connection of communion is a big part of the blessing.  It helps me know that communion - and life - is not all about me." We sat with those words together for a few minutes in silence before he said, "I never knew that. It makes a big difference ... hmmmm."

I come back to this conversation after reading two other Vanier quotes from Befriending the Stranger.  The first suggests that opening our hearts to the presence of Jesus in the Eucharist is one of the ways we can give up our idolatry. Referencing the prophet Hosea, Vanier writes:

The Lord says, "I will remove the names of Ba'als from her mouth." This means that God will take away all those things that have becomes idols for us, the things that we worship in place of God; things that have taken on too much importance, such as money, efficiency, know-how, reputation, even friendship and community. You have put your trust in them instead of me." (Vanier, p. 29)

Back in Cleveland, during my first run as a solo pastor, I was vigilant about

keeping the liturgical seasons pure. No Christmas music during Advent, no baptisms or weddings during the penitential time of Lent, etc. I was equally adamant that the imagined radical inclusivity of my Reformed tradition was superior to all other ecclesiastical models. I couldn't see how my self-imposed commitment to liturgical purity was a barrier to God's grace. So it came to pass that one Sunday leading up to Christmas, I had gathered the small urban congregation around the communion table for Eucharist. During the sharing of the bread and wine I asked the folk, "What's your favorite song of this season." And without missing a beat, George Spice, a 50+ year old man with intellectual challenges proclaimed: "Rudolf, James, Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer is my favorite song of this season."

It felt like I had been slapped in the face with a leather whip. Freakin' Rudlolf, George? Are you kidding me!? The wind had literally been knocked out of me for an instant. Because, at the same time I was feeling liturgically offended, I was also realizing that, "Not only was this George's favorite song - and I'd just asked for it - but the very message of Rudolf was salvific. It's a song about one who has been shut out of community because of his differences who then brings healing to the whole community by sharing his so-called disability as a guiding light." One of my idols was pulled down that morning and we sang "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer" with gusto as we shared the Body of Christ with one another.

The second Vanier quote amplifies the first: A secret has been shared within the L'Arche community... people with disabilities are a sign, a presence of Jesus, and a call to unity. 

People with disabilities can be a paradox. Sometimes we are not quite sure who they are nor how to react to them. Their presence obliges us to look more deeply int our own lives and to reflect on what is really important... Jesus came into the world to change and transform society from a "pyramid" in which the strong and clever dominate at the tip, into a "body" where each member of society has a place, is respected, and is important. In his first letter to the community in Corinth, Paul speaks of the Church as a body, made up of different members. Each one is important, not only because of their function and the fact that each one is unique and irreplaceable, but also because when one member suffers, the whole body suffers, too. (Vanier, p. 38)

Sometimes when I have been the celebrant, I call the whole community to stand with me around the table. As I lead them through the Eucharistic Prayer and we sing with one another, something sacred takes place: we really see and hear one another. Then I ask the people to serve one another the host and the chalice. "I shouldn't be the only one who has the privilege of sharing Jesus with you. We ALL should do this with one another. So" I conclude, "look at one another as you share the bread and the cup. Don't take anyone for granted." And then before inviting the community to sing I add: "And its up to you to make sure no one goes unserved. If there's somebody sitting over in the corner, bring them into the body. Pay attention, beloved, this is how we practice loving one another as Jesus loves us."

Without a doubt, I love the Eucharist: horizontally, mystically, sacramentally and joyfully.

inviting jesus into my home...

In these bewildering and anxious times, these words from Jean Vanier speak to

my heart. In his tender book, Befriending the Stranger, he writes:

In the midst of all the violence and corruption of the world, God invites us today to create new places of belonging, places of sharing, places of peace and of kindness, places where no-one needs to defend himself or herself; places where each one is loved and accepted with one's own fragility, abilities and disabilities. This is my vision for our churches: that they become places of belonging, places of sharing.

Vanier then goes on to articulate one of the "hidden" little mysteries of the way of Jesus: it is born of our weakness, not our strength. It is both the charism of L'Arche for our generation and the unique insight of Vanier for individuals seeking peace. Paraphrasing St. Paul, Vanier puts it like this: First we must "consider our call... God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world..." to show us how we can live in God's peace that passes understanding. Professional development has its place, so does self-esteem, education and hard work. But they alone will not lead us into "the unforced rhythms of grace" Jesus promises in Matthew 11: 28-30. Rather, using Peterson's reworking of this ancient text, Jesus asks us: "Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

Our calling is to recover our lives - to live within the balance of joy and sorrow with a peace-filled heart - at rest within the unforced rhythms of grace. This is one of the places where the prophetic prophet of ancient Israel, Isaiah, nails it by observing that "God's ways are not our ways and God's choices are not the choices of our society or culture. For God chooses the poor, the weak the needy and all who recognize (and honor) their poverty." (Vanier, p. 16)

... and not just a material poverty but our inability to cope with life, a feeling of powerlessness and not knowing what to do. A mother who has just lost a child is "poor" - a woman whose (beloved) has left her is "poor" - (same is true for a man) - a worker who has lost a job is "poor" just like the girl who learns she has cancer is "poor." The man who senses his body growing older and weaker is "poor" - people who are faced with difficult family situations are "poor." And the problem is that we refuse to admit our weakness, our needs, our poverty because we are frightened of rejection. We have been taught to be strong, to be the best, to win in order to be someone. And since our society tends to marginalize those who are weak, we thing that weakness means rejection... and we try to hide our poverty for as long as we can.

That is why Vanier encourages us to ask Jesus about our calling rather than those who are paid to keep the status quo humming. "Let us ask Jesus to help us discover our poverty, not be be frightened or ashamed of it, but to become more aware of it for this is our call and mission" in the world.

I suspect that there are degrees of honoring both the loss and blessing of living into the calling of our poverty. I know for me it has been incremental. Clearly, I did not go into ministry thinking God was inviting me into this type of poverty. No, my calling was to upset the powerful and advance the cause of social justice through organized people power. I still affirm the urgency of radical social transformation. What I came to realize, however, was that my part in this work had a limited shelf life. Others seem to have more stamina for the push and pull of politics and compromise than I: living in that world was simply exhausting. It also fueled my already inflated sense of self-worth. 

What feeds my soul, refreshes my body, and empowers me to honor the upside-down kingdom of Jesus these days is something much simpler: hospitality. Kind-ness. Being present with another with no other agenda than being alive. I am not very good at this. I am still learning to let go of my expectations and just "be" in any given moment. And I still resist the calling of my brokenness. So I am listening now for how to welcome Jesus into my home - my personal space - my most intimate self. Vanier writes:

When we welcome Jesus into our "home" he transforms us and he transforms our way of living. We know that people can be together in the same house, existing but not sharing. This is a kind of modus vivendi which in fact helps them not to meet but instead to avoid one another... so Jesus tells the good homemaker to stop putting every-thing in order, to sit down and listen...

Listen - for our first call, our first love - our invitation to move within the unforced rhythms of grace. Such is one of the reasons I cherish the Eucharist: it gives me time to quietly listen to Jesus and welcome him back into my home. It also does so in community.  I was talking with my dearest Sunday School teacher a few days ago, a man who is 86, and an active Quaker. He said that he has never really appreciated Eucharist.  "I don't get what is so special about this ritual." As I listened it occurred to me that he hadn't considered the horizontal aspect of the feast. I know that I had not really, being raised in the liberal Reformed tradition, where Holy Communion is more of a rite than an encounter with the sacred. Further, the liberal Protestant realm is profoundly personal - often more a head trip than anything sacramental - where ideas not incarnation rule the day.

Still, I can recall a time when I was 15 sitting in worship with a little cube of Peppridge Farm white bread in my hand when I sensed the mystical presence of Jesus with me. Eucharist has never been an abstract concept or religious ritual since that moment. I have used the intervening 50+ years to both read more deeply various Eucharistic theologies; and, practice meditative contemplation in adoration of the body of Christ in the host. So, as my beloved mentor shared his experience, I replied, "I love Eucharist - celebrating it or receiving it - for in addition to the mystical truths I have experienced, the meal also puts me in relationship to sisters and brothers that Jesus calls me to love. The horizontal connection of communion is part of the blessing. In a word, I experience that its not all about me at the table." We sat with that together for a few minutes of silence before he said, "I never knew that. That makes a big difference ... hmmmm."

This is a demanding call, There is nothing romantic about it. There is loss and grief and times of agonizing ambiguity.  Simultaneously, "we experience the love of God (in our call) a love shared for all of us and a whole new world opens up inside us...Grief and loss are inseparable from the call. If we accept the call but not the loss, we will live in a contradiction... where (we) constantly feel sorry for ourselves, sorry that we don't have a higher salary or more time for ourselves, etc." That is why the transformation is always a work in progress. Incremental. The "daily letting go" to use Vanier's words: "each day Jesus is calling me to become more loving, more compassionate, more present to people, more fully a child of God, more free from fear." And much more grounded in the unforced rhythms of grace.

a challenge for inter-faith music celebrations...

One of the challenges that inhibits hosting an inter-faith festival of music that celebrates the popular and liturgical music from the Abrahamic traditions is the very different contexts of Christian, Jewish and Muslim prayer.  All three utilize private prayers, of course, but Judaism and Christianity have also cultivated a corporate culture of sacred music that has no comparable expression in Islam. This is not to say that the sacred chants of the Muslim world have not been woven into other music. Clearly they have. Further, a growing awareness of the West African Muslim cultures that were forcibly carried to the shores of North America by slaves suggests fascinating influences re: the birth of the blues. (see "The Muslim Roots of the Blues" in the SF Chronicle @ http://www.sfgate.com/
opinion/article/Muslim-roots-of-the-blues-The-music-of-famous-2701489.php) But given the different ways Jews, Christians and Muslims pray when gathered, has anyone yet found anything like "Missa Gaia" in Islam? Or a contemporary musical settings of the Qu'ran? Or even informal songs of praise that have found a place in public worship beyond the proscribed Arabic? To date, I have not.



Clearly one avenue for exploration would be the multi-ethnic variety of Islam. "The classic heartland of Islam is the Middle East, North Africa, the Horn of Africa, Iran, Central Asia and South Asia, and it also included the medieval Iberian peninsula (al-Andalus). Due to Islam being a multi-ethnic religion, the musical expression of its adherents is vastly diverse. Indigenous traditions of various part have influenced the musical styles popular among Muslims today (Wikipedia @ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islamic_music) The general insight offered in this article notes that beyond the ethnic and cultural variances in sung Islamic music, there are also profound differences between Shia, Sunni and Sufi adherents - and between fundamentalist and moderate practitioners in each of these groups, too. Further, three essential academic works are cited that demand my careful review:

1) Jenkins, Jean and Olsen, Poul Rovsing (1976). Music and Musical Instruments in the World of Islam. World of Islam Festival. ISBN 0-905035-11-9.

2) Habib Hassan Touma (1996). The Music of the Arabs, trans. Laurie Schwartz. Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press. ISBN 0-931340-88-8.

3) Shiloah, Amnon (1995). "Music in the World of Islam: A Socio-cultural study." Wayne State University Press. Detroit. ISBN 0-8143-2589-0

After we return from our L'Arche visit to Ottawa later this month, I can see some new heavy study in store for me.

closing out all the retirement stuff...

In the past two weeks, I have had the privilege of playing the songs of my heart with some of the people who are dearest to my soul. One of the highlights of Tucson was a Friday night soirée with some of the key players in our old band during that decade - plus a few new friends. In addition to paying homage to the Cranberries' Dolores O'Riordan with "Linger," we revisited the core song of that era: "Lord prepare me to be a Sanctuary" with Pete and John and Don E, Dianne and Linda weaving their harmonies together while CB played her fiddle.




Last night, at another farewell to parish ministry party, my family gathered with the long time core members of this decade's band, plus Charlie on sax and Jon on percussion. In addition to "Keep Your Hands to Yourself" and "One Voice," we were able to call up E's favorite:  "Come to Jesus" by Mindy Smith.  And the hijinks kept going til way past midnight.



Singing those songs - and being with people whose hearts touched mine profoundly during the past twenty years - gave me the perspective I needed to fully embrace gratitude in retirement. And then today after lunch, my children presented me with a stunning visual retrospective of these years. I was moved to tears. There was also a gift of original art, too that is breath-taking. 

This month of celebration, vacation and reflection has been more than I ever imagined. It was blessing upon blessing. So I'm not going to do ANYTHING churchy during February except maybe go to Taize with L'Arche Ottawa and share in a small Eucharist. Mostly I am going to start playing a LOT of music. I need to sort through a ton of files that go back to undergraduate school, too. 

At sometime during the last month, I was asked if I was through with church? My 86 year old former Sunday School teacher asked me something similar today before lunch. I replied: I'm not finished walking with Jesus - I never will be - and hope to walk with him forever when this race is done. But I AM finished with all the bullshit.  He smiled and said softly:  Good for you. That's what I came up with in my life, too.

justice and peace shall kiss...

Tonight a few friends (mostly associated with music-making rather than church) will join our family for a night of story-telling, song and reconnection. When my congregation celebrated my life in ministry as well as 10+ years among them, my job was to receive. That was as it should be: ours was a blessed time. It was complicated as all ministry is, but always sacred. Now that chapter has closed and I am eager to sit with those who have worked closely with me to reflect on what we once created - and perhaps explore new possibilities, too. From my vantage point, we did a few important things together:

+ First, for a moment in time, our music allowed us the safe space to explore, honor and sometimes transcend the differences of age, race, gender, class and culture.

+ Second, our songs erased any false dichotomy between sacred and secular.

+ Third, it was crucial to go deep in a culture that is shallow.

+ And fourth, the vision of Psalm 87 was our foundation. 

Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet;

righteousness and peace will kiss each other.

Faithfulness will spring up from the ground,

and righteousness will look down from the sky.

The Lord will give what is good,

and our land will yield its increase.

Sometimes we played in bars and clubs. Other times in a Sanctuary. Sometimes Christian liturgy guided the event; other times the poetry of Naomi Shihab Nye, Mary Oliver or Allen Ginsberg carried the day. There were times of joy and sorrow - often in the same set - as well as carefully crafted works of art alongside wild improvisation. We fused jazz sensibilities with chant and Americana and listened for the holy in the songs of whales, wolves and the wind. It was a wildly creative decade and I am grateful for it all.

Our gathering will be intimate, for a number of reasons, and that is as it should be, too. 

it is enough...

The sun is out and the snow has fallen: a perfect Berkshires winter morning. The head colds are petering out, albeit stubbornly, and Tucson's KXCI is on blue tooth (check out this near perfect community radio station @ https://kxci.org) Loved ones will gather with us tomorrow night for an intimate time of music and story-telling and on Sunday we share brunch with family and my Sunday School teacher from Vermont. This brings to a close a full month of marking our service to God in the local church ministry. 

Soon a new round of teaching begins. We're planning a modest trip to Ottawa too in order to visit with L'Arche and explore housing options that might be affordable and satisfying for our special needs dog. Locally, new music is brewing and awaiting practice. There is new poetry for compassion brewing as well from artists like Grace Rossman who knocked it out of the park at the recent Four Freedoms "Songs and Sounds of Solidarity" concert.

On the Feast Day of St. Brigid and the celebration of Candlemas, a time when there will be at least 10 hours of sun light in our parts and the earth is shifting towards more light, my heart is filled with gratitude.  A friend asked me, "Do you feel unburdened by letting go of church or grief?" After a pause I replied, "The anxiety and dread are gone so I would say I am experiencing release." But it is quiet release, not at all exuberant. Rather more like David Whyte's poem, "The Winter of Listening," that Parker Palmer recently shared with those who follow him on On Being.

No one but me by the fire,

my hands burning

red in the palms while

the night wind carries

everything away outside.

All this petty worry

while the great cloak

of the sky grows dark

and intense

round every living thing.

What is precious

inside us does not

care to be known

by the mind

in ways that diminish

its presence.

What we strive for

in perfection

is not what turns us

into the lit angel

we desire,

what disturbs

and then nourishes

has everything

we need.

What we hate

in ourselves

is what we cannot know

in ourselves but

what is true to the pattern

does not need

to be explained.

Inside everyone

is a great shout of joy

waiting to be born.

Even with the summer

so far off

I feel it grown in me

now and ready

to arrive in the world.

All those years

listening to those

who had

nothing to say.

All those years

forgetting

how everything

has its own voice

to make

itself heard.

All those years

forgetting

how easily

you can belong

to everything

simply by listening.

And the slow

difficulty

of remembering

how everything

is born from

an opposite

and miraculous

otherness.

Silence and winter

has led me to that

otherness.

So let this winter

of listening

be enough

for the new life

I must call my own.

Indeed, it is enough...

my farewell to church message: sunday, january 28, 2018

NOTE: This is a reasonable facsimile of what I shared with my congregation on my departure from local church ministry.  It is, of course, not 100% verbatim but based on my hand-written notes and memory, both of which are open to criticism. Still, I hope it captures the sweet sense of gratitude with which I close this chapter in my life.

There is no recipe or prescription for sharing a final spoken message with a congregation - especially one you love. Nor is there a template for summarizing nearly 40 years of ordained ministry that is coming to a close. So, I will be offering up a vaguely unified series of vignettes that come from my heart today.

You may recall that I sensed a call into local church ministry back in 1968 - just two months after MLK had been assassinated. I was in Washington, DC and it was the time I started to discern something of the holy within and around me in the music of the day. The first time I told anyone about my experience of God calling me into ministry, Aretha Franklin was singing, "You better THINK about what you're trying to do to me... oh freedom, freedom, freedom!" And as affirmation later that year the Edwin Hawkins Singers had a smash Top 40 hit with "O Happy Day" (when Jesus washed my sins away!)

To be sure, after my call I spent the next 15 years trying to run away from it. It scared me - and I did everything I could do before finally honoring that still, small voice that kept speaking to me. Thirty seven years ago I was ordained and I have served in a variety of locales. For a long time I thought God wanted me to be an urban ministry. After all, Dr. King's words of compassion and justice moved my heart. I heard the call in Washington, DC just before the Poor People's March.  So when I finally got on-board, I did my internship in the greatest multi-racial urban church I could find: First Presbyterian Church of Jamaica, NY. Under the tutelage of Ray Swartzback I learned the tools of the trade and set off to apply them in Saginaw, MI and the Cleveland, OH.

In those early days, I was certain that my work in the church was ALL about big and bold acts of social justice.  But what I discovered over and over was that I truly loved the small acts of pastoral care, worship and prayer. We did some BIG things in those days - I took young people and their parents to Soviet Russia on a people-to-people peace vigil and I was active in racial justice as the VP of the Cleveland Board of Education - but what fed my soul was visiting people in the hospital. Or going into homes long forgotten by the movers and shakers and celebrating Eucharist.

+ During my running away phase, while organizing for Cesar Chavez's farm workers boycott, I got hooked up with a Jesuit priest. Fr. John Little had been in Chile when the US overthrew the Allende presidency. He helped smuggle people out of their homeland so that they wouldn't be tortured or killed. I met him in the Soulard neighborhood of St. Louis and for some reason - what I call providence now - we hit it off. One night he took me with him to serve Holy Communion to a little, broken down woman in some God forsaken party of that neighborhood. I remember it as dark, cold and rainy. Something that looked like it came right out of Tim Burton's "Batman" movie. After winding through stairways that I was sure held certain death, we stepped into a warm and candle light apartment. And there, we said the Mass and shared the body and blood of Christ.

+ Again, I knew that this touched my heart and impelled me forward, even if it took another 10 years before I was ready to quit running. And now, at the close of all of this, it fascinates me that although we've done BIG things together, what people keep saying over and again is how important those little visits were to them. The prayer beads. The midday Eucharist. The home visits. Or weddings. Or funerals. Same was true in Tucson when we were back there last week: we remembered all the BIG things we did for marriage equality and border safety. But it was the quiet, often unknown time of love and listening that touched our hearts.

For it was when I did those things - the small, loving and quiet acts of mercy - that I felt blessed. So when I started to reflect on the meaning of my retirement I found myself playing two tender little songs. That's often how I know what's going on inside me - I listen to the music I am playing - and when I take the time to feel what is being revealed in the music I hear something of the holy. When I sat down with myself to work on this reflection - something I've written and thrown away 5-6 times already - the first song that I heard myself playing came from St. Bob Dylan.

I don't know if you know this but there was a time early in Dylan's career when he thought he needed to throw it all away. He worked really hard to make it. He wrote some incredible anthems for civil rights and peace. But then those around him kept insisting that he work as "the voice of his generation." They wanted more songs of protest. More social commentary. More radical poetry. And St. Bob hated to be squeezed into their mold. He was changing. He was reading Rimbaud. Ginsberg. He was going inward and resisted the conformity the commissars of culture were pushing on him.  And he was just about to chuck it all when driving back through New Orleans he heard a song that changed his life. Do you know what it was?  The Beatles doing "I Want to Hold Your Hand?" Who would have thought God was speaking through an English rock'n'roll band but clearly St. Bob heard that holy voice.

And it liberated him. He started writing the songs of his heart like "Motorpsycho Nitemare" and "Lay Down Your Weary Tune Lay Down." Two of my favorites from this era include "All I Really Want to Do" and "My Back Pages" with the chorus: "ah but I was so much older than I'm younger than that now." I've known some of Dylan's frustration and confusion about living with the expectations of others, right? At first it made me angry about the church. Then it disoriented my sense of ministry. But finally I heard my reaction to the inevitable expectations of others in ministry as an invitation for me to become free. And when I stepped into God's freedom invitation, I found my heart was at peace. It was as if I was breathing in today's gospel text:  "follow me into the unforced rhythms of grace."  And what I heard in my heart was this song from St. Bob Dylan's liberation period... 

That gentle freedom - that grace - clarified my call into retirement: I wasn't angry or confused. Now, just as I had once been called into ministry, I was being led out of it so that something new might be born.  Something like serving with my friends in L'Arche Ottawa. And writing my spirituality of tenderness. And finding new forums for interfaith music-making. Encounters that felt more like sharing love with those who had been forgotten and shut away in the darkness like that old woman near the Soulard Market with Fr. John.  

So let me be clear with you: I will always love you. And pray for you. And cherish the time we have shared. This has been holy ground for both you and me and I give thanks to God for it all. And, now there is something new being born in me - and in this community, too. And that's where the second song by St. Lou Reed comes into play.  Some of you know I was hit like a ton of bricks when Lou Reed died some four years ago: Lou was an artist who LIVED on the wild side. He took up residence with society's rejected - those who only come out at night - and celebrated their beauty and vulnerability to say nothing of the way this cadre lived a critique of bourgeois consumer society.

St. Paul in his letter to the early church in Rome often encouraged them NOT to be conformed to the status quo of their society, but to be transformed by the renewal of their minds.  They were to take their ordinary, walking around lives and make them full - real - as saturated with love as possible. In a way that often seemed upside down, Lou Reed did this, too. And when he died, a vibrant voice of advocacy for the forgotten and discarded was silenced. So, I started to play with one of his best known songs, "Sweet Jane," to see if I could tease out its deeper meaning. When it is usually performed, it it brash and loud and even jarring. But its heart is about two people who love each other. They might be freaks. They might be ultra normal. But they love one another. They respect one another. And they yearn to be true to that love in every season. 

So, I sweetened this song up.... oh, and one more thing: the reason I have felt called to do this - and share it with you as part of my retirement farewell - is because on the same day St. Lou died I got word that an old friend, Mike Daniels, died, too. Mike died alone. Forgotten. And was buried alone in Cleveland. Mike became a member of my church in Cleveland. His life was a mess when we met and went rapidly down hill. His wife, Cheryl, was bi-polar and would periodically go off her meds. We would then have to search the bus shelters throughout Cleveland to find her. It was a brutal way of existence.

One time, after we found her and got her back on her meds, Mike left the house to get some smokes. And during the 15 minutes he was gone, she swallowed his revolver and took her life. The police were called. Michael was black and poor and it was his gun. So he was arrested. While in jail, his landlord tossed all his earthly belongings out on the street. And 15 hours later when I got him out on bail, the junkies had picked clean everything he owned. So I took him home so he might crash on our living room floor. My wife was not happy. My children were not at ease. But what else could a poor boy do?

Mike was an alcoholic and I eventually got him into a half-way house. But he got himself thrown out two times and number three was the magic number into self-imposed homelessness.  In another cold, dark rainy night I heard myself saying, "Michael, we've run out of options. There is no place left to go. Either I take you to the county rehab hospital right now and you try to get clean. Or, I'll ask you to get out of my car and never come back until you are sober." We sat in silence for a spell before he said, "Ok... let's go to Metro (the hospital.)" And when he came out, he was clean and sober. And he stayed that way for nearly 25 years. He sponsored and helped other drunks. He turned me on to the spirituality of AA. And he took his darkest nightmare and turned it into something beautiful as he worked his way into sobriety.

That's what I've tried to do with St. Lou's song, take something hard and brash and open it up to a deeper beauty, a song of tenderness not harsh isolation. I've listened to different versions of this song, too - by the artist and others - I've added their lyrics and his rarely performed one into my mix because music is a living art form. The same is true for ministry - and faith - it is a living interaction with the source of life. Not merely doctrine or ritual. But like Jewel once said: in the end only kindness matters. 

So this is to kindness: thank you for sharing ten years of love and kindness with me in ministry. Thank you for growing through music no one has ever played before in church - and learning to like it. Thank you for reaching out to those who have never felt like they belonged here and welcoming them home. I pray that the unforced rhythms of grace will continue to grow in each of our hearts.  You have been a blessing to me.

Standing on the corner, suitcase in my hand
Jack’s in his corset, Jane’s in her vest
And me, I'm in a rock'n'roll band
Ridin'a stutz bearcat, Jim you know, those were different times
All the poets, they studied rules of verse
And those ladies, they rolled their eyes
Sweet Jane, sweet Jane, sweet Jane

Some people like to go out dancing 

Other people like us they have to work
And there's some evil mothers who’ll tell you that life is made from dirt
You know, that women never really faint
And that villains always blink their eyes
And that children are the only ones who blush
And that life is just to die

But anyone who ever had a heart
They wouldn't turn around and break it
And anyone who's ever played a part
Oh, they wouldn't turn around and hate it

Anyone who's ever had a dream
Anyone who's ever played a part
Anyone who's ever been lonely
Anyone who's ever split apart

You’re waiting down the alley
Waiting for him to come back home
Waiting down on the corner
When you can be alone....

Sweet Jane...

a certain irony that has not gone unnoticed...

There is a certain irony that has not gone unnoticed in our home: after worship on Sunday, my last as a local church pastor, I came down with a wicked head cold that has shut down my voice. That is as it should be, yes? I am done with most of my public work. I have run the race set before me as St.Paul put it and now is the time to be quiet. Maybe even silent for a spell, tu ne penses pas? Already I am getting requests to preach here, do some board work there and even help out with an emergency health concern. It has only been three days!  It could be the silver lining in a storm cloud, this damn head cold, as I have neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything but veg out. 

On Saturday, my family will gather with a few precious musical mates for a
soirée. The next day, my first Sunday away from church, we'll sleep late and then meet my dear Sunday School teacher from CT days, Malcolm Bell and his beloved Nancy, for brunch out in Plainfield. Slowing down after a wild month of travel, parties, leave-taking and good-byes - including a ganga concert with the Post Modern Jukebox in NoHo - feels right.  It often happens this way for me after a big finish: I get sick and have to lay low. My hope is that this pattern will dissipate some as I shift perspective and activity in retirement.

I have sorted through all my church books and added them to my home study. (Now I have to sort through the new collection and shed another layer of texts.) And I will complete working through plastic bag upon plastic bag of papers we threw together on Friday while cleaning out my office. This is NOT a task I want to delay. Mostly I find myself throwing it all into the trash. There are a few photos and editorials to stash in my memory book. And a few files to return to the church office, too. But who wants to look at old sermon notes? Certainly not me! Yes, we did some creative work - and I loved working with my colleagues - but that chapter is finished. The thought of reading through 10 years of sermon notes has no appeal whatsoever. And I still haven't cracked the boxes of sermon notes we moved from Tucson, Cleveland and Michigan. But that is for another day.

Tonight we will eat chicken and pasta, complete my discarding most of my Pittsfield papers while we watch British mysteries on TV, and just rest. Tomorrow
we'll sit down and plan a February trip to L'Arche Ottawa - and work on our new limited financial plan - as we want to look at long term housing options. This is just what the doctor ordered.

bringing it all back home one more time: retirement begins now!

Yesterday, Sunday January 28, 2018, I celebrated worship for the final time as a local church pastor. It was an experience chock full of emotions:  I led the sacrament of Holy Baptism for the great-grandchild of one of the congregation's saints who passed from this life to life everlasting late last year; I experienced the choir's blessing through two particularly important musical selections - "Jazz Alleluia" and "Peace Piece;" I shared a message using the music of St. Bob Dylan and St. Lou Reed to reflect upon how the Spirit has encouraged me to increasingly honor smaller acts of tenderness as my true ministry; and I celebrated Eucharist one last time. As a surprise, a young guitar protoge played "Blackbird" in honor of our shared friendship. And dear friends made the effort to be in the house for this closing Sunday.

Our trip to Tucson helped give me perspective for this finale. As some know, the past few years have been conflicted both within and without. I have known my time in this ministry - not just my church, but more generally in the entire realm of local church service - was complete. What I didn't know was what God had in store for me next. That meant 30+ months of wandering in the wilderness, trusting that when the time was right, I would find the clues to help me cross over into clarity. There were also the inevitable administrative struggles as we sought to resolve new staffing in a balanced budget. My style is horizontal and collaborative. Others tend towards hierarchy and directives making a clash inevitable. In yesterday's message, I reminded my folk that I once believed Don Corleone's dictum in "The Godfather" to be true when he ordered a "hit" on an opponent saying: "Understand this is not personal, it's business." 20 years ago I was shown that ALL of ministry - even administration - is always personal. We deal with precious and broken human beings so must honor the presence of God within them even with the most complicated choices. Tucson gave me the clarity to sort out the many layers of conflict I was carrying - and let most of them go.

I was able to look backwards over the totality of nearly 40 years of ministry as

well as consider the accomplishments of the past decade. I was able to speak with old friends who know my light as well as my shadows. I was given a chance to walk quietly in the desert. I spent hours in conversation with two of my dearest friends, our hosts, whom I treasure. I had time to rest, read and reconsider what was of the Lord and what was just my wounded heart acting out. They are often connected, to be sure, but as the Hebrew Bible text put it in yesterday's worship:  My ways are not your ways says the Lord. By the time we touched down back in Albany, my heart was full to overflowing with gratitude for our time in Pittsfield.  

Cleaning out my books and papers from my church study helped, too. It was exhausting. My back still aches. But as we wrapped art work and chalices, as we tossed 10 years of papers into plastic bags to be sorted during February, as we laughed at some of the memories that popped up unexpectedly: another layer of joy took root. I suspect that as I take the next month to sort through the mess in our basement, more blessings will be revealed. I am not doing anything but this - and going to Ottawa - for all of February.

Part of the farewell liturgy the United Church uses for a retiring pastor includes words about asking for and sharing forgiveness with the congregation. In Tucson I realized that even my mistakes are covered by God's grace. So I truly have no regrets. I didn't get it always right - but neither did the church - or Christ's own disciples. Still, we opened our hearts to the way of Jesus in a radical way during these days. We made beautiful music together for both praise and justice.  We kept reaching out to those on society's margins with a message of grace. And we created a new way of doing the politics of church administration that are admittedly incomplete, but hold the promise of tenderness for the future. 

Now, it is chill time. Time to bring my instruments up from the basement. And add hundreds of books to my home study bookshelves. And throw away pounds and pounds of paper. And prepare to make new music with my dear friends. And get back to the community of L'Arche Ottawa. And visit with my family. And walk in the woods with my dog. And rest gently with my beloved.