Monday, April 20, 2020

the inevitable pushback of chaos and fear...

One of the inevitable reactions to the bold acts of global solidarity we are now witnessing in Asia, Europe and North America as the super majority of citizens shelter in place involves fear and chaos. This past week we saw the public face of these agents in the so-called "liberate" demonstrations in Michigan, Texas, Virginia and Ohio. They were ugly. Ignorant. And fascist. They were also bank-rolled by the same people who gave birth to the Tea Party demagogues of the Obama years. Heather Richardson brings clarity to the confusion in last night's column - and she names names:

These protests are a classic example of trying to control politics by controlling the national narrative. The protests are backed by the same conservative groups that are working for Trump’s reelection. The Michigan Conservative Council, one of the organizers of the Michigan protest, was founded by a pro-Trump couple active in state Republican politics. Another organizer was the Michigan Freedom Fund, whose leader, Greg McNeilly is a Republican political operative who worked for Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos’s family.

Protests in Wisconsin were organized by the Committee to Unleash Prosperity, founded by Republican pro-Trump economists Arthur Laffer and Stephen Moore, and by FreedomWorks, a training group for conservative activists that grew out of a political organization founded by David and Charles Koch. FreedomWorks is most famous for its organization of the Tea Party movement in 2009. Its president, Adam Brandon, told Vox reporter Jane Coaston that “this has the same DNA [as] the Tea Party movement.” It “just so happened a lot of our activists were organizers.” The Fox News Channel personalities cheered on the events, with Jeanine Pirro saying of the Michigan protesters: “God bless them, it’s going to happen all over the country;” Laura Ingraham tweeting a video of it, saying: “Time to get your freedom back;” and Tucker Carlson interviewing a representative of the Michigan Conservative Council on his show before the person did another interview on “Fox & Friends” the next day. On Saturday, FNC ran graphics showing where protests were planned across the country from April 18 to May 2.

These are not spontaneous, grassroots protests. They are political operations designed to divert attention from the Trump administration’s poor response to the pandemic. Even more, though, they are designed to keep the American public divided so that we do not protest the extraordinary economic inequality the pandemic has highlighted.


Like Richardson, I see three forces coming together to distract us from the Trump regime's miserable failure at marshaling resources for wide-spread testing as well as their unwillingness to aggressively manufacture the equipment necessary for hospitals to manage the pandemic safely. One cadre, of course, are the political/financial backers of Trump's regime, The second includes their propaganda apparatus on Fox News. And the third unites mercenaries with a survivalist bent with America's white underclass. Both groups are terrified and angry and hellbent on finding scapegoats other than the President. It is wise to recall that two thirds of Americans reject their vicious ignorance: the civil majority were already practicing social distancing before most governors got into the act - and we'll continue to do so regardless of the threats and hype. Still the "ginning up a media frenzy over alleged partisan divisions is a diversion," writes Richardson that "distracts us from the growing sense that our government of the people, by the people, and for the people has lost its way."

Sunday's NY Times posted an extensive and insightful analysis of what is truly in store for us over the next 24 months. (https://www.nytimes.com/ 2020/ 04/18/health/coronavirus-america-future.html?) "The U.S. is months away from being able to return to normalcy," they write and summarize the article's key points like this:

■ There is enormous uncertainty. In the best case, scientists would develop a vaccine or — more likely — treatments for the coronavirus’s effects. It’s also possible that the virus will mutate to become less severe. These outcomes are possible but are not the most likely ones.

■ Social distancing is still vital. About 300 million people in America have probably not been exposed to the virus, and epidemiologists say that until a vaccine or other protective measures emerge, it’s not safe for that many people to suddenly come out of confinement.

■ It’s unclear how well the U.S. will cope with the next phase. As more people with immunity get back to work, more of the economy will recover. But if too many people became infected at once, new lockdowns would be needed. To avoid that, widespread testing will be imperative
.


Simultaneously, Richard Rohr added a wise invitation when he wrote that we might let this time of contagion become transformative.

For many of us, this may be the first time in our lives that we have felt so little control over our own destiny and the destiny of those we love. This lack of control initially feels like a loss, a humiliation, a stepping backward, an undesired vulnerability. However, recognizing our lack of control is a universal starting point for a serious spiritual walk towards wisdom and truth.

To be in control of one’s destiny, job, or finances is nearly an unquestionable moral value in Western society. The popular phrase “take control of your life” even sounds mature and spiritual. It is the fundamental message of nearly every self-help book. On a practical level, it is true, but not on the big level. Our bodies, our souls, and especially our failures teach us this as we get older. We are clearly not in control, as this pandemic is now teaching the whole planet.

Learning that we are not in control situates us correctly in the universe. If we are to feel at home in this world, we have to come to know that we are not steering this ship. That teaching is found in the mystical writings of all religions. Mystics know they are being guided, and their reliance upon that guidance is precisely what allows their journey to happen. We cannot understand that joy and release unless we’ve have been there and experienced the freedom for ourselves.

All at the same time there is peril and promise, hope and despair, new life and enormous death, well-funded fascist initiatives alongside prefigurative work for a more equitable and just social order. There is anger and serenity, too along with a truckload of grief. Like St. Lou Reed used to say: "You need a busload of faith to get by!" Hold on it is about to get really crazy.

Sunday, April 19, 2020

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

a monk's moment - thank you kathleen norris...

It was bound to happen - a matter of when rather than if - and yesterday was the day: my most recent "monk moment." (Kathleen Norris) In this season of hibernating for health and solidarity in solitude, I have started to revisit my home library for books I've always wanted to read but haven't, or, those I once started but never finished. I tore through two biographies (Dorothy Day and Phyllis Tickle) and then pulled down Richard Rohr's Immortal Diamond and The Music of Silence, a dialogue between David Steindl-Rast and Sharon Labell. Rohr is differentiating between the "true and false self" - what I think of as the realm of deep spiritual insights versus surface level religiosity - while Steindl-Rast and Labell are exploring what it means to pray the traditional monastic hours in a 21st century world. Both are invitations to honor honesty and humility as the heart of our faith journey. Rohr challenges us to make peace with our false self so that we might nourish our true self and Rast/Labell push us to practice resting within the wisdom of silence.

One of my favorite authors, Kathleen Norris, crafted the introduction to the book on monastic prayer. In her opening words she recounts a time when she was introduced to the world of computers. At first Norris marveled at their speed and efficiency. In short order, however, she became increasingly irritated whenever the machine made her wait on a correction.

One day, when I timed an annoying delay and found it constituted all of ten seconds, I had what would call a "monk moment," a quick slap that told me: Pay attention - watch yourself. And seeing myself as I was - groaning with impatience over so small an increment of time - made me laugh. I had let technology and its attendant idol, efficiency, make a fool of me... Economists and politicians tend to interpret advances in technology as advances in affluence. But as David Steindl-Rast so eloquently puts it in this book: "the economics of affluence demand that things that were special for us last year must now be taken for granted."

Each night while reading these authors I have been wondering when and how my false self would show up again. I got a clue when my equilibrium was rattled after replacing a kitchen light fixture. We've hated the old one for 13+ years and finally replaced it as part of my kitchen painting adventure. It looks great and adds 50% more light. The problem was a breaker switch kept shutting off. I get nervous when it comes to electricity and this set off a ton of inner triggers. We eventually resolved the problem - THANKS BE TO GOD  - when I found two of the essential wires had come undone.

Already tender within by this encounter, I began to unpack our cupboards so that I could start the painting. What a ton of junk! After separating what we'll keep and what will go elsewhere, I discovered that I couldn't take off the hinges and hardware from the cupboard doors. My best guess is that they had been painted in place. They say confession is good for the soul so let me own that as I looked at the mess I was unnerved. I HATE clutter. And by this point there were pots and pans, silver ware, bowls and who knows what else strewn throughout the kitchen, living room and my study. It would be an understatement to say I was not a happy camper. I am willing to endure a wilderness of mess in pursuit of the greater good - a really clean and lovely new kitchen - but this was getting under my skin. I carefully taped the woodwork and corners to paint the ceiling - and it went well. I was shocked. No mishaps. No stepping in a paint bucket. No spills and no hassle.

That's when I should have become suspicious that chaos was just around the corner.  I started to paint the cupboards after washing the walls and cabinet doors. Unfortunately the dark green enamel was streaking and slipping all over the place - it looked truly horrible. Within seconds of starting I knew that I should have applied the KILZ primer first. But I hadn't. And here's the kicker: knowing what I should have done, I still plowed on thinking if I just used more paint and a better brush I could remedy this mistake. WRONG. I only made it worse. And truly hideous. So I had to wait for the mess to dry before applying the primer I should have started with to cover up disaster.

In retrospect, I laughed: there was that monk moment again where I tried to fix what was broken with willpower and aggression. It's never worked before but... maybe now would be the exception. Of course, it wasn't. In so many ways I keep refusing to learn from this flaw: I want to be in control. I want to make broken things whole. Only too often I am in too much of a hurry and fail to stop and regroup when everything is going south. Talk about a life time of tumbling down one rabbit hole after another. When I woke up aft 4:00 am this morning, I just sat with this monk moment for about 45 minutes before offering it up to God in thanks. The root word for humility and humor also includes humiliation. No wonder Fr. Richard Rohr prays to God for at least one encounter with humiliation every day. It keeps us honest - and able to laugh at ourselves.

Today was a fresh start - I worked much more slowly - and ended the day with a simple plate of pasta and then an episode of "Call the Midwives." Maybe I'll have this finished by Friday. Maybe...

Sunday, April 12, 2020

our digital paschal triduum: April 2020


This morning's Easter reflection and Holy Communion live-streaming. On that strange but meaningful "in-between" day - Holy Saturday - we raked leaves, moved wood stumps into our emerging outdoor chapel and joined the Easter Vigil at Trinity Wall Street via the miracle of the Internet. We also went to church at Trinity again this morning after my broadcast was over. Here are some pictures from our place within the Paschal Triduum starting with Foot-Washing via Skype with our family in Brooklyn, the Stations of the Cross via Zoon with the L'Arche Community of Ottawa, the Easter Vigil at home with Trinity Wall Street in NYC and Easter Sunday. 

Saturday, April 11, 2020

easter sunday liturgy and live-streaming...

Tomorrow I am going to lead a simple Eucharistic service of Easter worship on my live-streaming Face Book broadcast @ 9:55 am. There will be song songs and Alleluias, too as well as a contemplative reflection on the tears of Mary Magdalene. There is nothing normal about this Easter, the coronavirus has turned all our lives upside down, but then there is nothing normal about Easter unless you see it with the eyes of the heart. That is part of Magdalene's gift. She "got" it before the brothers - and was embraced as the Apostle to the Apostles. I continue to find her witness and gifts for us stunning and grace-filled.

If you are able to join me know that I have set the time for 9:55 am just to give us all time to get online and focused. It will help if you have some bread and wine/grape juice ready to bless and share for Holy Communion. You may want to set a special table for feasting with Christ. Last week a few friends send me pictures of the communion table they set for Palm Sunday. I was so moved by each one. Mine looked like this:
The order of worship for Easter Sunday is largely taken from Rite Two from the Book of Common Prayer. (NOTE: there is no copyright violation when using this liturgy. Same goes for the Public Domain hymns and chants we'll use.) You may want to have the liturgy below either printed or on an electronic device so that will you access it along with the live-streaming. You can find the worship time on my spiritual direction at Face Book: https://www.facebook.com/Be-Still-and-Know-913217865701531/.

            Celebration of Easter Sunday
Gathering and Welcome

Call to Worship and Prayer
Leader: Blessed be God: Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit.
People: And blessed be the reality of God’s grace in our lives, now and forever.
Leader: Alleluia! Christ is risen.
People: The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Christ the Lord is risen today: Alleluia. 
Mortal tongues and angels say: Alleluia. 
Raise your joys and triumphs high: Alleluia. 
Sing, glad heavens, and earth reply: Alleluia. 

Leader: Let us pray.
Unison: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace; taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that you will make all things right if I surrender to your will: we return thanks that we can be reasonably happy now in this life; and supremely happy with you forever in the next. Amen.

The Prayer and Lessons
+ Isaiah 25: 6-8
+ Psalm 131
+ John 20: 1-9

The Reflection

The Affirmation of Faith (adapted from Romans 8)

Unison: We believe there is no condemnation for those who live into God’s love, for we trust that in everything God works for good with those who love God. That is why we are certain that nothing – neither death nor life, angels nor principalities, things present nor things to come, powers, height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation – will be able to separate us from the love of God we have experienced in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen. 

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia… 

The Great Thanksgiving

Leader: The Lord is with you.
People: And also with you.
Leader: Lift up your hearts.
People: We lift them to the Lord.
Leader: Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.
People: It is right give God thanks and praise.
Leader: It is right…

Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, 
Heaven and earth are full of your glory: Hosanna in the highest. 
Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord: 
Hosanna in the highest. 

Let us continue to pray: Holy and gracious God… all this we ask through Jesus Christ: by him, with him and in him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all honor and glory are yours, Almighty God, now and forever. Amen.

The people may pray the Lord’s Prayer here in their own tradition 

The Communion of the People

Leader: These are the gift of God for the whole people of God. Take them in remembrance of Christ’s death and resurrection that you may feed on him in your hearts by faith and thanksgiving: come, for all things are now ready: the body of Christ, the bead of heaven.
People: Amen.


The people may share the bread at this time. 

Leader: Take and drink: the cup of blessing poured out for you in grace.
People: Amen.

The people may share the cup at this time. 

Leader: Let us pray…

Glory to our Creator, and to the Christ and to the Holy Spirit: 
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be; 
World without end. Amen. And amen. 

The Blessing



Wednesday, April 8, 2020

connecting the dots as through a glass darkly...

As we begin to make peace with living into this in-between time of hazy ambiguity and uncertainty - a season of silence and anxiety, a compassion of solitude amidst Passover and Holy Week - it would seem that enough time has passed to notice three developments in the wider culture. First, the inevitable trolls are back to sowing seeds of disinformation and fear. Two, small signs of hope are recognizable as this phase of the pandemic starts to plateau. And three, a few clear-headed and thoughtful thinkers are knitting together a critique of that lays blame where it should be even while raising up a vision of renewal.

One appeared five days ago in the Financial Times where author Arundhati Roy made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. (read the entire "The pandemic is a portal" article here @ https://www.ft.com/content/10d8f5e8-74eb-11ea-95fe-fcd274e920ca ) His conclusion  is critical:   

What is this thing that has happened to us? It’s a virus, yes. In and of itself it holds no moral brief. But it is definitely more than a virus. Some believe it’s God’s way of bringing us to our senses. Others that it’s a Chinese conspiracy to take over the world. Whatever it is, coronavirus has made the mighty kneel and brought the world to a halt like nothing else could. Our minds are still racing back and forth, longing for a return to “normality”, trying to stitch our future to our past and refusing to acknowledge the rupture. But the rupture exists. And in the midst of this terrible despair, it offers us a chance to rethink the doomsday machine we have built for ourselves. Nothing could be worse than a return to normality. Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.

Jim Wallis of the Sojourner's Community has connected some of the dots, too in his searing jeremiad, "Staggering." (Read it @ https://sojo.net/articles/staggering) His closing words are as trenchant as Roy's:

Using these days to make the best use of our time — for doing good — will become more and more necessary as we see people die in such unprecedented numbers. 
Many are saying that the coronavirus doesn’t “discriminate” and will be contracted by people who are politically red and blue, rich and poor, and of every race and ethnicity. Yes, that is medically true, but where people live and whether they have access to safe homes, steady incomes, plenty of food and supplies, medical advice and care, and the ability to do social distancing, will all contribute to the contagiousness and lethality of the disease. We already know that these factors are profoundly affected by structural racism in the United States, and the growth of COVID-19 “hot spots” in heavily black cities like Detroit and New Orleans is further evidence of the way these factors are so deeply and tragically interconnected. I end this column posing the questions: What would it mean to make COVID-19 a Matthew 25 moment? What if the condition of those Jesus calls “the least of these” was at the forefront of our minds and decisions — and where would we, as a nation and as a society, emerge on the other side? As we love and care for our own families, let us recall the words of Jesus in that Gospel text when he says that the least of these are “part of my family.”

NY Times columnist, Charles Blow, removed any illusions when he wrote, "Social Distancing is a Privilege," on Palm Sunday. (Take time to read his insights @ https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/05/opinion/ coronavirus-social-distancing .html?auth=login-google) He starts out, "People like to say that the coronavirus is no respecter of race, class or country, that the disease Covid-19 is mindless and will infect anybody it can." Then he cuts to the chase:

In theory, that is true. But, in practice, in the real world, this virus behaves like others, screeching like a heat-seeking missile toward the most vulnerable in society. And this happens not because it prefers them, but because they are more exposed, more fragile and more ill. What the vulnerable portion of society looks like varies from country to country, but in America, that vulnerability is highly intersected with race and poverty. Early evidence from cities and states already shows that black people are disproportionately affected by the virus in devastating ways. As ProPublica reported, in Milwaukee County, Wis., as of Friday morning, 81 percent of the deaths were black people. Black people make up only 26 percent of that county.

And Rebbeca Solint in The Guardian is equally prophetic: "In the midst of fear and isolation we are learning that profound social change is possible." (Read her essay @ https://www.theguardian.com/ bworld/2020/apr/07/what-coronavirus-can-teach-us-about-hope-rebecca-solnit) "We have reached a crossroads, we have emerged from what we assumed was normality, things have suddenly overturned. One of our main tasks now – especially those of us who are not sick, are not frontline workers, and are not dealing with other economic or housing difficulties – is to understand this moment, what it might require of us, and what it might make possible." Her conclusion - and deep analysis - is worth every minute it takes to digest:

The sadness in the depths and the fury that burns above are not incompatible with hope, because we are complex creatures, because hope is not optimism that everything will be fine regardless. Hope offers us clarity that, amid the uncertainty ahead, there will be conflicts worth joining and the possibility of winning some of them. And one of the things most dangerous to this hope is the lapse into believing that everything was fine before disaster struck, and that all we need to do is return to things as they were. Ordinary life before the pandemic was already a catastrophe of desperation and exclusion for too many human beings, an environmental and climate catastrophe, an obscenity of inequality. It is too soon to know what will emerge from this emergency, but not too soon to start looking for chances to help decide it. It is, I believe, what many of us are preparing to do.

Today I cleaned the house and scrubbed the floors. Tomorrow I will join my Brooklyn family at 11 am to celebrate a wee foot washing ceremony via Skype. Then I will spend the rest of the day crafting a simple Easter homily for my live-streaming gig. On Friday I will play a Taize chant on Zoom with my L'Arche Ottawa community. And probably watch Good Friday prayers online from Trinity Church in Manhattan. As Fr. Richard Rohr continues to say: this is a global initiation into the Paschal Mystery wherein we learn about radical trust through our emptiness and loss. I give thanks this day for those who help me see even as through a glass darkly. My love and prayers are with my rabbi friends tonight as they celebrate the Passover Seder on Zoom tonight. May those of us who observe Holy Week make the most of it.

credits:
+ https://www.flickr.com/photos/fredmikerudy/7524556958
+ https://www.textileartist.org/michael-james-interview-visceral-connection-textiles/for-now-we-see-through-a-glass-darkly_1024dpi
+ https://www.textileartist.org/michael-james-interview-visceral-connection-textiles/for-now-we-see-through-a-glass-darkly_1024dpi
+ http://mookseandgripes.com/reviews/2014/01/01/ingmar-bergman-through-a-glass-darkly/


Tuesday, April 7, 2020

and so it begins: the darkness and the light

The afternoon before Palm Sunday, we spent a few hours raking and hauling leaves from our front garden back into the wetlands. I gave another hour to that work yesterday and almost two more today. The leaves are almost gone. My old back is tired but getting stronger again. My legs are a bit wobbly, too from all the deep knee bends needed to pick up the mess. And next week I'll do it all over again in the other garden beds. But being outside in the sun, plants and dirt is one of my favorite ways of returning thanks to God for the gift of life in creation. I have been hungry for this since returning from the warm sunshine of Tucson in January and our deep friendships.

On Palm Sunday we went for a long walk with Lucie, our special needs dog, and did so again today. My friend and old partner in song, Hal, wrote a lovely tune some 20 years ago called "People Wave." (Take a listen to it here @ https://open.spotify.com/album/0CZLsA6hsPZqZVeMUUJnsT) Wandering around the streets of our neighborhood during the "shelter in place" days of the contagion feels a lot like that song: strangers waving to one another in passing cars, residents we've never met saying out loud how good spring time feels albeit from the safety of the other side of the road, and little ones running around their yards playing ball or blowing bubbles. 

The quiet pleasures here seem a world away from the death that has enveloped so much of the world - and now our own nation. We've made certain to have another two weeks of supplies stocked up so we're ready to ride out what many say will be the worst of the pandemic in our area. One news person noted that this will likely be the most excruciating two weeks in our collective history - worse than the death toll of WWII - as we'll all know at least someone who has passed in this plague. 

The incongruity of that truth kept echoing in my head as we shopped yesterday (we can't even get on a list right now for home delivery.) While gloved and masked, I kept trying to get around a man older than myself who was shopping alongside his 40 something son and seven year old grand-daughter. They moseyed their way through the store in their own world touching this and that without any protective personal gear in sight. How can some be so self-centered I wondered? It made me realize, yet again, that there may be fewer cases of the virus here - and fewer people, too - but we're all vulnerable: wise, foolish, informed and belligerent. 

And now I just saw the news that John Prine has died - gone home beyond all suffering - at age 73. (Read the Rolling Stone article about his life and legacy here @ https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-country/johnprineobit253684/fbclid=IwAR1mM3w55aUww61ZGc3NINXlrzXGh1D0mPwU4K9wfLzqQeTUt0K_hcBRcLQ) Time for me to sign off and sing "Angel from Montgomery" for a spell. And so it begins for me: the darkness and the light.

Monday, April 6, 2020

gratitude for this terrify and beautiful time...

Five years ago my life was changed forever in ways I never expected: during my sabbatical from pastoral ministry, I discerned that just as I had once been called into pastoral ministry, now I was being called out of this work. Merriam Webster notes that "a calling" is:"a strong inner impulse toward a particular course of action especially when accompanied by conviction of divine influence." St. Frederick Buechner amplifies in Wishful Thinking:

There are all different kinds of voices calling you to all different kinds of work, and the problem is to find out which is the voice of God rather than of Society, say, or the Super-ego, or Self-Interest.  By and large a good rule for finding out is this. The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work (a) that you need most to do and (b) that the world most needs to have done. If you really get a kick out of your work, you've presumably met requirement (a), but if your work is writing TV deodorant commercials, the chances are you've missed requirement (b). On the other hand, if your work is being a doctor in a leper colony, you have probably met requirement (b), but if most of the time you're bored and depressed by it, the chances are you have not only bypassed (a) but probably aren't helping your patients much either. Neither the hair shirt nor the soft berth will do. The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.

I experienced both definitions when I was 16 years old during an alternative worship encounter at the Potter's House (Church of the Savior) in Washington, D.C. It was 1968. I tried for a number of years to avoid this calling but as one wiser than I observed: "You can run, but you can't hide." I was ordained thirteen years later trusting that I was living into a sacred vocation. In many ways this was true - and that's probably why I didn't see this coming. Talk about gobsmacked! But as I owned my exhaustion and alienation, a crystalline sense of completion convinced me that this chapter was done. My frustration was palpable. My hopes confused. And any sensibility of what God wanted for me in the future was shrouded in obscurity.

On our last night in Montreal, we finally made it to the local monastery's Taize worship. I had avoided it for nearly three months but reveled in the whole experience. Especially what I came to call a humble and downward theological geography: sitting on the floor without obvious hierarchy, sharing the homily, singing - or sitting in silence - for as long as the Spirit desired. When we left, Di said very clearly to me: "You aren't done yet. You're clearly finished being a pastor in the traditional sense. But you are too alive in the presence of the holy to be done with worship and spirituality yet." Her prophetic insight rang true even as I resisted it. For a few years, I stepped away from all public interaction with the Body of Christ. I tried to define myself as a musician - and had a grand few years making serious music. But in time it became clear that a new vocation in contemplative spirituality was luring me out of the darkness. Not back into a local congregation, mind you: I had NO interest in administration or fund raising and the petty politics had burned me out. But... but prayer and song and silence and small acts of compassion? That felt like what both Webster and Beuchner were talking about.

On Good Friday I will play a small role in our L'Arche Ottawa "Stations of the Cross" on Good Friday. Then, on Sunday, Easter 2020, I will return to my little on-line ministry of live-streaming prayer and poetry for this year's Feast of the Resurrection. I will use a simple Eucharistic liturgy and offer a few thoughts and songs concerning the embrace of Christ's resurrection and the Serenity Prayer.

In the years since one calling closed and another started to open, I have become aware that my deepest vocation is all about small acts of tenderness. I have energy - and gifts - for this. Like the Psalmist said:

O LORD, I am not proud; I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself

with great matters,
or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
like a child upon its mother's breast;
my soul is quieted within me.
O Israel, wait upon the LORD,
from this time forth for evermore.

Somewhere over the past week I read that this is exactly what is keeping us all alive right now: small, ordinary, often overlooked acts of human and earthly tenderness. The sun that comes up. The wind that blows away the smog. The smile on the face of an unknown neighbor taking a Sunday walk. This poem I bookmarked last week helped me see with new eyes. Lana Hechtman Ayers writes: "Praise in a Viral Time."

Praise to the grocery store worker
who greeted me cheerfully
on the phone when I let her know
I’d arrived to pick up
the order I’d placed online.
Praise to her eyes blue as today’s sky
that smiled apologetically
when she said she couldn’t fill
half my order, there being
simply not much in stock.
I told her she was a hero for being here
in a time of virus to help feed us,
and she said, “We’ll all get through
this crazy time together.”

Praise to the pharmacy clerk,
arriving at the drive-thru window
her hands gloved, smile
bright as her cherry-red hair.
I told her she was a hero for helping
us be as healthy as possible
with so many spreading illness.
She said, “I have lung issues
and both my children are
immunocompromised.
Let’s all be careful.”

Praise to all those who go to work
every day, side by side with a death
virus at work, invisible as breath.

Praise to the delivery drivers,
the warehouse and factory workers,
and the farm workers laboring
tirelessly for the good of all.

Praise to the firemen and lawmen,
to the pharmacists, the EMTs,
the nurses, the doctors always
selflessly on the front lines.

Praise to the tech folks
who keep our virtual worlds
smoothly unfolding
so we can be together
in this ether of electrons.
Praise to all those online
posting messages of humor
and survival and hope.

Praise to the postal workers
even if it’s mostly bills, praise to
all the utility employees,
everyone who keeps the power on,
the water flowing cleanly, freely.

Praise to the garbage men,
praise to the cleaners and janitors
perhaps most of all, blessings
and endless praise for making
every surface safe once again.

Praise to the homeless man
who looked at my privileged self
with pity on his weather-beaten face
and said, “You can get through this,
honey. I’ve done it for years.”

Praise to human kindness
that blossoms in times of crisis,
like spring after a relentless,
crippling winter.

Praise to every human on earth,
even those who have not yet
discovered in their hearts
a way to be generous,
a way to reach out to others
in these uncharted times.

Praise to being human because
we all have the capacity
for growth and change,
and at the very least,
all can be civil,
as my counselor Jane told me
on the phone this very morning,
Most of us stop for the red light.
I am so grateful to be alive right now - at this terrifying and beautiful moment in history - and pray I have the chance to live more deeply into this new vocation.

Sunday, April 5, 2020

palm sunday in a community of solitude: the via negativa



Palm Sunday Meditation: Small Is Holy #2 
""Exposing the Paradox of Creation: the Via Negativa"

Introduction

Celebrating Palm Sunday with you like this makes me think about how the early community of faith we now call the Church entered into these holy mysteries. We know from the gospel readings for this day that there was excitement and confusion. There was also great fear in those early days as the Jesus movement practiced radical hospitality and humble tenderness in a hostile environment. St. John’s gospel tells us that on the first Easter Sunday the disciples were hidden away in the Upper Room for fear of the violent and threatening realities that surrounded them in Jerusalem.

That violence and fear – always present to some degree in the human condition – began to bubble up on Palm Sunday and boil over as Holy Week ripened. For a moment in time, the profound paradox of creation was revealed: new life and tragic death always exist side by side. My favorite prayer in the Book of Worship for the United Church of Christ puts it like this: "O God, who in Jesus Christ triumphantly entered Jerusalem, heralding a week of pain and sorrow, be with us now as we follow the way of the cross. In these events of defeat and victory – humiliation and exaltation – we are aware that the way of Jesus includes martyrdom and majesty. Bless us – as well as the palms we carry – to your use to be signs of a new way of living in this broken and beautiful world. Come, Lord Jesus, come. Amen."

That same paradox has been revealed to the world once again as we mark the start of Holy Week 2020: there is fear and hope, clarity and confusion, solidarity and strife, new life and countless deaths wherever we look. And for people of faith the magnitude of this moment is pushing us to wrestle with yet another aspect of this paradox: honoring the wisdom of our grief even as we search for the moral meaning of this plague. That’s how NY Times columnist, David Brooks, speaks of Holy Week this year: becoming consciously aware that how we live and move, breathe and act in the world will either strengthen the bonds of human love, or, pour gasoline on the fire of cruelty and madness.

It is too early, of course, to draw comprehensive conclusions about how we might live on the other side of the coronavirus: there’s just too much suffering still ahead for that. But it is not premature to ponder what values and ethical objectives will shape our response to this tragedy. The prophets of ancient Israel taught us that without a vision the people will perish. So Brooks references Victor Frankl who, “writing from the madness of the Holocaust, reminded us that we don’t get to choose our difficulties, but we do have the freedom to select our responses. Meaning, he argued, comes from three things: the work we offer in times of crisis, the love we give and our ability to display courage in the face of suffering. The menace may be subhuman or superhuman, but we all have the option of asserting our own dignity, even to the end.”

Insights

That is why the Passion Narrative of Jesus is often read on this day in churches all over the world: it reminds us that unless human beings consciously practice staying grounded we’ll get caught up in the emotions of the day or lost within our own brokenness. It is no accident that our tradition starts Palm Sunday with shouts of “HOSANNA! HOSANNA!” but then quickly shifts to cries of, “CRUCIFY, CRUCIFY THAT MAN!” Learning how to move with compassion and integrity in this tension is at the heart of the paradox of the passion of Jesus during Holy Week.

You see, the arc of worship over the next 8 days exposes both the possibilities of tenderness and the certainties of cruelty that live in every heart. The liturgy shows us that those who have befriended Jesus will not only betray him in their fear, but desert him when he is most vulnerable. Simultaneously, the women in this story who have traveled with Jesus from the start continue to stand by him even when threatened by the swords of Roman legionnaires. The men cave-in and hide-away with tears of shame while the women stand silent witness with tears of love so that Jesus does not have to face the agony of the Cross all by himself. This paradox is personified in Peter, who denies ever knowing Jesus when it really counts, and, Mary Magdalene who refuses to hide her solidarity and stays with Jesus through it all.

At its deepest level our Holy Week story asks us to realize that the worst of our humanity is always in tension with our best – and God’s love is there in the light as well as the darkness. From start to finish the men are present as well as the women, the fear is there alongside the joy, and the death is every bit as true as new life. For this is the paradox of creation: the good is always surrounded by evil, life is never just about winners or losers, women or men, happiness or despair. It is always about making sense of both: just look at the CROSS as it holds both seeming opposites together at the same time.

And that feels true to me right now when our deepest fears and anxieties are alive and all too well within us every day and night, and, at the same time women, men and children are courageously sharing love in death-defying ways as well. I don’t know about you but on any given day, my feelings can bounce around within like I’m on an emotional trampoline only to be suddenly replaced by a peace that passes under--standing all in my same body! When I watch the news – and mind you, I limit it to just one hour a day so that I’m not overwhelmed by the emotional propaganda and advertising for anxiety – I experience a full range of feelings from rage and sorrow, to gratitude, despair and hope. And while I take in all the news – not just the feel good stories, but also the current incompetency as well as inexorable sorrow to come – I pay careful attention to how the vast majority of us continue to incarnate a love that is bolder than any act of love we have ever seen before. Somebody on Facebook posted this meme:

When you go out and see the empty streets, the empty stadiums, the empty train platforms, don’t say to yourself: This looks like the end of the world. What you’re seeing is love in action. What you’re seeing in that negative space, is how much we really care for one another: For our grandparents, for our immune-compromised sisters and brothers, for strangers we will never meet. People have already lost their jobs for this love. Some will lose their businesses and some will lose their lives. All the more reason to take a moment, when you’re out on your walk, or on your way to the store, or just watching the news, to look into this emptiness and marvel at all that love. Let it fill you and nourish you. Remember: it ISN’T the end of the world. It is the most remarkable act of global solidarity we may ever witness.

In contemplative spirituality this is part of the Via Negativa – a path into God’s love that is empty rather than full – a way of being that finds assurance in the sacred silence more than the sounds. Some of our friends in the mystical traditions of Judaism say that just as there is wisdom in the black letters of the Jewish alphabet, there is also insight to be discovered in all the empty space that surrounds those letters. In the mystery. Most Americans are well-rehearsed in the Via Positiva – the evidence-based ways of living of commerce, bottom lines and science – so we don’t really know what to do when that realm is shut down. When, as another person put it, the old normal is so gone forever that it can never be restored because the old normal is exactly what got us into this mess in the first place. Brooks writes:

This particular plague hits us at exactly the spots where we are weakest and exposes exactly those ills we had lazily come to tolerate. We’re already a divided nation, and the plague makes us distance from one another. We define ourselves too much by our careers, and the plague threatens to sweep them away. We’re a morally inarticulate culture, and now the fundamental moral questions apply. In this way the plague demands that we address our problems in ways we weren’t forced to before. The plague brings forth our creativity. It’s during economic and social depressions that the great organizations of the future are spawned.

The fact that we are gathered together using Facebook on Palm Sunday is evidence that this moment is calling us beyond the worn-out ways of what used to be normal into a new life that is still mysteriously taking shape and form. For me I trust that we are being existentially trained into a spirituality that adds gravitas to our souls, paradox to our working vocabulary and nuance and patience to our hearts. The Via Negativa is at the heart of Holy Week and the moral meaning of this plague. But like all new ways of being, it takes practice and time to trust. Do you know the poet Rumi? The great Islamic mystic? Some twenty years ago, when I came upon his poem, Love Dogs, I felt a veil had been lifted so that new light could be revealed. Better than most, you see, Rumi describes what it feels like to live into the Via Negativa. Coleman Barks translates it like this:

One night a man was crying Allah! Allah!
His lips grew sweet with praising, until a cynic said, “So!
I’ve heard you calling out, but have you ever gotten any response?”
The man had no answer to that. He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls, in a thick, green foliage.
“Why did you stop praising?” “Because I’ve never heard anything back.”
“Oh this longing you express is the return message.”
The grief you cry out from draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs no one knows the names of.
Give your life to be one of them.

The men who were friends and disciples of Jesus discovered their longing through shame and betrayal and yet Jesus made a point to come back to embrace them again with forgiveness, grace and tenderness. The women lived deeper into their emptiness by standing silent witness at the foot of the Cross and the tomb when everyone else ran away and Jesus returned to them appointing them the first apostles of this new life of love on Easter morning. Dear people of God, there is meaning in this suffering – in this emptiness – in these fears. And we don’t have to understand it all right now. As I said earlier, the grief that is yet to come will be onerous and incomprehensible. Bearing it well is what this hour requires. Christine Valters-Painter at the Abbey of the Arts wisely proclaims in her poem, “It Is Dark.”

Do not rush to make meaning.
When you smile and say what purpose this all serves,
you deny grief a room inside you,
you turn from thousands who cross into the Great Night alone,
from mourners aching to press one last time against the warm flesh of their beloved,
from the wailing that echoes in the empty room.
When you cry out who caused this, I say pause, rest in the dark silence first before you contort your words to fill the hollowed out cave,
remember the soil will one day receive you back too.
So sit where sense has vanished… and every drink tastes bitter despite our thirst.
When you wish to give a name to that which haunts us,
you refuse to sit with the woman who walks the hospital hallway,
Hears the beeping stop again and again,
with the man perched on a bridge over the rushing river.
Do not let your handful of light sting the eyes of those
who have bathed in darkness.


It is dark now – there is so much we don’t know – and that is how it is meant to be for now.

Conclusion
Save this – as we wait, as we wonder, as we weep and pray and find new and creative ways of being together in our solitude – know that God’s holy love is growing deeper within you. As you honor this as “The time to be slow, to lie low to the wall until the bitter weather passes” as the Irish poet, John O’Donohue, said: as you “Try, as best you can, not to let the wire brush of doubt scrape from your heart all sense of yourself and your light. Know that if you remain generous, time will come to good, and you will find your feet again on the fresh pasture of promise, where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.” This is the promise of Holy Week for those with ears to hear. Please be with me in prayer: Eternal God, whose whisper silences the shouts of the mighty, quiet within us every voice but your own. Speak to us now through the suffering and death of Jesus Christ – and the suffering and death all around us - so that by the power of your Holy Spirit we may receive grace to live more profoundly into Christ’s love as our lives are join into his service. Lord, may it be so for each and all of us. Amen.

Saturday, April 4, 2020

preparing for palm sunday like never before...

There was a break in the "April showers" in the Berkshires today so we spent a few hours raking and hauling leaves. All types of leaves: moldy ones, wet ones, dry ones and those creating cover for moths, butterflies and who knows what? I LOVE being out in this yard and exploring everything that needs to be helped and encouraged. It makes my body ache - and feel alive. We soaked up the sun, too as we worked side by side and that was restorative. 

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday: never before have I experienced a Palm Sunday like this in all my nearly 68 years! For 40 of those years, give or take one or two, I have had the privilege of reading the Passion narrative in public worship. For the last two years I have entered into Holy Week watching Trinity/St. Paul's worship online, been a part of the celebrations at L'Arche Ottawa, and then schlepped down to NYC to mark the Feast of the Resurrection with Louie's choir and the whole Brooklyn gang - including two Italian Easter feasts with the extended family that were remarkable and grace-filled. Not so now: I will mark this feast online with people from all over the world and then quietly shelter in place with Di - perhaps making falafel and fatoosh for supper. Back in the day I used to quote the hymn, "Once to Every Man and Nation," noting that "time makes ancient truth uncouth." This year, that takes on a whole new meaning as our feast day is celebrated in solitude and humility. In just a moment I am going to go out back and cut a small evergreen sprig to use for the liturgy: no palms and NO sharing allowed this year.

For the past four weeks we have self-isolated save one trip to the grocery store on Thursday and a solitary car ride through the region last Sunday. I have spoken in-person to my neighbor twice in the drive way. We have Skyped with our Brooklyn family 3 times and I spoke to the hill town crew once last Sunday. I love the quiet but it all feels upside down. I think that's appropriate for this Palm Sunday. The severity of death is real within my heart now - no longer an obscure, distant abstraction. Same, too with the reality that I could die if I am not careful. Earlier this week I was asked if I might visit a person I did not know in the hospital as he moves closer to death. Ordinarily, I would not hesitate to help out our local hospital. But now, given my age and previous disposition to pneumonia - let alone Di's precarious health and any possibility of passing before my grandchildren mature - I had to ask them to find someone else. I am keenly aware of my own mortality - and what I feel called to do in the short time that remains.

And I want to be a part - albeit it tangential and small - of the rebuilding after this plague. It will be a time unlike any other since WWII when the possibility for greater compassion is viable again - and caring for one another essential. Rebecca Solint, whom I don't always understand, put it best in her reflection on hope written at the start of the Iraq war:

The moment passed long ago, but despair, defeatism, cynicism, and the amnesia and assumptions from which they often arise have not dispersed, even as the most wildly, unimaginably magnificent things came to pass. There is a lot of evidence for the defense… Progressive, populist, and grassroots constituencies have had many victories. Popular power has continued to be a profound force for change. And the changes we’ve undergone, both wonderful and terrible, are astonishing ... This is an extraordinary time full of vital, transformative movements that could not be foreseen. It’s also a nightmarish time. Full engage-ment requires the ability to perceive both.

So, like Palm Sunday itself, I hold fear and hope together - the reality of death and isolation along with the presence of life and community - and trust that in the final analysis: grace trumps karma. I love these words and insights that Solint posits better than most preachers - myself included!

After a rain mushrooms appear on the surface of the earth as if from nowhere. Many do so from a sometimes vast underground fungus that remains invisible and largely unknown. What we call mushrooms mycologists call the fruiting body of the larger, less visible fungus. Uprisings and revolutions are often considered to be spontaneous, but less visible long-term organizing and groundwork — or underground work — often laid the foundation. Changes in ideas and values also result from work done by writers, scholars, public intellectuals, social activists, and participants in social media. It seems insignificant or peripheral until very different outcomes emerge from transformed assumptions about who and what matters, who should be heard and believed, who has rights... Ideas at first considered outrageous or ridiculous or extreme gradually become what people think they’ve always believed. How the transformation happened is rarely remembered, in part because it’s compromising: it recalls the mainstream when the mainstream was, say, rabidly homophobic or racist in a way it no longer is; and it recalls that power comes from the shadows and the margins, that our hope is in the dark around the edges, not the limelight of center stage. Our hope and often our power.

As I often sing while washing my hands these days: Glory be to the Creator. And to the Christ and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be: world without end. Amen. Amen. If you can, and are so inclined, join me tomorrow (Sunday, April 5) at 9:55 am.

Friday, April 3, 2020

what are you grateful for today?

Today is a Zoom/Skype kind of day: local poet friends, Brooklyn family, L'Arche Ottawa. I am grateful for this new technology - and am making use of it as much as I can handle. I still need a great deal of silence and solitude each day, too. And while this is not true for many, it is clearly my "default" setting. Two poems really grabbed me this week: "It is Dark" by Christine Valters-Painter and "Hared Facts" by Hayden Saunier.

Do not rush to make meaning.
When you smile and say what purpose this all serves,
you deny grief a room inside you,
you turn from thousands who cross into the Great Night alone,
from mourners aching to press one last time against the warm flesh of their beloved,
from the wailing that echoes in the empty room.

When you cry out who caused this, I say pause, 
rest in the dark silence first
before you contort your words to fill the hollowed out cave,
remember the soil will one day receive you back too.
So sit where sense has vanished… and every drink tastes bitter despite our thirst.

When you wish to give a name to that which haunts us,
you refuse to sit with the woman who walks the hospital hallway,

Hears the beeping stop again and again,
with the man perched on a bridge over the rushing river.
Do not let your handful of light sting the eyes of those
who have bathed in darkness.

The rush to get back to "normal" is fools play: there IS no more normal and what will emerge on the other side of the plague will require discernment, heart and a willingness to resist the old guard in ways yet to be imagined. But it will come. Just last month many of us were saying that universal health care and a guaranteed wage were just fringe, leftist pipe dreams - and now they are an essential part of the air we breathe. Governors and mayors have stepped into the void of national leadership and are showing us what competency and compassion in action look like. And General Electric rank and file members are demanding that the company start producing ventilators. When the shift comes, it arrives like a thief in the night - and there is much, much more to come - so hold on and go deep.

The other poem, "Hard Facts," reinforces the fluidity of so much we once took for granted. Today, all bets are off, and while that can be alarming, it is also liberating.

Most everything we're taught
is wrong.

Especially fixed rules
about small engine

repair in adverse
marine conditions,

walking on ice,
and anything

to do with people.
Especially our own

strange selves.
And so the door

to the ordinary miracle
swings open.

Watching, listening, laughing and loving with my grandchildren this afternoon on Skype was holy ground. They who are miles and miles away - safe and warm in their Brooklyn brownstone with their wise and patient momma and poppa - will make pizza with poppa and watch Disney movies together. Life is moving faster than ever so I want to savor it and rejoice in its blessings. What are you grateful for today?

finally...

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