Valley Rise Up

Seeing

2012-02-12T17:12:00.000-08:00

A meditation on Mark 8:22-33...offered in worship on 2/12/12.

Surely by now,at least once, you’ve heard me invoke novelist Flannery O’Connor and her ratherdisarming summation of Jesus’ message. “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free,” she wrotein her journal. “But first, but first,it will make you flinch.” Sometimes weget all mushy and sweet with the gospel as if all it is is bon bons and dessert. I’m asguilty of this as any preacher out there. But Flannery O’Connor grasped something else in Jesus’ message, somethinghard, even something troublesome. “Youshall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free; but first it will makeyou flinch.” Try that out on your friends. Come tomy church this Sunday. Yeah, we’ll beflinching together!

The story we read this morning strikes me as a storyabout flinching. Peter thinks he’s gotJesus all figured out. You are theChrist, he says proudly, the Messiah. I’ve been paying attention. I’veseen you healing people. I’ve seen youfeeding thousands at a time. I’ve seenthings. You are the Christ, and I’m withyou.

And before we come down hard on Peter, before we usehim as this Sunday’s ‘straw man,’ he’s pretty much on target, right? Peter’s left his old ways, his oldneighborhood, and followed Jesus on a wild ride of healing and feeding,teaching and preaching. The poor heargood news. The blind can see. The hungry are fed. Surely, this is the Christ; Jesus is the Sonof God. Something radically new isbreaking in on the tired, old world. Can’t blame Peter for dancing on his wedding day. As it were.

But here comes the flinching part. You knowit’s coming. Jesus says to Peter, andhonestly to us as well, Don’t get too comfortable. You may think you know me, you may thinkyou’ve figured me out. But it’s not thateasy. It’s not so simple. This bit about discipleship has something todo with dying, something to do with a cross, something to do with surrender!

Well, Peter pretty much loses him at the dyingpart. Flinches at the dying part. Are you kidding? You have to die? I have to die? You’ve gotta be kidding! Because I’ve been paying attention. I’ve seen you healing people. I’ve seen you feeding thousands. You can do anything you want. You can beanything you want. And you’re talkingabout giving it all up? Suffering? You’re talking about a cross?

You see what I mean about flinching? And Jesus says, Yes, I’m talking about across.

If you read just one book about spirituality thisyear, you might want to make it “The Promise of Paradox” by Quaker theologianParker Palmer. He just has a way withwords, an honest way, that gets at the heart and, yes, the paradox ofChristianity. “The Promise ofParadox.”

In one of the book’s best essays, Parker Palmerexplores his own journey through the Stations of the Cross. Not the traditional stations, the fourteenyou find rimming the edges of a Catholic sanctuary; but the spiritual stations,five of them, that describe his own Christian journey. The evolution and rhythm of it. RECOGNITION, RESISTANCE, ACCEPTANCE,AFFIRMATION and LIBERATION. Fivestations of the cross. It’s not asequential path, he says, so much as a map of the spiritual landscape. RECOGNITION, RESISTANCE, ACCEPTANCE,AFFIRMATION and LIBERATION. Fivestations.

Basically, says Parker Palmer, every one of usRESISTS the cross on our way to the cross. We have to. We have to push backagainst the odd demands of the gospel, against Jesus and his surrender. RESISTANCE is part of our journey, aninevitable station on the way. Some ofus come back, again and again and again. There’s just no getting to AFFIRMATION and LIBERATION without passingthrough RESISTANCE. Peter’s not the onlyone; it’s true for every one of us. The artistwho hits the wall, tires of the creative process and flips the canvass over infrustration and despair. The motherawakened at 3 am by a shrieking infant needing to be nursed and then rollingover, nothing left to give. Thepeacemaker utterly demoralized by another famine, another massacre, anotherwar. If we’re honest and if we’re human,we meet RESISTANCE like an irritable old friend, over and again on ourspiritual journeys. Peter’s not the onlyone.

Bumping along through stop-and-go traffic this week,I picked up an interview on one of my favorite shows, NPR’s “Fresh Air.” It seems that this writer from The New Yorker spent three years livingin the slums of Mumbai, in India, and returned to write a book about themillions who live there. Kind of adevastating interview. She talked aboutfamilies whose entire existence involves collecting garbage around the Mumbaiairport. She described thousands andthousands of children living in cardboard boxes, under tin roofs, in abjectpoverty. And a world that seemssatisfied with misery as a consequence of economic growth. The global economy and all that.

I have to admit that there are times in my life,there are afternoons on the freeway, when I flinch. Just like Peter. Times when nothing makes any sense. Times when God seems either disinterested andcallous or a colossal waste of time. I’mnot sure I want give my life to a God who lets this stuff happen. A meek, ineffective God—who asks us only tosuffer and struggle together. There aretimes I’m not sure I believe slow, steady compassion really changes anything inthe end. And I’m not sure I can go ‘allin’ anymore—with a God who spins the galaxies in motion, but sits around whilepoor kids with a dozen diseases collect garbage in Mumbai.

Am I the only one who has afternoons like that? When commitment hits the proverbialwall. When compassion fatigue seems likea terminal disease. When Jesus himselfmakes no sense. Am I the only one? I don’t think so. RESISTANCE comes with the territory. RESISTANCE comes with faith. No, Peter’s not the only one. Not by a long shot.

And Parker Palmer says, in his essay, RESISTANCE? Great! Engage it. Live with it! Let it work on you! Rather than tripping out on RESISTANCE orfeeling insanely guilty about it, he says, Go with it! Spiritual life feeds on RESISTANCE. RESISTANCE is part of who we are, how we’rewired. Every one of us RESISTS the crosson the way to the cross. In a sense,until you RESIST Jesus, until you RESIST what he’s about, you can’t grapplewith the cost and the commitment of Christian life. Or live into the possibilities of grace.

Parker Palmer cuts right to the chase. He’s a marvelous writer. He says, “Resist any cross that comes yourway.” Isn’t that wild? “Resist any cross that comes your way.” Then he says, “Boldly become a pole ofopposition; live the contradiction.” Andit gets better. He says, “The falsecrosses will fall away, while those we must accept will stay there in themiddle of our lives, pulling right and left, up and down, until they pull usopen to our true center, a center where we are one with God, a center which wefind only on the way of the cross.”

I think that’s what Jesus wants for Peter, and foryou and me. Resistance andintegrity. He wants the false crosses tofall away, while the important ones pull us right and left, up and down. Until they pull us open to our true center. This pilgrimage is not a test we cram for,parroting back the right answers, earning ourselves a ticket to salvation. This is a vision quest, a vision quest, andalong the way we lose as much as we win, we break as much as we heal. But in the arms of grace, we come to see whowe really are. And what life’s reallyall about. Compassion. What life’s about, what the gospel’s about,what Jesus is about—is compassion.

You’ll remember that the reading this morning beginswith another healing story—the only one, by the way, in which Jesus has to goback and try a second time. I’m inclinedto think of this as more than coincidence. I’m inclined to read the healing story as a kind of foreshadowing, ametaphor really for the discipleship lesson that follows. The exchange between Peter and Jesus.

Remember how that first part goes? First Jesus puts spit in the man’s eyes andlays his hand on him. “Do you seeanything?” he asks. And the man looks upfrom the ground, wiping saliva from his eyes. “I see something,” he says, “something like men, something like treeswalking.”

So yes and no. He sees a little. Something new happening. Something new coming his way. But it’s still not clear what. It’s still not clear where he goes fromhere. Who he becomes. What will be asked of him. So Jesus lays hands on his eyes a secondtime. And the man ‘looks hard,’ andrealizes that now he sees perfectly. Everything in bright color and true focus. Maybe this isn’t just another miracle—but astory about wisdom and faith. Faith is ajourney. Wisdom is process. Faith is a vision quest. And seeing takes a lifetime.

So maybe what goes on for Peter is this: he followsJesus around, watches the healings, maybe participates a little, feeding the thousands,taking all kinds of risks and believing now in a better future. In a sense, through the first half of thegospel, Peter learns to see a little. Tounderstand some things about Jesus. Hecomes to appreciate some of what Jesus brings to the table, and he certainlyworks up an appetite for more.

But faith is never a done deal, belief is never afixed accomplishment. God insists onheart and soul, resistance and struggle, integrity and compassion. And here’s one of the real lessons I takefrom today’s story: As soon as I think Iknow what Jesus is all about, I probably don’t. As soon as I get comfortable with Jesus, I’ve got to expect theunexpected. Grace is like that. The gospel is like that. Always broader than my imagination. Always breaking free of my comfort zone. So as soon as I think I know what Jesus isall about, I probably don’t. Faith is ajourney, a process, a vision quest. Andseeing takes a lifetime.

One of the best books I read last month was thisone, a novel by Colum McCann. It’scalled “Let the Great World Spin.” It’sa story about New York, really, New York City in 1974. It’s got all kinds of characters. A judge who’s grown cynical about his work inthe system. A couple of hookers in theBronx and a Catholic priest who watches out for them. Two painters who’ve lost their passion. And a grieving gathering of mothers, everyone of whom has lost a son in the Vietnam War. Vietnam casts a shadow over the whole book, and Watergate, and New Yorkon the brink of bankruptcy. In 1974.

In the end, it’s a book about hope and love, and theways a single artist shines some light in all that darkness.

But, in a lot of ways, it’s a novel about fear, andall the ways fear clogs the arteries of a city, and its people. At one point, the young priest says to afriend: “It’s like dust. You walk aboutand don’t see it, don’t notice it, but it’s there and it’s all coming down,covering everything. You’re breathing itin. You touch it. You drink it. You eat it. But it’s so fine youdon’t notice it. You covered init...Just stand still for an instant and there it is, this fear, covering ourfaces and tongues." All thisfear. And it’s just as true for thejudge on Wall Street as it is for the hookers in the Bronx, just as true forthe painter as it is for the priest. It’s like dust. Coveringeverything.

And maybe, maybe that’s why Jesus is so put off byPeter’s enthusiasm, by his bravado, by his certainty. Even though, in so many ways, Peter gets itright. Jesus knows there’s fear likedust out there. Coveringeverything. That’s the spiritualcrisis. Fear’s clogging the arteries ofcities and nations, churches, synagogues and neighborhoods. It’s breaking the hearts of hookers andlawyers alike. And Peter’s bravado,Peter’s theological bravado does little to clear the air. Bravado never does.

Instead, Jesus asks Peter, Jesus asks us to come alittle closer. To look a littledeeper. Jesus asks us to weep with thedying. And laugh with the children. To confront injustice without anyguarantees. And feed the hungry withouta whole lot of resources. Jesus asks usto give up his image of a distant God who’s got everything under control and tocast our lot with a vulnerable God. Whobleeds sometimes. And breaks a lot. Jesus asks Peter to cast his lot with a Godof Love. No guarantees.

And Peter resists. God bless him, Peter resists. Maybe that’s true of us too. Welike a God who’s got things in hand. Welike a God who knows how to fix things in the end. But Jesus, Jesus says, I believe that love isstronger than fear. Let’s find out. He’s says, I believe we can heal thisplanet. I believe in the power ofredemptive suffering. Let’s find out. Set aside the distant,everything-under-control god. Cast yourlot with the God of Love.

And that’s the invitation before us. To take up the cross with Jesus. To be pulled open, pried open to our truecenter. And to trust, to hope, tobelieve in the love that lives there.

Getting It, or Not

2012-02-07T09:34:00.000-08:00

A meditation on Mark 8:1-21...offered in worship 2/5/12.

“Do you still not get it?” Here Jesusis both teacher and provocateur. He staresdown his friends, waits on their response, ogles those twelve anxiousdisciples. “Do you still not get it?”

They’re anxious, remember, rattled;they’re bickering because they’ve gone off on retreat without enough to eat. Twelve of them, let’s say, and a single staleloaf of bread. Probably been sitting intheir little rickety boat for days. Asingle stale loaf. Hardly seems enoughfor their extended retreat. So oneblames another, eyes are rolling, fingers wagging, others gossip on the side:clearly someone blew an assignment, someone’s got to be responsible. That’s the vibe in their little circle. That’s how it is when resources seem scarce,budgets stretched thin. The communityperceiving scarcity is so often overcome by anxiety. And instead of imagining new ways to feedthousands, instead of envisioning new opportunities to serve, Jesus’ disciplesare finding fault with one another. Blaming one another. Thecommunity perceiving scarcity—so often overcome by anxiety.

And Jesus, well, frankly Jesus soundskind of disappointed here, exasperated: “Don’t you see the point of all this?”he asks. “Remember the five loaves Ibroke for the five thousand? How manybaskets of leftovers did you pick up that day?” And the disciples look around the circle, then back into their own littlelaps. “Twelve,” says one of them. “And just now,” Jesus says. “When we had seven loaves for the fourthousand—how many bags full of leftovers did you get?” Again, a pause, a sheepish, reluctantpause. “Seven,” says another. Jesus lets the words settle, words andmemories, baskets of leftovers, bags of broken bread. “Then what’s with all the fussing?” heasks. “Do you still not get it?”

So often we read this story—thisfeeding of the hungry thousands—as mere miracle, as divine intervention, right,Jesus against the odds, Jesus against the grain. Jesus being Jesus, and that kind ofthing. There’s not much for us to do,really, except bow to a wonder-worker and beg him for another miracle now andthen. And God knows we can all use a miracle now and then.

But Mark has something else inmind, something else entirely. Parenthetically,this is why it’s so important for us to know the Bible and study theBible. Because you read Mark’s wholenarrative, these twenty-one verses, and you get a very different message. In the end, this is not a fantasy aboutdivine intervention, but a teaching about abundance and discipleship. In the end, this is a teaching about ourtemptation to turn Jesus into awonder-worker; about how often we miss the deeply personal and profoundly ethicalcontent of Jesus’ ministry. Abundanceand discipleship!

This is a story about getting it,or not; about following Jesus into the lives of the hungry, or not; aboutchoosing to share generously and trust abundantly, or not. “Don’t go chasing after guarantees, miracles,holy rollers,” Jesus says. “Rememberwhat happened out there—with just those seven loaves.” There’s enough love. There’s enough compassion. And there’s enough bread. If you bless it. If you share it. If you bless it by sharing it. Remember what happened out there. That’swhat this is all about.

So there’s some economics going onhere. In Jesus’ ministry. In Jesus’ teaching. And I want to remind you of the meaning ofthat word, the roots of the word ‘economics.’ It derives from two Greek words, biblical words: ‘oikos’ meaning household, and ‘nomos’meaning order or organization. Oiko-nomics—‘economics’—has to do with the ordering or the organizing ofa household. And Jesus is veryinterested in how the human household, the human community is organized. Who’s included, who’s excluded and why. Who’s deprived of resources, food, shelter,and why. How are the good gifts of agracious God shared and blessed, managed and enjoyed. Life should be a sacrament, an embodiedmystery, a feast for all. And Jesus isvery interested in how that works. Oiko-nomics. Economics.

I want to say a little more aboutthat and how it bears on our discipleship. But first a little detour, a detour that relates, I think.

When our interfaith delegation wastraveling in Israel and Palestine last fall, we arrived in Bethlehem in theWest Bank about lunchtime on a Monday. Just about the midpoint of our trip. Halfway through. After lunch, wehiked several flights of stairs to a Palestinian Youth Center. Where we were to meet with a group of Palestinianteens and young adults.

Now, I don’t know what otherdelegates were expecting, but I was kind of subdued that afternoon. Bethlehem is occupied territory, after all,and it felt that way to me. Occupied. We’d passed through thetowering cement security wall to get in. Young Israeli guards with huge machine guns had boarded the bus to checkus out. The youth center itself wasplastered with graffiti on a noisy city street. And just a block away—one of Palestine’slargest and oldest refugee camps—one I’d visited three years before—a labyrinthof busted buildings and broken glass and bullet holes.

So I climbed to the top floor ofthat unremarkable building in a pretty unremarkable part of town—with lowexpectations. It just seemed depressingto me. A world of broken glass, deferreddreams and unending despair. I expectedsad people in a sad place.

And then! And then, those twelve young Palestiniansstarted to dance. And they danced for us. And there was energy and fire. And there was rhythm and passion. And arms and legs and elbows. Young men and young women moving confidently, keeping time gladly. Their faces alive with sweat and joy and allkinds of hope for their future. Behindthem, a huge Palestinian flag: red, black and green, hanging proudly from oneend of the room to the other.

The whole thing had kind of a‘RIVERDANCE’ feel to it, but something else too. There was something sacramental about the way they danced, something tender and defiantat the same time. ‘We know who we are,’they seemed to say, every step, every move, every beat. ‘We are the living. We are the future. We are—children of God.’ Rhythm and passion, arms and legs andelbows. It was an extraordinaryafternoon.

I’m watching these kids dance, I’mwatching them honor their bodies and their gifts and their spirits thatway. And my jaw is just hanging all theway to the floor and back. It was like agreat feast, a holy communion, abundance beyond imagining, abundance andreverence and grace! What twelve kidscan do with their bodies! What twelvekids can do with gratitude! What twelvekids can do in an occupied land, with all kind of reasons to give up, in thelong shadows of so many walls. When itwas over, when they had danced for us and we had sung for them, we asked abouttheir futures, what was ahead. And oneyoung woman, I’ll never forget her, one young woman said, calmly anddecisively: “Whatever happens, I will be a leader here. I will be a leader for my people.”

I think about that afternoon allthe time. I think about that youngwoman, living in Bethlehem, dancing in occupied Palestine, dancing with herfriends. And I’m reminded: There’s enough love. There’s enough compassion. There’s enough bread, enough energy, enoughpower. If only we bless it. All of it. If only we share it. All ofit. That’s what that dance, that’s what thatyouth group was all about. And they madea believer out of me.

And I have to believe that’s what today’sstory, that’s what discipleship is allabout. “Do you still not get it?” Jesusasks. “Do you still not get it?”

It’s worth noticing how this wholestory begins. The first couple of versesin chapter eight. Jesus again findshimself in a hungry crowd—it’s where Jesus so often is, where Jesus chooses tobe. He takes the disciples with him, andhe calls them together, and he says to them: “This crowd is breaking myheart.” This crowd is breaking my heart.

He does not say, ‘I’m tired of this crowd and their neediness. Let’s get out of here.’ He does notsay, ‘I’m overwhelmed by systemic poverty, all these hungry children, howpowerless we are to fix it. Let’s getout of here.’ What Jesus says out there,in the wilderness, finding himself in another hungry crowd is just: “This crowdis breaking my heart.”

Everything that follows—Jesustaking seven loaves and giving thanks for them, Jesus blessing the couple offish they have and handing them out in pieces, this economic vision of enoughfor all—everything that follows follows from compassion. Jesus is the Son of God because his heartbreaks in a hungry crowd. Jesus is theSon of God because his heart knows there’s a better way. Jesus is the Son of God because blessingmeans sharing and Jesus does both. There’s enough love. There’senough compassion. There’s enoughbread. Jesus says bring it on. And please, please, please, pay attention. Don’t miss how important this is.

This hits home for me, just thisweek, in a couple of ways. First, wehave our seven loaves of bread, our opportunities to bless the poor andcultivate compassion right here at FCC. Wecan throw up our hands in despair, as the disciples are tempted to do, or wecan share what we have, go ‘all in’ with gratitude. But we haveour seven loaves.

Just this week, we were againapproached about joining six other churches in reconstituting a rotatingshelter for ten homeless women and their children. And we can do that. We can step forward as partners with theseother congregations and as neighbors to ten hungry families. Is there any doubt that we have the hearts,the hands, the compassion to do just that? We are so blessed, so richly blessed.

Now some might wonder if helping justten women, one night a week, is really going to make a difference; and I’llsuggest it’ll make a difference to them, to their children. Every night they’re here. Every meal they eat with us. And who knows where the ripples of generosityend? We just begin with our sevenloaves. We just begin with the choicesavailable to us. We just begin by givingthanks to God for the gifts available in a church like this one. Isn’t that the kind of church we all want? The kind of church that goes ‘all in’ withgratitude. The kind of church that turnsseven loaves into a feast for thousands.

And there’s just another thing onmy mind this morning. And that’s theordination we’re hosting next Sunday for our friend Yael Lachman. Yael first sat down in one of our old pews,maybe six years ago. Her heart wasalive, open, even breaking in places. Breaking in love. Breaking inhope. She wanted to believe there was achurch, a community of Christ, somewhere for her. So she sat down in a pew and listened. And she reached out to share peace andreceive it. And she found, among you, aGod of tenderness and grace, a God of passion and fearlessness. I’ll never forget Yael’s baptism in this veryplace. Many of you gathered round.

And because she found grace here,because she believed you when you told her you loved her, Yael knew she couldpursue a dream, her dream of ministry, a dream she’d first dreamed as a veryyoung person. Her time had come. So she went to seminary, in Berkeley; sheprepared for the call she knew was coming; and then she listened, listened to congregationsnear and far; shared her dream with them and listened some more. And yes, just last week, Yael Lachman—ourfriend—accepted a call to be the Senior Minister at First Congregational Churchin Bridgton, Maine. How about that? When a community of disciples shareeverything they have, when a church of believers turns it all loose in love,when Jesus’ friends bring forth those seven loaves of bread, all kinds ofthings are possible. In every imaginableway, Yael Lachman is a living sign of that. A living sign of grace.

So this morning, this very morning,in our hearing, in our hearts, Jesus says to us, to all of us at FirstCongregational Church in Santa Cruz: “Do you still not get it?” Sure, he’s a little exasperated, but mostlyhe’s egging us on. Mostly, he’s urgingus to believe in the power of love. Mostly, he’s inviting us to see the opportunities, the amazingopportunities before us. God’s economy!Jesus says. The economy of grace. The economy of creation. The sacramental economy of abundance andjustice for all. “Don’t you see thepoint of all this?” Always a teacher,always a provocateur, always coming at us with a question. “Don’t you see the point of all this?”

‘Remember the five loaves I brokefor the five thousand. Remember theseven loaves we shared with the four thousand. Live abundantly. Believegenerously. Share everything. Because there is enough love. And there is enough compassion. And there is enough bread. If only we bless it. If only we share it. If only we bless it by sharing it.’

Amen.

There are No Orphans of God

2012-01-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve 2011

[Just before this meditation, our church's jazz band played a song called "Orphans of God" by the group Avalon...the lyric includes a refrain like this..."There are no strangers, there are no outcasts, there are no orphans of God." For me, the song's come to signal the promise of communion, community and the body of Christ.]

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Maybe youheard the story this week about a little girl named Bella in a 5^thgrade class up in San Francisco. Itseems that Bella overheard a bully in her class, a bully threatening anotherlittle boy named Jonny. And it wasn’t the first time. Now Bella was always troubled by big Mikeyand his nasty ways. Often the little boywho was bullied would leave school with tears in his eyes. And Bella watched him quietly walk away.

Finally, ithappened again; and Bella knew she had to do something. “You’re just a pathetic piece of crap,” thebully hissed at the boy. Over by thesink, where the teacher couldn’t hear. “Me and my friends, we’re gonna find you after school.” Bella watched Jonny’s face fall, and she noticedthe look of ugly delight in big Mikey’s eyes.

Apparently,she’d given this some thought, and she’d even talked it over with herparents. Because right then Bella stood up,confidently, and she approached the bully at the sink. And without a moment’s hesitation, she gavethe bully a big wraparound hug.

Now as youcan imagine, Mikey just blushed. And heblushed and he blushed and he blushed. All kinds of red. ‘Santa Claus iscoming to town’ red. ‘Rudolph theRed-Nosed Reindeer’ red. Seeing that allwas going according to plan, Bella followed up quickly with stage-two of hernonviolent intervention. She got up onher tippy toes and kissed big Mikey on the cheek.

By now,most of the class had noticed something happening by the sink, and they’dturned to watch and listen. “I know whoyou are,” the little girl said to the bully. “And I know you are a child of God. I know you are a good boy with a good heart.” The bully’s face had turned just about thecolor of a big red pomegranate. And hestood as still as a Christmas candle. “And from now on,” she said, “you’re going to leave little Jonnyalone. Because he’s a child of God too. And you’re gonna have to find some other wayof having fun. No more bullying.”

And Bellaturned then, in a hushed classroom, and sat down again. And as she did, she added, out loud: “Oh. And see you at church, Mikey! See you at church on Christmas Eve!” Because it turns out that Bella and Mikey goto the same church, to the same Sunday School every week. They’d been learning about Jesus togethertheir whole lives. And, don’t you know,it did them some good that day. Going tochurch made a difference.

You see,every Sunday, at this table, we say something to one another, something like: “Thereare no strangers, there are no outcasts, there are no orphans of God.” And we mean it. This is the place where God recognizes andnames every single one of us. This isthe place where strangers become friends and orphans come home. One big family of God. There’s no doubt it was just that way atBella’s church in San Francisco. And she’dbeen paying attention.

Whathappens here is precious, holy, sacred. Becauseout there, on the streets, in the market place, even in the schoolyard, theworld can be hard on us. Tough on thechildren of God. Bullying, for example. Maybe you know someone who’s been bullied atschool. The other kids make fun of theway he dresses, or maybe the way he plays piano not kickball. Maybe they just pick on him to be cruel. Call him names at recess.

Or whoknows? Maybe you know someone who’s beenbullied at church. There are churcheslike that. Where a teenager’s harassedbecause she dresses like a boy or she holds hands with other girls. Or maybe other kids call her names becauseshe asks hard questions in Sunday School.

Or maybeyou’re the one. Maybe the mean kids waitbehind the dumpster for you to come by. Maybe they throw their pointy elbows into your ribs and warn you not tosay a word. Maybe you’re the one with aknot turning in your gut when you leave the house in the morning.

I’ll tellyou what. Jesus knows what bullying’sall about. That baby born on Christmasbecomes a young man harassed and bullied by the world. Jesus is bullied by priests andpreachers. He’s bullied by soldiers andpolicemen. He’s bullied by jealouszealots and competitive classmates.

But here’sthe thing. Here’s the Christmastruth. God’s grace is planted in theheart of that same vulnerable nonconformist; in the heart and soul of that lovechild who marches to his own drummer. That’s what God does. That’s howGod rolls. God invests the divine dreamin Jesus, a grown man who weeps for world; a true believer who questions everything,even God; a fragile soul who bruises easily and breaks sometimes.

And forall that—just because he refused to be anybody else—Jesus was bullied by theworld. They called him names. They questioned his manhood. They poked him with elbows, fists and worse. And Jesus stayed true. He stayed true to himself. He stayed true to the dream God invested inhis soul. He stayed true to the tearsthat welled in his eyes when he saw the hungry suffer. He stayed true to the love that he felt for thesisters and brothers who had no family. He paid a price for this. For hisintegrity. For his courage. For his vision of things. But Jesus stayed true to the end.

You see: Jesuscomes into our lives so that we can have the same kind of courage, Bella’s kindof courage. Jesus is born in our heartsso that we can show one another the same kind of love, the same kind oftenderness. Sure, this old story beginsin Bethlehem, a long, long time ago, in a cave where Mary and Joseph bring ababy boy into a troubled but beautiful world.

But itcontinues now in us, in you and me, in Santa Cruz in 2011. And in San Francisco—with Bella and Mikey andJonny.

Here’swhat I want you to hear tonight. Christmasmeans believing that the God who made you made you holy. Not ordinary. Not average. The God who made youmade you holy. Not just to fit in. Not just to conform. To Hollywood. Or Bollywood.

Holy! Do you understand? Do you get it? You are not an accident. You are not a mistake. If you like to dance, if dancing brings youjoy, then you’ve gotta dance, my friend. Dance like the glory of Christmas depends on it. And if you like to dig your beautiful handsin the good earth, if gardening’s your thing, then you’ve gotta garden. Tend the earth, grow veggies and roses;because the world’s a better place, a sacred place, when you do what you love.

And if you’rea girl who likes to wear neckties or a boy who likes to wear pink, then yougotta be what you gotta be. The world iscounting on it. Christmas meansbelieving that the God who made you made you holy. It’s not always easy being our holy selves,being our unique and fabulous selves, wearing pink when the world says blue, orwearing ties when the world says heels. It’s not always easy following our conscience—as Bella did in her 5^thgrade classroom, to the glory of God. But Jesus comes to each of us, with love and with courage—so that we canlook in the mirror tomorrow morning and see nothing less than the glory of God. It’s true. You can look in the mirror tomorrow morning and see Christmas. You can look in the mirror tomorrow morningand see God’s promise. “There are noorphans of God.”

There’s adark and holy cave tonight, deep in your beautiful soul. And there, right there, a child is born. Jesus is born. In your heart. In your heart and my heart and every heart onearth. So before you go to the treetomorrow morning, look in the mirror. Jesus is born there. God’spromise looks exactly like you; and “there are no orphans of God.”

Everything is Everywhere

2012-01-14T23:10:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I made a blueberry pie. Seriously. An honest-to-goodness blueberry pie. I rolled out the crusts--which I'd made by hand last night--and filled the lower half with blueberries and cherries, flour and sugar, a little bit of cinnamon. And then I fit the upper crust over the whole, and pressed the edges to seal the berries. Cooked for about an hour. First time I've ever made a blueberry pie.

What does my blueberry/cherry pie have to do with anything? Not much, I suppose. Except that it filled the house with sweetness. Except that it slowed me down long enough to enjoy a Saturday afternoon at home.

Taking some time off this January. Getting into a better routine, regular exercise, healthy foods. Thinking about some goals for the next twelve months; thinking back on some of the blessings of the past twelve. It was a powerful year, a full and rewarding year. Worth savoring some.

Pulling my pie from the oven at last, I treasure this quiet Saturday at home. I treasure the slow passing of time, the slow browning of the crust, the anticipation of family cutting into homemade pie. I'm listening to a new song on my iPod. It's called "Everything is Everywhere," a lovely tune by Carrie Newcomer. It hits me: the cosmos is here in my kitchen. The berries picked off bushes, rooted in the earth and nourished by rain. The fire of beginnings, the holy heat that makes something of my stirred ingredients. And the recipes and memories: passed down through generations, loved and improved on in other kitchens by other families. Everything is everywhere. Holy here.

I need to do this more regularly. Savor the experiences that come my way. Savor the challenges of work, the opportunities for collaboration and creativity. And it would do me well, very well, to bake a blueberry pie now and then.

Summer Tomato is Cause to Rejoice!

2012-01-14T09:10:00.000-08:00

"I BELIEVE" - A wonderful, evocative, life-loving song by Carrie Newcomer! "And when I close my eyes to sleep at night, it's good to say AMEN!"

Herod's Drones

2011-12-26T11:44:00.000-08:00

I'm praying this evening for the Air Force personnel who 'fly' our drones out of office buildings in Nevada. Do they go home at night to families and soccer games? Do they think about Afghan villages pummeled during the 9 to 5 shift...as they eat take-out with girlfriends and boyfriends? What if the drones go wrong? What if there's a civilian--or even children--in the way? Do they think about all that watching Jon Stewart in bed?

That leads me to pray this evening for my part in all this. Does my conscience accept this new way of waging war? Is there nothing I can do, nothing I can say to turn the heart of my own people to decency? How easily we evolve new ways to kill! Computer games with gruesome consequences! Real people, real families on the other side of drones raining fire! We can't find money for schools or roads or welfare...but we've got enough for madness. Played on screens out of office buildings. In Nevada.

And I have to wonder this. Would it sit well with us if there were geeks in other places--say, Uzbekistan or Pakistan or Cuba, perhaps--'flying' their own drones over Modesto and Frisco? Playing their little war games with us? How would that go over? Progress?

When will we tire of finding new ways to kill? When will we see that madness is trying the same damn thing over and over and over and over...and expecting different results? In the Christmas story, Herod reacts in murderous rage, seeking out the newborn baby boys, to purge and destroy. It's a terrifying and bloody strand in the fuzzy fabric of Christmas...yet it remains. For us to grieve and mourn. So much death, so much rage.

If Christmas is to mean something, it has to mean something to those military personnel in Nevada. And it has to mean something to all the rest of us, who get used to computerized mayhem and write it off to progress. If the Prince of Peace is born in our midst, in caves in Palestine, in caves in Afghanistan, in caves all over the world...isn't it about time we stopped bombing the hell out of them?

Christmas Soup (A Poem)

2011-12-22T21:33:00.000-08:00

A Poem at Christmastime
December 22, 2011

Spit balls hit the little guy in the back of his neck
Round paper signatures, like hate mail, fired from
The back row of the musty classroom on the third floor.

He wipes it away, whatever's left,
And does everything he can not to wince,
Not to show what he feels deep. Deep.

And the little guy is used to this, and the knot in his little tummy
As he pulls on his shoes in the morning.
He's used to looking the other way when the others
Sneer during morning lineup or point his way at recess.

So vacation comes like sweet relief, that last bell
Like heavenly choirs. No more spit balls. No more
Fists to the ribs when teachers hurry off to make copies.

That last day he runs home, all arms and legs,
A backpack full of fabulous art and daring stories.
He buries his little face in the big dog's fur
And hugs his mom because he can.

She rubs his neck, the part that hurts,
And pours him a big glass of chocolate milk.

And while she makes Christmas soup,
This same little guy wanders to the wall
Where a crucifix hangs, and Jesus wounded on it.

You and me, he whispers. We made it through.
Today, we made it through.

I Will Find A Way

2011-12-21T15:44:00.000-08:00

One of the loveliest, starkest Christmas songs I've heard, in a long while. "I'm doing a new thing / Soon you will see / I'm coming among you / And my name will be / Emmanuel...Emmanuel...Emmanuel!"

Just Can't Get Enough

2011-12-20T17:59:00.000-08:00

On Earth As In Heaven

2011-12-19T08:58:00.000-08:00

A Meditation on Mary's Song of Protest: Luke 1:39-56

Offered in Worship, Sunday, December 18, 2011

1.

Shutting Down the Port--Occupy Oakland

CALL IT OCCUPY WALL STREET, OCCUPY SANTA CRUZ. Call it Occupy Oakland. But I think I can see Mary, working her way through an Occupy crowd; she's looking for Elizabeth. She's sixteen say, sixteen and pregnant; and she's weaving her way through a crowd of young activists and bearded organizers. She's got a hand on her belly, guarding, protecting precious cargo. She's looking for Elizabeth, her cousin, knowing she's close. "Gotta find Elizabeth," Mary says to herself, maybe to the little one inside. "Gotta find Elizabeth." But the crowd is thick, and animated. It's hard to get through.

But I think I can see Elizabeth now, a trusted elder in the movement,a wise old crone. She’s surrounded by adozen others, orchestrating a shut down of the port. Occupy Oakland, right? A strange brew of democracy and chaos,discipline and confusion. Elizabeth andthe others: elders and students, homeless activists, unemployed veterans. And they’re crying out against theaccumulated wealth of the one percent, acting up for economic justice, justice forthe ninety-nine percent. Arab Springbecomes American Autumn. And through thetangled crowd of protesters, Mary catches her cousin’s eye. The port’s shut down now, for the day. Their point’s been made. It’s a wrench—just a little one—in a grindingsystem that profits the few at the expense of the many.

And now, Elizabeth sees Mary, too. Her young and daring cousin dodging activists. Working through the crowd. And something inside Elizabeth leaps for joy:new life, tender love, restless hope. She races forward, Elizabeth, her arms stretched wide and welcome. And she sees the tiny bump in Mary’s belly,the little lift beneath the t-shirt that says “WE ARE THE 99%”. There are tears in Mary’s eyes. Tears in Elizabeth’s too. Something like the anointing of the HolySpirit. Welling up in Mary, and in Elizabeth. Weeping openly and blessing them. Two cousins. Both pregnant. Shutting down theport. Occupying Oakland.

2.

The song Mary sings, “Magnificat,” isseemingly called out of her, pulled out of her by herolder cousin. By Elizabeth. Whatever Mary’s fears are, whatever doubtsshe harbors dissolve in Elizabeth’s welcoming arms. And the song she sings soars: it soars on thewings of faith and delight.

You know, we call this text, this Advent song, “Magnificat”; and it’sa lovely name for a lovely song. Fromthe Latin. “Magnificat.” But the gospel Mary preaches, down at theport they’ve closed down, the gospel she preaches there is so much more thanlovely. It’s defiant. It’s brimming with confidence and grace. Do you hear it? “What God has done for me will neverbe forgotten!” What God has done forme!

And then, Mary looks into the teeth of economic injustice and seessomething wholly new, something completely different. A world flipped on its ear—remade and recastin the image of God. This is hardly themurmuring of a dainty virgin, a lassie made of porcelain, sitting on thesidelines. This is the preaching of aprophet: a sixteen-year-old prophet, by the way, nose rings and tattoos anddreams of the kingdom of God.

And it all begins with her own life, with the unimaginable,improbable, irrepressible partnership of God in her own life. Elizabeth’s weeping. Others gather round. Occupy Oakland. And Mary lets it rip.

What God has done for me, forme, for me,

What God has done for me—will neverbe forgotten,

She bared her arm and showedher strength,

O she bared her arm and showedher strength,

And I am her child, I am hervoice, I am her chosen one.

She knocked tyrants off theirhigh horses,

Down from the penthouses, outof their corner offices,

And she pulled victims out ofthe mud,

Out of urban hurricanes anddeep recessions,
Out of terrible floods and awfulforeclosures,
She pulled victims out of themud.

And the starving poor sat downto a banquet,
A banquet of justice, abanquet of peace.

And the starving poor sat downto a banquet,

And the callous rich
Were left out in the cold.

See how this goes? Mary rocks. Elizabeth too. And all those dreamers, all those activists,all those lost souls: they gather round to keep the beat. They move in close to keep the beat. “She knocked the tyrants off their highhorses,” Mary insists. “And she pulledvictims out of the mud: out of urban hurricanes and deep recessions, out ofterrible floods and awful foreclosures.” This God—Mary’s God—intends to flip the world on its ear. To recast the world in the image of God.

Now I pause here for a bit of a station-break. Because I recognize that theOccupy Movement is not without its issues. And I have my own questions about the movement and where it’s going.

I worry about the movement’s ambivalent aims. I’m concerned about rage in the ranks, and thekind of demonizing that risks dehumanizing adversaries, especially the onepercent. King and Gandhi taught us somuch about nonviolent protest: that we have to train ourselves in thedisciplines related to protest and civil disobedience, that we have to have theother’s humanity always before us. And Iworry a bit that the Occupy Movement—as diffuse as it is—lacks these essentialdisciplines. They’re so important. For meaningful social change.

But, and it’s a big ‘but’, this movement captures the dissatisfactionof a generation as no movement has, not in a long, long time. One Oakland organizer, a grad student at UCBerkeley, wrote this week that “fromthe beginning, Occupy has argued one very simple thing: that our political andeconomic system is not only broken, but incapable of fixing itself; that thegame is not only rigged, but closed to new players; that the status quo is notonly bad, but radically unacceptable and getting worse, every day.”

I want to suggest that this is Mary’s generation. And this is her cohort. These are Mary’s friends. And they’re angry. “The status quo is not only bad,” did youhear this, “but radically unacceptable and getting worse, every day.” Strong words. Defiant words. “Radicallyunacceptable.”

So whether I’m comfortable down at the docks in Oakland or not,whether I’m comfortable among the tents at San Lorenzo Park or not, Mary, Maryis energized down there. Elizabeth isneeded and relied on down there. Theyare restless, they’re determined. Theyhave a dream for their country. A dreamwhere the bluffing braggarts are scattered; a dream where the tyrants aredethroned; a dream where the starving poor sit down at last to a banquet ofjustice; a dream where the ninety-nine percent have a future together.

So whether I’m comfortable with it or not, Mary’s song is an Occupysong. Aprophetic word, with a God-sized heart, offered up in the midst of crisis. Articulated in a hungry generation. See what I mean? It’s so much more than lovely, this ancient text. It’s buoyant. It’s defiant. It’sresilient. It’s an Occupy song. “I’m dancing the song,” she cries out, shesings out. “I’m dancing the song of mySavior God.” Powerful stuff. Prophetic stuff.

I came across an essay this week that opens my eyes to another piece of this great story. Writer Judith Dupré recognizes in this moment—this Mary andElizabeth moment—something profoundly important and relational. Not only for Mary, but for every othersixteen-year-old out there. “We all getto a step,” she says, “around the age of fifteen or sixteen, when someone hasto believeus onto the next rung of our lives...” It’s a wonderful use of the verb. Someone has to believe us forward. There comes a time when every we have toleave the safety of what’s familiar and take that leap of faith. It happens at fifteen, sixteen; it happensagain and again as we mature and struggle in adulthood. Leaving the safety of what’s familiar. Someone believes us forward. Someone shows us the light. And we go on until the next leap of faith. Judith Dupré says there’s a name for these beacons of lightand belief. They’re calledfriends.

And this gives me a deeper appreciation forElizabeth and what she does for Mary, who she is for Mary. I hope you’ve had an Elizabeth or two in yourlife. Elizabeth’s the one who welcomesMary, who treasures Mary, who throws her old arms around Mary and believesher onto the next rung. Elizabeth’s theone who weeps with Mary, the one who sings with Mary, the one who dreams withMary of a new day. Where the starvingpoor sit down to a banquet. Where lifeis lived, and organized, on earth as it is in heaven.

And because she does, because Elizabeth weeps andsings and dreams with Mary, because she believes in Mary, this defiant,beautiful, daring sixteen-year-old sings a song that resonates across theuniverse. And down throughcenturies. And into our hearts.

Make no mistake. Mary’s song becomes Jesus’ prayer. “Ourfather, our mother, our God who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name! Thy kingdom come! Thy will be done, on earth, on earth as it isin heaven!” Mary’s not sitting around asthings get worse. Mary’s not satisfiedwith a rigged game. And a brokensystem. “On earth as it is inheaven.” She’s drawing on the greattraditions of her faith, and the friendship of dear Elizabeth, to enact a newsociety, a new economy. Somethingbetter. Something just. Something for everyone.

So I have to believe Mary’s stirring in thestreets, even now, even today. In thestreets of Cairo, Arab Spring extended and deepening. In the streets of Oakland and Santa Cruz, ourAmerican Autumn evolving and broadening. I imagine Mary on campus with UC students, taking their holiday breakbut dreaming of making a difference. Iimagine Mary generating our 2012 COPA campaign, and insisting that we put ourfaith into public practice. That we makethings happen at last.

But here’s the thing. Here’s the thing we need most to hear.

Mary needs Elizabeth. The young, daring agitators need mentors,friends, crones along the way. Movingforward, I want us to think about how it is that we become the kinds of friendsthat believe Mary onto the next rung. How it is that we become the kinds of friends that cherish the dreams ofyoung people, students, defiant sixteen-year-olds with hope. We may not like every slogan. We may not enjoy all the music. We may not understand everything they say. But that can’t stop us. Mary needs us.

After all, her prayer and ours: it’s the sameprayer. “On earth as in heaven.” On earth as in heaven. Amen.

Breathing In, Breathing Out

2011-12-15T20:34:00.000-08:00

Most days, as I get things started, I find forty reasons not to meditate for every one that motivates me to sit in silence. And that's especially true this time of year...Advent, Christmas, the Season of Doing Everything. I stumble upstairs from my office, first thing in the morning, and I know I have more important things to do. Emails to read. Calls to return. Visits to make. Projects to begin and develop and finish. How in the world can I justify taking 45 minutes--just to sit, just to wait, just to breathe, just to pray?

But on the days I give in...on the days I turn around and crank up the computer...on the days I don't sit in silence--I notice a strange and unsettling pattern. I move faster. I think more impulsively. I worry about things beyond my control. To be honest, I go about my business as if it were just that--business; and not the holy, privileged ministry it truly is.

Breathing in and breathing out. It's really so simple; yet it's so terribly hard to do. Mindfully, at least. Prayerfully. When I do follow through, when I practice meditation day by day, I find that I'm more aware of the Spirit's mystery in my days. I'm more present to the great privilege of my work, my calling. I'm also willing to let things go...little worries, petty gripes, that kind of thing. Breathing in, I receive the Spirit's breath, moment by moment by moment. Breathing out, I give it back again, and release all kinds of ego needs. If only for a little while.

I'm thinking so much about Mary these days: about her receptivity and openness, even when what's asked seems odd and risky. Who knows what kind of daily, spiritual practice made this possible for her? But somehow, Mary protected a space in her heart, a space for wonder, a space for the unknown, a space for grace. Maybe she did that with prayer, with meditation. Maybe she found friends, dear and wise allies to honor her emptiness and openness.

Somehow, this next week, I intend to follow my heart to the place where I sit...in silence, in meditation. Breathing in and breathing out. Each morning as the day begins. I'll try to let undone stuff remain undone. Advent's for waiting. For emptying. And I'll look for Mary there.

Mary's Contradictions

2011-12-08T20:45:00.001-08:00

Quaker writer Parker Palmer says that walking with Jesus involves living with contradictions, learning from contradictions, even finding energy and power in the contradictory experiences of our lives. We embrace the calling of peacemakers, but struggle with our own anger. We live in an age where everything is possible, yet feel so constrained by economics and despair. We labor through a soul's dark night--and find there new vision and new possibility.

Looking for encouragement, I find young Mary of Nazareth--looking within, speaking out, singing strong--in Advent readings and Christmas poetry. A regular girl, a child of her times, Mary greets a strange messenger, an angel, whose promise of a child stuns her and flips her world on its ear.

Just this week, I came across the Raphael Soyer painting of "The Annunciation" pictured here. Soyer imagines Mary as a working-class woman in New York, limited by circumstance, yet radically open to strange words of grace and calling. Just as interesting is Soyer's vision of the angel Gabriel: a young woman in simple, but royal garments. She is ordinary and divine, casual and evangelical. Good news comes from a surprisingly unspectacular place.

"How can this be?" In Soyer's painting, Mary seems troubled as much as thrilled by the angel's message. "Am I able to take such a risk? What if the urgency of grace overwhelms me? What if my faith is too fragile, too frail?" The angel, for her part, seems cautious, uncertain how the story plays out. There's something so terribly human in this moment: Mary and her angel, exploring vocation and emptiness, powerlessness and hope.

As much as Jesus, Mary is our teacher on the path of Christian discipleship. She reveals our humility and invites courage and strength. Maybe what she's really saying--"But I am a virgin!"--is that she's alone in the world and young and so often overwhelmed by the world as it is. Can't we all identify with that? But standing there, in the washroom, with a reluctant angel...Mary comes to YES. Eventually. Prayerfully. Powerfully.

"Let it be with me!' This Advent, I pray for just this kind of courage: to live with all the contradictions in my heart, to learn from my human frailty, to find courage in Mary and her angel and the Child born in powerlessness and poverty. Faith has nothing to do with doing everything perfectly, or with getting all the answers right. It has everything to do with living the contradictions, taking up the cross, learning to love in the midst of pain and joy and ordinary responsibilities. Like Mary.

Goodness, Mercy and Ronald Reagan

2011-12-03T19:34:00.001-08:00

I have a vivid memory. Where I was standing, what I was wearing, how it felt to say the words I'd chosen so carefully. I'd returned home for Christmas, during my second year away at college, and I was standing by the kitchen table. Dad was at the sink.

Maybe I wanted to hurt him. I suppose that's what sons do when they reach a certain point. I certainly intended to shock him, to prove to him that I could think for myself. I didn't need his ideas anymore, or his ideology, or his president. I was 19.

"Ronald Reagan's an asshole," I hissed. I'd rehearsed these words over and over, a two-and-a-half hour ride from Hanover to Boston. I reviewed a pretty fair list of reasons: the president's belligerent foreign policy, his saber rattling and nuclear gamesmanship, James Watt at the Department of the Interior. I mean, James Watt! All these years later, the very name makes me crazy.

Dad had returned from a long day at the office, looking forward perhaps to some family time before the busy holiday. There I was by the table. A Dartmouth sweatshirt. Welcome home. "Ronald Reagan's an asshole." My idea of family time. A 19-year-old Ivy Leaguer with the whole world figured out.

December 2011. This afternoon I knelt at his feet. Dad's dying now, with a neurological disease I can hardly pronounce, let alone explain. He sits most of the day in a big blue chair, fighting to get words out, usually losing that battle. He was never at a loss for words, so opinionated and sure of himself; at least he seemed so to me. For years. For decades. After I blasphemed his president that Christmas, he and I fought like feral cats: politics and social issues, religion and family secrets. We both said things we came to regret; and we knew exactly what we were doing.

Now he can't say more than 'yes' and 'no'--and even these are hard to make out. I caress his rigid left hand and massage his cramping left calf. He's not watching as much TV anymore, not even his old favorite FOX News. (Silently, I praise God...over and over and over again.) Dad wants to say something, I can see it in his eyes, and he does. But I can't make anything of it. After all these years and all we've said to one another, we're stripped of words, left with rigid hands and cramping calves. But he seems content to sit with the 49-year-old son who has nothing at all figured out.

In the thirty years since 1981, we've had time to work a few things out. Not the politics, not really the religion or the social issues. And the family stuff, well, we struggled through all of that too. But I learned some things about Dad, things that helped me understand him and appreciate how hard he'd tried. I'm a husband and father now, and I suppose I have a more informed sense of what all that means and how hard it is. To keep one's balance. To stay true.

And to his enormous credit, he looked past my wild, leftist politics (which only get wilder and more leftist as the years go by), and saw a son who loved his parents. And a son who was doing his best to raise and love three daughters. A few years ago, when his disease first announced itself, Dad came to our home in California for a few weeks. He let me care for him a bit. And that was huge. We talked and cried a lot.

So tonight I'm thinking about Ronald Reagan. I really don't know if he was an 'asshole' or not. I do know that I hated his politics and the trend he unleashed in my country. I still do. But that December outburst was about me more than Ronald Reagan. About me and my Dad.

My own teenage daughters are pushing back at me these days--at my values, at my music, at my faith. I wish I could tell my Dad about that. I wish I could tell him how I feel when one slams a door in my face, disgusted again. Or how another sits a mile away in church and listens to an iPod while I'm preaching. I'd want him to know that I know. At least a little bit. Instead, I read him the 23rd Psalm, and then the 26th. He won't be here much longer. And I feel the time passing quickly. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me..."

I never imagined I could feel this grateful for him. But I do tonight. I have fewer answers than I did at 19; but I have what I really need. "Goodness and mercy." Following me. Following him. All the days of our lives. And beyond.

Tax Reform and Pepper Spray

2011-11-21T18:25:00.001-08:00

Last week's COPA Assembly (see previous post) was exhilarating in so many ways: a broad coalition acting together, negotiating with political and business leaders, working out an agenda for the common good. It was American politics at its best, I think. What kind of economy do we want, do we deserve? Are we willing to work, to sacrifice for the common good? With unions and churches, synagogues and community centers, we're building an organization with substance, strength and resolve. The resolve comes from relationships--from hard work and deep public friendship. Because we care for one another, because our stories matter, we find a sense of purpose that translates into dynamic action and concrete progress.

And then, Sunday night, I catch this segment (above) on Grover Norquist's "Americans for Tax Reform." This is the kind of politics that's got a stranglehold on our country. Grover Norquist and his donors have no use for public education. They have no interest in affordable housing or benefits for veterans. And they'd be quite happy, thank you very much, if the rest of us sat at home and left politics to the heavy hitters.

To be honest, this segment makes me about as angry as I can be. It makes me every bit as angry as last week's reports of police using pepper spray on nonviolent protestors at UC Davis. How dare we (students, citizens, neighbors) try to change things in this country? How dare we (the 99%) decide to take back the economy and make it work for us and our kids? The message we get--from the police in Davis or Grover in DC--is simple. Don't even try. It's not worth it. Let the 1% figure this out. They really know best.

Well, I disagree. I wholeheartedly, passionately disagree. If this country means anything, it means that we the people have an obligation to be involved. We have an obligation to work together toward the common good. We have a responsibility to our kids, and to their kids, and to all our neighbors. And what is that? To fill the coffers of a dozen huge corporations? To line the pockets of the 1%? Hell no.

We have an obligation--to those who preceded us and to those who will follow--to make America work for everyone. To build on this spectacular continent a generous community of peoples and towns and states and traditions. To dare. To risk. To imagine and negotiate and enact a more perfect union.

I wonder if Grover Norquist has any clue what I'm talking about here. I'm pretty sure that he doesn't give a damn.

Time to Play Big

2011-11-17T22:01:00.001-08:00

A Teaching for the 2011 COPA Delegates' Assembly
Madonna del Sasso Catholic Church, Salinas, California
Wednesday Night, November 16

We’ve heard a lot this fall about the 1% and the99%. And I guess those numbers tell astory that has troubled most of us for a long, long while. It’s a story about a divided economy. It’s a story about 99% struggling to pay thebills and make the mortgage and raise the kids—while 1% are living the dreamand spinning their wheels on easy street. We’ve heard a good bit about the 1 and the 99 this fall. And we’re disturbed by numbers likethat. We know what they mean.

But let’s be honest tonight. We’re up against so much more than numbers,so much more than statistics, a market index, a housing trend. We the people, we the 99%, have lost controlof our economy. We see it everyday. We see extreme partisanship rippingthe heart out of our political institutions. We see crazy money buying influence in electoral politics. We see years of regressive tax policyweakening education and slicing up the social safety net. However it’s happened, this much is clear, onthe Central Coast and around California: a privileged few have taken control ofour economy. And that’s not going workanymore. Tonight, we’re takingresponsibility not only for COPA, not only for our beloved institutions and cities,but for our economy. We want itto work for all of us: not just the 1%, not just the 10%, but for all of us.

Because you know what? It’s not their economy. It’s not Washington’s economy. It’s not Wall Street’s economy. We’re talking about our economy, aboutthe people’s economy. And friends, it’sso much more than numbers and trends. It’s the way we feed and care for one another;it’s the way we honor our elders; and it’s the way we pass on values andopportunities to our kids. We’re not satisfied with a divided economy. We’re not satisfied with the dismantling ofsocial safety nets and public education. We’re not satisfied with a privileged few calling all the shots. It’s our economy—and we want it towork for all of us.

Now listen, we’re not interested in demonizing the1%. That’s not how we roll in COPA. We’re not interested in going to war with the1%. But you’d better believe we’reinterested in knowing how they work. Andyou’d better believe we’re determined to be a powerful force in the politics ofour community. So yes, we want to knowwho that 1% is—and we want them to know us. And how very serious weare.

But nothing’s going to change unless we takecharge. Right here in Salinas. Right here in Central California. Because fundamentally, this is not a crisisabout the GNP or the Fortune 500. Thisis not a crisis about American competitiveness or the greening of theeconomy. Fundamentally, this is a crisis about us: about you and me,about our politics, about the ways we practice politics in our generation. Maybe we’ve been too passive. Maybe we given away too much power to that1%.

And if that’s so, then it’s time to take backour economy, the people’s economy. Sothat things work for everybody. For allour families. And that begins right here. That begins right now. That begins with us.

Now you didn’t have to be here tonight. You could have stayed home with your families. You could have graded papers or worked ontomorrow’s lesson plan. But you made asacrifice to be here tonight. Youmade a choice. You chose COPA. Because you know what we’re up against inCalifornia. And you know we have to dothis work together.

Years ago, Nelson Mandela addressed his people inSouth Africa with these cautionary words. They seem the right way to begin tonight: “Your playing small does notserve the world,” he said. “There is nothingenlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure aroundyou. We were born to make manifest theglory of God within us. It is not justin some; it is in everyone.” Let’s beginright there. Our playing small does notserve the world. Our playing small doesnot serve California or California’s families. It’s time to play big, COPA. It’stime to play big.

Avenue of the Righteous Gentiles

2011-11-16T11:43:00.001-08:00

A Meditation on Abraham's Hospitality and Genesis 18

Sunday, November 13, 2011

There’s a broadpathway running across the grounds of Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust Memorial,and it’s lined on both sides with trees native to the Holy Land. Israelis call it “the avenue of the righteousgentiles”; and each tree recalls the courage of a non-Jew who acted to saveJewish lives during the grim years of the European Holocaust. Folks like Oscar Schindler and DietrichBonhoeffer. Folks like Protestants in LeChambon, the French Village that hid a number of Jews in that era’s darkestdays. When you walk through thatmemorial, when you revisit that awful history, you can’t help but wonder whatmade those particular heroes act as they did. When so many others kept silent. Where does that kind of courage, that kind of compassion come from?

Now, last week, we’rewalking through that part of the memorial that marks the deaths of one millionchildren. One million. It’s a dark hall, only partially illuminatedby hundreds of tiny candles. It’s sodark we have to hold a handrail as we work our way around the room. From above, a voice reads the names, and theages, of the Holocaust’s youngest victims. One after another after another, after another.

And we emerge fromthat dark hall, nineteen of us, Jews and Christians, onto the “avenue of therighteous gentiles.” I can only speakfor myself, but I’m devastated. It’s mythird time through, but I’m devastated all over again. That so much cruelty exists in the world,that a good bit of it takes cover in the name of religion, even myreligion. I’m trying to imagine onemillion children, one million who didn’t grow up to bless the world with wisdomand wonder. This would be GrantErickson’s generation, Carol Roberts’ generation, Joanna Hildebrandt’sgeneration. One million. And now I’m standing on the “avenue of therighteous gentiles.” And I’m looking atthe little plaques at the foot of each tree, the plaques with the names ofthose who did what they could. Those whoput their lives at risk to save others. I’m shaken by the question that stares back at me---the question posedby each one of those plaques. Would Ihave been among those risktakers? WouldI have been counted among the righteous gentiles? What about me?

It’s not so much amatter for speculative as it is a question of discipleship for me. And maybe that’s why I can’t shake my memoryof that day, that avenue, those trees. What does the Lord require of me, in my own generation? What kind of courage, what kind ofcompassion, what kind of public life embodies the gospel of my Christ? In so many ways, the church was silent duringthe Nazi scourge. But there weresome. And there are choices to be madenow, I think, important choices about the ways we follow Jesus in our own timeand place. I don’t want to be countedamong the silent. I want to be countedamong the righteous gentiles.

What made this lasttrip to Israel and Palestine so powerful, I think, was the diversity of ourdelegation. I walked those paths at YadVashem, I revisted that awful history—alongside Jewish friends I love andadmire. And when we went to the WestBank—to see something of the Israeli occupation of Palestine—we did thattogether too. Jews and Christians,priests and pastors and rabbis, musicians and therapists and activists. When we sat down to process thoseexperiences----the Holocaust Memorial one night, the terrible consequences ofoccupation another----we brought very different perspectives to theconversation. Sometimes those differencescreated tension, as they do. And whenthey did, we chose to go slow, to listen carefully, to make space. And always----and this is something of amiracle----always our delegation of nineteen hung in there long enough to affirmthe value of our community. Even andespecially when we disagreed. Even andespecially when the heat was hot, and the stories were painful.

It takes time andeffort to build that kind of community. And it takes spiritual maturity, spiritual discipline too. Most of us have heard of the Islamic idea of ‘jihad.’ And it’s so often misunderstood anddisfigured in the western world. But myfriend Tahir Anwar----who’ll be coming to speak in worship just two weeks fromthis morning----tells me that ‘jihad’ is fundamentally a spiritualdiscipline. I know he’ll be talkingabout this when he’s here. ‘Jihad,’ hesays, has to do with fearlessly examining one’s life and then removing everyobstacle to spiritual devotion and compassion. ‘Jihad.’ Examination anddevotion.

If that’s what itis, I kind of think our delegation was engaged in ‘jihad’—together. Do you see what I’m saying? ‘Jihad’---in its deepest, truestsense---invites self-examination, self-critique, compassionate conversion. ‘Jihad’ insists on honesty and integrity; andit resists the impulse to blame the other, to demonize the other. And that’s what our little group did—relentlessly,for two solid weeks in a troubling place. Day by day, night after night, we spoke honestly and listened carefullyand looked for ways to practice faith and pursue justice. Together. Friends, if that’s what ‘jihad’ is, if that’s even part of what ‘jihad’is, it’s hard work. And it takes time.

I want to turn, fora moment, to the old story we’ve read this morning. Because it’s a story Jews and Christians andMuslims cherish together. About aspiritual ancestor we share and honor. Above all, Genesis 18 is a celebrationof hospitality and human community. Abraham doesn’t know the three pilgrims who come wandering his way inthe hottest part of the day. They’re strangers. From strange places, with strange habits, wandering around strangely inthe white-hot afternoon. So what does Abrahamdo----and let’s remember, this is the great spiritual ancestor of Jews andChristians and Muslims----what does Abraham do? He leaps to his feet, sprints to greet these three pilgrims and bowslovingly before them! Just close youreyes for a minute. Imagine thisscene. Let it play out. Abraham’s sitting by the tent. Abraham’s noticing the three dusty men in thedistance. Abraham’s leaping to his feetand running to greet them. For all thedifferences among the three Abrahamic faiths, and there are differences,this is where it all comes together. This is the tradition we share. Abraham’s hospitality. Abraham’scourage. Abraham’s grace. Remember this when the imam comes in a coupleweeks. We’re brothers, we’re sisters, andAbraham makes us so.

There’s also a kindof delicious ambiguity in the text today. The tale begins with the bold pronouncement that “God appeared toAbraham at the Oaks of Mamre...” Now theold rabbis go back and forth on what this means. Does it mean that Abraham was deep in prayer whenall this happened? That he was engagedin some kind of ecstatic experience, some kind of inspired meditation? One or two of the old rabbis note how wild itis that Abraham turns aside from the God-event to rush out and greet the pilgrims. Even God can’t hold his attention...in thejoyful moment of recognition...as he rushes from the tent to make new friends! Here’s a man for whom hospitality iseverything!

But there are otherways, subtler ways perhaps, to read the text. Could it be that God appears to Abraham precisely in the arrival ofthree strangers. That this is how Godworks in the world. As we encounterdifference. As we make space for theother in our moral universe. As we greeta neighbor and explore shared interests together. As we wash one another’s feet and preparefeasts for one another.

I guess I want toread the story that way: I want to celebrate here the moral genius of the threeAbrahamic traditions. The Maker of theUniverse, the Creator of Huge Galaxies and Tiny Grasses, the Great I-AM: Godvisits us in the arrival of guests from afar. God meets us in our concern for the other. And most importantly, God is honored,worshipped in our turning from daily tasks (maybe even prayer) to feed and lovethe neighbor. Even and especially theneighbor we don’t understand all that well.

In terms of ourstudy this fall, our exploration of four core practices in Christian life, I’mfinding in Genesis 18 a challenge, a provocation, an encouragement. And it’s about discipleship. It’s about taking Jesus seriously, and Moses,and Mohammed, and Abraham. Don’t you seeJesus now as a relentless practitioner of neighborliness? Isn’t this what his life is all about? He’s a daring practitioner ofhospitality. No walls, no barriers, nofears. You just can’t grasp Jesus’ministry or his call in your life, I’d have to say, without tryingneighborliness in your life. Withoutexperimenting with a little hospitality.

So when you walk bythe COPA table after worship, I want you to think about discipleship. Keep discipleship in mind. Because we haven’t invested ten years,thousands of volunteer hours and tens of thousands of dollars in COPA simply topat ourselves on the backs. COPA isabout discipleship in the 21^st century: learning a new practice ofneighborliness and public life; making common cause with friends in places wecan all too easily avoid. Friends inplaces like Watsonville and Salinas. RomanCatholic immigrants. Jewishcolleagues. Out-of-work unionfolks. What we’re doing this Wednesdayevening is taking another step toward these neighbors, another big step inbuilding a regional coalition, another big step in neighborliness andcompassionate politics. It’s reallyabout discipleship for me. It’s aboutthat ‘avenue of the righteous gentiles.’

And when you arrivehere on the 27^th, and you find Muslim friends gathering in this holyplace, and you sit down to listen to an imam speaking about his faith, I wantyou to think about discipleship. I wantyou to imagine yourselves on that ‘avenue of the righteous gentiles.’ Because if there’s one thing we know aboutour faith, it’s this. Our faith is ahospitality faith. Our faith is aneighborly faith. Our faith is afootwashing, feast-sharing faith.

And in thiscentury, following Jesus has to mean stepping out of the comfort zone. Following Jesus has to mean busting throughwalls to embrace new friends on the other side. Following Jesus has to mean building a community in which Muslim friendsand Jewish friends and Christian friends can work, and laugh, and struggle inpeace. In one big tent. By the Oaks of Mamre.

The good news, myfriends, is this: It begins with us. Weget to choose. Praise God. It begins with us.

"I Believe in Mercy" ~ A Post from Tel Aviv

2011-11-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

Faith, Fishing and Fishhooks

2011-11-04T14:51:00.000-07:00

"As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea--for they were fishermen." (Mark 1:16)

Buddy David Wellman at the edge of the Sea of Galilee

Today we stand on the shores of this small sea--some wading in its still waters, some kneeling to touch. Cyprian finds a flock of noisy sparrows, traces their flight with delight. It's easy to imagine Jesus down here, in no particular hurry, watching and waiting. Early in the morning.

"And Jesus said to them, 'Follow me and I will make you fish for people.'" (Mark 1:17)

This is a moment of interruption, a teacher inviting change and courage. Follow me, and we will do something different--together. Follow me, and we will fish in a whole new way. Follow me, and we will study and discuss and dare and practice in community. I will make you fish for people.

Mark's gospel--right from the start--identifies with the edgy tradition of the Hebrew prophets. Its first verses invoke Isaiah: "The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'PREPARE THE WAY OF THE LORD, MAKE GOD'S PATHS STRAIGHT!'" And its first scene stirs memories of Elijah: "John the Baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins...and he was clothed with camel's hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey..." It's a self-consciously prophetic tale--casting Jesus in the tradition of all those whose desire for God manifested in profound passion for justice. The kingdom of God is at hand, Jesus proclaims, boldly, tenderly. Let us build together.

Fish at market in Jerusalem's Old City

But what about fishing? What about this business of fishing for people? Standing on these shores, I want to feel the call. I want to sense his urgency. What's this about fishing for people in the kingdom of God?

Here, too, Mark's gospel makes prophetic connections. Story calls to story; word calls to word. The prophet rises to preach the Exodus story of critique and liberation, responsibility and compassion.

"Hear this word, you cows of Bashan, who are on Mount Samaria, who oppress the poor, who crush the needy, who say to their husbands, 'Bring me something to drink!' The Lord God has sworn by his holiness: The time is surely coming upon you, when they will take you away with hooks, even the last of you with fishhooks. Through the breaches in the wall, you shall leave, each one straight ahead; and you shall be flung out into Harmon, says the Lord." (Amos 4:1-3)

Ankle deep in the Sea of Galilee, I'm thinking not only of Jesus and Simon and Andrew, but of Amos as well. What about the nation that looks the other way as the rich get richer and the rest lose hope? What about the economy that crushes the needy and withdraws any kind of support for basic human needs? Here by the shores of the sea, I'm thinking of the folks in the Occupy Wall Street movement back home. I'm thinking of my COPA friends urgently planning the STAND UP & TAKE CHARGE campaign two weeks hence in Salinas. I'm thinking of prophets serving at the food bank and praying at the jail and harvesting autumn fruits for the poor.

It's quite possible that the fishing Mark has in mind--and Jesus before him--had something to do with Amos' plea. Hear this word: you who oppress the poor! Hear this word: you who crush the needy! I call you now to a radical practice of neighbor-love and eucharistic-sharing. Leave your nets behind; let us fish together and agitate for economic justice and the kingdom of God. I have to believe Jesus had no intention of 'saving souls' simply to bring himself a bunch of ritualized hoo-hah. Rather, he positioned his ministry in the profoundly unsettling, deeply faithful spirit of Amos, Isaiah and Elijah.

It's a sweet place, this beach by the Galilee. And I can easily imagine my Teacher singing as he watched the fishermen pull their nets and row to shore. But it gets harder now. He is calling them and us to something more difficult, to a narrow way, to a jubilee practice that most skim over.

"Take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps. But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." (Amos 5:23-24)

On the Barrier Wall in Bethlehem

It strikes me, here in the Galilee, that Jesus refused to settle for a shrill faith, for a bitter politics. He touched the face of God--with every breath, in every child, on every hillside. With such love and grace, he turned to serve the poor, to fish out injustice and malice, to insist on humility even and especially among those who would be prophets.

Tonight, I turn my face to him, and my heart. And I pray for the courage--and the decency--to follow where he leads. Salinas on the 16th. Occupy Movements everywhere. Feeding the hungry and bringing the powerful to their senses.

Why?

2011-10-31T13:06:00.000-07:00

I'm reminded today that Thomas Merton once said that a monk should ask himself everyday why he is a monk. I imagine this question provokes as much as it consoles. Why am I a Christian? Why do I follow the 'transgressive' rabbi from the Galilee? I wonder if these questions demand the same kind of mindfulness, discernment.


Jerusalem Cross on the Gate of the Church of Dominus Flevit

I wander these holy hills and paths with a remarkable delegation of Jews and Christians. We've spoken with Arab Muslims and Arab Christians and all kinds of Jewish leaders. Why, in this inspiring mix of traditions and cultures, have I chosen the Christ as my teacher? What is it about his gospel that intensifies this yearning in my heart--for peace, for contact, for communion?

This afternoon, we visited a Palestinian Youth Project--an inspiring community of 20 young adults studying nonviolence and training as organizers for the common good. They danced for us! I mean, they really, really danced for us. There was a kind of "Riverdance"-energy to it, all arms and legs and rhythm. I looked around at the stunned, joyous faces of our delegation: my good friend, the rabbi; a minstrel monk whose face glowed with wonder; a Sufi wonder-worker with tears in her eyes. The music went on and on and on; the dancing moved round and round and round. With every revolution, something like the fire that burned once before Moses, in what seemed an ordinary thicket.

No such thing as the ordinary here. All of it, extraordinary! All of this ground, holy!

And why am I a Christian tonight? I guess it has something to do with the risks I've taken in his name: to believe in this diversity, to cast my lot with the optimists who haven't given up on peace. Why do I follow the rabbi? Precisely because he breaks the rules, breaks bread with all kinds, then reaches into my heart and breaks it. Then weeps with me. Then picks me up to dance.

I will do what I can to ask Merton's question every day. I will do what I can to find in my deepest parts--flesh, muscle, heart, soul--the spirit of the risen One. Whose teaching has brought me here. With wildly wonderful colleagues and friends. Into the broken heart of a holy land.

Scraps of Paper and Hope

2011-10-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

Jerusalem

27 October 2011

Deep in the Old City, I stand before the western wall,the kotel, the sacred center of Jewish piety in Jerusalem. Around me men are praying: some nodding backand forth toward the wall itself, some leaning intimately into the wall,several singing and dancing in a wild and rhythmic circle. Up above, not visible, but felt, is theTemple Mount, Al-Haram Al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary, the Dome of theRock. Hundreds are gathered there as well,for prayer and study and meditation around their Muslim faith. The two sites—kotel and sanctuary—meet here;there’s no doubt as to their proximity. Tension persists: will that proximity encourage collaboration? Or will it continue to deepen and provokeother urges?

I’ve been here—to the kotel—several times before. Today I’m drawn to the hundreds, thousands oftiny scraps of paper—prayers—folded and tucked into every imaginablecrack. The wall is huge, its rocks giantand old. Some remain from the oldtemple’s ancient days. In the largerseams between stones, dozens and dozens of these prayers are wedgedtogether. In smaller holes, one or twoare all that fit. It makes for quite asight: a huge wall, decorated with thousands of prayers. It almost seems as if the prayers themselvesare holding the old wall together.

Jewish friends remind me that when these prayers arecollected—as they are from time to time—they cannot be burned. They bear, after all, the name of God,petitioning the Divine for peace or the health of friends or the safety ofchildren. As they’re gathered, then,they are given a kind of Jewish burial, honoring their intention and the holylonging of the souls who penned them.

Something else strikes me today. And it has to do with the importance of thewritten word. Here’s a holy site—one ofthe holiest—and it’s held together by words, prayers, texts scrawled (sometimeshastily, sometimes not) on little bits of paper.

Words, texts. Where would Judaism be, or Christianity, or Islam—without words andtexts? Like the text (from Genesis) inwhich God directs Abraham to a ram in a thicket: No longer will you sacrificehuman life on this mountain. Like theprophetic text that rings across the prophetic pages of Hebrew Scripture: Beatyour swords into ploughshares! Study warno more! Like the strange call toforgiveness we hear again and again in the gospels: Father, forgive them, forthey know not what they do.

In Jerusalem, Jerusalem, a remarkablemeditation on religion and violence, James Carroll explores the meaning ofviolence in the biblical record. He hasthis to say about the biblical impulse itself: “Israel’s uneasiness about violence is what generates not only thebible, but Israel’s dynamic and ever-evolving understanding of God. That is why violence is so prominent in thebible: because violence is the problem it is addressing. Across 1000 years, the human conscience beganto reject what human life had always apparently required, and the record ofthat rejection is the bible.”

Strangely, that’s what I see now, when I look up atall these tiny bits of paper, pressed tightly into the western wall. I see ancient storytellers passing on thestory of Abraham’s non-sacrifice of Isaac. I see Isaiah and Micah insisting on beating swords intoploughshares. I see Jesus challengingfollowers to forgive not seven times—but seventy times seven. Scraps of paper, texts, words. Each one a question opening into mystery,wonder, compassion.

Not everyone reads scripture this way, of course. I know that. So often we turn to scripture for justification: my way, not your way;my people, not your people; my wall, not your wall. But I stand at this wall and wonder if storyand wonder might not unlock a different future here. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shallbe called children of God.”

Following Jesus

2011-10-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

A Meditation on Discipleship and John21:1-19.

The large man who asked us tobaptize him, this week, at the county jail, is going on trial next month formurder. And I honestly don’t knowwhether he committed the crime or not. But I caught myself Tuesday, just the same, holding this cup of waterhigh over the big man’s head, and wondering, what kind of difference does itmake. To be baptized. To follow Jesus. You know what I mean? What happens when we make that decision tofollow?

We huddled around this serious man:inmates in orange jumpsuits, and five of us from the church. And he talked about wanting to start over, andknowing he really couldn’t. And hetalked about leaning on Jesus and learning from Jesus and living and forgiving likeJesus. And then we all laid our hands onthe big man’s shoulders.

It was a first for me: baptizing aman accused of killing another. And Ihave to tell you it shook me—a little; it made me question the sacrament in awhole new way. Standing there with thisgorgeous cup full of water. Looking thisman in the eyes. And feeling surprised—bya strange kind of kinship. Faith doessome funny things. Because here’s thething. I’m not going to trial; but ifI’m completely honest, if I’m laying it on the line, I’m violent too. It’s not just this guy in an orange jumpsuit. But I’m violent too.

You see, it’s easy enough for me togrieve the violence in the ‘hood, drug deals gone bad, drones raining fire onAfghan villages, too many dads beating too many kids. But I caught myself Tuesday, holding this cupof water over the big man’s head, and wondering about the violence that stirsin me. What about my own tendencyto judge? What about mytemper? And what about my complicity in asystem that impoverishes children and venerates violence and wages war againstthe poor all over the planet? I’mstanding there in the jail, with this big man, with this beautiful cup filledwith beautiful water. And I’m thinking:I’m not going to trial…but I’m violent too.

And now I’ve got this FlanneryO’Connor line running through my mind. She was paraphrasing another couple of verses in John’s gospel this way:“You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free; but first, it’sgonna make you flinch.” So I guess Iflinched a little on Tuesday. Surroundedby inmates in orange jumpsuits. Turningthis beautiful cup in my hand.

And I want you to know what happenedin there—because baptism is a sacrament of the church. The whole church. It’s not a little blessing we do privately;it’s a celebration of grace, a dynamic promise made by God, and a commitment wemake to one another. It’s a sacrament ofthe church. And yes, I believe, I wantto believe, it makes a difference.

So we stood there together—in themiddle of the room—and I took this cup full of water and I looked him in theeyes. And then I poured it out—the wholething—on his head. And the water randown his forehead, and then into his eyes, and then down his cheeks, and thenacross his jumpsuit. All over thefloor. And you could have heard a pindrop. Moments of complete and sacredstillness.

I have to tell you, quite honestly,that the big man looked a little stunned. That we were gathered around him in that way. That we were praying for him in that way. That we were anointing his body, his spirit,his life in that way. But I looked himin the eye at that moment and I saw not a killer, not a jumpsuit, but abrother. Jesus had baptized both of us—andanointed both of us. The samefaith. The same mission. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus says. Not because you’re better than anyone else oreven more peaceful than anyone else. Butblessed are the peacemakers—because the truth might be hard, but the truth’sgoing to set you free. The truth mightbe hard, but it’s going to set you free. And there was a kind of freedom in the room on Tuesday afternoon, thekind of freedom that Jesus cares about most. Even the kind of freedom that makes it possible to heal and forgive andembrace love as the only way, the only way, to peace.

Now during that baptism Tuesday, weread the same story we’ve read here this morning. You remember how Peter hears that it’s theLord on the beach, and he quickly puts on some clothes, for he is naked, he’sbeen fishing all night without his clothes on, and he jumps into the lake. Fully clothed. Crazy with gratitude. Just jumps into the lake. How about that? Peter’s baptism. Total immersion. Peter choosing love and only love. Peter leaping into the lake. Surrendering to a brand new day. This is the life-altering moment. This is the love-expanding encounter. This is where peace heals a broken heart andgrace absorbs even Peter’s betrayal. EvenPeter’s.

Because we remember Peter’s betrayal. How he left Jesus to hang there, executed byempire, Good Friday; how Peter turned his back that day on love anddiscipleship. Violence was everywhereand everything. It was the way thingsworked: cultures, religions, governments. In Jerusalem and everywhere else. Peter had seen enough to know things would always work that way. Violence and despair. So he—gave up. And left Jesus to hang there alone. There’s something about Peter’s impotence,about his betrayal, that seems so contemporary, so modern, so personal tome. Violence does that to us. And Peter walked away.

Then the long night on thelake. Casting nets and catchingnothing. Their little economy incomplete collapse. Their families,anxious and powerless.

And now—this. Just after daybreak. Something wildly new and whollyunexpected. A fire on the beach. Jesus is alive. Jesus is love. Jesus is back. Not because God is magic. Not because God contradicts the laws ofnature. But because God is generous. Because God is love. Because God wills life.

The sun is rising. After a long night. Thin rays of light find Peter’s face. Fish—suddenly—all over the place. Fish everywhere. One hundred fifty-three fish. “So he puts on some clothes, quickly, for he isnaked, and Peter jumps into the lake.”

Jesus is alive. Grilling fish now on a charcoal fire. Fixing space for breakfast and conversation. So Peter pulls his pants on and hurls himselfinto the lake. You see? This isn’t magic. What this is is total immersion. What this is is baptism. That little fishing boat rocks wildly behindhim. Nearly capsizes in theexcitement. Nothing will ever be thesame. Violence no longer victorious. Despair no longer inevitable. Because Jesus changes everything. Love rises like the sun on a new day. And Peter throws himself, hurls himself intothe lake.

So here’s what I want to say to youabout this story—whether it literally happened this way or whether it’s agospel truth wrapped up good in the storyteller’s genius. This is your story. This is our story. This is the story of our brother in jail,finally coming to grips with violence in his life and turning now to Jesus fornew start. This isn’t about magic; thisisn’t some Halloween script about a zombie back from the dead. This is a story about baptism anddiscipleship. This is a story aboutfollowing Jesus. In a world that’s triedout every imaginable strategy around violence and war. In a world that’s just plain exhausted fromall the hurting and warring and all the people-hating and wall-building.

You see, we miss something of thisstory’s edge, and something of its invitation, if we forget what’s happeninghere. All the violence casting shadowsacross that lake, and across the bow of that little boat, and across the facesof its frenzied fishermen. There’s theeconomic violence of a bi-polar culture; something like the 1% chewing up the99% and caring nothing for the carnage. There’s the armed violence of the raging Roman empire; and all the waysthe threat of violence gets under the skin and into the hearts of thepeople. And there’s the theologicalviolence of religion run amok. Prejudiceand hubris and scapegoating in the name of God. All this violence—and the emblem of it all, the icon of it all is Jesushanging on the empire’s cross, abandoned by his friends, left to diealone. Good Friday.

So in a sense, this morning’s storyfinds the disciples in a kind of extended Good Friday experience. Shadows and despair. They’re catching nothing. They’re frenzied and anxious and fishing allnight long. Impoverished and bereft andhopeless. Violence casts long shadows ontheir lake, on their communities, on their faces and spirits.

Do you see what’s going onhere? Jesus on the beach. The charcoal fire. Peter hurling himself into the lake. This is a story about following Jesus andresisting that violence, healing the violence within us and around us. This is about baptism and discipleship.

I think. Maybe. Because there are choices to be made. For Peter and for us. On thebeach there, Jesus puts those choices to Peter as plainly and clearly as hecan. “Do you love me?” Jesus asks him,not just once, but three times. “Do youlove me?” And, of course, Peter’s wipingthe lake from his eyes, toweling off at the fire; and he says, “Hey, look atme, Jesus, I’m soaking wet here. Ofcourse I love you!” His exuberance isgreat. Baptism is thrilling. But Jesus persists: Jesus is after more thanexuberance and thrills. Jesus is callingdisciples. Jesus is formingpeacemakers. Jesus is after love.

Remember, Peter. Remember how I washed your feet that night inthe upper room. I want you to do thatfor others. I want you to wash theirfeet. I want you to feed my sheep. And remember, Peter. Remember how we stood with that woman theywanted to stone in the city square. Remember how we stayed with her until every last stone was dropped. I want you to stand with the vulnerable, withthe poor, with the forgotten. I want youto feed my sheep. Dedicate your life tofeeding the hungry kids in villages far beyond this fire. Dedicate your life to forgiveness andnonviolence and justice and peace. “Peter, do you love me?” “Hey,Jesus, you know that I love you.” “Thenfeed my sheep,” Jesus says to Peter, to us. “Feed my sheep.”

So baptism can make adifference. It does make adifference. IF we read this story allthe way through. IF we look Jesus in theeye and read his lips carefully. IF we takeup the word and learn the practice he practices in the dusty roads and citystreets of Palestine. Lay down yourweapons, he says. Lay down yourpride. Wash one another’s feet. Feed the hungry children. Love love and only love.

Next week around this time, nineteenof us will be walking the troubled streets of Hebron in the West Bank,Palestine. It’s one of the mostconflicted cities in the world, Hebron. A place where orthodox Jewish settlers and armed Israeli military unitsdig in against puzzled Palestinian families. Settlers toss buckets of scalding water on Arab kids in the streetsbelow their settlements; and Arab kids respond in kind, hurling rocks, stones,anything they can find at angry Jewish settlers. You want a picture, a symbol of the impotenceof violence? The dead end. The destructiveness of it. Hebron’s your city.

We’re not going to Hebron becausewe’ve got all kinds of answers. Andwe’re not going to Hebron because we’re so much more peaceful, more loving thanthey are. I’m taking this delegation toHebron because, for me, faith means looking violence in the eye. My violence, our violence, the world’sviolence. I’m taking this delegation toHebron because, for me, discipleship means finding a way through our violenceto love and human kindness. We’re goingto Hebron next week because giving in to anger, and giving in to bitterness isnot an option. Not for Jesus. Not for people of faith. And not for us.

So I want you to think about today’sstory not as a magical tale where a savior comes back from the dead, but as adiscipleship story where love seeks us out and calls us by name. Where love seeks you out and calls youby name. I want you to think about thisstory as an invitation to new life and new love in a world tangled up inviolence. This is a story about what itmeans to see love rising in the dim light of a new day. This is a story about what it means to giveyour life to that love, and to God. Thisis a story about gratitude and second chances and total immersion. Baptism, right? Pulling your pants on every morning andhurling yourself into the mystery and compassion and communion of God. Something like Peter. Something like discipleship. And in the end, Jesus says to you, to me, toevery one who takes this stuff to heart: “Follow me.” It’s time to go. Follow me.

"Song on the End of the World"

2011-10-21T13:15:00.001-07:00

From Dave: Today I read a little internet piece about the apocalyptic preacher here in California--warning his flock that this was it. The end of the world was coming today. This reminded me of one of my favorite poems, a life-giving, life-wondering, life-living poem by Czelaw Milosz. Enjoy.

a poem for crazy days

by czeslaw milosz

warsaw 1944

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A Fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
On the day the world ends
Women walk through fields under their umbrellas
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.
And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.
Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet,
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world there will be,
No other end of the world there will be.: Warsaw, 1944

The Universe is in Us

2011-10-19T22:40:00.000-07:00

Nina Simone - Suzanne (Rome 1969)

2011-10-01T23:12:00.000-07:00

"Jesus was a sailor when he walked across the water.
And he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower.
And when he knew for certain only drowning men could see him,
he said 'all men shall be sailors then, until the sea shall free them.'
But he himself was broken long before the sky would open,
forsaken, almost human,
he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone."
(Leonard Cohen through Nina Simone)

Dear Mr. Obama ...

2011-09-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Obama ...

This week, the President must exercise visionary leadership. It may be time for him to tuck 2012 away and forget about re-election. Give us 13 months of leadership instead. Gershom Gorenberg's 'letter' urges consideration of past mistakes and last-minute efforts to play a newly constructive role in Palestine. It's well past time; this is what we elected him to do. We didn't elect him simply so he could run again in 2012.

Forgiveness and a Crazy World

2011-09-12T23:02:00.000-07:00

A Meditation on Jesus and Forgiveness, reading Matthew 18:21-35.

How much forgiveness is enoughforgiveness? Peter says seven times;Jesus says seventy-seven. Peter sayseight times; Jesus says eighty-eight. Peter says nine times; Jesus says ninety-nine. Peter says, I give up. How much forgiveness is enough forgiveness? And Jesus says, I don’t know. But I can tell you this. That’s not the right question.

A twelve-year-old boy named Johnwas playing one day with a nine-year-old girl who lived next door. Her name was Marie. Tragically, the two found a loaded pistol ina dresser drawer and before long their game turned into a nightmare; and littleMarie was dead. Everyone in their smalltown attended Marie’s funeral—everyone that is except for twelve-year-old John,who just couldn’t face anyone and refused to talk at all.

That morning, after the funeral,Marie’s older brother went next door to talk to John. He said, “John, I want you to come withme. I want to take you to school.” But John refused, and he said, “I never wantto see anyone ever again. I wish it wasme who was dead.” But he insisted,Marie’s brother, and finally persuaded little John to go with him.

At school, the brother asked theprincipal to call a special assembly. Five hundred and eighty students filed sadly into the gymnasium; andMarie’s older brother stood, quietly, before them. He said, “A terrible thing has happened; mylittle sister was accidentally shot by one of your classmates. This is one of those tragedies that mars ourlives.” There was silence in the gym;silence and uncertainty as to what would happen next.

And Marie’s brother said, “Now Iwant you all to know that my family and John’s family have been to churchtogether this morning; and we shared in Holy Communion.” Then, calmly, he called John next to him, puthis arm around the twelve-year-old’s shoulders, and went on: “This boy’s futuredepends much on us,” he said. “My familyhas forgiven John because we love him. Marie would want that. And I’mgoing to ask you to love and forgive him, too.” Then Marie’s brother hugged John, then and there, in front of fivehundred and eighty kids; and they wept together.

Now here’s the thing: This little story undoubtedly marks thebeginning, and not the ending, of that community’s journey in forgiveness. You’ll never get away with forgiving justonce, says Jesus, or just seven times. It’s going to take a lifetime, an orientation of the heart, a turningtoward grace day by day by day. Marie’sfamily will continue to struggle to embody this kind of love and forgiveness, ajourney as demanding as any they’ll ever know. And John, John will most certainly continue to struggle to accept this kindof love and forgiveness.

And yet. And yet, Marie’s brother sought John out whenJohn most needed it; and he risked his own raw feelings of grief to offer thearms of grace to a broken little boy. The world doesn’t heal with vengeance, Jesus says, and it doesn’t healwith bitterness and cynicism. The worldheals, the world evolves with forgiveness. And a neighborhood gets another chance.

This little exchange between Peterand Jesus—the one we’ve read this morning—is as puzzling to me as it is crucialto our Christian practice. “How oftenshould I forgive?” Peter asks. “Howabout seven times?” In other words,should I forgive every time? Should Iforgive everything? Is that what ittakes to please you?

But Jesus, as is his mind-bendingwont, goes somewhere else; changes the conversation; dodges the question: “Notthat, not seven times, but I tell you, seventy-seven times.” In other words, eighty-eight times. In other words, ninety-nine times. In other words, quit counting! Quit tallying your little acts of kindnessand expecting God to reward you for good behavior.

See what he’s doing, Jesus? Peter wants some idea, some sense of whenenough’s enough. When he can jump shipon the whole forgiveness thing and get on to bigger and better things.

But Jesus says, there are no biggerand better things. And forgiveness hasnothing to do with completing the task; nothing to do with appeasing God;nothing to do with earning God’s favor. You don’t just forgive because you have to...you forgive because it’swho you are. You forgive because youwere born to forgive. You and I were puton this earth to forgive. It’s whereblessing begins. It’s how healingmatures. You forgive, Jesus says,because it’s who you are. It’s whatChristians do.

And it’s hard.

In a story about the 9/11 attack atthe World Trade Center, a mother is asked on camera about her feelings of rageand anger. Her son was a New York City fire-fighterand a first responder at the towers that morning. He died heroically, rushing in to helpwhomever he could. Years later, hismother says she’ll always be angry; she’ll always resent those who decided lifewas cheap enough to bring destruction on her city and family. There’s a scowl, a sadness etched in hercheeks, that’s completely understandable. You watch her try to find words, and it just breaks your heart. He was 30-something. He had kids.

But she goes on. And it turns out there’s even more to herstory, and even more to her pain. Shehesitates between words, ideas; she gasps in grief; and then this same motherdescribes her last weeks with her son. Summer 2001. It seems they’d hada rocky go of it; something about his recent divorce and her just not acceptingit. I think she says on camera that she’drefused to go to his second wedding, when he’d found love and made a newbeginning. And their last phonecall—days before 9/11—was hard, and angry.

And then he died. He was one of those selfless firemen rushingup the tower steps to do something, anything to help. Not only does this mother struggle, now, tofind some way of forgiving the forces of hate that tore her family to pieces;but she struggles, even more, to forgive herself. To forgive herself for judging him. To reconcile with a son she can’t call up onthe phone. To find a way to reconnectwith better times and memories.

Watching this, you see this bravewoman, this mother like so many other 9/11 mothers, working all this out,really struggling to name it and live it. And you also see how this kind of forgiveness, this kind ofreconciliation, might take a long, long, long time. She’ll need friends, and a church, andencouraging stories along the way. She’ll need to work out ways to forgive terrorists, and then ways toforgive her son, and then ways to forgive herself. It’s her calling now; it’s her journey.

And I think that’s some part ofwhat Jesus is saying to Peter. Forgivenessisn’t a simple transaction. You don’t just figure it out, offer it up and callit a done deal. Forgiveness is a matter of the heart, a life-longcommitment, a way of being. And often,it takes a long, long, long time.

C.S. Lewis, for example, once madethis note in his personal journal: “Last week, while at prayer, I suddenlydiscovered—or felt as if I did—that I had really forgiven someone I have beentrying to forgive for over thirty years. Trying, and praying that I might.” Imagine that. Trying for overthirty years! Jesus wants Peter topractice forgiveness like that. As an orientation of the heart, as a daily practice without guarantee ofsuccess, as a daily walk with God. Ittakes as long as it takes. And eventhen, we keep forgiving, because it’s who we are. It’s rarely as easy as whipping off an email;or signing over a check; or even a Sunday prayer. Forgiveness is our life-long journey, theChristian’s life-long journey of spirit.

Several years ago, I came acrossthe teaching of another great Englishman, Rowan Williams, the former Archbishopof Canterbury. It knocked my socksoff. He says, “Forgiveness is the deepand abiding sense of what relation can be...and so it is itself a stimulus, anirritant, provoking protest at impoverished versions of social and personalrelations.” It’s a stimulus, anirritant, he says (that’s the part I love), provoking protest at impoverishedarrangements.

So this morning, on this tenthanniversary of 9/11, I want so much to embolden your practice offorgiveness. I’d go so far as to say theworld is CRAZY with longing for children of God who practice and embody mercyand forgiveness. On the global stage: inplaces like Jerusalem and Kabul, places like DC and Sacramento. But in your own lives, in your ownneighborhoods, too. I want to anoint youas agents of divine forgiveness—wherever you go, wherever you go. Let it stimulate in you new visions, freshvisions of what the world can be. Whatyour life can be. Let it be an irritant—don’tyou love that word?—let it be an irritant among us—when our communities runthrough bitter ruts and grow accustomed to the toxic blame game and themerry-go-round of cynicism. We know lifeis more than this. We know we arecapable of more than this. We believe inthe power of forgiveness: to heal the brokenhearted, to resurrect hope andcreativity, to make all things new. That’sthe gospel this morning: and you are Jesus’ partners in this forgiving, healingmission.

I want you all to think abouttaking part in the small group studies we’ve organized this fall—exploring abrand new curriculum I’ve written around “The Core Four”—four essentialpractices, transformative practices for progressive Christian folk. It’s a whole new thing. Very experimental. And I’d love for you to be in on it from thebeginning.

Mindfulness, discipleship, communion. And forgiveness. I’m starting with my conviction that faith isindeed a journey, and I daresay, a journey of transformation. It’s a journey from a cradle in a cave to across on a hill; it’s a journey from Good Friday grief to Easter Sunday joy; it’sa journey from holiness to wholeness. And this faith journey necessarily involves practices—practices likemindfulness, discipleship, communion and forgiveness—practices we learn andmess up and learn all over again—practices we take up one day at a time, over alifetime.

These practices invite an openingin us, a turning in our lives—and this turning makes all the difference. This is our turning to the One Big Love. This is our turning to the One BigHeart. This is our way of partneringwith Jesus, and with Grace, with the Power of Love. Mindfulness, discipleship, communion. And forgiveness.

So Jesus says to Peter: You’ve gotto forgive not just once, not just seven times, not just seventy-seventimes. You’ve got to forgive—becausethat’s what forgiving souls do; that’s what disciples of love do; that’s whatchildren of the light do. Youforgive. Not just once to be done withit. Not just once to say you’ve finishedyour unpleasant task and earned divine appreciation. But you forgive every day, you open yourheart to the promise of grace, to the possibility of reconciliation. You don’t settle, you never settle forlong-term grudges or daily gossip. Youdon’t settle, you never settle for suspicion and resentment as tools for familylife and day-to-day community. Youforgive—every day, you open your heart to the promise of grace. And that’s like walking with Jesus. That’s like seeing him at your side. That’s like holding his hand and dancing towardthe light and knowing that all will be well.

And if you ever needencouragement—for this practice—turn to the end of the story, to the lastmoments of Jesus’ life on earth. How hehangs on the empire’s cross, his own 9/11; he’s tortured by some, betrayed byothers. And how he reaches deep—into hisown practice, into his soul—and says, “Father, my God, forgive them all, forthey just don’t know. They don’t knowwhat they’re doing.” Right to end, inthe throes of chaos and befuddlement and pain, in his own 9/11, Jesusforgives.

As will we. On 9/11. And every day we follow him.

Offered in worship, Sunday, September 11, 2011: First Congregational Church in Santa Cruz.

Jeremiah's 9/11

2011-09-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

A Meditation on the Words of the Prophet: Jeremiah 9:1-24. "Let them quickly raise a dirge over us, so that our eyes may run down with tears, and our eyelids flow with water."

What do you do, what do you say, and how do you begin to pray on next week’s anniversary—the tenth anniversary of 9/11? I guess I have to confess: I’m ambivalent. Part of me wants to weep. Like Jeremiah: O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my poor people! There’s still grieving to be done.

But part of me wants to cry out in anger—for the missed opportunities in the ten years since, for the miscalculated payback, for the lies and the wars and the awful consequences for thousands of families. Families around the world. What do you do? Do you weep? Do you cry out?

But this morning, I’m wondering. Maybe there’s a more important question. At least: in the faith community, for those of us in the church. Does God have something to say—to us? About 9/11, about everything that’s happened since. Not the God of America; but the Creator of the Universe, the God who made every human being in the divine image. Is there a word from that God—as we turn back to 9/11 and think things through and hold our country and her choices up to the light? How do we read our tradition? Jesus and Jeremiah and the rest. Is there a word from the Lord?

Now Jeremiah was living through his own kind of 9/11. Out of the east had come warriors, invaders, striking terror at the heart of his people. These Babylonians—whose ways were strange, whose language unknown—ransacked Jerusalem’s gilded temple; they ravaged the city’s pinnacles, her highest places. Brought them down. For Jerusalem, it was like their World Trade Center had been toppled; their Pentagon crushed. This was their 9/11. Terror was the Babylonian strategy. And then those same invaders, they marched Jerusalem’s best and brightest—priests and poets, financiers and scholars, artisans and engineers—they marched them all off into exile. All the way to Babylon in the east. Jerusalem eviscerated. Jerusalem silenced. Jerusalem traumatized like never before.

Do you remember those first couple of weeks? September 2001. All we could do was watch: firemen digging through the rubble, politicians wrapping themselves in flags, journalists asking ‘what comes next’.

So Jeremiah’s watching and grieving all these losses—from Jerusalem’s margin, from its edge, from something like today’s West Bank. Anathoth. Might be today’s East Jerusalem: geographically close to the heart of things, but culturally distant. Babylon’s not interested in the Podunk preachers of Anathoth. They’ve got bigger fish to fry, powerful places to topple and trash. So Jeremiah’s watching and grieving from the margin, from the edge, from Anathoth.

And what he sees he mourns. A band of traitors. Grown strong for falsehood. They do not know me, says the Lord. You read these words, thousands of years later, and you can feel this poet’s pain. Jerusalem is a mess. A heap of ruins, a lair of jackals. A desolation without inhabitant. The holy city terrorized and eviscerated. Nobody’s safe. “Call for the mourning women to come,” Jeremiah cries from East Jerusalem; “let them quickly raise a dirge over us, so that our eyes may run down with tears, and our eyelids flow with water.” See what I mean? Every word is distress. “For a sound of wailing is heard from Zion; ‘How we are ruined! Because we have left the land, because they have cast down our dwellings.’” Jeremiah’s 9/11. Israel’s 9/11. Because they have cast down…our dwellings.

But I want you to notice the turn in this text. Because this grieving, this weeping, all of this preacher’s poetry: it’s all prologue, preface, prelude. To the word. To the word of the Lord. To the word of the God of Israel, the Creator of the Universe, the God who made all humankind in the divine image. “Thus says the Lord.” That’s where this is all going. That’s where Jeremiah is taking his people. His shattered, broken, desolate people. “Thus says the Lord.”

I wonder if you might read these two verses with me, the last two in our reading this morning, that last paragraph beginning with “Thus says the Lord.” Jeremiah 9. Take a moment, find it in your bulletin, and read it with me.

“Thus says the Lord: Do not let the wise boast in their wisdom; do not let the mighty boast in their might; do not let the wealthy boast in their wealth; but let those who boast boast in this, that they understand and know me, that I am the Lord; I act with steadfast love, justice, and righteousness in the earth, for in these things I delight, says the Lord.”

Let those who boast boast in this. Now a little bit of Hebrew will go a long ways here. And that little bit of Hebrew is ‘hallel.’ The word ‘hallel.’ In English, H-A-L-L-E-L. As in hallel-lu-jah. Let those who ‘hallel’ ‘hallel’ in this. Hallel-lu-jah. That they understand me. That they know me. I act with steadfast love, justice, and righteousness in the earth. Let those who ‘hallel’ ‘hallel’ in this. For in these things I delight. Says the Lord.

Says the Lord. In the aftermath of Jeremiah’s 9/11, in the aftermath of Israel’s collapse, in the aftermath of our own 9/11, God indeed has something to say. To us. There is a precious and provocative word from the Lord. “I act with steadfast love. I act with justice. I act with righteousness in the earth.” Let those who ‘hallel’ ‘hallel’ in this. “For in these things, in these things, I delight. Says the Lord.” There is a way by which we turn again toward the light. There is a way by which we return again to God. Steadfast love. Justice. Righteousness. There’s hope, says the prophet. Dynamic hope! Hallel-lu-jah! Hallel-lu-jah!

But. But ‘hallel-lu-jah’ comes with a cautionary word. So we might say, picking up on Jeremiah this morning, we might say that our national love affair with wealth, with prosperity, has let us down. Greed has made us mean and ignorant and more than a little bloodthirsty. Ten years after our 9/11. We’ve got the Tea Party and a badly broken economy to show for it. Our love affair with wealth has let us down. So no more boasting in wealth. The word of the Lord. A cautionary word. No more.

And we might say, with Jeremiah, that our national love affair with might and warfare has let us down. Has it made us safer? Has it made us kinder? Has it made us a more just people? We’re looking more and more like a flailing empire, like an empire addicted to war and drones and deadly adventures all over the world. Our love affair with warfare has let us down. So no more boasting in violence, in might. A cautionary word. No more. The word of the Lord.

Maybe you remember that another Jeremiah, a contemporary Jeremiah got himself into a whole mess of trouble for his preaching in the weeks after our 9/11. I’m talking of course about the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, then the pastor of Trinity UCC in Chicago, the largest United Church of Christ in the country. He was Barack Obama’s pastor in Chicago. For a while.

And in his first sermon after the terrorist attack, Jeremiah Wright lamented all the violence that preceded it. American violence. American greed. It’s a vexing, and a searching, piece of preaching. “Violence,” he says, in the passionate tradition of his people, “violence begets violence, hatred begets hatred, and terrorism begets terrorism.” It’s almost like he’s channeling his namesake. Channeling Jeremiah of Anathoth. Sure, he’s angry. At poverty and war and the unholy alliance of big business and the national security state. But he’s also sad, profoundly sad, and worried. Out on the margins of American society, the fragile south side of Chicago, this Jeremiah worries that America’s heart turns too quickly to payback, too mindlessly to revenge.

September 23, 2001; and Jeremiah sees it coming. More war. More weapons. More death. More of his black Chicago kids sent off to fight Dick Cheney’s battles is faraway places. He sees it coming; and it breaks his heart. It just breaks Jeremiah’s heart. It’s really a remarkable piece of preaching. My opinion. Worth watching on You Tube.

But these ten years later, questions abound, all kinds of them. Was Jeremiah Wright blaming the victim—twelve days after a horrible disaster? Was he saying all those folks—in New York, in DC, on those three hijacked planes—was he saying all those folks deserved what they got? That somehow America had it coming?

Obviously FOX News played it that way; the opportunity to skewer a great progressive and a prophetic black voice was just too good to pass up. Most of the mainstream media followed along. The controversy got so hot—in 2008—that candidate Obama had to revoke his membership at Trinity. An apparent embarrassment for Obama. And a sad moment in the history of a great church.

But go back to the video of that sermon, to the entirety of that sermon. Watch it, and I think you’ll find that Jeremiah Wright is much more of a poet than a punk, much more of a pastor than a madman. Don’t go boasting in might, he says. Don’t go hunting for payback, for more war, for more violence. Let those who boast boast in this. Let those who ‘hallel’ ‘hallel’ in this: I act with steadfast love. I act with justice. I act with righteousness in the earth. Says the Lord.

And then Jeremiah Wright, the pastor, says to his Chicago congregation: I’ve been asking myself all week—what should my response be? I’ve been watching video of folks falling from those buildings: folks holding hands, black folks and white folks. And I’ve been asking myself—what should my response be? To this madness?

And then, quietly, he answers his own question. This is a time, he says, to his people; this is a time for self-examination. “This is not a time for me to be examining other people’s relationships with God. This is not a time for me to be fixing other people’s faith, insisting on change in other people’s lives.” This is a time, Jeremiah says, for self-examination. Am I listening to God in my life? Am I paying attention to God’s word? Are we spending enough time together? And am I walking the walk?”

I swear in this video, at this point, you can just about hear a pin drop. Those thousands of congregants at Trinity UCC are paying close attention to their pastor. “Am I walking the walk?” he asks. “Because this is a time for self-examination.”

So that’s what I want to say to my church this week, as we prepare for this tenth anniversary. Let this be a time for self-examination. Let us turn, each of us, to God’s steadfast love, to God’s justice—and ask ourselves: Am I walking the walk? Am I listening? Am I paying attention to God in my life?

Jeremiah opens a door to the heart of the divine. And here’s what we find there—steadfast love, justice, and righteousness. And what a gift for us! What an awesome gift and an awesome responsibility! So let this be our time, this week, for self-examination. How am I doing with my neighbors, with my enemies and adversaries? And how am I doing in my relationship with God? Am I serious about turning my country toward compassion and a vision of shared prosperity? In these things I delight. Says the Lord. In these things I delight. How about us?

You know how we’ve got that great energy every week—when we get into it singing GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH WHEN I LAY MY BURDEN DOWN? Next week I want that to be the most radical, the most political, the most decisive moment in worship here. Let those who ‘hallel’ ‘hallel’ in God: in God’s grace and God’s mercy and God’s steadfast love and God’s justice. Let those who sing HALLELUJAH mean HALLELUJAH! No more boasting for us in violence and might. No more boasting for us in warfare and wealth.

There is a way by which we turn again toward the light. There is a way by which we return again to God. Steadfast love, justice and righteousness.

So let this be a week for self-examination, for reflection, for choice. Let those who ‘hallel’ ‘hallel’ in God. Let those who sing HALLELUJAH mean HALLELUJAH!

Incremental Change I Can Believe In

2011-07-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

Here's a perspective I've missed...on the Obama Presidency and everything else happening this week in Washington.

Incremental Change I Can Believe In

How the Religious Right Gets it Wrong

2011-07-21T21:47:00.000-07:00

Senator Franken quickly and decisively exposes the Christian Right's hypocrisy in promoting a homophobic and heterosexist idea of what makes for a healthy family. "I frankly don't really know how we can trust the rest of your testimony, if you're reading studies this way."

"Knockin' on Heaven's Door" (Bryan Ferry covers Dylan)

2011-07-18T22:51:00.000-07:00

"Mama put my guns in the ground / I can't shoot them anymore..."

A Day in the Life...

2011-07-16T20:57:00.000-07:00

3:30 am - Is 3:30 still late at night? Or early in the morning? I swat at the little alarm by my bed and stumble into the cold shower. In fifteen minutes, I'm on the road with our 15 year old daughter, on the way to the San Francisco airport. She's got the iPod going; I'm watching the lights float by, and the road crew on 17 working the night shift. Claire's on an adventure today, flying alone across country to Providence, Rhode Island. A week of astronomy for teens at Brown University. I stand behind a glass wall watching her navigate security by herself. Foreshadowing the future. Letting kids go.

7:00 am - Back in bed. What do I have? 90 minutes, no 95. The dog's been sleeping on my side in my absence. It's warm, warm, soft, soft. OK, 100 minutes.

10 am - Hosting a memorial service at church. Giving thanks for a long, rich, complicated life. Jim lived 89 years, worked on the Manhattan Project, engineered for oil companies, raised three amazingly thoughtful children, loved his wife. During the service, stories come easily, from so many corners, chapters of his life. It's sad to say goodbye, but right to weep, honest.

12 pm - Face to face with the monitor on my desk, working out a homily for a wedding at 2. Claire's plane is somewhere over New York state. The Klotz family's greeting friends and family upstairs. From funeral to wedding, death to life again. The text for this afternoon is simple and it's not. "I call you friends," Jesus says. "I commission you."

2 pm - Never done this before. I'm standing at the head of a long aisle. Holy Cross Catholic Church downtown. Two delightful priests follow. I've been asked to process the Gospel. Process the Gospel. OK, I can do that. What does it mean: process the Gospel? Hold it high, says the nun in charge. Walk slowly. Process it. Invited to co-celebrate the wedding of two dear friends, I'm overwhelmed by the beauty of it all, and by the fairly rare privilege of leading worship with Catholic priests. On 'their' turf. Music is lovely. The bride and groom are radiant. (I process the Gospel without tripping and dropping it.)

4 pm - A lovely, rustic cemetery and a simple burial of Jim's ashes. The family lingers, more stories, a long-distance phone call bringing in grandkids from France; slowly, thoughtfully, they lay flowers on the covering. Remembering. Remembering. Holding life and years and family in tenderness. Dust to dust. Earth to earth. In the image of God.

Stepping around the grave site, I find a family of stones: JONES. I gently toe the leaves off the graves. There's a Mary Ellen Jones. And, then, a David Jones. My name, given at birth. David Jones: born 1859, died 1938. It's odd, seeing these words, years, hidden, then no longer in an old cemetery. It's been a long day, a good, good day. Easy to be mystical now. But I feel a kinship with this Jones, with his resting, with others who rest there with him. With Jim Klotz and Ruth. With the Klotz family - in Santa Cruz, and in France, and around the world. And I feel a kinship with Vlada and Dan and little Emily and with Father Joe and Father Mike and Catholic friends at Holy Cross. I'm standing at a grave, somebody named Jones, and I feel kinship and gratitude. Kinship and gratitude.

5 pm - Back to the church now for the wedding reception. Russian folk dance. Lady Gaga for others. Russian blessings. Families coming together. Holding the past gently, letting some of it go, receiving the future as gift. As grace. As blessing.

9 pm - You who draw the circles of my life, the circles of all life and every life: I return to you this day, this day of remembering and mourning, this day of wedding and loving, this day of new liturgies and old people, this day of light and dark. I thank you, praise you, for the privileges in my life: a safe place to sleep and eat, a family that's well for now, work that fills my days with meaning and purpose. You call me friend. I hear you. And I am grateful. Amen.

Will You Lead Me Beside Still Waters?

2011-07-12T23:16:00.000-07:00

Istanbul 2027

2011-07-11T23:37:00.000-07:00

Looking for a great summer read? Looking for an urgent thriller weaving Islamic mysticism with complex technological possibilities, and international intrigue with deep psychological insight? I'll recommend this one to you: THE DERVISH HOUSE by Ian MacDonald.

Set in Turkey 2027, now the most populous and diverse nation in the European Union, the book covers 7 days, spinning out three or four plot-lines that swerve and lurch toward some kind of collision. Inevitable, but unforeseeable. And throughout, MacDonald muses on the nature of religious experience, belief, mysticism. What kind of impact does technological innovation have on faith and spiritual practice? Will it make religion obsolete? Or simply accelerate religious conflicts?

Serious stuff, this piece of sci-fi...and a ton of fun. Enjoy the read.