Come Together

"One and one and one is three..."

Hacking at the Branches of Evil

“We don’t have a democracy where the Congress depends on people alone anymore. People have increasingly been replaced by the funders ... The problem in this Congress is in plain sight. It is corruption, alive and increasingly sickening.” - Lawrence Lessig

On his way to a conversation about campaign finance and election reform, Lawrence Lessig of Harvard Law School quotes Henry David Thoreau: "There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root." In this bizarre season of campaigning and fear mongering, it strikes me that we have even bigger problems than the Tea Party. Carefully, clearly, Lessig's getting at these. He traces three huge social concerns - the economic collapse of 2008, the crisis of childhood obesity, the Gulf oil spill - to campaign finance and an unaccountable congress. Or, better said, a congress solely accountable to corporate donors.

His remarks begin at the 6 minute mark. Well, well worth the time.

Shaq Sits Still

Shaquille O'Neal joined the storied Boston Celtics basketball team this summer.  To celebrate and connect with his new city, Shaq took his 7-foot frame to Hahvahd Square and sat.  Like a statue.  For an hour.  Folks came from all over to sit with him, have pics taken, enjoy the moment.  Apparently he said nothing.  Just sat.  Can you say "Shaq sits still" five time fast?  Thought not.

"It Gets Better" (Broadway sings for the Trevor Project)

There's a study out that suggests religious homophobia deepens the despair of teens and young adults struggling with their own precious awakening and sexuality. Can't we agree that the God of touching and blessing is honored by all awakening? Can't we agree that every teenager is beloved and unique and cherished? Can't we agree that adults are charged with creating safe homes, safe schools, safe churches and synagogues - for all kinds of coming out and living up and giving away? Here's a most amazing song put together by loving souls who want queer kids to know life is good and 'it gets better.' As far as I'm concerned, that's the message they're going to get at any church I serve. Life is good, kids. And it gets better.

Embracing Exile

A Meditation on Jeremiah 29 and "Kindness" (by Naomi Nye)

1.

About a year ago I was asked to visit a family who had recently lost their only son, a teenager, in a terrible, terrible accident.  They were a local family, but they had no church home; and they were at a loss as to how to move forward with a funeral, a memorial, some way of saying goodbye to a kid who was healthy and happy just days before.  How do you even begin to say goodbye?  So they turned to us, to this church community, and they found me.  I was stunned, frankly, by their courage in turning to a stranger.  As their whole world came crashing down.

Before we met, the boy’s parents called to ask if I’d bring along some readings, anything, passages from scripture that might guide them in planning an unimaginable event.  I had a list of passages handy, the usual stuff – but not one of them seemed quite right; nothing in our bible seemed gentle or accessible enough for a vulnerable family going through their own terrible hell. 

So I grabbed a book of poetry on my way out the door, and that afternoon we leafed together through poems about loss, brokenness and exile.  And there was one, in particular, one poem, that almost insisted on a reading.  From its first lines, each of the three of us knew this was the one.  This was the one that knew what wounds felt like, how sorrow soaked the sheets.  So we took turns reading it.  “Before you know what kindness really is,” writes poet Naomi Nye, “you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment, like salt in a weakened broth.”  It was that poem more than anything else that opened a window that afternoon, let some light in, and allowed the three of us to move forward in planning a sad and difficult funeral.  “Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.”  Sometimes there are words that read us every bit as much as we read them.  “You must wake up with sorrow,” says the poet.  “You must speak to it till your voice / catches the thread of all sorrows / and you see the size of the cloth.”

Mystics of Morning

One morning last week, just before sunrise, I walked my favorite seaside path above the cliffs.  It was quiet, windy, cold.  And I was surprised to find others, solitary photographers, their cameras perched on tripods.  Patiently, they waited for the sun's rising, calmly confident, hopeful.  There were a hundred other things they might have been doing: running treadmills, reading the paper, checking voicemail.  But these mystics of morning chose this: to wait for the sun, though its arrival was routine, convinced this routine rising was all the world needed.

Sure enough, out of the east, above a gentle range: a brightness, a hint of light.  And the mystics went gratefully to work, working lenses and shutters and settings, noting the sun's determination and honoring it.  I want to live like that - preparing for the rising of the sun, believing in it, never tiring.  I want to train my lenses, shutters, settings to observe every epiphany - to honor every breath as something both routine and unexpectedly holy.

There's that old cliche about showing up - I'm not sure how it goes.  Something like: ninety percent of life is showing up.  It strikes me as especially true for the photographers on the cliffs.  Showing up is everything.  Timing the sun's appearance, getting to the right spot before the appointed hour.

I looked at the local paper the next morning, half-expecting to see a headline.  "Sun Rises Thursday Morning!"  Of course, no such thing.  The sun's rising is ho-hum, not the least bit surprising, we've seen it thousands and thousands of times before.

Or have we?

How often do I assemble the necessary gear - tripod, camera, the rest - before going to sleep?  How often do I climb out of bed eager to find the right spot, to watch what seems inevitable prove incredible?  How often do I sit still enough to watch a shadow creep across the living room floor?  There's really no such thing as ho-hum, is there?  No such thing as 'just another day.'  And that half-eaten moon out there tonight...it's like one of those angels in the fields of old: "Gloria!  Gloria!  Gloria in excelsis deo!'  Glory to God in the highest.

Why I Don't Use the I-Word in Any Form

From "JACK AND JILL":
"Since we launched the Drop the I-Word campaign, thousands of people and numerous media outlets have pledged not to label immigrants criminals and to affirm their humanity and dignity. Of those thousands, some are immigrants, both undocumented and with papers, who are asking us to stand up for our values, not just bear witness to their demise. Others are allies who recognize that this is an historic moment to support a resilient community. Still others are motivated by the simple recognition that journalists and everyday people alike can no longer allow fear mongers to dictate the parameters of our conversation..."  Click on picture for more.

http://www.jackandjillpolitics.com/2010/10/why-i-dont-use-the-i-word-%E2%80%94-in-any-form/

Blackbird

The Heat Is On

A Meditation for World Communion Sunday ~ Looking at Luke 16:19-31 ~ Jesus' parable about the 'great chasm' between a rich man and poor Lazarus at his gate.

1.

Buddhist teachers like to say that you can’t meditate if you’re slouching: that you have to sit somewhat straight, attentive, alert.  It has to do with respect, I think.  Respect for the discipline of prayer, the training it requires of mind, body, spirit.  You meditate not only with your mind – but with your body and spirit as well.  Somehow you want to prepare your whole self for that kind of experience.  And you can’t meditate if you’re slouching. 

I guess I want to say the same thing about reading the gospel, about encountering these short, hard parables, Jesus’ teaching.  You have to sit up straight.  Lengthen your spine some.  Breathe attentively.  You read the gospel with mind, body, spirit – with your whole self.  And Jesus wants your undivided attention.  If nothing else about today’s parable seems clear, this much does.  Jesus is serious now; and he wants our undivided attention.

So he invites us – another strange gospel journey – Jesus invites us to visit a gate by a rich man’s home.  A gate.  Maybe it’s an open gate, welcoming, inviting.  Some gates are.  We’re drawn to them.  Or maybe, maybe this gate’s a forbidding barrier, a boundary not to be crossed.  It guards and protects.  What will we find?  Who will we find / at the gate by the rich man’s home?  Think about the gates that mark some of our neighborhoods or the gateway to the Westside down at the intersection of River Street and Highway One.  That gateway, in particular, is busy with foot traffic: neighbors, clients, friends in and out of the Homeless Service Center.  Or the huge wooden doors to this sanctuary, or the concrete threshold we pass into the church driveway every Sunday.  Welcoming?  Inviting?  Forbidding?  Intimidating?  Gates have something to do with relationships – with the kinds of relationships we welcome and the kinds we don’t. 

And that’s where Jesus begins.  Another hard parable, a demanding parable.  And this will be one about choices: between compassion and indifference, between vulnerability and ignorance.  Who’s hanging out at the gates in our lives?  Are we paying attention?  Do we know their names?  And what kind of theology – this is important stuff for the church – what kind of theology resonates around the boundaries, the margins, by the gates in our lives?   

Right from the start, Jesus wants us to feel the heat.  Feel the heat.  I forget who it was that was riffing on scripture when he said: “You shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free.  But first, it’ll make you flinch.”  Jesus doesn’t want this to be easy.  We’re supposed to flinch.  Jesus wants us to flinch.  From the rich man’s gate, we look inside and see a man, probably a professional, well-meaning man, dressed in purple, feasting sumptuously.  Jesus says nothing about his character, his family, his heart.  He could just as well be a delightful spirit, full of vim and vigor, attentive, generous with his kids.  All we get here is that he’s dressed in purple and feasting sumptuously every day: he’s got good clothing to wear and plenty to eat.  That’s all we’ve got.  You see what I mean?  The heat is on.