Praying for Charleston

“Oh, God… no.”

This was my first inklings of prayer this morning as I heard the news about the shooting in Charleston, S.C. Friends have been posting on Facebook that they are praying. I did too. And yet, my mind keeps returning to an idea I came across recently in Ronald Rolheiser’s The Holy Longing:

When we pray “through Christ” we are praying through the Body of Christ, which then includes Jesus, the Eucharist, and the body of believers (ourselves) here on earth. We are praying through all of these. Thus, not only God in heaven is being petitioned and asked to act. We are also charging ourselves, as part of the Body of Christ, with some responsibility for answering the prayer. To pray as a Christian demands concrete involvement in trying to bring about what is pleaded for in prayer.¹

It is good to pray, and yet it is not our only responsibility.

Holy Discomforter, teach us to pray.

 

¹Page 83

“Love thy neighbor… as thyself”

This past year I was introduced to a variation on the Ignatian examen. In reflecting on my day, I would ask these questions:
1. How was I able to give and receive love today?
2. How was I not?
3. What is the invitation? What am I being invited to do or to be?

What came to mind most quickly and with the most energy were the ways I was able or not able to give and receive love from myself. Spirit was inviting me to pay attention to how I was treating myself. I did not expect this. So much of my religious upbringing invited me to focus on (and improve) how I treat others. Practice kindness. Serve. “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” with the emphasis on the first part – love thy neighbor. Even today, it seems the assumption is we are already loving ourselves well. The assumption is we can separate how we treat others from how we treat ourselves. We can’t. We are able to love others exactly to the extent we are able to love ourselves.

I am able to accept, honor the needs and desires of, and respect you only to the extent I am able to accept, honor, and respect myself. I am able to serve you without needing you to respond in a certain way only to the extent that I am able to befriend my own imperfections. I am less interested in making comparison or trying to measure up as I discover myself as lovable. As I practice receiving love from myself, I am better able to receive love from God and neighbor. As I practice  gracing the wounded places in myself, I am better able to offer grace when my neighbor acts out of their woundedness. How I am in relation to myself shapes how I am in relation to others. I am only ever able to love my neighbor as well as I love myself.

The Pulse in the Wound

It is for all the literalists of the imagination
that miracle is possible, possible and essential.
Are some intricate minds nourished on concept
as epiphytes flourish high in the canopy?
Can they subsist on the light,
on the half of metaphor that’s not grounded
in dust, grit, heavy carnal clay?
Do signs contain and utter for them
all the reality that they need,
resurrection for them an internal power,
and not a matter of flesh?
For the others, of whom I am one,
miracles, ultimate need, bread of life,
are miracles just because those so tuned
to the hum drum laws – gravity, mortality –
can’t open to symbol’s power unless convinced of its ground,
its roots in bone and blood.
We must feel the pulse in the wound to believe
that with God all things are possible,
taste bread at Emmaus
that warm hands broke and blessed.

We must feel the pulse in the wound, Denise Levertov writes. We must feel the pulse in the wound to believe that with God all things are possible. Belief in the resurrection is not about manufacturing faith. It’s about living into the story of new life in the wake of death. Sometimes we need proof – firsthand experience. We are like Thomas, unable to join in the hallelujahs without first seeing evidence that death does not have the final word.  We need that something we can point to and say, “See here, this is God-with-us, alive, able to be and move among us.”

It is Easter night. The disciples have locked themselves in the house, fearing who might come to the door. Since Mary’s news of the empty tomb, they thought it best to lay low for a while. Their teacher and friend was murdered because he was perceived to be a threat to law and order. It’s the same thing that happened to John, the baptizer, not so long ago. An empty tomb is just the excuse the authorities need. The disciples wonder who will be next. None of this was how it was supposed to go. Jesus was supposed to usher in the new kingdom. But, nothing has changed. Poverty, injustice, corruption are still as alive today as they were yesterday. They were supposed to have died with Jesus. What now? Have all the efforts, all the sacrifices, been for naught?

In the midst of the disciples’ confusion and pain and fear and anger Jesus appears. He brings a message of peace. He shows them his hands and his side. They see it really is their beloved rabbi. And when they do, the text tells us, they rejoice. When they next see Thomas, they rejoice: “Peace be with you, Thomas! Our rabbi lives! We have seen it with our own eyes!”  To which Thomas replies, “Are you sure you haven’t seen a ghost? There’s no way.  I saw his body. I was there when Joseph laid him in the tomb. “

It is one thing to witness a miracle. It is another thing to be told about it. As much as Thomas trusted his friends, there are some things that have to be experienced to be believed.  And Jesus does not disappoint. When he shows up again, a week later, Jesus addresses Thomas specifically, supplying him what he needs for faith. I imagine Jesus speaking with gentleness and compassion, “Thomas, Come to me. Touch my wounds. Feel – there is yet life in my veins. It is true, Thomas, that all things are possible with God. There is hope after disappointment. Life does emerge from death.”

This is the message also for us. There is hope after disappointment. Life does emerge from death. All is not lost. There are times we need this message. There are times when our hope seems to have died. When the principle does nothing about the bullying. When one more doctor cannot find anything wrong. When she once again doesn’t respond, but shrinks, under his words. When another week passes without an interview. When one more black man is killed by one more white police officer, it is hard to believe that all things are possible. These are times we need some evidence of resurrection. We need Jesus to show up for us.

We do need Jesus to show up, but that’s not all. Not in relation to Walter Scott and the all too many like him. If we only wait on Jesus, it implies we are passive to resurrection in this case. But that cannot be. Here are the facts:

1. Everybody’s got biases. Most of us have an unconscious preference for white folk. According to Harvard University’s Project Implicit, 70% of white folk and 50% of black folk in the US prefer whiteness. This they measured by testing how quickly one associates bad or good qualities with white skin or brown skin. Everybody’s got biases.

2. Race is a factor. In all of it, including law enforcement and the criminal justice system. Racial bias is part of the water we drink and the air we breathe. It is one of the unhelpful inheritances from growing up in this country. It takes a whole lot of work to shed this inheritance. It takes a whole lot of coming to terms with the reality of privilege. It take a whole lot of intentional seeking out dis-confirmation of our racial biases. It takes a whole lot of spiritual work to let go of  prejudices based on race. Even then, those pesky habits we grew up with return, and remind us, we are still on the journey.

3. We have power. As a rule, we white folk don’t need to prove ourselves worthy to have our voice be heard. Our voices are privileged. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like this is the case. Prejudice and racial bias are systemic. What is our voice in comparison to the culture of a nation?

For a long time this is what kept me silent. I didn’t know where to begin or what to say. I wondered what good my lone voice is among the clamor. I wanted to say, “No. This is wrong. People shouldn’t die because of assumptions others make based on skin color.” But I didn’t think that would be enough. I wanted to say something helpful, but didn’t know what that could be. I didn’t think my voice counted because I am white. It’s not my story to tell.

Except it is. I am one with biases that mirror those which uphold our system of law enforcement. A system in which people are often not held responsible for killing a fellow human being. It is precisely my voice which needs to be heard. It is precisely the voices of white Americans which needs to be heard. And not because we are some kind of savior or we are better than. But because the current systems of power benefit and cater to us in ways they do not benefit or cater to our sisters and brothers of color. Our voice is still privileged.

This is the pulse: Our willingness to free ourselves from denial, to educate ourselves, and finally to speak. This is how we will know resurrection is possible. It is a pulse which becomes stronger as more of us join in the efforts. This is cause for hope.

Hear the good news: death, and the forces of death do not have the last word. Jesus does show up. There is a pulse in the wound. Hear the good news: those times when we need to see more to believe, we remain disciples. There will be times when we struggle to find hope. This is part of our journey. Thomas, though he struggled, was always still a beloved disciple. Jesus didn’t show up to kick Thomas out, saying he failed the faith test. No. Jesus welcomes Thomas with grace, helping him to move forward.  Hear the good news: though we may have to wait, Jesus will not disappoint. Thomas heard of the resurrection, and he wanted to believe. It was a week before he got the proof he needed. We may have to wait a week, but Jesus does not disappoint. It may be a loooooong week. But Jesus is faithful to show up.

Jesus shows up, and invites us, “come and see and believe.” We feel the pulse – the beginnings of justice. We feel the pulse – finally, a request for an interview. We feel the pulse – she finds the courage to leave. We feel the pulse – he acknowledges his control and seeks help. We feel the pulse – a diagnosis. We feel the pulse – a teacher who offers safe space and genuine encouragement. We feel the pulse, and we rejoice.

We rejoice and we continue in the journey. We continue the story, discovering as we go all the places new life springs forth in the wake of death. There will be times when we rejoice heartily, as the disciples who first saw Jesus. Times when faith comes easier. There will be times, too, when we, like Thomas, need to feel the pulse in the wound to believe that things will work out. We feel the pulse and we know all is not lost. We feel the pulse and we know resurrection is possible. We feel the pulse and we know there is hope. Hallelujah and amen.

 

This is a sermon based on John 20.19-31.

Resources to educate yourself on bias:
Further information about biases and what we can do about them.
Vox Article
Teaching Tolerance
You can take the implicit bias test here.

Yes and No

The past couple weeks I’ve been pondering the ways I say Yes and the ways I say No. And not so much the Big Decisions or the Opportunities that come along. Rather, Yes and No on a micro scale. Micro-acceptances, when my words and body language and intentions are all in harmony. When the message from me is one of value and respect. Or micro-rejections, those subtle cues I give that the Other is not really welcome. When the message from me is one of indifference or dismissal. Are there ways I keep people at a distance, building barriers around my welcome? How does this affect the hospitality of my being? How might I tend boundaries with an open heart?

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Author of all wholeness, may my actions be true. Dismantle the barriers which block beauty and belonging. Build in me the courage to be a bearer your love. May my life speak grace and not judgement, kindness and not hostility, acceptance and not rejection. Amen.

Here Be Dragons

“Here Be Dragons”, the cartographer warns. Back in the day, dragons stood at the edge of the maps to signify the unknown. This addition was the map maker’s way of saying, we don’t know what’s out there. It was a warning: proceed at your own peril.

Except that much of this is false. There were mystical sea creatures drawn on maps, but of all the old maps we have access to, none of them say, “Here Be Dragons.” There is a globe, which makes this warning in Latin. Except it may not even be a warning. It could be the explorer found some creature formidable and strange enough to earn the moniker “dragon.” Other maps of the time noted where different creatures could be found. One map points out where elephants, scorpions and ‘dog-headed beings’ come from. On others one could find walruses, lions, and hippos. Dragons are not as prevalent as our imagination would tell us.

This is what I am discovering in my practice of going outside my comfort zone. Mostly, I’m finding elephants and hippos. Creatures that aren’t terribly interested in eating people or burning them alive. I have found one dragon. One thing that is still squarely outside my comfort zone. But I’ve met it, introduced myself, spent some time in its company. So next time I visit, I can say, “Oh, hello Alice. Good to see you again.” Though I may never be fully at ease in her company, I can get to know her, perhaps even befriend her.

Dog Tired

 

Has it really only been two weeks? It feels longer than that. My intentionally adding stress to my life means using more emotional, physical, spiritual energy than I am used to. Even with my brain’s rock star encouragement, stepping out continually can be tiring. One day in particular this past week, I returned home exhausted. After a few rounds of “why am I so tired?” it dawned on me: I hadn’t eaten well that day. In this journey, I need to take care of myself. For me that includes eating well, getting enough sleep, spending time in prayer and meditation, reaching out for support when I need it, doing things which replenish my spirit. What I do throughout the day, even when I’m not engaged in my lenten practice, matters. This lenten journey is turning out to be helpfully disturbing, disrupting some of the unhealthy patterns of my days. Praise be.

May your lenten journeys, too, be helpfully disruptive and ultimately life-giving. Blessings.

Rock Star

Seven days in. The world is still intact and spinning on its tilted axis. It’s been a good week. Adventurous. You see, I don’t have this all planned out. I don’t know what I will be doing on Day 27. First, I’m simply not that person. Second, the boundaries of my comfort zone are not static. Each day, then, becomes a scavenger hunt, a search for ways to be uncomfortable and stretch myself. The effect of this way of engaging the world is interesting. Instead of being apprehensive, my brain responds, “Yes! Do that!” And afterward, instead of “Phew, we made it through,” my brain rejoices, “Goal met! You are a rock star!” That kind of encouragement is hard to beat. I am looking forward to discovering what adventures are in store for me this season.

Lenten blessings to you.

Lenten Practice

Yeah! Lent is here again!

That’s not sarcastic joy. I really do love Lent. More specifically, I heartily embrace the opportunity for intentional spiritual discipline. I like to take up a practice for these 40 days, something that will stretch me, something that disrupts my settled routine. This year, I will practice expanding my comfort zone. Each day I will do one thing that I’d rather not do, thank-you. And, (deep breath) I’ll blog about my experience of the process once a week.

This is my Day One. This. Stating my intention.

Because whatever would you think of me if you knew that I am not cool and calm in every situation? Oh, the consequences if I am not perfect! The future of the planet depends on me. The world will come to an end if I say I will do something for 40 days and something comes up and I miss a day. And if my reflections are not Pulitzer-worthy, oh, the chaos that would ensue!

Here’s to an adventurous lenten season.

What, if anything are you planning as a lenten practice?

Gifts of The Cranky Lady

This snippet of conversation took place after celebrating communion while on retreat this fall:

“This is good bread!” “It’s fantastic!” “Oh, my word.”

“Where did you get the bread?”
“From the cranky lady at the market.”

In response to the quizzical look, I explained. There’s a woman who sells her bread at the market. She often has a steady stream of customers. She offers about a dozen different varieties. I have only been a few times, and each time I go, I have questions. I want to know about the bread I’m getting. Every time I’ve been there, the woman seems to be in a bad mood. She frowns when I ask her my questions, and hastily answers them. I don’t feel warm-fuzzies during these encounters. So, in my mind I dubbed her The Cranky Lady.

Her bread is fantastic. That’s why I return. There was another baker, across town, who was more personable, but she no longer has her shop. I wanted to get bread from her, because communion is a special moment. I figure it is better to have bread baked and offered in joy. I debated whether or not to go to the Cranky Lady for the elements. Would my experience of this person who supplied the bread colour my experience of communion? I would much rather receive from someone I got along with better.

I needn’t have worried. Our celebration was made holy with prayer and story and blessing. A friend recently reminded me that communion is not complete without everyone there. Welcoming those (or the gifts of those) I am at odds with is not really about grace. (Because it’s not really about me or what I offer.) Welcoming the Other at the table is necessary for wholeness, because the community is incomplete without their presence, their voice, their story.

So, yes, it is good and fitting that we would accept and bless the gifts of the Cranky Lady. Her delicious bread enhanced our experience of the sacred meal. And who knows, maybe she’s not really cranky at all. Maybe she’s one of those people whose face of concentration looks cranky. Maybe this is her being focused and staying on top of things.

And, it’s helpful to remember, some days I am The Cranky Lady offering my gifts.

Mary

I am not amused.

 

When I was 6 years old, I played Mary in the parish Christmas pageant.

This was not by choice. I did not want to be Mary.

I wanted to be the little drummer boy. He got to play the drum. Mary didn’t do anything; she just stood there, holding the dumb doll.

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For most of my life, this is how I’ve thought about Mary.  She was for me one acted upon, not one who acts. She was the one who gave up her power too quickly, was too eager to obey. Mary was special because she was a Good Girl. I could be special, too, if I was gentle and kind and pure. That didn’t work for me so well. I was very good at being Good, but it didn’t feed my soul. Pageant Mary was not someone I wanted to be like.

Thankfully, there is more to Mary than was in that childhood pageant.

Mary was a co-creator with God. She was fully involved in the process. (If you want to know how involved, ask your mother.) Mary bore the Holy, nurtured the Holy, pushed the Holy into the world. She was not passive in her pregnancy or her giving birth.

Today, Mary calls me into action. Like her, I am called to be pregnant with the Holy. That which God would bring into the world through me, I have a responsibility to nurture, to bear, to birth. Thank God I have more to do than just stand there.

Maybe I’ll even play the drum.