Eight years later

I was in my office on the morning of September 11, 2001, and the phone rang. It was one of my leading church members, who said: “Go home and turn on the TV, something has happened.” The urgency in her voice was enough that I dropped what I was doing, and a short time later I was standing by the television with my teenage children, watching the news unfold on CNBC: smoke rising from the North tower, news reporters not sure what they were reporting on yet. Watching the screen, at one point I saw something, an airplane flying low, and followed it across the screen with my finger. Then an angry plume of flame burst out the other side of the second tower.

Out of the mouths of babes….

The following was shared by a mother on an e-mail list. No comment needed, really.

Tonight I slowed down a little when my nearly 4 year old was saying her prayers and thought I would share this. It made me think.We have a tradition that every night since she was old enough to talk when I tuck her into bed we say our prayers. I let her do the talking. It’s ranged from very funny to very interesting over the years. She usually says, “Dear God, Thank you for…. ” and then she proceeds to be thankfulfor ladybugs, but not snakes, and baby brother but not Camille at school and so on. Sometimes when she really doesn’t want to go to bed yet she starts naming fixtures – Thank you for the lights, the fan, my dresser, my bed, my sheets and so on. I usually let her ramble on for a bit, and then she goes to sleep. Tonight she said, “Dear God, thank you for America.” This wasdifferent for her, I’m fairly sure she doesn’t know what “America” is. Then in the next breath she said, and “Thank you for Iraq.” OK, again, I’m assuming my CNN running is what brought that up. Then she followed it up with “Thank you for our neighbors.” “Please let our neighbors be nice to us, and we should be nice to them, too” I asked her, who is our neighbor? And she started naming people in our neighborhood. And then she said, “And Iraq.”

I’m wondering when the rest of the world’s Christians will catch on.

Belief in belief

When I was a seminary student, long about 1985 or so, I met a colleague, a fellow-student, on the stairwell between classes. Like many first-year theology students, this fellow had been exposed most of his life to a fairly narrow set of doctrinal teachings, particularly about the Bible, and was a bit overwhelmed at the barrage of information that was coming his way. Various theories of inspiration, textual variants, critical-historical method, the history of theological argument, was all getting a bit overwhelming. The comment I overheard as he passed me on the stairwell was: “It’s getting so I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

At this time I was rather constantly bathing in what I call the nonstop mystical experience. In a flash of inspiration and insight, I reacted instantly. “Well, bless the Lord!” I exclaimed.

He looked at me in stunned surprise. “What?! How can you say that?”

“Now,” said I, “You have an opportunity to put your trust in the living God, and not in your beliefs.”

Commemorations

Just wanted to get a couple of thoughts in:

Yesterday (November 10) was the 523rd birthday of Protestant reformer Martin Luther. Tomorrow (the 12th) is the 189th birthday of Baha’i prophet Baha’u'llah. Sandwiched in between is the day designated by the United States to honor the veterans of our wars. Two minutes of silence.

Two significant events occurred within the last week or two No, I’m not referring, this time, to elections in the United States, nor to the resignations of the Secretary of Defense and the chairman of the Republican National Committee.

• P.W. Botha died at his home, age ninety years. Nelson Mandela released a statement giving him honor.
• Saddam Hussein was sentenced to death by hanging. The current Iraqi prime minister called for him to be executed soon, before the completion of further legal proceedings.

Botha was the political leader of South Africa during some of the waning years of apartheid, and was responsible for keeping Nelson Mandela, who in those days was called a terrorist and a Communist by officials in the United States, in jail. Just to review a bit, while apartheid was in place the prevailing conventional wisdom was that whenever political reform would come about in South Africa, it would in all probability be with violent revolution, a bloodbath of reprisals on the part of the long-oppressed black majority against the white minority which was the ruling class. That this did not happen is due in no small measure to the introduction of the concept of reconciliation into the public discourse of that nation, and thus, also, the world.

Reconciliation is a biblical word and a biblical concept. I knew a pastor from Washington, D.C., who traveled to South Africa on a number of occasions to urge a course of reconciliation upon the religous and political leaders, both white and black, of that country. No doubt other voices were doing the same, and as the events unfolded, something called a Truth and Reconciliation Commission was established to mediate disputes, uncover wrongdoings, set the record straight, arrange wherever possible for restitution, and peaceably arrive at resolutions without recourse to retaliations or reprisals.

In Iraq, a different course of action has been pursued. The few voices calling for reconciliation were shouted down early on, on fears that somehow it would lead to wrongdoers not getting their just punishment. The former political leader of that country is extremely unlikely to be allowed to retire a free man to private life and live to a ripe old age. And a bloodbath is occurring, with violent reprisals against his former party by the newly enfranchised majority, with no end in sight.

Democracy came to one country by a process of intentional nonviolent reform that envisioned a path to forgiveness and full participation, and the man formerly labeled a terrorist and locked away for more than two and a half decades as a danger and a threat to peace became a senior statesman. In another country, the semblance of democracy has been imposed by bloodshed, hostile action of a foreign power, resulting in an escalating cycle of violence that threatens the whole region. Reconciliation is desperately needed, not as a nice wishy-washy liberal afterthought to be brought in after all the bad guys are brought to justice, but as a proven, practical way of bringing an end to conflict and making a real path to justice possible.

The survival into old age of P. W. Botha was a small price to pay for the restoration of a nation.

What will the execution of Saddam Hussein buy?

Tight Places

I learned something about myself today.

Backstory: When we bought this house nearly two years ago, the one thing we knew we’d have to do is insulate above the new entry room, which started out life as an attached garage, was finished and converted to a living room, and now serves us as an office/study/library. Well, what with one thing and another, I’ve been putting the project off; but a couple weeks ago, my wife, Smiley, who absolutely hates being cold, made an appointment with me for us to go today and buy insulation, and get the job done. Okay. So this morning off we go to Home Depot, pick up some big bundles of R-38 and a few other small items we need for the house, and head on back. In the car she talks like she is going to crawl around up there and put in the insulation, and I am like, No way, why would you even try to do that? She’s got rheumatoid arthritis, bruises easily, and is recovering from a cracked rib. I’m not so enthusiastic about doing this myself, why would I send her up there to do it?

Now, the access to the attic/crawlspace is at the far end of the house from where the work needs to be done, through a trapdoor in our bedroom closet. For some reason I had been under the impression that we had bought a ladder sometime back that would be adequate to get us up to that trapdoor; turns out what we had was a three-step metal stool that is fine for hanging pictures and clocks, but really not enough to get you through the ceiling. So it’s off to another hardware store, and now we have one of those great fold-every-which-way ladders. Some assembly required, but soon I’m climbing up through the trapdoor and looking into this crawlspace. Now, to do this job, you’ve got to traverse the entire length of the house, being careful never to put full weight anywhere but on the 2″ joists which are twenty-four inches apart. It’s stuffy up there, and I’m wearing a dust mask to protect against fiberglass inhalation. And, I’m not so flexible to begin with, so here I’m hauling myself across this space by some combination of a crab-walk and a series of partial pull-ups on the truss beams. It’s a bit more than I’m used to doing lately, as I’m a bit out of shape, and for some reason I’m having a hard time catching my breath.

A very, very hard time. Huffing and puffing worse than the big bad wolf.

So I stop to rest. Still can’t catch my breath. After numerous repetitions, I work my way, dragging one four foot section of insulation behind me, to the far end of the house, where I put this one piece more or less into place. By now I’m wondering how the firefighters are going to get me out of there, if I end up having to call 911. I still have to make my way back to the trapdoor, where S has pushed some more pieces through; by the time I get there, I’m winded again, and need to get down for a couple of minutes to get some air. She offers again to just go in and do it; I’m thinking she’s nuts, but here she comes, up the ladder and crawling past me before I even get down, hauling two pieces of insulation and moving about three times as fast as I ever did.

So I get downstairs, get some air, head out to the shed to get a couple of long boards to help with moving across that long span, and realize that now I’m breathing normally, feeling fine. And I have an epiphany:

I’m claustrophobic.

Who knew?

Well, apparently Smiley did, which is why she offered to do the crawling about in the attic in the first place. She’s known this about me since, I guess, 1977, when she volunteered for similar work in another attic, based on the extreme reluctance I apparently showed at that time for getting into so small a space. So crawl she does, while I push sections to her, standing on the top of the ladder. By mid-afternoon the job is done, and we’re changing clothes, showering and heading out for dinner.

My sense of manhood is severely bruised, but not so much as her knees. At least I paid for dinner.

Getting to Jesus

There is a story that tells of a time when Jesus went into a house to teach. There was such a crowd that it was “standing room only” and there was no room for anyone else to get in.  Into ths situation came four men, carrying their friend, paralzed and unable to walk, on a makeshift pallet.

Undaunted by the crowd, the friends made their way to the roof of the house, and made themselves an opening, through which they lowered their friend on the pallet.  Now please note what happened next, according to the Bible:

When Jesus saw their faith, he said (to the young man) “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

These men not only carried their friend with their arms, they carried him with their faith.  And Jesus honored that.  Some lessons from this:

First— Do all you can  to bring your friends to Jesus.  Carry them if you have to, but bring them.

Second— Sometimes those gathered closest to Jesus make it harder for people to come. Never mind; come anyway.   (Luke, unlike Matthew and Mark, points out that the people filling the house were Pharisees and teachers of the law “who had come from every village of Galilee and from Judea and Jerusalem.”  These are the sorts — respected religious leaders all — whom Jesus later denounced as hypocrites!  Don’t let them interfere with the healing ministry of Christ, and don’t let them keep anyone away.)

Third — Be confident in saying “Your sins are forgiven.” God forgave every sin when Jesus went to the Cross — but a person needs to hear this and believe it in order to receive the full benefit from it.

Fourth — Having separated the man from his sin, Jesus could now heal him of whatever else oppressed him.  “Which is easier?”

Fifth — One person by himself could not have brought this one to Jesus.

Prayer

A prayer, for inspiration and release from the curse of chronic writer’s block.

To whom, or what, can I address my prayer?  Every name has been corrupted; every title distorted; every description changed.  My prayer goes to that which is beyond all names and all understanding, though I use many names and strive with all my understanding to focus my attention on You.  To that which lies within, above, beyond every particular thing, giving it existence, power, beauty, wholeness, value.  In my life I have been taught to call this God; a poor and inadequate title for the source of all my thoughts and the world in which I think them.  Surely God is not less than any creature; thus I seek with my limited understanding to address the one who understands me fully, and with my words, the one who is the source and power of every true word.

On this planet, mere moments ago as the aeons are counted, but many lifetimes as we count the brief existence of our human lives, a true word shone with such brilliance that the world was changed, and has since been changed many times, on account of the echoes of that word.  I seek no more than to echo that same word with clarity, in my own moment, and no less than to see the world changed once more.  I seek to know as fully as I can the Galilean rabbi whose instructions, when heard, can transform a life, a family, a nation, a generation, the course of history; and in whose name, in violation of those same instruction, a more sinister kind of transformation has too often taken place. He came, so it seems to me, to introduce us to that which gives us life.  In his name I pray, to that reality that seemed for him to be more real than the earth on which he walked.  For his sake I pray, that his message would not be obscured in the cacophony of voices clamoring to speak; and in his name I pray for the weak, the poor, the suffering and sick of this world, among whose kind he seems to have moved so freely, setting the captives free.

With this in mind, and in gratitude for my own life which was given to me by grace at a time when I had no reason to expect it, and which is still going on, much to my astonishment and delight, I do make one request.  Give me the gift of communication, so that the things I have been able and am still able to see, to think, to envision, to imagine, to perceive with slack-jawed wonder, may be made accessible in some truthful way to others who are hungry for a reality that cannot be contained in any religion, marketed in any program, sold with any bill of goods. Help me to help others see the reality of their own lives, their intimate connection with every thing that is, and how that connection can be recognized, cultivated, awakened, appreciated, so as to bring them into full, healthy and harmonious ongoing relationship with all that is, that is, with the world, because of this intimate ongoing connection that is present with the energetic source of all that is, that is, what is called — God.

Family is important.

Family is important in the search for integrity.   We get to re-tell and re-hear our stories.

An attempt at a narrative Style

An attempt at a narrative Style

We took the night train from Edinburgh to Birmingham, on our way to Stratford-upon-Avon. One encounters an interesting class of people in an economy car at night. Some read, many sleep, a few write furiously in their notebooks. Others talk loudly and carelessly, with no apparent concern for anyone but themselves. A group of these sat across from us, drinking beer and playing cards, and I watched them through the reflection in the window.
They were soldiers, obviously soldiers. They wore no uniforms, but by their haircuts, their careless, worldly manner, and the duffle-bags each had slung on the rack overhead, it was impossible to mistake them.  Probably they were on leave, on their way to the city to spend their money in whatever wild ways they could find.
And, they were young.  Nineteen, I guess, or twenty, not more than that. I rather doubt that most of them had to shave yet every day; probably all of them did anyhow. One I watched for a long time who seemed younger than the rest.  All I could see in my window was the reflected image of his profile, the right side of his face. From that profile I gained the impression that he still retained some of the happiness of childhood, ready to talk and listen about any subject, not questioning what was said to him and taking genuine pleasure in the fellowship of his companions, and seeming unaware of their worldly-wise coarseness and cynicism. All this was communicated to me by the smoothness of the right side of his face and forehead, his right eye which was wide open, and the simple upward curve of the right side of his mouth.
Only once or twice did I glance at him directly across the aisle, and saw his other profile in the window to his left. Here his mouth was still curved, but with a slight wrinkle to it; his left eye somewhat narrowed with the eyebrow tilting toward the nose; his forehead slightly lined. How subtle the difference, yet how total the change! If I had met that right profile at a party, I would have instantly recognized a friendly, open person, but young and perhaps in need of some protection and encouragement; yet that left side revealed a suspicion, a cynicism, a self-sufficiency, a youth not untouched by the rough edges of the world, but on his guard and hostile to my strange and prying eyes.