Amsterdam's an old city, so it's built for foot-traffic, and what a pleasure that is. Compact, for sure. And like Manhattan and other newer versions, built upward, not outward. Buildings are narrow and tall (5 or 6 stories), and lean (as the piles beneath shift) on one another, which is good idea, no matter what.

Now, with the addition of public transit (buses, subways and trams), getting around this remarkable city is a breeze, but for me, a guy who likes to walk, it's heaven.

Every street, a conglomeration of housing, markets, watering-holes and restaurants, stores, and you-name-it ... every neighborhood possessing its own charm ... with canals wrapping around all it, and plenty of green spaces for dogs to run free, children to play, and adults to picnic, and enjoy the sunshine (winter will soon be here).

MLR is taken to school by her father in a baksfiet (cargo bike), and D and I pick her up after school, for a leisurely, lets-explore, walk back home. Always a few stores that MLR likes to step into, to do some "shopping" ... mostly just looking, but she knows that Gramma and Grampa are an easy touch, and so we are!

And for Them, I Give Thanks ...

Doing a little digging on the internet for Maj. Robert H. Merriman, killed in the Spanish Civil War, fighting to defeat Franco and his fascist allies, Hitler and Mussolini.

Of course, it was a lost cause from the get-go. But as I write, and as I dig around, I cross paths with so many good and decent human beings who threw themselves into the fray to make this a better world.

Yes, they lost. They lost everything, but they were women and men of great character, vision, learning, compassion and courage. Mostly all young, lured on by high ideals and the thirst for adventure. Such are the young.

While digging around this morning, I came across some artists of more recent vintage, capturing the ever-changing Lake Michigan landscape. Beautiful work, and regionally noted, but not likely to end up in a national museum.

Fame is accorded to the few ... the rest go about their work and their lives for the goodness of it all ... whether going to Spain to defend the Republic or setting up an easel in a Michigan sand dune, this world is full of good people who can sing the songs of life.

And for them, I give thanks ... they're like flowers in the field; they bloom bright and colorful for a while, and leave behind a legacy of faith ... faith in life, faith in goodness and reason, faith, for some, even in God. And in the brief blooming of their lives, seeds of hope and courage are left behind, and others flowers will bloom in their place; only for awhile, but enough to brighten the world.

The world IS better because of them. Some are remembered like Maj. Robert Merriman, some even gain regional recognition, others, many others, known but to a few, remembered by family, and known, for sure, by God, who is enriched by such humanity, and in turn, gives birth to others who will give themselves to life.

What "Evangelical" Could Mean

Been thinking a bit about the word "evangelical."
And what it could mean.

It could mean hope and welcome and peace.
It could mean "care for the earth."
It could mean "affirmation of science" and knowledge and reason and learning, the life of the mind, the world of our thoughts, the power of the god-given brain.

Yes, it should mean conversion, too.
From self, to selflessness.
From anger to kindness.
From fear to faith.

With the God of Psalm 23.
The God and Father of Jesus.
The kingdom of heaven in the Sermon on the Mount.
And the God of all peoples.
The God of so many guises and cultures.
The God always transcendent and mysterious.
The God so high above, and yet always close at hand.

Conversion, for sure.
Getting saved, you bet.
Not so much to go to heaven.
But to be of this earth.
And to be of one another.
As God intended.
If the Genesis account has any meaning.

Conversion, in so many ways:
From white privilege to the privileges of life for all.
From male dominance to equality.
From the fear of sexuality to it's celebration.

And what that could mean to the nation.
For the common good.
For the ties that bind.
For liberty and justice for all.
A citizenship defined by faith, hope and love.
Tearing down the walls that divide.
The rules that hurt women.
The borders that God despises.
The politics of wealth and poverty.

To build up and make new.
To elect women and men of good conscience.
To understand the importance of taxes.
To remind the rich of their responsibilities.
To provide living wages and ample benefits.
To do God's will on earth ...

It could mean so many positive things.
Gospel things.
Christ things.

It could mean things profound and good.
It could ... it really, really, could.
If only it would ...
If only it would.

I Miss My Books

I miss my books.
Thousands of them I had.
Shelved and double shelved.
Many read entirely.
Some in bits and pieces.
Some again and again.
Some not at all.

But everyone of them a friend.
A comfort and a companion.
A reminder of great things.
Or small things, too.

But in the course of time.
Heading into interim ministry.
And then into retirement.
I had to say fare-thee-well.

Boxed up and given away.
Large sets sold on e-bay.
Some sent to a seminary in the Philippines.
Commentaries given to a young minister.

I miss them now and then.
But I'm glad to be free of them, too.
They served their purpose.
Even as I have.

Time hurries on.
And for the journey, less baggage.
Easier travel, for sure.
But I miss my companions.

Who, I hope, are serving others.
As they served me.
With insights and challenge.
Encouragement and comfort.

Thanks, good friends.
I miss you.
But you don't miss me.
You did your job, and now on to new employers.

Friends

I have a million good friends.

Well, maybe not that many.
But folks who walk tall.
With open minds and gentle hearts.
A faith expansive and humble.
A sense of the common good.
And willing to pay the price for that.

Friends, who love.
Who have at the center of their life.
Something other than themselves.
Who read good books before the Wall Street Journal.
Who listen to good music before the news.

Who keep their souls balanced.
Who enjoy good food.
And lousy jokes.
The demands of the day.
And the poetry of love and trees.

Who smile with ease.
And care a lot.
Who laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Who cry for the suffering of the world.

Willing to take a stand for those who can't.
Who speak truth to power.
Who are not cowed by the rich and the mighty.
Who are tender-hearted.
And pay attention to the children.

You bet.
I've got lots of friends.
And they enrich my life.
Beyond words.

All I can is, "Thank you for being a part of my life."

Gun Violence, Stand Your Ground, and Lamech's Pride

https://nypost.com/2018/07/20/stand-your-ground-law-protects-shooter-in-deadly-fight-over-parking-space-sheriff/

Been thinking a lot about this ... 

Sure, it was wrong to park in the handicapped spot ... 

It was wrong for the man with the gun to challenge the lady in the car, with her children ... what was hoping to accomplish?

Was it wrong for her boyfriend to come out and shove the man?

Perhaps he might have just confronted him. 

Or stood his own ground, without the shove.

But the man with the gun hits the ground, and what does he do? 

He pulls the gun, because the man shoved him. 

And then pulled the trigger and shot the man dead, in front of his children. 

I wonder if the gun gave him a bravado to confront the lady in the car? 

I wonder if the gun was his courage. 

I mean, packing heat, carrying iron, primed and ready to kill.

And now he'll live the rest of his days knowing that he's a killer, that he killed quickly, and without remorse, or so it would seem. Maybe he'll proud. His friends will slap him on the back and buy him a beer. The NRA will send him a t-shirt.

He didn't flee the scene; he knew what he would claim: self-defense. 

He knew he'd be on safe ground.

Had he given this kind of scenario a lot of thought?

Was he itching to use the gun?

The whole thing seems out of proportion. 

Biblically, this smacks of Lamech's pride and boasting.

Genesis 4.23 - violence out of proportion.

I can't help but feel that color played a roll. Maybe not, but I can't shake that part of the story, either. 

What I know for sure: a young man, a father of three, is dead ... because of a man with a gun. 

I suppose he'll be known as an NRA hero.

Long live Lamech.

"Let Love Be Genuine"

"Let love be genuine," and with that as the introduction (Romans 12.9-21), Paul adds a list of things that make love genuine; the first of which is "hate what is evil," which is a bit startling, when I think about it, that here is where "genuine love" begins - the absolute and complete rejection of what is evil.

Because if there's any collusion with evil, intentional or innocent, even a wee bit, the whole project, as Paul sees it, falls apart. If evil, and we'll get to that in a moment, is tolerated, genuine love dies and is likely to be replaced by "tribal love," the kind of love Jesus notes in suggesting that anyone can love those who are just like we are. But that's not love, not even close.

So, Paul cuts to the chase, no holds barred, no hesitation: Hate what is evil ... and, then, hold fast to what is good. In other words, we can get all fussy about what we don't like, but that's not enough; we have to have something positive to hold on to, something right and good to pursue, something to fill the heart, occupy the center, and keep us moving along the road of faith, hope and love ... something to offer to the world.

And, so Paul begins his list:

"Love one another with mutual affection" ... books could be written on this, and should be, yet the word that catches my attention is "mutual" ... a word filled with the power of equality ... we are all equal in the sight of God, and thus to love one another, to be mindful of one another, eliminates all distinctions, such as noted by Paul elsewhere: neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor master, neither male nor female - these powerful distinctions that drive and order our world (religion, economic status and gender) no longer count in Christ, and can no longer determine how love.

Next:

"Outdo one another in showing honor" ... more books, for sure, about how we honor one another, and while "competition" with one another on the usual suspects of religion, economic status and gender are deadly to the soul, the competitive effort to show honor to one another is heaven's game; here is where some of the rubber hits the road - because some parts of our world have no trouble getting honored, and some parts less so. Paul's imagery of the body in Corinthians coincides here - the more obvious parts that easily gain our honor is one thing, but paying attention to those parts that are easily overlooked is another. Immediately, I see how this dovetails with Paul's reminder of mutuality, with the big question: Who do we overlook? Who might we ignore? And who might we deem less than honorable, less deserving of our attention, our concern, our regard? Here is where faith and life collide, where faith and politics bump into another ... at the border, if you will ... or in places like Wall Street where economic status determines everything and in some churches where gender is lord rather Christ.

More later ...

Growing Up and Leaving Home

Growing up is all about leaving home. And if my life-experience means anything, "leaving home" is a recurring event, sometimes by choice, and sometimes by circumstance beyond our control. However it happens, growth in thought and emotion requires that we leave our home, and what we do upon leaving home is to seek another one, and in between the one and the other, a lot of traveling, uncertainty, dead-ends and side trips, until we arrive somewhere that offers settlement, security, a place to call home.

But "this world is not my home, I'm just a passing through" says it well. And sooner or later, the new "home" becomes staid and boring, unproductive and damaging to the human spirit, the God-created human spirit that longs for adventure, for new learning, for fresh hope and new friends. So, we pack our bags again and take off. Some look at us and wonder why. What's wrong with home, because it's their home, too, and they've settled down in it, they've sunk deep roots, and others around them sink their own roots, too, and with tendrils and vines, ensnare one another, making it virtually impossible to leave, or at least to leave without great effort, to uproot ourselves, and likely uproot others, too, in the process, tearing away the tendrils of "love" that hold us in place, vines that encircle and clutch and cling and tell us, "stay put."

But the human spirit, energized by the creator of our spirit, yearns and leans, and pulls and tugs ... to seek freedom on the road, to find a new home, a home that will last for awhile, until the urge to leave again emerges.

To "stay home" eventually kills the spirit, and nothing more deadly than a dead spirit, because dead spirits still "live" like zombies, sucking the life juices out of the still-living. Sucking the life out of others, until they too die, and become part of the living dead, or something like that.

To "stay home" beyond the early years when home provides nurture, comfort and formation, is deadly. To "leave home" is essential to the soul's health, and ultimately to the home in which we were reared, because when someone leaves home, the home is changed, too, maybe even transformed into something ever-more dynamic and growing.

The road ahead always beckons, and the spirit yearns to get going.

Bridge Building in Harsh Times

I doubt.
I love.
I see.
I think.

Maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe I'm too quick.
Maybe I should step back.
Maybe I should try for more bridges.

And then I see the children.
I hear their parents weep.
I hear the patent lies.
And watch the vulgar piety.

How to build bridges when people are dying.
How to seek peace when cruelty is de rigueur.
When I'm branded a murderer for my abortion views.
When I'm a globalist and not a nationalist.

When every bridge is deemed heresy.
When political views will not honor women.
When theology loves hell more than heaven.
When government serves the rich and not the poor.

Maybe I'm wrong.
I have my doubts.
But so much is at stake.
And history shows:

In all its terror.
In all its honesty.
Those who built bridges with the Brown Shirts.
Ended up dead!

Spiritual Bubble Living

For reasons known but to God, my Christian Faith will not allow me to live in a spiritual bubble.

Early on, of course, it was all bubble ... "Onward Christian Soldiers" and "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder."

Bubbles are needed for nurturing, I suppose, as a crib and swaddling is needed for an infant.

But at some point, I outgrew the bubble, or maybe, better yet, the bubble saw its job as done, turned away and bid me farewell.

Was it easy to watch the bubble walk away?

It still isn't easy.

There are moments when I look at the bubble and long for its comfort and innocence ... all sweet jesus ... no border kids, no killing of Palestinians, no poverty, no rightwing vulgarity ... just sweetness and light ... sounds like an extended vacation on a small Greek island ...

Where or where has my bubble gone?

My bubble did it's job, and when the job was done, it moved on ...

It's not easy, sometimes.

But here I am ... for reasons known but to God, my christian Faith will not allow me to live in a spiritual bubble.

Father's Day Prayer

Eternal God,
Father of all mercies,
Mother of all love.

Grant to all fathers this day your abiding mercies.
Flow through them, I pray, that they might love this world.
To love their biological children, for sure.
Their spiritual children, as well, and that's all the children of the world.

Because love cannot be selective.
Love cannot say: "My own, and not yours."
Love cannot turn a blind eye to the child at our border.
Love, if it's love, is expansive and welcoming and dangerous.
Dangerous for those who dare to love.
Dangerous for those who tell lies about our world.

The children at the border cry out.
Let no father, this day, go unmoved by their sadness and tears.
Let no father find joy isolated from reality.
Joy without the tempering of a child's cry for help.
Is no joy at all.
But only pretense and avoidance.
A game played by the privileged, a game no one can ever win.

Eternal God, the Father of our LORD Jesus Christ.
Eternal Mother of the Nations.
Father/Mother of all that is right and good and just.
Bless the fathers of the world.

That fathers everywhere would say.
"All are mine."
"Every tear a child sheds I will dry."
"Every little one belongs to my dear family."

"I am the father of all the children."

My prayer, O God.
For this Father's Day.
Amen!

33 Languages

33 languages ... that's what the sign said for the California written driver's test. And when I began my test, there was a long list of options from which to choose.

I thought: How comforting to tens of thousands of first-generation immigrants who are working hard, making a living, supporting a family, and building a life for themselves. They need to drive, and there's no sense making life more difficult for people who are offering a solid contribution to the wellbeing of California.

I thought of those who are all fussy and fidgety about "speaking English." How silly of them.

If the history of immigrants shows us anything, it's this: first generation immigrants cling to their native tongue. That was true with Germans, Swedes and Norwegians, and if they were Lutheran, they worshipped in their native tongue for several generations, until English won the day.

By the second, and for the sure, the third generation, English is spoken, and the native tongue retained only by Gramma and Grampa, or the few cuss words that get handed down for a few more generations.

That's true for the Italians, the Poles, the Russians, the Chinese and the Japanese, and every other tongue that's come to America.

Some advice to those who abuse folks who have a tongue other than English, or at least can speak English only haltingly, take a breath. Your ancestors, if from anywhere other than the English Isles, went through the same process.

With all our immigrants, we're a bigger and better nation, and those of us who speak English owe some kindness and understanding to our neighbors. Is this too much to ask? I don't think so. 

Yup. 33 languages. For me, a wonderful thing.

Presbyterians, Prophetic Tradition, Slavery ... and Nazi Germany

As difficult as it is, the history of Nazi Germany reminds us of how easily German Christians were suborned by Hitler, either to openly support him, or retreat into pious quietism. Many a German Christian believed that Hitler was god-sent to cleanse the nation of immoral and unclean elements, and that the church might once again regain a status of influence and glory lost after the defeat of WW1.

Within my own Presbyterian History, these elements are present - as we have seen in the South, when slavers made sure that the "spirituality of the church" kept pulpits silent on the evils of slavery, and rather spent their time lamenting booze, card playing, theater attendance and cussing.

Thankfully, as with Barth and Bonhoeffer in Germany, the tradition of prophetic critique and protest also exists. They clearly saw the difference between loyalty to Christ and an idolatrous nationalism of Germany First.

While much of the Southern Church remained quiet in the antebellum period, and after the war, with the emergence of Jim Crow, Northern pulpits attacked the evils of slavery, and many a Christian leader decried the evils of voter suppression and school segregation.

During the Civil Rights era, when some preachers in the South touched the topic of segregation, they immediately lost their pulpits. While others were encouraged to "bide their time, give it more study and prayer."

So, what shall we choose?

Support for the powers-that-be, to "make American great again"?

Quiet piety?

An ill-begotten patience?

Or clear-headed critique of the rising tide of evil besieging our land? 

While many a German leader saw Hitler as a clear and present threat, others believed that the rising economy, the laws against Jews, and dreams of lebensraum, were all for the best.

Reading The Bible by Barth

Reading Barth, I learn again: How to read the Bible.

It's advice I've given to others when it comes to reading about marriage and life: 

Never read for the sake of other, to find out who or what they may be, and then to say, or at least to think, "Ah ha, that's you, for sure!"

Rather to read about me, to find out who I am, and maybe even why.

Because, as Barth notes in his sermon, from Proverbs, "In our own eyes, we're always righteous," and I would add, "Maybe not always so righteous, but a heck of a lot more than the slob down the street."

With that in mind, the Psalm of the Daily Lectionary (36) caught my attention powerfully: with several "moves" - first, my transgressions and things related ... sure, I'd be happy to note such things regarding others, but if Scripture is going to be transformative, it's me that it's reading, first off.

Then, the second move: God's steadfast love, which does the weighing of my spirit, and finds me wanting, which is the truth, but in that steadfast love, there is hope, peace and even redemption. Even as God says "No" to me, as God must and God will, it's only to stop me in my tracks, put a halt to my self-righteous ruin, that I might hear God's "Yes."

Then, gratitude and praise. God is good.

With a move within that move: Such goodness is precious, and within that, a move about God's provisioning ... God supplies what's needed ... as a fountain of life ... and then another small move: "in your light, we see light," which really isn't so small after all.

And, finally, a plea for preservation and perseverance ... though there be dangers all around (including the danger of my own self-righteousness) in circumstance and persons, God will see me through.

And, you, too!

The very young Karl Barth!

My Heart Is Troubled

My heart is troubled, and why shouldn’t it be?
It’s a heart that feels deeply, with longing for right and good.
And when, what my heart sees, is madness and malady.
Should not my heart be troubled?

Yes, I desire.
And some would suggest that desire alone is the ill.
And, I suppose, desire, without restraint, is surely an ill.
A desire without hope, without wisdom, is death.

But desire is energy.
The energy to see something better than what presents itself.
The energy to open wide my eyes to see a world in sorrow.
The energy to direct my ears to the cries of a child in distress.

And, so I’m troubled.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Because a troubled heart can sense and smell the holy.
A troubled heart knows the weight of the cross.

Joy and Melancholy

Amid the chirps of happy birds, or, so it seems to me, and around here, they're happy all the time ... even at night, some of them chirp away ... when do they sleep? In the nature of such a bird, some irrepressible power has to sing. Perhaps I'm too complex a critter to sing like that, though my heart can overflow with heaps of gratitude when I stop to look around and see the stuff at hand. Not everyone can do that, I know. Turn on the news and watch the children of Syria weep, and the anguished faces of mothers at the border cradling their children. No child should have to cry like that, or any mother look like that. When I sing, I know how unusual be my lot in life, compared to the millions who hide in the corners of broken buildings and yet dare to dream of something good for their children, even as they wrap loved ones for burial and cry out against the sky.

A pale blue sky right now, a huge flowering tree, white and pink against that paleness, green trees close by, a flowering plant twisting its arms around and through the deck railing and it's lattice work ... sturdy, rugged, green leaves, and softly bright pink flowers ... shaped like a royal trumpet of some sort, blaring forth a silent song - ta rah, too tottle, or something like that. I wish I could hear the song they trumpet.

And high above, unseen, the drone of a single-engine plane, engine revs rising and falling, and then into a steady beat for awhile ... and now the revs cut low ... gliding, I guess. And who's the pilot? Someone out for the pure joy of it? An instructor with a student? A family headed out to Riverside, or Palm Springs? Maybe even Phoenix? Fly away the heart says. Get up and get going. Some even leave the ground.

And, more down to earth, I fear, the wail of a siren ... an ambulance, a fire engine, a police car? Someone hurt, something gone wrong, "Help!" someone cried out.

Looking to the floor of the deck, by the railing, some of those remarkable pink flowers quietly lay, starting to wilt. I might wax eloquent about job well done, and all that, but it's not so simple, as I see it. There is something sad, harsh and hard, in the fall of a flower. In this big universe of fire and ice, life expended quickly.

Joy and melancholy ... and then my wife sits at her piano and plays, "Have I Told You Lately that I love You?" ... and my eyes leak a wee bit ... and then, "As Times Goes By," and my throat clenches ... the composer writes, and her fingers dance along the keys, and now here's a sound I can hear, music that touches deep and sweet.

A beautiful day here on our deck in the late morning of a Tuesday in May.

Staying the Course in the Face of Humiliation

The young pianist began with a flourish and played with gusto, when, of a sudden, she stopped, her hands poised over the keys. Was this a dramatic pause, I wondered. But the seconds piled up, and it was soon evident that the young pianist had lost her place.

What a frightening, harrowing moment, for one so young, I could only imagine.

But she kept her composure, focused herself, and I could see her mentally rehearsing the music, "Where am I? and how shall I continue?"

And, then she did.

She finished the piece with confidence, but when it was done, she stood to face the audience, did a very quick bow, her face distressed, and hurried off stage.

No doubt humiliated.

Before those of importance: her instructor was there, as was the girl's mother and grandmother, themselves pianists, with the mother both MC and accompanist, at a concert sponsored by the Pasadena Opera Guild, offering young singers and musicians and opportunity to perform, in honor of Grandmothers and Mothers.

She'll live with the humiliation for a few days, maybe even a week or two, but in time, it'll fade, but not the memory. We tend to recall moments of humiliation - it's a terrible feeling, with disappointment in ourselves, perhaps having let others down, and just the feeling, the ugly feeling of shame.

But in the moment, she didn't quit, she didn't flee ... she held her place and regained the music. She proved her mettle after all.

I hope she continues to play the piano. With mother and grandmother encouraging her, and her instructor to bolster her skills, I suspect she will.

Uneasy with Easy Answers

For me, these days:
Being a Christian, is a
Challenge.

Not that my faith wavers.
But that my faith takes me to strange places.

To read the Bible with a critical eye.
Because parts of it were written by the winners.
Those who trounced others.
Who believed that some lives didn't matter.

To follow Christ into the world.
And Paul, too.
Both lived and died for the sake of freedom.
Truth and justice.
The qualities and goodness of love.

Jesus cared about people.
All of them.
So did Paul.
Paul understood Jesus:
A barrier-breaker.
No wall builder.

Paul understood that power is weakness.
A strange notion.
Power in the cross.
Power in self-emptying ...

Even as I write these phrases, they seem strange.
Because power as in Christ.
Is not how we we define it.
So, a challenge, for sure.

Day by day.
To live in Christ.
To ponder and to think.
Uneasy with the easy answers.
Troubled by harsh rhetoric.
Wary of those who too easily wear the Christian moniker.

Eager to learn.
To give heed to the news, for there, too, is God's hand.
To think justice, with the Prophets.
To care for water, air and earth.
The primal gifts of God.
To see all the Pharaohs for what they are.
To think globally.
To learn from others.
Creeds, traditions and faiths.

So, every day.
A challenge.
To be faithful.

To God.
To God's earth.
To God's history.
To the people.

How to Begin the Day

"For the glory of God and the wellbeing of the nations" ... is how I often end a prayer.

For me, the glory of God is always a redemptive, therapeutic, encouraging,notion - going out of myself into the goodness and righteousness of God ... not to lose myself, nor to placate a narcissistic divinity, but to find my bearings, to sense the rhythm of life, the flow of creation, and my place within it, and with all that is, knowing that I belong to God, and God is a constant presence for good.

And that, I think, leads to a concern for the wellbeing of the nations ... demanding of me an awareness of the times and challenges of the present age.

This world IS my home, at least for awhile, and while I'm here, I have to be engaged - with a knowledge of the news, local and global ... I have to know history if I'm going to pray intelligently. It's like some of the recital Psalms, detailing the "history" of Israel ... the flow of events that bring us to the moment.

I do not live in a spiritual bubble, though I often wish I did. To take my own creation seriously, and the creation of the world gratefully, this is where I live, and if I can, I will, let my light shine.

With a constant trust (lest I fall into despair) that the Spiritual Presence, the primal goodness of God, will prevail ... rarely with ease, as we see in the Cross, yet with victory, as we see in the resurrection ... and a deeply personal redemption, as we see with Jesus and Peter on the beach.

"For the glory of God and the wellbeing of the nations" ... is how I often end a prayer ... and a good way to begin the day!

Needy and Greedy

Is a person born greedy?
No, I think not.
But born needy, for sure.
For music and mercy.
For a soft bed and gentle hugs.

And if those needs for love and security,
Are not met, need segues into greed.

A greed that can never be satisfied.
Because greed grabs and takes and
Hates,
Hates,
Hates,
Those who have what it wants.

That's when greed turns cruel.
It shows up a lot in the rich and the powerful.
Because greed works. often times.
Greed gains success, and builds country clubs,
And a few towers along the way.
And even becomes a President!

Greed grows cruel.
Hating those who have what it wants.
And worse, hating those who have little.

Blaming them for their poverty.
Naming the lazy and calling them rapists.
Building walls around them.
Shaming them and demanding of them.

Strange that evangelicals should join the chorus of greed.
But maybe not surprising, because evangelicalism hollows
Out the soul and depletes the spirit with empty promises.
Tells people they don't have to think.
And only do as they're told.
Regaling the the people with promises.

Promises that offer gold, and deliver lead instead.

And so the soul turns greedy all the more.
It wants god, more god, more faith, more this, more that, and what's the difference for the word, "more"? More of god, more of money, more of anything, everything ... because more has no boundaries, no rest, no purpose other than more.

And in Jesus' name, the evangelical soul joins the chorus of condemnation of the poor ...

Building walls of ill will toward those who, with their poverty, 

Embarrass the evangelical.
Those of whom Jesus might well have spoken a "blessed are."
But no blessing in the evangelical soul.
The greedy soul.
The soul of the damned and the soul of the damaged.

And in turn, the damned soul can only damn all the more.
And damage everyone and everything it touches.

Too bad when the needy, in the ebbs and flows of life,
Which can be mighty cruel, we all know,
Should become greedy.

And worse, when that greed acquires money.
And the pride of work and achievement.
And fame and notoriety.
In a culture that bows down before Mammon.
A culture that loves filthy lucre.
And admires the self-made jerk.
And believes in the virtue of skin color and privilege over others of darker hue, or other tongues.

Too bad when that happens.

Too bad ... for everyone.
For everything.
For every creature under heaven.
All creatures,
Great and small.

When the sad and greedy soul takes command.
And leads a nation down the road of perdition.

There will be a time of reckoning.
There always is.
A time to regain balance.
And to hear Jesus say, "Blessed are ..."

To the reader of these words.
Be of good cheer.
Be mindful of your spirit.
Your soul.

Do not be tempted by hate, even righteous hate.
But choose the goodness that we call love.
Open arms.
Open minds.

And truth will walk on in.
And along with truth.
Compassion.
And with compassion, all that is sacred!

Purposeful Unhappiness

Different kinds of unhappiness:

Some of it arises from a deep and powerful connection to the universe, and to its pain.

Was Jesus unhappy?
Of course, he was, a good many times.
But his unhappiness wasn't destructive.
It was creative, compassionate and healing.
Strong enough to be deconstructed on a cross.
But the very nature of his unhappiness gave rise to life.
In the end/beginning, it couldn't be killed.

There's another kind of unhappiness that comes from disconnects:
From regret and jealousy.
From hate and bitterness.
Abuse and neglect.
Feelings of inadequacy, helplessness, frustration.

Religion often generates this kind of unhappiness.
A sad "righteousness."
That gloats in the sorrow of others.
That dreams of punishment and death for the many.
And salvation for the righteous few.
It's never peaceful.
It snarls and growls a lot.

Religious or not.
It lashes out and despises the world.

It finds purpose in destructiveness.
Deconstructive, taking something apart.
Smashing it to pieces.

In the end, disaster.
For those caught in its grip.
And at the very source.
In the soul of the unhappy.
Death.

Yet, for those unhappy because of connection.
Unhappy in their compassion.
Unhappy in their vision for a new day.
Something good and beautiful for the world.

Those who refuse to build walls.
Who refuse the language of race and exclusion.
Those who speak truth to power.
And challenge the lies that power needs to be power.

For them, life.
Life on the hard side, for sure.
Life drained away in labor and love.
And life replenished in the doing of good.

Life returned to the giver by the universe.
Life at the source.
In the soul.
The center.
Spreading out.

It's okay to be unhappy in the goodness of compassion.
Compassion requires it.
And makes it whole and constructive.
A powerful unhappiness that dreams and strives.

And the universe says: "Well done, good and faithful servant."

Well, Gang, We Made It

Well, Gang,
We made it.

All the way to this Gettin' Up Day.
When stones of hate and fear.
Are rolled away.

Oh, but those stones felt so good.
So righteous and so strong.

Stones of faith hardened by harshness.
Stones of dogma carved by hypocrisy.
Stones of righteousness backed up by bible quoting.
Stones of collusion between Jerusalem and Rome.
Stones to keep away the new thing God is doing.

Uh uh, dear friends, no surprises here.
The powers-that-be won't put up with it.
When politics and religion collude, death arrives on time.

But somehow or other, God breaks through.
The Spiritual Presence moves mountains and stones.
And the living reality of grace, mercy and peace.
Faith, hope and love.
Arises from the death we gave.
The death we love:
The death of another.

Life cannot be so easily defeated.
Yet damage is done.
Real and sad.
Christ shows the scars of his trial and his travail.

Changed forever.
Yet Christ remains:
The light of the world.
Our hope for all the years to come.
Living water and stout bread.
The shepherd of our souls.
The peace that passes all understanding.

This Gettin' Up Mornin'.
Tho't it would never get here.

But it did.
And it will.
Again and again.

To push away the stones we still have.
The stones we love more than life itself.
The stones we have in-waiting.

To bury the new.
The fire.
The love.

And the new, the fire, and the love.
Will suffer and will die.
By our own hand and many a righteous lie.

And we'll hurry up and put it all away.
In a tomb of our own clever making.

And there it will rest until an early morning.
With the dawning of a new day.
To shove the stone away.

The good prevails.
With scars to reveal.
To remind us:
Not to fear.

Not to fear our own days of hurt and grief.
When we follow in his love.
With words and deeds that beckon to life..
And shove away the stones of strife.

A glorious, profound, and ever-bright Easter.
For all creatures, great and small:
A Good Morning to each and to all!

Holy Week Musings

Weekend musings ...

I've never understood why this day is called "Good Friday" ... it should be called "Dark Day" ... or "Hell's Victory," or "When We Killed Jesus because We Didn't Like What He Said or Did."

Everything that goes wrong in our time, went wrong in the last week of Jesus' life ... using imagery from "Something Wicked This Way Comes," the Carnival won ... or from "Ready Player One," the corporate machine won ... in both of these provocative stories, it's the children who are at risk.

I suppose we'd rather not be confronted with all of this, so we dress it up a wee bit, make it a little more palatable ... we call it "Good Friday," and hurry over it, and hurry through Waiting Saturday, the time in between (when no one was certain of anything), to get to the bunnies and bonnets. Whoopee Ding Dang, ain't it grand!

We don't have to live in a state of constant apology for being snotty, snooty, and selfish, but we do need to spend some time pondering how clever we are with avoiding the truth ... so that we can keep on being snotty, snooty and selfish and not feel so bad.

We need to stand at the foot of the cross, with some realization of the the dark materials in our times, and in our lives, and say, "Yup, I did this, too. I waved my palm branches on parade day, but, in the end, Barabas seemed the better deal when I weighed it all up."

Tomorrow, Holy Saturday, we wait ... because we're simply not sure what God will do with all the junk.

As for Sunday, well, God willing, we'll see ya' there ... but let's remember, it was the Resurrection that turned a whole lot of the world upside down, and folks weren't too happy about that, either, and when we see the Stone rolled away, the Stone of political power, the Stone of religious stubbornness, the Stone of wealth, the Stone of the status quo, the Stone of pride and bigotry, the Stone I use to control things and keep things in hand, manageable and tame ... my Stone, your Stone, and should God mess with our Stone, we all get a little nervous.

The challenge for us is to be mindful ... serious when needed (much of the time) and playful, too (when elements of joy and hope and peace seem so real, so close at hand, we can touch them) ... we keep on keepin' on, because what else should we do?

I believe, but LORD help my unbelief ... on this Dark Day, and with Tomorrow's uneasy waiting, and the Light of a Tomb that holds the energy of both death and life, life anew, and God said, "Let there be light."

And so it goes ... in this world of cabbages and kings ...

Temptations in the Wilderness

The temptations of Jesus in the wilderness all boil down to the easy way out.

1. Choose charity - make some bread.
2. Choose glamour and power - throw yourself off the Temple.
3. Relax and bow down - I'll give it all to you.

Charity, of course, makes the giver feel good, offers some temporary relief, but doesn't change the systems that produce poverty, suffering and hunger, even as those who indulge in charity go on eating.

Glamor and power? Religion is always given to these temptations - whether it be the "before and after" testimony, the stories of healing and conversion. Is there truth there? Of course there is, but it's ultimately flawed because it's all about the performer and the performance rather than the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

False worship? So easy ... look at power and wealth, the kingdoms of the world and all of their splendor ... bow down, relax, kick off your shoes ... don't bother with anything other than yourself.

Jesus chose the truth, the hard way through ... and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

And eternally burdened, too ... for this is the Jesus Way, a Way that God, for whatever reason, has laid upon my life. Sure, I'll use charity, but warily, because charity is a snare.

I'm not about to throw myself off the pinnacle, but throw myself into ideas and marches and protests and letters ...

I'll not bow down to the splendor of the world, though I love comfort and tranquility ... but I'll not divert my mind and soul from the travail of the day and the evil that besets us.

As best I can, in Christ, and by the Spirit, with sisters and brothers of all sorts and persuasions, I will choose the Jesus Way through life.

The Spirit Has Seized Our Youth

Speaking to Nicodemus, Jesus reminds him that the Spirit has a life of its own - it cannot be claimed, manipulated, or determined, by a human being. Yet, the Spirit's purpose and joy (I would assume) is to draw close to a human being, infusing it with God's purpose and hope, giving energy, the kind of energy that hovered over the primal waters of Genesis and gave form to chaos.

Been thinking about the Spiritual Presence in our world, and how the Spirit is hovering over the chaos of American violence and guns, suddenly bringing forth an unexpected movement of youth, their voices crying in the wilderness of our shame and ignorance, calling attention to what might be, a better world.

There's something about their passion transcending the moment, coming from where the Spirit itself resides, in the heart of God, a God who doesn't give up on the creation, because the creation is essentially good, in spite of the existential chaos generated by human resistance to the Good.

The youth, in their singularity, and in their community, have been seized, I believe, by the Spiritual Presence, the greater good, the hope of the ages, the peace that surpasses ... taking them, as the Spirit did to Jesus, into the wilderness, tempted by the Evil One, to take the easy way out (I'm sure), perhaps wondering if it's worth it. But in the power of the Spirit, they speak truth to false power and false prophets and false voices, and in ways beyond expectation, as with Jesus in the wilderness, there are angels there with sustenance and mercy.

The Spirit blows where it will ... and in this case, in the passionate words of the youth, I see the kind of power that transforms, because its willing to shoulder great burdens and take up great causes (isn't this what the Cross is all about?).

The Spirit spoke to the youth, and to all of us: "How much more violence and death are you willing to accept for the sake of a few who have distorted American history and the Second Amendment in order to make money and possess a false and idolatrous power?"

The Spiritual Presence loves this world, because it's God's world ... and where's there's chaos, the Spirit hovers, and in the wind of its love, order emerges, and something new and good takes form.

The Spirit, indeed, goes where it will ... and to all the adults with their guns and their Bibles, how odd it must seem that the Spirit should alight upon the hearts and minds of our youth!

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Can't we all just get along?
Good question, for sure.
But history doesn't offer much hope.

Cain killed Able.
Aaron crafted the Golden Calf.
The king threw Jeremiah into the well.

The Apostle Paul's vision of inclusion:
Met heavy resistance in the mother church.
Paul choose grace; others choose to build a wall.

Luther and the Holy Roman Empire and its Holy Church.
The Colonies and Britain.
Hitler and Churchill.

FDR and Big Biz.
Martin Luther King, Jr. and segregation.
Franklin Graham and William Barber.

The fault lines are real, and mostly severe:
The kind of world we choose to own.
The values we uphold.

LGBTQ rights?
Or condem them to exclusion?

The right of a woman to choose abortion?
Or criminalize all of it, and its providers?

Women's rights to life and liberty and limb?
Or the men who would abuse them for power?

NRA?
ERA?

MAGA? or ...
"America! America! God mend thine every flaw"

"We need more time to help some resolve the matter,"
Said I of LGBTQ rights some many years ago.
When a dear friend, said of her gay brother:
"But he has no more time."

Everyone told Martin Luther King, Jr. to be patient.
But too many people were ending up as patients.
Clubbed senseless, or chewed up by dogs.
Burnings, bombings and lynchings.

The Apostle Paul and the mother church never found the middle way.
And the fault lines of exclusion/inclusion remain frustratingly tense.

The Book of Acts tells the tale:
The Mother Church on the one hand.
The Roman Imperial Cult on the other.

Rome and Jerusalem were good together:
When it came to getting rid of Jesus.
And when it came to crushing the gospel.

The cults of Rome and the righteous cicumcized loved large gatherings: where the mob could
Outshout Paul and call for his death.

I hurt for those who seek a middle ground.
A middle way ...
Things upon which we might agree?

Or are we fated/determined/sin-driven:
To be at odds in our quest to be free?

The Disease Called Wealth - by Cindi Brady

From good friend and fine writer, Cindi Brady ...

You know me, rambles over breakfast. Coffee, waffles, and writing about social / political issues.  🤔

This is an old one.

*** 

It was 2005. boyfriend (now husband) Pat and I were renters in New Jersey, coveting a place near the shore.

We found a room in a beautiful 3-story Victorian, a half block from the ocean. The owner, Chris, was the 27-year-old son of an extremely wealthy local builder. It was his weekend home for the summer.

He didn't need our rent money, but as the home stood vacant five nights a week (and fully 7 nights when summer was over), there was no reason not to sit back and collect.

He lived a blissful life as the scion of extreme wealth. Still 3 years away from 30, he was the .1%. Wealth I'd never seen up close.

On the first night after Pat and I had moved in, Chris stumbled drunkenly into our room at 3 a.m. and urinated all over a box of Pat's still-unpacked clothes.

In the morning, he was appropriately abashed & contrite, but made no effort at amends. (No laundry or anything.)

Pat and I looked at the box of his urine-soaked clothes and made the obvious joke ("Wow, the world's most literal interpretation of "trickle down theory").

He was lazy, of course. When his dishes piled in the sink, he'd summon his parents' maid (named Carmen, I swear -- even though it sounds too cliched to be true. Are all maids to rich white families named Carmen or Consuela?)

Now, do you want to guess his politics? You have 3 guesses. (And if you need all 3, you're ADORABLE!)

Hard-core fiscal conservative, naturally. 

In America, anyone can make it if you work hard! If you're poor, you're lazy! Or less intelligent or you made bad decisions or have a multitude of moral / attitudinal deficiencies!

Pat and I once heard him yell to his girlfriend during an argument, defiant pride and righteousness pouring out in his voice "I worked hard for everything I have! "

And he believed it, too. Deep into his core, he absolutely believed it. They all do. 

It takes a very unusual person to recognize -- TRULY recognize -- the opportunities and advantages they've been afforded.

And if we tried to reason with him, and offered some simple truths like:

1.) "Who gave you first 'job'? Your father. You were the boss' son. Do you understand that other builders would have to labor for DECADES to get the contracts you got at age 21?"

Or:
2.) "Your father's company built this house and gave it to you. And now you pocket rental income , which is passive income. That's the thing about capital gains. WE are the ones working. Pat and me. WE are the ones working for everything you have. You sat back and collected the fruits of OUR labor.

Or:
3.) "In the 8 weeks of this summer, you've taken more time off from your job than Pat and I do in the past entire year, almost combined. I'm not really sure that 'I worked hard for everything I have had!' is a boast you can legitimately make....."

... he'd not have understood. Dismissed us a jealous, no doubt.

For the 1%, it is very convenient to believe that wealth is directly correlated to hard work and talent.

**
One night his parents were kind enough to invite us to a barbecue at their estate. I swear, it was like walking into The Great Gatsby. Outrageous wealth on display.

Chris' younger brother was holding court at one of the tables, expostulating on "what a great country America is -- anyone, rich or poor, can go the hospital if they break a leg....."

"Really??" I said. "Try breaking a leg, or getting cancer, as a poor person versus a wealthy. A world of difference, an entire universe! And PS: the care at the hospital isn't free. That poor guy will be so hounded for payment for the rest of his life, he'll start to wish he'd just let the leg stay broken!"

But how would he know that? How could he?

So he said: "Read Ayn Rand" and literally turned his back, signaling our conversation was over. He was done with me. Enough, peasant. 

So. That is my story of Chris and his family of 1%ers.

Now, I flip it over to the other side of the story. The working poor.

When the summer was over, we hired two movers to help us. They started at 5 a.m . (an hour Chris had never seen unless from the other side, after a night of carousing).

They were from Mexico and didn't speak English very well. Also, they were physically small -- wiry and barely taller than me, and I'm only 5'2".

Still, in spite of their size, they carried a queen bed, a massive dining room table, and so forth, up and down flights of stairs and into a waiting truck

Difficult to fathom what kind of mettle and inner strength was keeping them on their feet, step after step. 

They smiled, almost deferentially, the whole time. Just as kind-natured as could be.

We bought them lunch, burgers and soda, and they gobbled it on the porch. We begged them: "Please, come inside. It's so hot & humid out there! Please, come inside where it's cool and eat."

With those deferential smiles, they refused. They seemed to say, "Please, no, we couldn't."

It reminded me of the antebellum, plantation-era South. Like eating inside Chris' fancy house would have been over-stepping. It disconcerted to see that. 

A few years later, after candidate Obama had his interaction with the awful, cretinous "Joe the Plumber", I started to see bumper stickers that read: 

"Spread my work ethic, not my wealth."

On behalf of those two movers, I wanted to peel those bumper stickers off the cars and shove them up the, well, you know, the same same orifice on their bodies from whence most of their ideas came.  😏

See, a fair-sized percentage of citizens in this country would look at these movers in their poverty and call them lazy.

Or assume they spent all their money on, I dunno, booze or whatever the hateful stereotype is.

Or want them out of "our" country, just because.

It's as cruel as it is ignorant.

**

Last time I posted this, Pat reminded me of how our tenancy in Chris' home ended.

Chris sent us our share of the water bill. 

Impossible, we thought, this bill is far too high. After weeks of emails, he would not budge. "That's just how much you owe, and that's all there is to it," he's say.

Finally, Pat called the water company, who assured there was no way a private residence could run a bill that high. In fact, the water bill he gave us was for his family's collection of homes.

Further, without going too much into detail there was no way it was an innocent mistake.

Why a person who was born into more wealth than Pat and I could ever imagine would try to con us, I have no idea. 

Maybe he considered us, the dumb proletariat punching a clock and driving beat-up cars, so beneath him that stealing from us was no greater a sin than stepping on an ant.

We didn't matter. We're nothing. Ayn Rand told him so.

Truly, I think that explains a lot of how the very wealthy plutocrats can treat the working poor the way they do.

Big Questions for Our Times

Reading a Kay Boyle essay from The New Yorker, 1950, pondering how in the world a nation like Germany could succumb to such a vast evil as Nazism.

And reading Tom Wright's new book on Paul, which begins with a fascinating, if not frightening, chapter on Saul's "zeal" - it's long history and how some believed that violence is justified, indeed, God-approved against any and all who oppose God's plan, with a special vehemence against fellow Jews who were considered compromisers with the tenor of the times.

Zeal ... of the four gospel accounts of Jesus cleansing the Temple, John references zeal ...

So here's where Wright's book gets good, if you will ... the young Saul's zeal was for the Temple, whereas Jesus overturned its tables.

The young Saul a nationalist ... Jesus a reformer ... Saul despised anyone who deviated from the rule of law, whereas Jesus himself was a law-breaker, seeking not to be exclusive, but welcoming.

Zeal ... there's not much life without it ... without passion and vision and purpose ... but some forms of zeal turn narrow, nationalistic, and murderous ... other forms of zeal protest war and racism and anything that excludes anyone because of race, creed, or color.

Given the moment of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s crossing of Pettus Bridge, the murderous zeal of those who stood at the foot of the bridge, mounted and armed, saying "This far and no further," and King and those with him full of zeal for freedom and equality.

How in the world did young Saul reject his studies under Gamaliel and then turn to a more violent view of faith?

Kay Boyle asks how in the world did a young German youth reject his heritage and education to sign on with the Nazis and become a killer?

Or, for that matter, those who stood at the foot of Pettus Bridge, many of them church members, singing gladly of Jesus, come to look upon people of color as objects to be hated?

And collectively, how did so many Germans reject culture and Christ and then turn to a vicious anti-Semitism, and to a vicious cleansing of German society?

All of it driven by zeal ... which may, perhaps be some kind of emotional element we all possess ... but without formation, until the right moment comes along, and, then, like Saul, or young Germans, we turn to the Dark Side, if you will ... or like Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Karl Barth, or a Martin Luther King, Jr., we turn to the Light.

As the story unfolds, the young Saul (likely just a few years younger than Jesus) was given another chance, and in the midst of his darkness, a Light ... and in that moment, Saul's zeal was transformed into something life-giving and profoundly generous.

In times such as ours, dangerous times, I think, questions abound about young shooters, men with guns, and people, even evangelicals, who are just mean-spirited and hateful ...

And those who rise above the clamor and choose love and justice and welcome instead ... who go to bat for the voiceless, who raise a cry for mercy, who seek a government of the people, by the people and for the people.

Big questions for our times ...

Protestants Abroad by David Hollinger - a Book Review

David A. Holinger, Protestants Abroad: How Missionaries Tried to Change the World but
Changed America.
(Princeton University Press, 390 pp., 2017).

Review by Franklin J. Woo ... resident of Monte Vista Grove Homes, Pasadena ...

In 1997 Lian Xi (History, Hanover College) published The Conversion of Missionaries: Liberalism in American Protestant Missions in China, 1907-1932. In interacting with thoughtful and ordinary Chinese, the Protestant missionaries became less dogmatic, more open, and more inclusive of cultures other than their own. They became better human beings: Frank Rawlinson discarded his Southern Baptist exclusivism tombecome editor of the Chinese Recorder which included Chinese input; Edward Hume became an engaged intellectual; and writer Pearl Buck became a post-Christian with social justice concerns such as anti-racism and adoption of children of mixed blood. She was the first “feminist” of her day leading to the Feminist movement (1970s) and the contemporary women’s marches of our time.

Using the Lian Xi model, David A. Hollinger (Historian Emeritus, UC Berkeley) did rigorous archival research and interviews with former missionaries and their progeny. Having no connection with the early missionaries, his book nevertheless is another first study of them by an academic historian. In his 80 pages of notes including Lian’s book, Hollinger is not limited only to China, but encompasses most missionaries in the rest of the world.

Hollinger names many former missionaries and their progeny all of which he categorizes as “Protestant Cosmopolitans.” These includes the three Johns (Davies, Service, Vincent) who sided with Mao and were accused by McCarthyism in the 1950s as having “lost” China; Edwin Reischauer (Japan); Ruth Harris (China); Pat Patterson (Japan); Margaret Flory (“Japan”); Richard Shaull (Brazil); and sons of Roberta and Dudley Woodberry (Afghanistan, Saudia Arabia, Pakistan) and many others.

Protestant Cosmopolitans were anti-racist and anti-western imperialism. During WWII some urged fair treatment of Japanese POWs as fellow humans and protested US incarceration of Japanese Americans. They were instrumental in establishing ecumenical councils in the U.S.A. and the world, not to mention the United Nations (1945) and its Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948). They resonated with Re-Thinking Missions (1932) by William Ernest Hocking. As Lian so aptly puts it, “Even when they had lost their Call, they retained the momentum of mission,” which led to the of multiculturality in America, where “treasures long prepared--the wisdom, insight, gifts of grace of every culture, age and place--in Christ can now be seen and shared” (Brian Wren, 1971).

Protestant Cosmopolitans and Evangelical Conservatives are not monolithic; they overlapped in the porosity between them. “By the early 1970s, Hollinger claims, “the early evangelicals were emulating the liberals more visibly than ever before,” albeit without losing their basic Evangelical perspectives. Other than Hollinger and Lian, “value-free” academics tend to shy away from religion. Whenever they do write about missionaries, it’s invariably pejorative. Hollingerr urges Protestant Cosmopolitans to persist in showing the inclusivity of Christian faith, lest they lose by default to the religious right.

– Review by Franklin J. Woo