Evangelicalism's New Mantra

Evangelical preaching's new mantra: "if you're more disturbed by the sin out there than by the sin within, your faith needs some work."

The old stuff of the Olde South, or Moody Bible, "smokin', drinkin', and cussin', and card playin' and goin' to movies, too" - all bad, so let's preach about it, and preach about it like hell.

In the newer, more up-to-date, guise, the preacher as therapist and the church as couch-cult - inner peace, and better parenting, being a more loving spouse and a better worker, and getting ahead in life, fighting debit and growing rich, and then going to heaven, and so on.

In the Olde South, slavery and war, and then Jim Crow ... and through out the nation, in places like North Dakota and Wisconsin, the devils of racism, homophobia and Betsy DeVos and her schemes to further the interest of wealth at the expense of everyone else.

The "sins within" are seductive, stealing our time, and dominating our prayers, as we cascade into ourselves all the more, obsessing about every spiritual flaw and hiccup, every little blemish of the soul, and every wrinkle in our spirit.

Meanwhile, the world burns, and we go to church to forget the world, and what better way to forget the world (which is really forgetting God), is to focus on our "inner sins." There we go, now we got it - self, self, and more self ... in the quest for spiritual perfection, inner peace, health, wealth and happiness. The church becomes a dispenser of hair coloring and wrinkle cream, nostrums and snake oil.

Preach on preacher and tell me about myself ... but, preacher, please, whatever you do, don't talk about the environment, global warming, or children in cages, or the lies spewing out of the mouths of our leaders, or the greed of Wall Street and the madness of might and power.

Don't talk about the "sins our there," because then I have do something about them ... I have to resist and protest, get organized and get involved, and fight for justice and peace.

I don't wanna bother with that - I want to deal with my inner peace and my nerves.

That my nerves and lack of inner peace might be connected to the "sins out there," I don't wanna hear it.

I wanna feel better; I don't want to be called by Christ to take up the cross of the world, the world's pain and sorrow, the injustice of the places where I work, the cruelty of racism which I mostly want to ignore, even as my neighbors buy their guns and hang confederate flags in their home, and I move to neighborhoods where everyone looks like me.

Nope, I don't wanna hear about any of that "sin out there stuff" ... I want to homeschool my children, or send them to private christian academies, so they don't have to deal with other religions and cultures, so they won't have to think about "the other America" and the children at the border, so they won't have read great literature and learn about science, and learn how to think for themselves. Thinking is painful, and we don't need any of it. We all just want inner peace, and a few charities we can support, so we can feel good about the "good" we're doing.

Ok preacher?

You got that? I hope you do.

The Republican Mind and the Heart of God

The Republican mind was tried and tested with Nixon, and though the GOP lost that battle, and though many a Republican realized that Nixon was doomed, and finally knew that resignation was the only answer, a collective vow was likely made, a never-again pledge.

No matter what!

Now, faced with a monster in the WH, a man of limited intelligence, with an immoral character, surrounded by sleaze and influenced by his own brooding greed for power and for "love," a love never received within his family, and a love that he cannot ever give, because he doesn't have it within him, the GOP and those who've profited from this current administration, will, in their own mindless way, stand by this man, though all of them are neck-deep in filth.

It's a first class mess we have on our hands, but we've been here before, with one exception: the WH has a base of anger and bigotry throughout the nation, fueled by talk radio, the crooks at FOX, and the evangelical church for which power, at any cost, is to be courted for the sake of its theocratic dream - to rid this nation of the godless liberals, and so to "restore" morality, a "morality" in which there is no room for the LGBTQ Community, no room for workers' rights, no room for women, no room for people of color, no room for collaboration with the world, but only dominance by brute military force.

History, or as my Christian high school history teacher put it many years ago, in large scrawl on the blackboard - His Story.

Yes, I know all the linguistic and gender-issues related to that descriptor, but what my teacher meant then, and what I hear today, is this: the moral arc of the universe is always bent toward justice and truth. The love of the Creator will prevail, though beaten and battle-worn (which is why the resurrected body of the Christ was full of scars - no one, not even God, can escape the sweat and toil of seeking justice), and though raised to new life, that new life gives evidence of the costs involved, and when the Doubting Thomas saw the scars, he knew this was a God worthy of his life, and Thomas said, "My LORD and my God."

In his own way, Thomas knew, I believe, that a god without scars, a god without hurt and heartache, was no god at all, and for the times then, and surely for the times now, a scarred god is the only god worth following. Not a god of Rome or Temple, but a god of the people, a god of the creation and a god of all its creatures, great and small, a god who takes up the human cause and pays the price of love.

Sooner or later the truth will out, and justice will be done.

Never to create a perfect world, but at least a more perfect union ... on our way, with plenty of baggage, but on our way, headed toward the sunlight of faith, hope and love.

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!

Exploding Psalms

I do the PCUSA Lectionary most every morning.

This morning's first reading: Psalm 12 ... and it snuck up on me, as Psalms often do.

The writer laments the absence of truth from the land ... a land drowning in lies, boasting, flattery and bloated self-confidence.

At the Psalm's end, a plea for God's protection, because the wicked are on the prowl (looking for prey) and "vileness is exalted among humankind" - values turned upside down.

Just about anyone might read this and nod their head in agreement, clucking their tongues and lamenting the sad state of affairs. This is great stuff for preaching, as the "righteous" note their righteousness amidst the moral decay of the day.

The Psalmist knows how we work, how we're likely to pat ourselves on the back and smile knowingly at one another, as the preacher condemns the immoral and all who sully the land with their improper ways - those who break the laws of God, those who fail to love their families, those who steal and are lazy and no-good rotten, who deserve jail-time, who smoke dope and do drugs and lay around with another in unnatural liaisons.

The kind of preaching that sends the righteous home feeling mighty darn good about themselves, even as they remind God how lucky God is to have such fine people on God's side.

In the middle of the Psalm, a ripple upon the calm waters of the righteous soul, an unexpected wind, a cloud casting a chilling shadow.

The Psalmist offers some painful analysis. Rather than the usual list of "sins" from which the righteous are exempt and others not, the Psalmist goes to the heart of the story, God's litmus test of righteousness, the barometer that tells of a coming storm:

"Because the poor are despoiled,
Because the needy groan,
I will now rise up, says the LORD;
I will place them in the safety for which they long."

Suddenly the ease of the righteous is disturbed. Not simply that the poor are suffering (because of their laziness, their poor judgment, their immorality); no, the poor are "despoiled" - they are robbed, ransacked and pillaged. The little they have is taken, and taken violently.

And they groan in the face of the crime; they have no voice, no recourse, the poor are powerless against the wicked who are on the prowl for gain, who tell lies and flatter themselves with their own boasts of invincibility.

The LORD will rise up, says the Psalmist and give to the poor the safety for which they long.

The pathos of these few words are overpowering ... safety, the longing of the poor for safety - for their families, for their future, for their friends and neighbors.

Is not justice safety?
Is not safety justice?

The Psalmist sends the reader home with questions: How are the poor faring in our land these days? Who are the prowlers pouncing on helpless prey? Who are the wicked who exalt vileness? What are the lies they tell and the empty boasts they celebrate with flattering lips?

A small 8-verse Psalm explodes in my mind and heart.

The Praise of God's Creation

Part of the daily lectionary (#PCUSA) quite often, Psalm 148 - here's a piece of it that caught my attention this morning:

7   Praise the Lord from the earth,
          you sea monsters and all deeps,
8   fire and hail, snow and frost,
          stormy wind fulfilling his command!

9   Mountains and all hills,
          fruit trees and all cedars!
10  Wild animals and all cattle,
          creeping things and flying birds!

11  Kings of the earth and all peoples,
          princes and all rulers of the earth!
12  Young men and women alike,
          old and young together!

For the Psalmist, EVERY voice is important - sea monsters, snow and frost, cedars, wild animals, creepy things, kings, peoples, princes, the young and the old, women and men … and everything else.

Herein I find reason to care for my environment, which is, finally, the entire global eco system …

When a species is lost to wanton human behavior, a voice of praise is forever silenced, and the choir of praise is diminished, and while we might be oblivious to the missing voice, God knows that a joyful sound is missing.

Mountains and hills, too, and I think of mountain-top removal coal mining in West Virginia and oil drilling in the Niger Delta - where the earth suffers cruelly, and though the people there lament loss of home and habitat, those making wanton decisions for profit silence the earth, condemning the earth to sorrow, and there is no praise from the ground and water, but only tears.

And to the kings and princes and rulers of the world, whatever pride of place may infect their thinking, their voices are simply part of the choir, right along with wild beasts and stormy wind. If there's ever a prescription for the sins of pride and power, this is it.

Let all the voices of God's choir have their place and their part … the vast choir of God's creation deserves to sing, and when God created humankind, it was only, God hoped, to create a creature that could provide life-sustaining care for the choir, so that all of creation might sing with joy.

Praise the LORD!

"Moonlight and Maggots" by Carl Sandburg

Moonlight and Maggots

    Carl Sandburg

The moonlight filters on the prairie.

The land takes back an old companion.

The young corn seems pleased with a visit.

In Illinois, in Iowa, this moontime is on.

A bongo looks out and talks about the look of the moon

As if always a bongo must talk somewhat so in moontime -

The moon is a milk-white love promise,

A present for the young corn to remember.

A caress for silk-brown tassels to come.

Spring moon to autumn moon measures one harvest.

All almanacs are merely so many moon numbers.

A house dizzy with decimal points and trick figures

And a belfry at the top of the world for sleep songs

And a home for lonesome goats to go to -

Iike now, like always, the bongo takes up a moon theme -

There is no end to the ancient kit-kats inhabiting the moon:

Jack and the beanstalk and Jacob’s ladder helped them up,

Cats and sheep, the albatross, the phoenix and the dodo-bird,

They are all living on the moon for the sake of the bongo -

Castles on the moon, mansions, shacks and shanties, ramshackle

Huts of tarpaper and tincans, grand real estate properties

Where magnificent rats eat tunnels in colossal cheeses,

Where the rainbow chasers take the seven prisms apart

And put them together again and are paid in moon money -

The flying dutchman, paul bunyan, saint paul, john bunyan,

The little jackass who coughs gold pieces when you say bricklebrit -

They are all there on the moon and the rent not paid

And the roof leaking and the taxes delinquent -

Like now, like always, the bongo jabbers of the moon,

Of cowsheds, railroad tracks, corn rows and cornfield corners

Finding the filter of the moon an old friend - 

Look at it - cries the bongo - have a look! have a look!

Well, what of it? comes the poohpooh -

Always the bongo isa little loony - comes the poohpooh,

The bongo is a poor fish and a long ways from home.

Be like me; be an egg, a hardboiled egg, a pachyderm

Practical as a buzzsaw and a hippopotamus put together.

Get the facts and no monkeybusiness what I mean.

The moon is a dead cinder, a ball of death, a globe of doom.

Long ago it died of lost motion, maggots masticated the surface of it

And the maggots languished, turned ice, froze on and took a free ride.

Now the sun shines on the maggots and the maggots make the moonlight.

The moon is a cadaver and a dusty mummy and a damned rotten investment.

The moon is a liability loaded up with frozen assets and worthless paper.

Only the lamb, the sucker, the come-on, the little lost boy, has time for the moon.

Well - says the bongo - you got a good argument.

I am a little lost boy and a long ways from home.

I am a sap, a pathetic fish, a nitwit and a lot more and worse you couldn’t think of.

Nevertheless and notwithstanding and letting all you say be granted and acknowledged

The moon is a silver silhouette and a singing stalactite.

The moon is a bringer of fool’s gold and fine phantoms.

On the heaving restless sea or the fixed and fastened land

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk with.

The moon is at once easy and costly, cheap and priceless.

The price of the moon runs beyond all adding machine numbers

Summer moonmusic drops down adagio sostenuto whathaveyou.

Winter moonmusic practices the mind of man for a long trip.

The price of the moon is an orange and a few kind words.

Nobody on the moon says, I been thrown out of better places than this.

No one on the moon has ever died of arithmetic and hard words.

No one on the moon would skin a louse to sell the hide.

The moon is a pocket luckpiece for circus riders, for acrobats on the flying rings, for wild animal tamers.

I can look up at the moon and take it or leave.

The moon coaxes me: Be at home wherever you are.

I can let the moon laugh me to sleep for nothing.

I can put a piece of the moon in my pocket for tomorrow.

I can holler my name at the moon and the moon hollers back my name.

When I get confidential with the moon and tell secrets

The moon is a sphinx and a repository under oath.

Yes Mister poohpooh

I am a poor nut, just another of God’s mistakes.

You are the tough bimbo, hard as nails, yeah.

You know enough to come in when it rains.

You know the way to the post office and I have to ask.

They fool you the first time but never the second.

Thrown into the river you always come up with a fish.

You are a diller a dollar, I am a ten o’clock scholar.

You know the portent of the axiom: Them as has gits.

You devised that abracadabra: Get all you can keep all you get.

     We shall always be interfering with each other, forever be arguing -

you for the maggots, me for the moon.

Over our bones, cleaned by the final maggots as we lie recumbent, perfectly forgetful, beautifully ignorant -

There will settle over our grave illustrious tombs

On nights when the air is clear as a bell

And the dust and fog are shovelled off on the wind -

There will sink over our empty epitaphs

a shiver of moonshafts

a line of moonslants.