Cancer of the Soul

Cancer, a serious business requiring hard measures.
Surgery ...
Chemo ...
Radiation ...
And then some ...


Hard to treat.
Hard to defeat.
Hard to remove.


We all know this ...
From personal experience ...
Or that of loved ones.


Cancer's a serious business requiring hard measures.


But what of cancer of the soul?
Cancer of the spirit?
Cancer of our values and attitudes?


A serious business requiring hard measures.


As for the cancer of racism.
Most whites choose to pretend.
It's not there.


Or it's not their's ... but someone else's.


"It's not so bad."
"I'm okay."


At first instance, we all deny.
We all pretend.
When it comes to cancer.


But sooner or later, the reality
Is upon us.


And demands treatment.
Surgery ...
Chemo ...
Radiation ...
And then some ...


Racism is our social cancer.
And no sense pretending.
No sense hiding.
It hasn't gone away, has it?


Eating away at our vital organs.
Until little is left.
Soulless and weary.
We slog on in our denial.


Social cancer.
Cancer of the soul.
The mind and heart.
Attitudes and fears.


A serious business.
Requiring hard measures.

I Was Born ...

I was born and baptized a Presbyterian ...
I was reared in the Reformed Church of America.
I was ordained in the Presbyterian Church.
I'm doing an interim in a Congregational Church.

It's not the biggest kind of world.
But I've learned a lot.
Mostly, what I don't know.

It's been a good world for me.
I've learned about walls.
And how to take 'em down.

Noting wrong with a wall.
As long as it has plenty of openings.
Without doors.

Doors that never can be locked.
If there are no doors.
Just passage ways.

And there ya' have it.
It's been good for me.
Amazing world.

I'd Prefer to be Quiet!

I’d prefer to be quiet.

I don’t like stepping up and speaking out.

I’d prefer to be quiet ... because the Truth of any matter, is always complex, and, frankly, what do I know?

When it came to homosexuality, a good sum of years ago, I would have preferred a little more time, a little more reading and thought, a little more reflection and prayer, until a dear friend said to me of her brother, who was gay, “He doesn’t have any more time.”

And considering my quiet ... I thought of those who were doing all the shouting ... 

The strident voices of hate never tire, it seems, of hearing themselves ... there’s comfort for them, I suppose, even in their lack of coherence, because words without meaning can be given meaning at will, and shouting, of course, as if volume alone, both in word-count and decible-level, increased the chances of their owning The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth ... and even if there’s no Truth whatsoever in their mean-spirited meanderings, they don’t care, because in their heart-of-hearts, they know they’re right, even when they lie, engage in double-speak and broadcast their perverted vision of their idealistic world of 1950s’ whiteness and moms in the kitchen.

I remember ... when I started to go public on some issues, at various times, some early on in school ... others came later ... not because I knew everything there was to know about everything, but rather because I knew enough about those who stood in the way of life for others - and isn’t that what it’s all about? Life for others, and some, for some reason, can’t let them have it - that I could no longer choose my quiet.

I had to step up and speak out.

Because I knew enough about what life means for others ... a place in the sun, a chance at opportunity - so I have to work: to tilt the system a bit more evenly, to increase the number of players and up the chances of victory, even a small one, for those who otherwise would have to stand at the edge of the field of play and never get chosen by the handsome captain ... watching the game from afar, and hurting in the gut so deeply, mind twisting in shame ... wondering why life is so cruel, and doubting themselves until there’s nothing left but darkness.

Okay, so I step up and speak up.

Tyranny of Time

Time, you dastardly thief ... You take everything from me: Time, friends, family, life.

Time, you dastardly thief ... who are you? What are you?

History, Time, movement, ticks of the clock, turns of the calendar.

The enemy of all that’s me.

But what can I do?

Crap.

One of these days, the last breath.

For me, okay.

But I don’t like it.

Death is a pisser.

Time, the thief.

I wish it were different.

But what would that mean?

So it is.

Time, takes away everything.

Everything.

Shit.

And shit stinks.

But who knows for sure.

If I lived more than a lifetime.

Then what?

And so it goes.

To God be the glory.

And I mean it ... if there is a god, and to this god I belong.

Then, so what?

I’m flesh.

I’m mortal.

I’m dust.

It can’t be any other way.

Can it?

Oh well.

Ho well.

Ho.

Onward.

To the end.

The last.

No more.

Amen!

"The Gods of the Peoples"

From today's lectionary: Psalm 96.5 -

"For all the gods of the peoples are idols, but the LORD made heaven and earth."

I guess there are at least two ways of reading this ... "the peoples" being everyone else but "my peoples" ....

Or,

"The peoples" includes "my peoples" and that includes me, too.

I suspect it was easy for Israel/Judah to read it the first way, but maybe the second reading makes the most sense, based upon the ease with which Israel/Judah constantly fell into idolatry, so painfully pointed out by the prophets who were not easily lulled into the propaganda of the ruling powers.

Perhaps a Tillichian focus might help - that the LORD who made the heavens is always transcendent - always beyond what any of us might understand ... reminding us to check our pride at the door, if you will, and hold our views of "our god" lightly.

Anyway, just some thoughts ...

It Happened on a Sunday Afternoon

Thelma called, panic in her voice - something strange and quite beyond words: “George shot himself. He’s upstairs.”

A quiet man who gave no evidence of distress … no sign of anything at all … I think in his late 50s at the time … so who knows what pain danced around him.

I walked over to the house, just a block away … one of those large, three-story affairs, a central Pennsylvania railroad town … 

Thelma answered the door … I don’t recall if anyone else was there yet … the police, an ambulance - I have no idea.

I went upstairs … did I go alone?

But in my mind’s eye, there I stand by the bed … George on his back, head on a pillow … lots of blood … where’s the gun? I don’t know … I don’t recall seeing it … lost in the folds of the bed?

I suppose Thelma thought he’d gone up for a Sunday afternoon nap.

But with a gun in hand, George ended his life instead …

That day, for the first time in my life, I wondered about suicide.

Like most folks, I had easily thought that suicide was a sin. Period! I had never dealt with it, never known of anyone in the family or in our circle of friends who took their own life. 

I remember thinking that George, a gentle soul, was certainly no sinner in this case, and certainly not deserving of eternal hellfire, or whatever grim punishments the church conjures up to keep wandering souls in line.

Did George shake his fist in the face of God?

Did George heroically assert his independence and end his life in some kind of ironic rebellion against God?

Was he guilty of some supreme cowardice?

I’m 28 at the time, and hurriedly thinking it through because the funeral is three days away.

It was then and there that I became clear - whatever suicide may be, it’s no sin … neither pride nor arrogance. It’s a moment of desperation, as the mind cannot see any other way out, of whatever the dilemma is. 

And no condemnation for the broken-hearted. No condemnation for those lost in sorrow, entangled in whatever heartache has come their way, either of their doing, or simply the circumstances of life … who knows just how tangled the pathways are for anyone. And when the moment comes, it all must make sense to them, even as it leave us bewildered as we try to figure out what will never make any sense to the living.

So, there it was for me … my first suicide funeral … and I spoke about the kindness and mercy and love of God for George … I remember saying something about our own struggles, and whatever hope I might offer, it’s not an encouragement to end our lives. But it is to say: None of the living can fathom the darkness that drove George to take a gun, load it, hold it in hand, place it to his head …

Did he take a deep breath?

Was he crying?

Was he thinking of Thelma?

Did it take long to decide?

I’ll never forget that Sunday afternoon and the funeral that followed.

It was a moment to decide.

I made the right choice, at least for me.

In subsequent years, other suicides would follow … amazing how people take their lives … some gave no hint whatsoever; others were clearly on a troubled road heading downward. Some do it in the home; others by a tree with a rifle … or in the car on the roadside. Maybe a note is left; in most cases, no note at all.

I’ve always remembered that moment when I had to decide. 

On a Sunday afternoon!

Whose the Enemy?

“People of faith, whatever the faith, are never the enemy. The enemy is materialism.”

Somewhere in the early 70s, I heard this from the Ecumenical Institute.

At the time, it seemed so truthful, so vital. Though, at the time, my exposure to “other faiths” was pretty much restricted to Hardshell Baptists and Pentecostals. I did not yet know persons of other faith traditions. 

And what is faith?

But to look through the things of the world and see the hand of divinity, the love of the universe, the hope of the ages ... that beyond us all, beyond all sight and sound, life and death, a vast universe of goodness and purpose and justice and peace, at work in all things, for good.

Whatever the faith, however it appears, it behooves us all to welcome and affirm one another.
No one has to be wrong in order for anyone to be right.

And we’re all right, in bits and pieces, though none of us have it all. And so we learn from one another, and discover in one another the common element - our creation, and our Creator, and the love that sustains all of us.

Certainly, we’re all unique in our faith traditions and expressions, and in all of this diversity, a great richness of faith, hope and love. 

We give thanks for who we are, in the accidents of birth and culture - Hindu, Moslem, Jew, Buddhist, Christian (to name but a few) ... to be who we are, with grace and kindness for who others are, too.
People of faith are not the enemy of faith. 

There are enemies, of course - “the world of the flesh” as John’s Gospel often puts it - a craven materialism that grasps and takes and pillages the earth and animals and people, lusts for power and will stop at nothing to gain its own glory.

That’s the enemy, and it’s all around us, some of it all dressed up in religious garb, wolves in sheep’s clothing.

But that’s a story for another day.

Today, the simple reminder that whatever our faith might be, to be that faith with great intentionality and discipline, joy and hope, and to look upon other traditions with favor and kindness.

Every human being of faith is pretty much the same, when it comes to the daily stuff of life ... moments of great insight and courage, and other times, stumbling and unsure. But people of faith, whatever the faith, are all caught up in a great procession of a great mystery ... the divine of the universe calls unto us, and walks with us in the days and nights of our lives.

Glory, laud and honor to the Divine Wonder in whom we all live and move and have our being.