A Call to Confession

Sunday 10 July 2016 

Luke 10:25-37

At the end of apartheid in South Africa in 1994 Nelson Mandela and other leaders made a radical decision. Believing that vengeance generates only more violence and vengeance instead of seeking vengeance, tracking down, trying and imprisoning the perpetrators of torture and murder of those who fought to end apartheid, the country would engage in truth and reconciliation. Those who had murdered and tortured could come forward, confess and seek forgiveness from the families of their victims. The perpetrators would then go free. Peter Yancey tells this story: At one hearing, a policeman named van de Broek recounted an incident when he and other officers shot an 18-year old boy and burned the body, to destroy the evidence.  Eight years later van de Broek returned to the same house and seized the boy’s father.  The wife was forced to watch as policemen killed her husband.  The courtroom grew hushed as the elderly woman who had lost first her son and then her husband was given a chance to respond.  ‘What do you want from Mr. van de Broek?’ the judge asked.  She said she wanted van de Broek to go to the place where they burned her husband’s body and gather up the dust so she could give him a decent burial.  With his head down, the policeman nodded agreement.  Then she added a further request:  ‘Mr. van de Broek took all my family away from me, and I still have a lot of love to give.  Twice a month, I would like for him to come to the ghetto and spend a day with me so I can be a mother to him.  And I would like Mr. van de Broek to know that he is forgiven by God, and that I forgive him too.  I would like to embrace him so he can know my forgiveness is real.’  Spontaneously, some in the courtroom began singing Amazing Grace as the elderly woman made her way to the witness stand, but van de Broek did not hear the hymn.  He had fainted, overwhelmed.’ [This is taken pretty much verbatim from http://nagasawafamily.org/matthew_dev_09_01-08c.htm which cites Yancey’s Rumors of Another World.]

In today’s text Jesus challenges us to love our neighbors as ourselves. The scholar wants to know just how far he has to go. He wants a limit. He wants to stay with what will make him comfortable. He doesn’t want to be challenged. He is, I think like many of us, looking for an easy answer. Jesus tells the story. It is easy for us to hear this story and imagine we are the Samaritan, the Good Samaritan. Isn’t reality different? Aren’t we more like the two pious religious people who cross over to the other side, who want to avoid getting involved. How often have I turned my eyes away from the mother asking for change to feed her child, the dirty man with the cardboard  sign saying “Hungry--Vietnam vet.” How often have I made excuses? How often have I ignored the homeless, the hungry, the thirsty, the lonely?

The news this week has been horrific. Innocent black men gunned down by the men paid to serve and protect them. Innocent policemen protecting Black Lives Matter protesters gunned down by men seeking vengeance. Who is my neighbor? What can I do? I want the easy answers. I want to cross over to the other side of the road. I don’t want to get involved.

The Belhar Confession which some of you have studied was adopted as a confession of our denomination, a part of the constitution of our church. Belhar was a response to the apartheid of South Africa. The white controlled Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa decreed that the church should comply with the doctrine of apartheid. Coloreds and Blacks must worship in their own churches, segregated from each other and from the white churches. Belhar declares that the church must be one in unity--that it cannot be divided by race. Belhar challenges the church to stand against oppression and injustice so that justice may roll down like waters  and righteousness like an ever flowing stream. 

Saying that we must stand against oppression and injustice and actually doing it are two vastly different things. The first hard questions is where to begin. How can we even begin to think about this issue. Our new stated clerk,  The Rev. J Herbert Nelson II, has said regarding our adoption of Belhar and in reaction to the events of this week, “The assembly actions [in adopting Belhar] will have no meaning unless we as people of faith act to eradicate racism in our nation. Our efforts must begin in our own community and require courage Racism is a cancer that has historically pervaded our society. It blatantly disrupts the flow of building Jesus’ call for the Beloved Community.” [http://www.pcusa.org/news/2016/7/7/pcusa-stated-clerk-speaks-out-police-killings-alto/]

The Rev. Tawnya Denise Anderson, our newly elected co-moderator posted a suggestion for our response on Facebook: “For those of you who ask ‘How long?’ or ‘How many times must this happen?’ I'll tell you precisely when it will stop. It will stop when people en masse are aware of the ways in which whiteness/white supremacy have shaped the way people of color are viewed, engaged, and treated in this world (even by other people of color). To come to this realization, however, white people will then have to be self-aware and convicted of the ways in which they have benefitted from and promulgated the lie of whiteness. As necessary as this is for the well-being of society, it is also an uncomfortable undertaking and there is literally nothing forcing white people to do it. White people, then, will likely have to create the force.” She continues: “White people, you have heard it said that you must talk to other white people about racism, and you must. But don't talk to them about their racism. Talk to them about YOUR racism. Talk to them about how you were socialized to view, talk to, and engage with people of color. . . . It’s confession time.”

It’s confession time. My first reaction is that I have nothing to confess. But the reality is different. I don’t want to examine my reality because deep down I know, even after all these years, there is something within me that says I am better because I am white. Rationally, I know this is not true, but my gut tells me it is.

It is also important to think about white privilege (and easier for me than my own racism). We whites are like fish in the ocean, we are unaware of the water we swim in, the water of our privilege. I grew up in the South. My family owned slaves. A couple of years ago I visited Latta Plantation near the church my family attended in the 18th and 19th centuries. I noticed a plaque near the granite steps. The steps were cut by a stone mason owned by James Latta. The slave cut stone for many of the 18th century buildings in Charlotte. Latta profited from the work of his slave. On a visit to a plantation in Louisiana, the docent said that in the years before the Civil War, 80% of the millionaires in the US lived along the Mississippi. They, too profited from the work of slaves. My family profited from the work of their slaves. Northerners profited too from slaves, their own slaves and from the slave trade. The South and our country as a whole has never had a conversation thinking about the wealth created for whites by slave labor or the wealth denied those slaves or confessing the evil of owning human beings as slaves.

White privilege. I could go to any college I wanted to. The first African American was admitted to my college the year before I enrolled. I can live any where I wanted to. My house was not fire bombed because I wanted to live in the Shaker School District. No one suggested to me that I might want to file a lawsuit to make sure that housing covenants restricting sales to whites would not be enforced against me as was suggested to Dr. Winston Richie when he decided to buy a house in eastern Shaker Heights. I have never been stopped by the police as I slowly rolled down a street on a dark winter night, trying to find the house number of the house where I was to go to a meeting as was former County Commissioner Peter Lawson Jones. My life expectancy is longer than that for Black or Hispanic women simply because I am white. I have never had to tell my son he shouldn’t flirt with or  even look at certain women. I have never worried that my son would be killed. I have never been awakened in the middle of the night and told that my son had been gunned down while he was walking down the street in his hoodie. White privilege is a fact. 

I don’t ask the whites among us to examine your lives for white privilege so you will feel guilty. There is no more guilt about white privilege than there is about the privilege that comes with being over 6 feet tall. It is simply a fact. I do ask you to recognize what being white has done for you and to imagine how your life might have been different had you been born into a poor African American family. 

Jesus tells us to love our neighbor. That neighbor includes the families of the men killed this week--all of them. That neighbor includes the men who killed this week. That neighbor includes the one sitting in this church who disagrees with you. That may be the most uncomfortable of all. We don’t like conflict in the church. We have seen what conflict does to churches. If we begin with our own confession, with our own fears and misgivings, we may be amazed by grace just as was van der Broek. Amen

Cancer stories

Cancer narratives have two arcs: the person whose cancer has been treated and is highly unlikely to recur and the person with terminal cancer. The stories like many stories have predictable narrative lines. For the person who has been "cured" the narrative is one of courage. That person has fought the disease and has "won". She has been courageous. We admire his valor and perseverance in the face of this disease. She is a survivor. The other narrative is one of inspiration. The person who is dying inspires us with her wisdom, his acceptance, her equanimity in the face of death. He has wonderful insights into life and living. We feel so good that in the face of death she can continue to be sweet and loving.

Those narratives while in some cases have some truth they do not tell the whole story. I cannot tell the reality of those for whom cancer is a death sentence in the foreseeable future, but I can tell what I see. And I can certainly tell a different story for one whose cancer has been "cured".

Someone (or perhaps several someones) referred to me as courageous. I certainly was not courageous. Numb might be a better descriptor. I had a diagnosis of cancer. This is what I needed to do. This is what I have to do today. This is what I do today. It is what is in front of me. I really am not making a choice. I spent the first month in denial. A perfectly acceptable place to be for a while (though a friend kept telling me I was in denial to which I responded, yes, I know). Then a bit of grief. But mostly anger. Anger at the doctors who ignored and belittled me, who did not take me seriously.  I remain pissed to this day at the doctors. Anger at God for giving me cancer when no one in my family had cancer.

I cannot speak personally for what it is like to know that the cancer is going to kill you sooner than you imagined that you would die. I do know that all is not acceptance, lightness and sweetness. From people I have known there is disappointment, grief, anger. There are days when it is just not good. There are days of railing against God, the universe, the doctors. There are days of weeping for knowing that this life will end. And for some (many?) the end brings pain that even morphine can't relieve. There is suffering, pain, humiliation, loss of dignity.

When we assume, no require, that those with cancer will be inspirations to us, we burden them. We add to their suffering. They cannot share their real feelings. Their misgivings. Their fears. Their pain. Their anger. In addition to physical and psychic pain, we add the pain of isolation. We who cannot face our own mortality ask those who actively are to provide us with solace. We should be providing them with solace.

When we tell those with cancer that attitude makes a difference, we burden them. When we tell them that acceptance is important, we burden them. When we refuse to listen to their pain, their anger, their fear, we burden them.

For those who are the ones who face the end beaming with joy or at least acceptance in every moment of their journey through cancer, I am delighted. I am not you. I believe that there are others like me in this respect.  All I ask is that I be allowed to wallow in my pain if I need to. That I be allowed my anger if I need it. That you listen to my fear and not tell me everything will be all right. It won't be. 

A Long, Loving Look at the Real

My first spiritual director talked about contemplation as “a long, loving look at the real.” It’s a quotation from the Jesuit Walter Burghardt. It has taken me years to begin to unpack its meaning. 

It is in scuba diving that I am truly able to take long loving looks at the real. The picture above is of two nudibranchs, about 3/4s of an inch long. Nudies, as they are fondly referred to, are gastropod mollusks: snails and slugs. These are animals that on terra firma I tend to turn up my nose in disgust, particularly those slugs. Underwater, that’s another story.

Nudies have an interesting body: their gills are outside their bodies. That lovely tangle of tentacles waving in the surge are really the animal’s gills. 

Divers I have found are like people on the earth. Most fin their feet as fast as possible to see the next big thing. The bigger, the better. A hammerhead! A school of thousands of silverly jack circling to protect themselves from the white tip reef shark lying in wait for its next meal.! A turtle swimming to the surface for a gulp of air! These are indeed fantastical sights not to be missed. But, in grasping for the huge, divers miss the miraculous tiny. 

Nudibranchs are not common. One of their defenses against being eaten is to blend into to the surrounding colorful coral. And they are tiny, rarely larger than an inch in length. Seeing them takes slow swimming, drifting along as slowly as the current will allow, moving as little as possible. 

Surprisingly they move. They may raise their heads, the end with the two feelers and stretch their bodies along the surface of the coral head. They have a rear foot which extends, though I’ve never seen exactly how that moves. The frill around their body can flare up and down, to what end mystifies me. 

In a cubic meter of coral reef, there is more life and more diversity of life than anywhere else on earth. Microscopic plankton feed the animals, algae inhabit the coral, producing food for the coral and giving it color. Soft corals sway in the current, imitating the plants they are not. Tiny fish dart exhibiting odd behaviors. And of course larger and larger fish swim and eat in that one cubic meter. 

All this wonder escapes the diver when she is interested only in the next big thing. Wonder appears when we slow down, breath as easily as possible, hang in the water suspended, and open our eyes to what is in front of us.

On earth as it is in the water.

Reflections on The Fault in Our Stars (the movie)

I haven’t read the book, though I have owned it since it was first published. I wound up at the movie, not because I wanted to see it but because a friend wanted to see it and asked me to go with her. After I bought my ticket, I told her I had a lot of trepedation about seeing it. She responded that she hadn’t thought about that. The great unspoken that. CANCER.

Gus, the boyfriend Hazel meets at a recovery group meeting, Gus who lost a leg to cancer, but has an 85% chance of being cancer free, relapses at the end of the movie and dies. Gus, the one who wanted to make his mark on the world, to be remembered. Gus dies before he is 20. 

For me, Gus is the reminder of the randomness of cancer. That is the awfulness of cancer. It is totally random. People who have never smoked die of lung cancer (the least funded of the cancers because people assume if you have lung cancer, it’s your fault). People who do all the right things die of ovarian cancer. Even the wealthy, smart can’t escape--Steve Jobs died of pancreatic cancer. 

For me, cancer was random. I was in great health. I wasn’t concerned about cancer because there was none in my family, except “old age cancers”--those that hit because well something has to kill you. No, I knew that heart disease was a much greater risk for women than cancer. So, I was eating a healthy diet. I had started running. I felt great. Until I didn’t. 

I struggled with randomness. I learned that life is fragile. All life. Mine. Yours. Life is uncertain. It’s not the way most people live though. I read how you can reduce your chances of getting cancer by doing, well, all the things I was doing when I was diagnosed. 

Cancer told me that nothing is in my control. Life can be taken away without warning. 

But, few who haven’t had cancer or some other devastating random loss believe this. I watch them do, as I used to do, justify why it always happens to the other person. I watch them go through life as if it is infinite, wasting time, ignoring friends, family, spouses for work. 

And I struggle with the ease of not living each moment, with wasting time on meaningless stuff. I want to experience each moment of my “one wild and precious life” but it is so easy to choose death in life: trashy TV and novels, computer games, eating to dull the pain of loneliness. 

“...That we but mortals be.” The truth so hard to grasp, to live into. 

"And there was no one in need among them."

As I walked to church this morning, I saw him outside the doughnut store, sitting, reading, studying in fact, papers crammed with cramped writing. He looked as if he were studying for an exam. The unusual thing was he was perched on a shopping cart. I could see a clean duffel bag stuffed with what I assumed were his belongings. He leaned his back agains it, reclining a bit atop his shopping card.

Like the Pharisee and the Rabbi in the parable we call the Good Samaritan, I hurried past him. As I continued my walk, I thought of the report I had heard on NRP. People walked right by their husbands, wives, sisters, brothers and even children, not recognizing them because they were dressed as homeless people. I thought too of the time when I had preached at this church at the service preceding the meal prepared and served for the homeless, actually anyone who wanted to eat. Several of us had talked about the fact that almost no one from the congregation joined in eating the meal. And so after the service, I joined those eating. I sat at the table as a young woman served me. I remembered my surprise at being treated as if I were homeless. I remember my guilt as I thought about this. “Wait a minute,” I wanted to scream, “I am not one of them. I am important. I matter.” I was shocked at how much I wanted to distance myself from the others at my table.

Today, I sat through the sermon, listening as the preacher talked of the account of the early church in Acts: how the people worshiped together daily, shared a meal and shared what they had so that there was no one in need among them. I knew if the man was still there at the doughnut shop, I would have to stop and talk with him. I prayed he would have moved on by the time the service was over. 

I walked out the side door and around the corner. I breathed a sigh of relief when I didn’t see him, but he was still there, hidden behind a car. I stopped and asked if he would tell me his story. I had not idea how to begin a conversation and had come up this this lame request. He said he’d be glad to if I had the time. He put his glazed yeast doughnut back in the paper bag and nestled it next to his coffee. 

He was fairly well dressed in a red polo shirt and slacks. He work a jacket even though the temperature was climbing into the 80s. I noticed one of the lenses was missing from his glasses. 

He had, he said, been transferred to Memphis by the IRS. He had no family here. And then Dr. King was assassinated. I didn’t quite follow the story but it seemed he was following leads to the assassin, leads that led to Klansmen with political connections. He had gotten caught up in a conspiracy and a government cover-up. The government owed him money that he never received. He traveled to Chicago where he had friends who would not take him in. He had been injured but the VA refused to treat him. I listened for about half an hour, wondering what I could possibly to do help him, and coming up with absolutely nothing. By his language and demeanor he could have been a lawyer or an IRS agent. There was enough of what I think is reality in what he said, but also a bit of unreality, at least what I think of as unreality.

I have no idea how to help this man, or any other homeless person. It is easy to say it’s a systemic issue and it is. It is also easy to say that you can’t solve a problem by throwing money at it. But you can, or rather, we can. In the 1960s (if I recall the timing correctly) poverty rates among the elderly were appalling. Social security benefits were raised and stories of grandmothers and grandfathers eating cat food for dinner have disappeared.

“And there was no one in need among them.” The early church lived out an ethic of taking care of each other, not just visiting the sick, but making sure everyone had something to eat, a place to sleep. We have lost that. I am as guilty as everyone else of wanting to make sure I have enough, and not just enough but more so that I can do what I want to do.

As I had not solutions for the homeless man, I have no solution for either homelessness or our idea that resources are scarce and we must protect what we have. I only know that this is not God’s vision for the world.

Liminal Space

When a person stands at a threshold, a doorway, she has a choice: she can enter the house or turn her back and walk away. She can join the party or go home. When we stand at a threshold of a stage in our lives, we have no choice--we much enter the next stage. Oh, there are always the exceptions--the 50 year old matron plays the adolescent flirt; the 45 year old man who buys the red Porsche Carrera. But for most of us, willing or not, pass through those thresholds, moving from baby, to toddler, to student to teenager and to adulthood.

At the Meeman Center the other night, the group assembled discussed Place Walk by Naguib Mahfouz. The professor leading the group reiterated the setting of the novel in liminal space: in the family at the center of the story, two sons and two daughters were moving to adulthood. Egypt, the setting for the novel was itself in liminal space: on the verge of independence. It is a coming of age story for the young people and for the country.

The professor had invited four Rhodes seniors who had studied the book with him this semester to attend and share their insights and perspectives on the novel. These students were in liminal space: in 26 days they would graduate from Rhodes. The professor emphasized their place on this threshold.

I looked around the table at the participants. We, too, were in liminal space. We are all on the verge of old age.

Few write of this liminal space, this coming of age, of old age. It is ignored, just as the old in our culture are ignored. We celebrate youth and energy. We ignore the wisdom and creativity that comes with age and the time to reflect and explore.

The liminal space between adolesence and adulthood is open, wide, bright, full of possibilities. The liminal space at the other end of adulthood, that between robust adulthood and old age is closed, narrow, dark with diminishing possiblities. 

Old ages is a time of loss--of health, of firends, of ability, of agility, of mind and finally of life itself.

I stand at that threshold. I cannot turn away, say “No, this is a door I choose not to enter.” I do not have a choice. The door is there and I must enter.

I want to be able to choose, to embrace what life remains: to embrace change, to embrace creativity, to embrace beauty. I do not want to become like so many old women I know. These bitter women full of resentment, anger. These women who impede change. I do not want to cling to a past that no longer exists, that is no longer possible.

I want finally to go with joy through the final threshold, into that good night.

April 15, 2014

Incarnation: Taste and See that the Lord is Good

A group I meet with periodically decided that we should reflect on embodiment as each of us had talked of embodiment that day. As I was thinking about what I would write, three experiences came immediately to mind. And so, here are my reflections on the incarnation and eating.

After I came home from the meeting this blog post was on my feed: http://www.dirtysexyministry.com/2013/08/our-selves-our-souls-and-bodies.html
It's a reflection on the physical health of ministers and how we may care for our spiritual and emotional aspects, but not our physical aspects.

Dualism in the form of separation of mind/spirit and body has long troubled me. It comes from Greek influences on the early Christian church and not Hebrew. I was delighted to learn, as I studied the Hebrew scriptures and the Hebrew language in seminary, that there is no such separation in that early tradition. The Hebrew term "nephesh" or "nepesh" is sometimes translated "soul" but its meaning is more than that. It is the essence of the living creature. There is an earthiness, a sensuality in the Hebrew texts that we Christians have somehow lost. The ancient Hebrews saw the wholeness of humans, not separation.

But, I learned (and I doubt that my experience is very different from most protestant Christians) that whatever was sensual (meaning bringing pleasure to the senses) was wrong, corrupt, vile. As a constant dieter most of my life, food is not something to be sought to bring pleasure. It is something to deny myself. That moist, chocolately cake with the squishy center and the fragrant chocolate buttery icing is to be avoided, not enjoyed. It will suddenly appear on my hips (and at my age now on my abdomen which presages diabetes). A meal is to be gobbled down while working or surfing the web. It is fuel for the body and the mind.

I have been unlearning this lesson, gradually over the last few years. I first noticed that when I travel, almost where ever I travel, food tastes so much better than in the US. Sitting in a tiny restaurant near the train station in a small town in far western China, I watched as they brought in vegetables from the farmers who were selling them in front of the train station. In a few minutes, our meal appeared with those vegetables. One of the most delicious meals I have ever eaten. In the Mekong of Vietnam, we stopped to eat at the place the drivers stayed as their tourist clients boated along the river. The red snapper was fresh from the river, fried to perfection. We ate it with fish sauce and fresh greens. In central Asia, yellow melons burst with sweetness unknown in most grocery store melons here.

I began to avoid processed foods and to cook more for myself. In a short time, I found that I could no longer eat many bakery items that I had before loved. The taste of chemicals overpowered the sweetness that was there. I discovered that in season, if I searched diligently, I could find vegetables as flavorful as those Chinese vegetables. I found that I could from time to time find chicken that tasted like chicken. The deep and complex flavors of fresh food was there, hidden, but sometimes available.

And so now it is August. Nothing  tastes better to me than an heirloom tomato from the farmers' markets, with fresh basil and cottage cheese. Finding the right tomato still remains important. Those uniformly red, uniformly round (with slightly flattened sides for ease of packing in boxes), uniformly sized tomatoes must be avoided. I search for the misshapened ones. I turn them over, looking at the stem to make sure green appears. I pick it up, making sure it's just the right degree of softness. I smell it, catching the scent of tomatoness. Home again, I cut my treasure into bite sized pieces. I find the aromatic basil (can any perfume smell sweeter) and tear the leaves. I put in some cottage cheese. I savor each bite of the tomato: the fruity, slightly acid, sweet taste that for decades I had missed. The juice dribbles down my chin. The basil adds chewiness and an almost but not quite bitter complexity. The cottage cheese in its blandness spreads the tomato-basil taste throughout.

The Psalmist writes: taste and see that the Lord is good. What is more delightful than the perfect August tomato? Who can bite into one and doubt that creation is good?

Is God Just?

The church I preach at from time to time has a series of "Bad News and Good News" on the back of its bulletin. The bad news is that we are sinners. The worse news is that God is just and therefore must punish us. The good news is that Jesus takes on our punishment and we are saved through grace. (It's actually a bit longer than that.) I was musing on it on Sunday. Right away, I recognized substitutionary atonement. Which always, always bothers me.

I'm in the midst of reading Jared Diamond's new book, "The World before Yesterday". I'm at the part now where he talks about dispute resolution in small societies. One primary purpose is to resolve the dispute so that the relationships between the parties or between their groups is preserved. Less focus is put on assessing blame, more on restoration of the relationship.

In our society, justice is seen primarily as meting out punishment for wrongdoers. There are other theories of justice: restorative justice, trying to put the injured party in a position as close to before the injury as possible and rehabilitation for the wrongdoer. But it is mostly about punishment.

But what of God? What sort of justice does God mete out?

For Luke, I would argue, God doesn't seem at all concerned with justice. Luke has Jesus tell the story of the Prodigal Son. The older brother longs for justice, but the father gives mercy, forgiveness. In the parable of the workers who are hired at different, the workers who were hired at six in the morning  complain that they worked so much longer than the ones hired at three in the afternoon and yet they both get the same amount of pay. The owner of the field says, I paid you the wage you agreed to; get over it. At least in Luke's Gospel, God is not a God who demands punishment as justice.

And so, why is it that we seem so intent on justice, on fairness? How have we missed this basic theme of the Gospel? This approach to justice puts us at odds with each other. It assumes a zero sum game; winners and losers; the good and the bad.

The kingdom, I believe, assumes abundance, more than enough. It assumes sharing. It assumes that my welfare includes your welfare, too. It assumes grace. It assumes God isn't the older brother in the parable of the prodigal son, but the father who loves, forgives, accepts and best yet, throws a party.

These are the aurora pictures from my trip to Alaska to see the aurora. It was fantastic. It is an amazing sight.

The sins of the father. . .

2 Samuel 18

            This is one of the most tragic stories in the Old Testament. David’s son Absalom rebels against his father. He has captured Jerusalem. David is on the run. And yet, David tells his commanders to deal gently with his son. And yet, Joab, the same trusted commander that David sent the letter to that said, make sure Uriah  is killed, kills Absalom. David mourns for his son, crying after him, that he wished he could have died instead.

            Tragic? Well, yes. But the story is so much more complex thant what I have simply hinted at. We need to go back a bit. Absalom’s half brother Amnon raped Absalom’s sister Tamar. Absalom goes to David their father and wants to have Amnon punished. David does nothing. Absolutely nothing. Amnon is David’s eldest son. I don’t think the text ever comes out right and says so, but I’d guess that Amnon is David’s favorite. The oldest often is the favorite. But for whatever reason, Amnon isn’t punished. He gets off scott-free.

And so Absalom plots and plots for two years. Finally, he has his chance. See, I told you two weeks ago, this story was like a soap opera, a story with more intrigue than most modern novels. And he invites Absalom and all of David’s sons to a banquet. And Absalom has his men kill Amnon after Amnon has become quite drunk. And then Absalom runs away. He stays away for several years. Joab finally convinces David to bring Absalom home, but David still doesn’t see his son. Finally, after trying to get an audience with his father, Absalom gets Joab’s attention by burning his field. Joab tries to reconcile the two, but doesn’t succeed.

The story continues with Absalom seeing more things that convince him that David is not worthy of being king. David isn’t hearing the grievances of the people. Disputes aren’t being settled. And so Absalom takes matters into his own hands. He begins a rebellion. He is convinced he will make a better king than David.

            This story might sound a bit familiar. David, too, took power from a reigning king. His father-in-law. Now the story the scripture tells is that God annoints David as king, but someone who isn’t a believer might look at the tale a bit differently and see David as a usurper. Saul himself and his followers might have seen the young man as a usurper.

            This time, though, the usurper doesn’t succeed. David makes a cryptic request of his commanders to deal gently with the young man Absalom. He doesn’t say, spare his life for my sake. He doesn’t say let him get away. He says, deal gently. In the end, Absalom is caught on the limbs of an oak tree in the forest, hanging between heaven and earth. A man sees Absalom and tells Joab. Joab asks why the man didn’t kill Absalom and the man reminds Joab of the king’s request. Joab, the hardened commander that he is, the man who saw to Uriah’s death, takes matters into his own hands and kills Absalom.

            David gets the news. Everyone else thinks it is good news. The rebellion has ended. David is restored to power. They can all return to Jerusalem. They can celebrate. But David is devastated. His grief overwhelms him. The text doesn’t say, but one has to wonder whether David thinks about all the ways he has been complicit in Absalom’s actions. How much have his actions contributed to the actions of his son and his death?

            Several places in the Old Testament the scriptures tell us that God visits the visit the sins of the fathers onto the sons to the third and fourth generations. For a long time, I looked at those statements and wondered why God would punish people who had done nothing wrong because their parents had sinned. It seemed so unfair. And I didn’t want to worship an unfair God. But, I came to realize something else was going on. It is a statement of reality. What the parents do has a huge impact on what happens in their children’s lives. Our children learn from us. Somehow, they don’t seem to manage to learn easily the lessons we teach with our words—share your toys, be nice to others, work hard. They do learn the lessons our behavior teaches very quickly. They absorb what they see us doing. They know right away when our words diverge from our behaviors. We unwitting teach our children things we’d rather not have them learn.

            David has usurped power. David takes what he wants. He saw Bathsheba and wanted her. He had the power to take her. David’s son Amnon does the same thing with disasterous consequences. Amnon sees Tamar and is sick with desire for her. She begs him not to rape her. She tells him that David will give him anything he wants; that David will give her to him as a wife. She begs not to be disgraced. One wonders if these words echo what Bathsheba must have said to David. This story is different though. Tamar has a defender, another of David’s sons. Tamar is taken and discarded. Absalom goes to David for justice and doesn’t get it. He takes matters into his own hands and has Amnon killed. David, too, had a man killed. It was not the perpetrator of the crime, but a victim of David’s crime with Bathsheba, her husband.

            David’s sins have been visited on his children. On both Amnon and on Absalom. Both die for their sins while David lives on unpunished. Except he must have been punished by the knowledge of his sins, on the loss of his sons: the infant Bathsheba conceived and then his two grown sons Amnon and Absalom.

            And yet God continues to be faithful. God is the faithful parent who is always there. Much of the Hebrew scriptures are stories that have a common theme. People sin. They suffer the consequences of their sin. God is there.

            The very first story in the scriptures is the story of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden. God tells them not to eat the fruit of the tree. They are tempted. They eat it. The consequences of the action is to be sent out from the garden. But, before they are sent out, God makes them clothes so that they will have protection. I have this image of God sitting cross-legged as tailors used to sit, carefully stitching clothes from animal skins for his beloved children. Cain kills his brother and God comes up with a plan to protect Cain. Cain is banished, but he still has God’s protection. Sin becomes so rampant that God decides there is only one answer. God will destroy creation, this world with a flood. But God protects a family, Noah’s family in the ark. At the end, God promises never to destroy the world again.

            One scholar has suggested that the work of the writer of David’s history and of the beginning chapters of Genesis want to suggest to Solomon that Solomon must decide how he will rule. Will he follow God or will he follow the example of David? Will he choose unlimited power or will his kingdom be one in which God’s will is followed? Will the sins of the father be visited on the son?

            That is the question that is always before us. Will we follow our own appetites? Will we use our power to get what we want no matter what the cost to other people is? Will we look only to our selfish desires? Or will we follow God’s commandments? To love God and to love one another. To treat each person with respect and love?

            God’s faithfulness in trying to teach us how to live didn’t end with these stories. God’s faithfulness is shown in Jesus and Jesus’ willingness to be faithful to God to the end. The kingdom of God that Jesus taught is the same one God wanted in the Hebrew scriptures. A place where all are respected and loved. Where all have enough. Where no one with power takes advantage of those without power for his own pleasure or gain. Where justice is served.

            Today, we have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of that kingdom. Today, Christians around the world with gather around a table. Somewhere half way around the world, twelve or more hours ago, people gathered around a table and took bread and wine and shared it. Each had enough. And as the earth continued to revolve, more and more people gathered and took bread and wine and shared it. Each had enough. There was and is a place for everyone. Those with great power and those without. Those with great wealth and those without. Those who were joyous and those who were grieving. Those with different colors of skin and different languages. All shared the same bread and wine and had enough. In a few minutes, we too will join those Christians and be for a moment a part of God’s kingdom on earth. Amen.

           

           

Trust

Text--Mark 6:1-13

Last Sunday I talked a bit about the connection between the lectionary texts in Mark’s Gospel. This week, it seems that the two sections of the text are not connected at all. In fact, some commentators suggest that pastors choose one or the other. I think that the texts are related and that they hang together in the same way that the texts I talked about last week hang together.

Let’s begin with the first text. Jesus comes home. The people are astounded. But not in a good way. Who is this person? He is the carpenter; he is the son of Mary. These are not just questions about the ordinariness with which they regard Jesus. A carpenter, a builder, someone who worked with his hands was of the lower class. He was someone the learned people, the merchants, the landowners, the rabbis, the religious leaders would look down on..

Even those of the same class might have wondered, who did Jesus think he is? He’s one of us and now, he thinks he’s better than we are. I’ve heard it said about different groups: they are like crabs in a barrel—as one climbs up, the others reach up to pull it down.

There’s even more reason to look down on Jesus. The text says the people called him the “son of Mary.” We are so used to hearing that that we don’t think about it. Then, men were called son of their father. By calling him son of Mary, they are drawing attention to the fact that Joseph may not have been his father. Today, illegitimacy is not unusual, but I remember a time when a child was scarred by not having a father. By referring to him as son of Mary, the villagers are calling into question his honor.

So, because of who Jesus is, the people of his hometown refused to believe that he could do any deeds of power or have anything to teach them. It is easy to assume God is not in the ordinary, the usual. I’m reminded of the story of Naaman. Naaman was a commander in the army of the Syraians. He had a skin disease. He could get no help in Syria. His wife’s serving girl told him that in Israel, they could cure this. And so Naaman asked the king of Syria to write the king of Israel asking for help. To make a long story a bit shorter, Naaman went to Elisha the prophet. Elisha sent a messenger who told Naaman to bathe in the River Jordan. The Jordan River is a creek. Nowhere does it deserve the name river. In most places you could wade across it. It’s not the Mississippi. Heck, it’s not even the St. Francis. It’s like the creek that runs through your backyard.

So Naaman was a bit put off. He was expecting to have to do something spectacular or at least arduous. At least to be sent to bathe in a real river. And so he refused. A servant said to him, if Elisha had told you go do something hard, you would have done it, so why don’t you do something easy.

Like Naaman, we expect God to be in the spectacular, the breath-taking, the unusual. Like the people of Jesus’ hometown, we expect God to be glamorous, spectacular, breath-taking, unusual. We don’t expect God in the ordinary.

I’m reading a book called The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything. It’s about Ignatian Spirituality. At one point, the author talks about our desire for a connection to God and how we feel that desire. He tells the story about a friend, a “self-described workaholic who hadn’t been to church for many years,” who went to the baptism of a friend’s child. “Suddenly,” he says, “she as overtaken by powerful feelings—mainly the desire for a more peaceful and centered existence. She began to cry, though she didn’t know why. “ He continues, “she told me that she felt an intense feeling of peace as she stood in church and watch the priest pour water over the baby’s head. To me,” he says, “it seemed clear what was happening: she was experiencing at that moment when her defenses were down, God’s desires for her. . . . But, she laughed and dismissed it. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I guess I was just being emotional.’ “ 

We dismiss God in our lives, just as the people of Nazareth did. It’s just the ordinary. I’m being emotional. It can’t be God. It’s too easy.

This part of the text ends that Jesus was amazed by their unbelief. This is another story of faith. This time of people who didn’t have the faith to see what God had put before them. Without faith we can’t see God; we can’t see what God is doing. This passage, too, is about faith: how what we assume, what we expect matters. It’s about how we should be open to see God in unexpected places: in the ordinary, in ordinary people, in our everyday lives. Not just in momentous occurences.

I think the second part of the text is also about faith, even though the word doesn’t appear. Remember last week I told you that Jesus had been on the Sea of Galilee with his disciples and a storm had come up. Jesus was sleeping and the disciples woke him up. He calmed the storm and then asked them why they were afraid; didn’t they have any faith? Now we see Jesus sending the disciples out with no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; and only the clothes on their back.

They are to go on a long, dangerous journey with nothing! Can you imagine! I am finally getting to the point where I am beginning to pack lightly. Basically it’s because most of the places I go, I can buy whatever things that are essential that I’ve forgotten. But it’s taken me a while. I still pack medicine, just in case I get sick. I always have extra food for the plane because it would be a tragedy if I should get hungry. My carry-on has hand sanitizer, lotion, a tooth brush and toothpaste, eyedrops. All the stuff I’d absoluetly have to have for an overnight flight. In at least ten flights, I haven’t opened the plastic baggie with these essentials. Yet, I continue to pack them.

My first reaction to Jesus would have been, “are you crazy? We can’t possibly do that. What if no one will take us in? What if my clothes get torn? Do you really expect me to beg from total strangers?” I need all my stuff.

A number of years ago, I went to Nicaragua with two pastors. I hadn’t gone to seminary yet, so I was the layperson. We were going to see whether we could set up a partnership between the presbytery and a group of churches in a remote area of Nicaragua. We stayed in Managua the capital for a couple of days and then flew out to the Atlantic coast. From there we were to travel by jeep up to the Rio Coco, the border between Nicaragua and Hondurous. Our plane was late in arriving at Puerto Cabezas. When we arrived at church headquarters in Puerto Cabezas on the coast in the late afternoon, we were told that they had radioed the folks we were to visit to tell them we weren’t coming. The people at church headquarters had been told the plane had been canceled. Our Nicaraguan leader, Pastor Norman Bent ducked into the church’s food pantry. He came out with a can of pineapple, one of corn and one of beans. That’s all they had he said. Norman continued, “They aren’t expecting us, so there may not be any food for us.” And so we left and drove through the waning light into the night.

We arrived at the village. Everything was dark. There was no electricity. Our jeep’s lights woke everyone, though and they happily came out to greet us. They fed us. They had slaughtered one of their few chickens for us and we feasted on the meal. The pastor’s family vacated their one room house so that we could stay there.

One of the pastors on the trip had reflected on the experience. He talked about how we were like Peter who didn’t want Jesus to wash his feet. Not that Jesus was too good to wash Peter’s feet, but that Peter didn’t want anyone to serve him. To be served is to trust, to give up control. We had trusted to go on in the dark when we weren’t expected. None of us had completely given up control on the trip. Norman had his three cans of food. I had my suitcase full of clothes and medicine. The others also had overflowing suitcases. What we learned was the possibility of trust. That generosity abounded. The experience is one I look back on and say, yes it is possible to step out into the unknown when God calls us to such a thing.

Faith is trust in God. Faith is to give up control and trust in God. Jesus somehow transformed the disciple who earlier had feared for their lives on the Sea of Galilee, those disciples that Jesus had scolded for having no faith and turned them into men willing to leave everything behind: food, extra clothes, money and to depend solely on God and others. To go out and do. The disciples went out and cast out demons and cure those who were ill.

Faith is the openness to believe. To be vulnerable enough to see, to hear, to feel God. Faith is the trust to go out where Jesus calls us. It is both openess and action. To be surprised both by what God is doing and by what God enables us to do. Amen.

Cancer

A few days ago, I sat down with my journal. At the end of journal, my habit is to write a list of things I'm grateful for. I started a number of years ago when I was at Homer and feeling very isolated. Thinking about all the good and great things in my life shifted my attitude so much.

As I was writing this week, I looked down at my list and saw I had written "cancer." I was shocked. I had vowed never to be one of those sacchrine sweet people who expressed gratitude for the ordeal of cancer. Not me. Not mean, bitchy me.

But there it was. Staring up at me. So, why do I have any gratitude for cancer? One reason--showing me the beauty of life. I still take life for granted more often than I'd like. I still live my life as if I were on autopilot much of the time. I still struggle to live mindfully, to savor each moment. But I know in my heart that I am mortal; that this life will end. I stop more often to look at the belladonna vine I need to rip out and marvel at the heart-shaped green leaves. The sun dappling the leave. I feel the water from the faucet on my hands as I wash them. I feel my shoulders strain as I swim another stroke. I love the mourning doves that wash and splatter in the small pool of water above the small waterfall in my back yard. I notice the green rice growing along I-55. I stop more often. I try to care more for other people.

It's the same reason all those other ickily sweet people give for being grateful for cancer--joy in life. 

Sunday's Sermon

1 John 4:7-21

7Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. 8Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. 9God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. 10In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. 11Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. 12No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. 13By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit.

14And we have seen and do testify that the Father has sent his Son as the Savior of the world. 15God abides in those who confess that Jesus is the Son of God, and they abide in God. 16So we have known and believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.

17Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment, because as he is, so are we in this world. 18There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. 19We love because he first loved us. 20Those who say, “I love God,” and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. 21The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.

            I grew up in a large family. There were five of us children. We fought all the time.

I think the biggest fights were over who got to sit by the window or in the front seat. Of course, since I was the oldest, I thought I should always sit up front or by the window. My siblings for some strange reason disagreed. We’d head out to the car and the shouting would begin. “Front” or “window” would be called out.  And then the arguments would begin over who said it first. The next most frequent fight was over whose turn it was to do the most dreaded tasks in cleaning up the kitchen after supper. And we’d squabble among ourselves over what TV program to watch (when our parents weren’t around).

            The church doesn’t seem to be all that different. In fact, I think it’s much the same. Congregations fight and aruge over the most unconsequential things: the color of the carpet, the rearranging of furniture, the pictures in the parlor, whether the service should be contemporary or traditional. The denomination has been fighting among ourselves for at least 20 years. In fact, if you look at all the Presbyterian denominations in this country, all, with the exception of the Cumberlands, left the main denomination over doctrinal disagreements. And, it seems it has always been that way.

            Marcus Borg tells another story about church division. It comes from the late 1800's in North Carolina shortly after the Civil War. A small town businessman from a remote community in the mountains of North Carolina went to one of the larger cities--I think it was Raleigh--and there for the first time in his life, he saw an ice-making machine. Now, machines that could make artificial ice were a recent invention; he thought this was wonderful because it meant you could have ice all summer long. So he returned to his small community in the mountains of North Carolina--he happened to be a Baptist--and told his Baptist church about this great new invention. Within a month the church had split into ice and no-ice Baptists. The theological issue in this case being is it a violation of the natural order established by God to make ice out of season. If God had wanted us to have ice in the summertime, God would have raised the freezing temperature of water seems to have been the argument.

            Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth reflects his concerns about their disagreements with each other and with him. Less is known about the circumstances of the writing of the letters we attribute to John, but they also seem to reflect disagreements or fears about false teachings.  All of this calls into question Tertullian’s quote “Look at those Christians, how they love one another.”

            I want to clarify that I don’t think the fact that we disagree with each other means that we don’t love each other. We can disagree and treat each other with love and respect. But most of the time when we disagree with each other, our disagreement seems to move quickly from the object of our disagreement to a personal dislike. It’s the way we disagree with each other that says we don’t love each other. We say hurtful things about those we disagree with. We refuse to talk with them or to be in the same room with them. We don’t treat each other with dignity and respect. We cast them out of our fellowship. We set up a new denomination. We call them names.

            Loving one another is difficult. I read somewhere, “It’s easy to love your neighbor in the abstract; it’s difficult in traffic.” It’s easy to love someone far away—in Africa or Mexico, say where we don’t have to interact with them. We can imagine their plight and then their gratitude for our meager generosity. It’s a lot harder to love those we are in contact with on a day to day basis. The boss who wants us to work harder and harder and yet seems to ignore our efforts. The child who forgets our birthday and all we gave up to rear her. The next door neightbor whose cows are constantly getting through the unrepaired fence and tramples our garden. Loving someone next door, in the same house, in the same family, day after day is really hard.  Loving our brother and sister who we have seen is hard. It’s so much easier to love God whom we can’t see.

            I think the writer of this letter understands this. The writer tells us that God loves us first and that because God loves us, we can love each other. In fact, it is only becasue God loves us first that we are able to love one another. The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegard told this story:

A prince wanted to find a maiden suitable to be his queen. One day while running an errand in the local village for his father, he passed through a poor section. As he glanced out the windows of the carriage, his eyes fell upon a beautiful peasant maiden. During the ensuing days he often passed by the young lady and soon fell in love.

But he had a problem. How would he seek her hand? He could order her to marry him. But even a prince wants his bride to marry him freely and voluntarily and not through coercion. He could put on his most splendid uniform and drive up to her front door in a carriage drawn by six horses. But if he did this he would never be certain that the maiden loved him or was simply overwhelmed with all of the splendor.

The prince came up with another solution. He would give up his kingly robe. He moved, into the village, entering not with a crown but in the garb of a peasant. He lived among the people, shared their interests and concerns, and talked their language. In time the maiden grew to love him, because of who he was and because he loved her first.

The writer of the letter tells us that God has loved us first and sent his Son so that we might live through him. It is Jesus’ example that shows us what love looks like. It is Jesus who shows us how we should love one another. Jesus healed the sick, fed the hungry, healed the sick. Jesus also ate with the Pharisees. He spent time with the rich. He didn’t shun those who disagreed with him. He treated them with respect. He sat with the outcasts, the lepers. On the cross, he asked God to forgive those who tortured and killed him.

Love is not easy. But it is possible. My sisters and I don’t fight over who gets to sit in the front seat anymore because it’s just not relevant. We don’t agree on politics or religion. We tend to ignore each other’s FaceBook political and religious posts (except those sisters who agree with each other). We love each other, though. We will support each other. Our love has matured. That is a better translation for the word teleos that the English translates as perfect. It is mature love that we fcan ollow Jesus’ example to grow into. Mature love that loves our brother and sister. Well, even so, loving them in traffic is still hard for me.

Amen

Friday Five!

RevGalBlogPals Friday Five

1. Name a woman author you very much love to read.

Well, I love Barbara Brown Taylor, but so does almost everyone else. I confess my favorite reads are women detectives by women authors. Julia Spencer Fleming does a great job with her Episcopalian priest/murder mystery series. Marcia Muller and Sue Grafton are classics. I'm discovering more and more. And I'm looking forward to reading Elaine Pagels' newest on Revelation.

2. Name a woman from the Bible with whom you would like to enjoy a nice long coffee talk.

Mary Magdalene, of course. I have a secret desire to write a biography of Bathsheba who wrote J. (Someone whose name escapes me at the moment asserted that a woman wrote J; who else but Bathsheba?)

3. Name a famous woman from history with whom you would like to have lunch.

As a teen, I loved Mary Queen of Scots, who I thought was unfairly executed by Elizabeth. Now I see her as simply stupid. So, I think I'd love to lunch with Elizabeth. And talk about how she managed men and power. Did she regret what she gave up; the choices she made? Did she realize that she was reigning at a cusp of history? Did she know Shakespeare was as great a playwright as he was?

4. Name a living famous or infamous woman with whom you would like to go out to dinner.

Hmmm, choosing a person to have dinner with involves choosing someone who is fun to be with, who can kick back and laugh. So, tho I'd love to have a conversation with Hillary Clinton or Madeline Albright, I'm not sure either has a sense of humor. I think it would be interesting to sit with Carly Fiorina or Meg Whitman, but I think they, too, would be too uptight. Tina Fey comes to mind as the right combination of intelligence and great humor. I imagine I'd be laughing so hard that I wouldn't be worried about my diet.

5. If you could be SuperWoman (o.k., I know you already ARE) what three special powers would you like to have?

Three special powers. Flying (because I can't afford business class), the ability to speak any language (shoot, I'd like to be able to remember my little bits of Hebrew and Greek), can't think of a third.

And oh, yes, I'd like thin thighs and world peace.

Food

Trying to be more mindful as I eat, I looked at my spinach salad: dark green spinach leaves; cherry red tomatoes and bright orange carrots nestling under the shelter of the spinach. It struck me that it was beautiful. And how unbeautiful is American food--bland pale white limp french fries, white rounds of bread filled with greasy ground beef, brown microwave plastic trays, dull reds of canned tomato sauce. No wonder we have to fill our food with fats and salt and sugar. No wonder corporations strive to find the right addictive combinations of fat, salt and sugar. Otherwise, given a choice, with taste buds unadulterated by an overload of sugar and sat, why would we choose limp french fries over a glorious pink lady apple: crunchy, sweet with yet a hint of tartness, juice spilling from the corner of one's mouth and dripping down arms.

That We But Mortals Be

I have avoided reading The Fault in our Stars by John Green, though several of my friends on FB raved about the book. I tend to avoid anything concerning cancer by anyone who has not been there. Like pink ribbons, it offends me that people capitalize on the disease and on the journeys of those who experience it. And besides I didn't want to have my heart broken by the death of characters I had grown to love.

Cancer reminds me of returning from Nicaragua those years when I went there as a part of the partnership the Presbytery had with the Moravian Church on the Rio Coco. Unless one had the experience (or a similar one), one could not understand what it was like. Oh, I could tell stories, but I could not give someone the wrenching feeling in the gut when I returned in early December and opened the Plain Dealer (which must have weighed five pounds that Sunday morning) filled with page after page of stuff no one needed, but everyone seemed to have to have. One might be able to understand the feelings intellectually, but that is not the same as actually experiencing them.

I listened to an interview with John Green this morning and he sounded like he got so much right. He wanted to show the capriciousness of cancer. How, it makes no sense. How random it is.

For me it is the capriciousness of cancer that is the most difficult to deal with. Why me? No cancer to speak of in the family. (Though later I found out about relatives' cancer that had been kept hidden when the disease was something no one talked about.) After all, I knew that heart disease was the greatest killer of women. I was exercising to keep my heart healthy. And why did I live when I lost two friends to cancer, that fall, friends who had been diagnosed at the same time as me? Capricious. The universe is random. Our search for order is fruitless. We deceive ourselves when we believe that there is order there.

We yearn for order, for meaning, for understanding. All I can do is hold up Revelation's vision of the new Jerusalem come down to earth. Then, creation will be compete and order will hold sway.

Friday Five

From RevGalBlogPals

A simple Friday Five for a busy part of the year; indulge me by sharing two fives:
As you look back over 2011 share 5 blessings, they can be as grand or as simple as you like,if you year has been like mine they are probably a mixture!
As you look towards 2012 share 5 hopes- again, anything goes!
Pictures and songs welcome!

Blessings--I have so many it's hard to choose just five.

1. Being alive. A friend wrote of her feelings of vulnerability after being diagnosed with cancer. The way having cancer changed me is to show me in very uncertain terms how fragile life, my own life, is. I don't think a day goes by that I don't think about how close to death we all are.

2. Family and friends. I have so many friends who are there for me, who keep me company and entertain me from a serious and funny clergygroup to my bridge group to friends in Cleveland to friends scattered all over the country. (I am thankful for Facebook, much as I hate its control over with whom I share things.) My family who also love me. A great family wedding, a chance to see my favorite uncle I haven't seen in years and an aunt. Time with a niece and great niece (in both senses of the word). A great time with second cousins in the NC mountains. Catching up with another second cousin at the RevGalBlogPals cruise. I'd rave about my son, but that would embarrass him.

3. Travel. This year has been full of travel. Lots of trips, lots of wonder. Two wonderful dive trips to the Pacific. Manta rays and reef fish. Learning about different cultures. Visiting Vietnam and thinking about the war. Visiting Hiroshima and thinking about war.

4. My house which I love. Though I long to live in San Anselmo or even the East Bay, my house is perfect. It has a lovely outdoor space which I may actually use this afternoon if it doesn't rain.

5. God's world. I love oceans and mountains and quiet trails and noisy cities. Each speaks to me in a different way.

My blessings are pretty much consistent year to year as are my hopes for the next year

Hopes--world peace and thin thighs.

1. That the economic situation in the world improves. That those without work will find work that pays a living wage. That children have enough to eat and the opportunity for an education. That all have access to health--from clean water to medical care.

2. That I can achieve a level of fitness so that I can bike the Danube this summer. And if I am lucky enough to win the Yosemite High Sierra Camps lottery I am strong enough to hike it.

3. That an upcoming get together with second cousins and sisters and first cousins will be as great as this years. I am grateful to Kitty for getting us together.

4. For the health of a new nephew and perhaps more new kin.

5. To find some meaningful way to volunteer. I have missed the work I did as a volunteer and am finding it hard to get connected in Memphis. It's all complicated by the fact that I travel so much and so I can't commit to anything on a regular basis.

Happy New Year!