Friday, December 28, 2012

Dance it out

Today, on the corner in Chinatown where my ears are often assaulted by the paranoid ranting of one our more creative DC-area hate groups, there was a single person, armed with a laptop connected to an amplifier, blaring dance hall tunes.

Dancing with abandon.

Some people stopped, watched, laughed. Others passed by, head down.

I did some mix of the two, and smiled.

I don't know who you are. Keep dancing, please.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

The first time I really understood Christmas

I post it every year, because it’s true:

The first time I really understood the Nativity was in Yanoun, in the northern West Bank. The shepherds we were with–Mohammad and Mohammad, not joking–showed us where they keep their sheep. It was a low, dark, cave. Noisy, crowded with animals, and smelling like–well–sheep shit. The mangers were rusty, with sheep pushing at each other to find space to eat. Not the sort of place you’d want to have a kid. I remember thinking: “If God can be born here, I guess God can be born anywhere.”

(To support the people of Yanoun, who are sorely pressed by military occupation and nearby settlements, check out the Ecumenical Accompaniment Program of the World Council of Churches, which maintains a nonviolent accompaniment and human rights observation presence in the village.)

Monday, December 24, 2012

Christmas: Flickering light

Well. Here it is. Not sure if it's what I expected but it's what happened. Merry Christmas. I hope that today you can take some time look for ways--often tentative, fragile ways--that God is being born in unexpected places in your life. 

We are waiting.
In refugee camps, crowded with stories, crowded with pain, we are waiting.
In checkpoint lines, in terminals, interminable, we are waiting.
By hospital bedsides, with loved ones encased in tubes, we are waiting.
At psych ward nurses' stations, shuffling, in line for red pills, blue pills, pink pills, we are waiting.
By corner liquor stores, hands outstretched, pleading, we are waiting.
On Metro grates and airplanes, soup kitchen lines and traffic lanes, waiting, waiting, waiting.
All our lives this world has taught us: avoid it at all costs.
And yet, here we are anyway, desperate for distraction, driven to frustration, to panic even. 
Waiting.
We wait, and in our waiting we gain some small sense of a waiting that echoes forever in the hallways of time.
We wait, and on those rare occasions when we sense others waiting, too, we--if we are in our right minds--weep.
We wait, and on those rare occasions when we sense others waiting, too, we--if we are in our right minds--dance for joy.
Do we dare to ask if God is here?
Do we dare to risk confusion? Disappointment? Amazement?
We are told of a light in the darkness.
And in this deepest night of our waiting, do we begin to perceive it?
We are so tired of waiting.
And we are looking, searching, on horizons and in hearts,
For this dawning, this flickering, fragile suggestion of the great light that is to come. 


Advent: Looking, searching

And we are looking, searching, on horizons and in hearts...

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Advent: Tired

We are so tired of waiting.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Advent: deepest night

And in this deepest night of our waiting, do we begin to perceive it?

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Longest Night

I delivered this message at a Longest Night service at Wesley UMC last night. A Longest Night service is a service intended for those who have a difficult time around the holidays. Maybe they have  lost a loved one, making this time of gathering with family and friends particularly difficult. Or maybe they suffer from anxiety and depression. Or maybe the stress of the holidays in the U.S. is just too much. Maybe this will be helpful to you, too:

I don’t know why you’re here.

I don’t know if the loss of a loved one makes this time of year, this time of gathering with friends and family, particularly hard to bear. I don’t know if the horrific events in Connecticut last week are at the forefront of your mind. I don’t know if you’re one of the many people across this country who suffers from anxiety and depression around the holiday season. I don’t know if this time of shortened days and cold nights wears on your body and your soul. I don’t know if you are feeling, for whatever reason, that—in the words of the Psalmist—the waters have come up to your neck. That you are sinking in deep mire, where there is no foothold.

I do know this. I know that there is room, in the middle of the ‘tis the seasons and the bells and the tinsel and the ads blaring at you to “buy now before it’s too late.” Room for feelings of hurt and of loss. Room for you.

As Mary and Joseph approach Bethlehem, they do so cut off from their families. Scared. Confused. The Nativity itself, far from a picaresque scene for holiday cards, was a scene of desperate poverty. Their only shelter was likely a shallow cave. Mary’s baby was laid down in a dirty feeding trough. Before the angels and the shepherds, before the fireworks, there was only an isolated family huddled together, uncertain of the future, anxious, afraid.

The poverty of this family makes me think of a letter, written by the great psychoanalyst Carl Jung, to a young Christian woman. Jung wrote: “I admire Christians, because when you see someone who is hungry or thirsty, you see Jesus. When you welcome a stranger, someone who is ‘strange,’ you welcome Jesus. When you clothe someone who is naked, you clothe Jesus. What I do not understand, however, is that Christians never seem to recognize Jesus in their own poverty. You always want to do good to the poor outside you and at the same time you deny the poor person living inside you. Why can’t you see Jesus in your own poverty, in your own hunger and thirst? In all that is ‘strange’ inside you; in the violence and the anguish that are beyond your control! You are called to welcome all this, not to deny its existence, but to accept that it is there and to meet Jesus there.”

Each of us comes here tonight with our own poverties. And perhaps we have been taught to deny or repress those poverties, those hurting places in our lives. Particularly around this season of the year, we are meant to be cheerful, full of peace and goodwill. But our Savior was born in darkness and in poverty, and today we can still find God being born in the midst of our hurt and our mourning. Jesus, this child to be born, this God with us, is no stranger to the darkness.

The Psalmist prays: “My tears have been my food day and night,/While people say to me continually,/“Where is your God?” And perhaps you have been asking yourself this same question. Where is my God? The Christmas story tells us to look in places that we don’t expect. In caves. In dark places. As Jung writes, we look for Jesus “In all that is ‘strange’ inside us; in the violence and the anguish that are beyond our control.”

I hope that you are able to take time tonight to sit with whatever it is that brought you here. And to begin to ask a difficult question. Where is God in this? Where in this hurt, in this loss, in this fear, is Jesus being born?

God will not always be easy to see. The shepherds and the magi needed miraculous signs and direct messages from angels in order to see God. But God is at work in you, healing, easing alienation, suffering with you, standing alongside you.

This message—that God is with you, in the midst of what brings you here tonight—might not seem like enough. The birth of one child in a backwater occupied vassal state of the Roman Empire certainly did not seem like enough, either. But it is exactly here, and not on the Target sales floor, that we start to look for God being born to us. Because here, before the angels, before the shepherds, in the midst of the darkness and the fear, it is possible to find a quiet, fierce joy. The flickering hope of the great light to come.

Friday, December 21, 2012

You're talking about me

I was chillin' with my therapist/pastoral counselor the other evening, and we were talking about the Sandy Hook massacre, because really, what else do you talk about in therapy right now? I told my therapist that I felt choked up, like I didn't know what to say. He challenged me to think of what I might have to say given my particular situation.

The thing is, I've got some mixed feelings about the conversation happening right now in our country. After the shootings I saw a lot of posts on Facebook that said something to the effect of: "The conversation about guns is scapegoating [not true, I don't think] and the real conversation is about mental health."

I am all for a national conversation about mental health. We absolutely need more support for people in this country with mental illness.

But please do me a favor when you're having that conversation, and remember that you're talking about me.

I don't want to own a gun. And I'm sincerely grateful that Washington, DC has strict regulations on owning firearms. I am sincerely grateful that, at my lowest, I was not able to just walk into a shop and buy a gun here. I am pretty sure I wouldn't have hurt anyone else. But I very well might have hurt myself. 

I am one of the lucky ones in the country. As much debt as I'm in because of it, still, I was able to get treatment. And beyond that, I have a strong support network of friends and families and faith communities. So I'm really incredibly lucky. I was in the hospital with plenty of people who didn't have that kind of support and who were going to get booted from the hospital as soon as they were somewhat stabilized. They were going to be released into loneliness, maybe into homelessness, maybe into isolation.

So yes. We do need a national conversation about mental health in the country, and about the lack of support systems, and about the need for more and better treatment, and about the need to fight stigmatization and social isolation. But we need to have this conversation, not because people with mental illness are inherently more violent than anyone else--the common thread running through school shootings and other gun massacres in this country is not mental illness but white men with guns--but because there are too many people relegated to our streets and jails because there is nowhere else for you to go if you are mentally ill and don't have the money to pay for a private hospital. 

So please be part of the conversation about mental illness in this country. And please push for more support and better treatment. But please be careful that the conversation doesn't drift into one about profiling and stereotyping. 

Please remember that when you talk about mental illness, you're talking about millions of people.

Please remember that when you talk about mental illness, you're talking about me. 

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Advent: We are told

We are told of a light in the darkness.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Advent: Risk

Do we dare to risk confusion? Disappointment? Amazement?

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Advent: Do we dare?

Do we dare to ask if God is here?

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Advent: Joy

We wait, and on those rare occasions when we sense others waiting, too, we--if we are in our right minds--dance for joy.

I don't have many words for what happened Friday. So weeping seemed an appropriate response. And dancing always seems an appropriately defiant response. 

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Advent: Weep

We wait, and on those rare occasions when we sense others waiting, too, we--if we are in our right minds--weep.

I couldn't think of what else to day in response to the elementary school shooting today.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Advent: Hallways of time

We wait, and in our waiting we gain some small sense of a waiting that echoes forever in the hallways of time.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Advent: Here we are anyway

And yet, here we are anyway, desperate for distraction, driven to frustration, to panic even. Waiting.

Shared from a friend in Palestine

A friend living in Palestine shared this with me:

We are singled out,
waiting,
and strip-searched twice,
waiting,
in order to watch, 
waiting,
while our stuff is spread across a table,
waiting, 
and the guards accuse us of lying to our face. 
We are lying to their face
and pretending to read Mark Twain for six hours.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Advent: Avoid

All our lives this world has taught us: avoid it at all costs.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here. 

Monday, December 10, 2012

Advent: Waiting, waiting, waiting

On Metro grates and airplanes, soup kitchen lines and traffic lanes, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Advent: Psych Wards and Corner Stores

I missed a day, so two lines today. What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

At psych ward nurses' stations, shuffling, in line for red pills, blue pills, pink pills, we are waiting.

By corner liquor stores, hands outstretched, pleading, we are waiting.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Advent: Hospitals

By hospital bedsides, with loved ones encased in tubes, we are waiting.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Pop Pop

So I'm doing this Advent thing with a one line post a day. But my grandfather died this morning and I want to write about him.

I never called him grandfather actually. I called him Pop Pop. Come to think of it I have no idea how that particular appellation got attached to him, but that was the name that I always called him.

He died in his sleep at the age of 103, after a full, fruitful life. So I'm sad, but I mainly want to celebrate his life here. There's a lot to celebrate.

My memory is always a scattered sort of place, so I can't really construct a narrative of my experiences with Pop Pop. My dad and my aunts and uncle have spent some time collecting Pop Pop's story. But my memories are of particular things. Things like the various contraptions that Pop Pop would design to try to keep squirrels off of the bird feeders, back at the house in University Park. Things like the marimba in the upstairs room, though I don't know if I remember him playing it--I found out just the other day that Pop Pop played piano, when he played some for us at his 103rd birthday party. Things like Pop Pop playing golf, up until his 101st birthday, and how I saw him sink a long putt on Father's Day in his late 90's.

I remember Pop Pop sunbathing, in various places over various years. I remember a ukulele, and whistling. Whistling is probably my earliest memory of Pop Pop. I remember the kite he was making in his retirement community room, as if he were going to fly away. I remember him beating me at shuffleboard.

Each year at the family reunion, we had a book that people could write in to keep a joint account of our time together as a family. Pop Pop's children would encourage him to write in the book, and when he did, he always wrote that he missed his wife, my grandmother, Ellen. We called her Grams.

On Pop Pop's 100th birthday, the family threw him a big party, with my cousin as DJ. Pop Pop convinced multiple people to get him food. And he danced with my mom and my aunts.

There are plenty more stories that my family can tell. Maybe some of them will be shared here. Awhile ago I wrote about the lawnmower that Pop Pop passed down. And my family can tell you all about how Pop Pop and Grams met. And about Pop Pop training pilots during WWII. There's lots to tell.

But I guess what I'll end with is a comment that my dad made just the other day, at Pop Pop's 103rd birthday party. "He really keeps a good attitude about it all, which is really saying something at this age," my dad said. I think my dad and I probably have a particular reason to notice good attitudes about the world. Ours are a bit marred, both by mental illness and by an inbuilt sarcasm. But Pop Pop, in the midst of all the aging aches and pains, saw the world as a good place. You could see it in the way he looked at his great grandchildren as they played around him. Or in the contented way that he took naps in the sun. In the way he danced, and just generally kept plugging away. His is quite a life to celebrate, and he knew it. May the same be said of all of us.

(Pop Pop dancing with my mom on his 100th)

(Pop Pop with two of my little cousins)

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Advent: Checkpoints

In checkpoint lines, in terminals, interminable, we are waiting.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Advent -- Refugee camps

In refugee camps, crowded with stories, crowded with pain, we are waiting.

What's going on here? Check out the Advent blog idea here

Monday, December 3, 2012

Advent: We are waiting

It's Advent.

Advent is a season of waiting and preparation in expectation of the Incarnation, the birth of Jesus the Messiah.

It stands in stark counter-cultural contrast to the busy rush of holiday season, the shrill cry of advertisements, and for students the intensity of finals time.

This Advent, I'll be posting here each day. I'll be composing a poem. One line at a time. One day at a time.

I'm hoping that this will be an exercise in waiting, in preparation, though of course it runs the risk of just being silly. I won't rush this writing. It will take its time, throughout the month. It begins, simply and obviously enough:

We are waiting.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

"Who told you that you were naked?"

This is a sermon that I gave at the American University Methodist's healing service last week. It's called "Who told you that you were naked?"

One of the awesome AU students filmed it. The healing service is always a bit dark so it's hard to see, but there you have it.

It's interesting watching yourself do something. I think I move around way too much, and I don't like my voice. Also I keep laughing at my own sermon. But that's that. You watch, you learn.


Thursday, November 15, 2012

No words for Gaza

I had a nice post planned about a meeting with my psychiatrist and the reduction of one of my meds.

Then the bombs started falling on Gaza.

I feel like I have no words for Gaza. I have used up all of the words. I have said everything I can, and others have said the rest.

I have used all of the words. I have used the words "crushing oppression." I have used the words "blockade and closure," and the word "siege." I have used the word "apartheid." And as Rafeef Ziadah says, "No soundbite can fix this."
 

I have said, "3 billion dollars of military aid to Israel every year." I have said "Motorola makes the communication systems, Hewlett Packard the guidance systems and the checkpoint scanners." I have told the human interest stories that are supposed to make people care more than the statistics do. I have said, "Caterpillar makes the house demolishing bulldozers." I have said my paltry piece, and others have said so much more, and I just feel like we are out of words.

I pray, "Please God, don't make this like 2008." And meanwhile people are dying, 15 Palestinians dead, 4 of them children, 3 Israelis dead.

And I am tired of Matthew 25. Tired of quoting "the least of these." I am tired of saying:

"Jesus is dying in Gaza."

Monday, October 29, 2012

Hurricane Writing

Nothing relativizes a hurricane like the walking dead.

Or The Walking Dead, as the case might be.

I'm sitting in our common room watching bad TV with my housemates. This particular bad TV involves zombies, which really makes the as-of-yet mild roar of Hurricane Sandy seem harmless. Of course, this is just prelude. It's overnight that the winds are going to pick up, or so they say.

I don't know a thing about surviving a hurricane. I remember Isabelle at Washington College. We stayed on campus when everyone else evacuated, and enjoyed generator power and an open dining hall. In the aftermath we played in the trees that had fallen and one student kayaked up the main street in town to take photos.

Yesterday I bought a Street Sense from a woman in Tenleytown. I've bought papers from her before. She has a slow, sad smile.

"You going to stay dry these next couple of days?" I asked her. A stupid question. I regretted asking it as soon as I opened my mouth. "Yeah," she said, nice and slow. I don't know if she will.

So here I am, in a dry house, with our power still on, watching a television show about the zombie apocalypse (which actually would mean "zombie unveiling," not "zombie end of the world," but maybe that's a story for a different time) and somewhere out there there's flooding and the guy who I bought a sandwich for by the AU metro is who-knows-where (I bought him a bacon turkey bravo from Panera. He told me he had no idea what a "bravo" is but that it sounded delicious. I told him I didn't really know what a bravo was, either).

So that's what I've got for you on Hurricane Sandy. Zombies, and wondering. And hoping for the day when we don't have to bow our head and pray in church for all the people who won't have shelter these next few days.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Acne and less visible things

I preached last week at Grand Oaks, the assisted living facility at Sibley Hospital. Before the service began, one of the women seated in the chapel called me over to her.

"How are you?" I said.

"I need to ask you a personal question," she said.

"Ok."

"What's all this stuff on your neck? It looks like pimples or something."

::sigh::

"Yes m'am. It's acne. It's caused by a medicine that I have to take." Which is sort of true.

"Oh, but you're trying to get rid of it?"

"Yep, sure am." Which is sort of true.

"Well, I've just never seen anything like it before."

"Yeah, I like to do new things," I said.

"Oh yes. You're a pioneer!" she said.

I laughed, hard.

--

I've had acne since I was a teenager. Awful itchy stuff. I make it worse by scratching at it. In high school I was on medicine for it for a little bit but it gave me ugly stomach cramps so I stopped. (I got away lucky and didn't get put on Acutane, which as it turns out can make you suicidal. So not what I needed in high school, any more help with suicidality.)

In college I tries that Proactiv stuff for awhile, and it worked ok on my face, but wasn't really designed for my neck and my back.

Ok, why am I saying all of this?

Just the other day my friend Dana and I were eating in Chinatown. Just as we were leaving the restaurant, one of the waiters stopped me.

"For your neck," he said with great determination, "you need a Chinese doctor."

He went on to tell me that American doctors are no good for this kind of thing, that it's an inside issue not an outside issue, and that in the meantime I should eat a soup made out of pigeon, mungbean (I don't know what that is), and seaweed. He even gave me a slip of paper with the ingredients. I'm assuming I could buy the pigeon somewhere. I'm a bad pigeon hunter. I mean, not like I've tried or anything.

"There's a Chinese doctor on 6th street," he said as Dana and I thanked him and walked away. I wonder if they take my insurance.

--

What to make of this, this interest in my skin? Frustrating expectations about what people should or shouldn't look like? Wanting people to look at me and see something other than acne? Genuine concern from strangers? All of these, probably.

I guess what I've been thinking about, though, is how acne is easy to see and to ask about. Bipolar, or whatever it is, isn't so easy to spot. The stuff that really haunts my life isn't something I wear visible on my skin, with the faded exceptions of one forearm and a couple of other spots around my body.

So I've been thinking about minor, visible inconveniences. And major, invisible illness. And how my acne is made a lot worse by lithium, by the awful little pink pills that I take because they tell me that my sanity is worth everything tasting like metal and my hands shaking and my thoughts slowing down and my affect flattening out and, well, acne. And how neither acne nor bipolar do much for self-image.

And I'm thinking of how on this day, with the tree across the street turning red and some exercise put behind me and plans to head to MD to see a dear friend, life is worth it. Acne and side effects and bipolar be damned. I like this life.

And that's a major, invisible victory.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

"Stays hot longer that way"

"Excuse me, sir. Could you help me out a little today?"

"No, not today," I said, my standard response.

"Thank you, sir."

I walked on by.

And turned back after 10 yards. "You know, I'm going to Starbucks. You want anything from Starbucks?"

"A cup of coffee'd be nice," he said.

I realized after I had his coffee in hand that I didn't ask him what he took in it. A bit sheepish, I walked back out and handed it to him. "Not sure what you take in your coffee, so it's just black," I said.

"Oh, that's how I take it," he said. "Stays hot longer that way."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

And I walked away, wondering what I had put in my drink to make me feel this cold.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Sermon: "God's not done with us yet"

I have a post I need to write about Palestine and churches, and another post I need to write about one of those DC experiences you have that make you blink awake, but those aren't written and this is, so you get another sermon. I preached this on Sunday at Grand Oaks, the assisted living facility at Sibley Hospital (so about a 60 year jump from the demographic I preached to last). I think it went pretty well. I do that thing where I end more than once, but there it is, it's done and preached now.



Philippians 1:3-11
Psalm 51: 6-12

My father is a very practical man.

He’s the kind of person you want around when a tire goes flat or a furnace filter needs changing or a pipe is leaking. He and my mom live in North Carolina where I believe he’s in the process of building himself a work bench.

Like I said, he’s a very practical man.

It’s funny what we remember. I remember my dad’s shoes. As a child I watched my dad polish his shoes, something that he did, as far as I could tell, perfectly. He would spread newspaper all over the kitchen table and shine away until he had restored the row of shoes in his closet to perfection. 

I think I always took for granted what my father did. He would try to teach me how to do something, how to plant a garden or caulk or work with wood, and I would only half pay attention, because I knew, I just knew, that I would grow up and I would know how to do all these things. I figured that there would come a time that I was a grown up, and as a grown up I would know how to do grown up things. Why learn how to do them as a kid?

Well, I turned 10, and then 13, and then 16. When I was 16 I figured that I would be a grown up after high school. When I was in college I felt like I would be a grown up after college. And suddenly I was 25 and I still didn’t magically know how to do all these grown up things that I guess I thought I would suddenly be able to do at some point.

It turns out that I still have a lot of learning to do. Life’s not done with me yet.

I wonder how many of us are like this when it comes to our walk of faith. I wonder how many of us have gone through life thinking that there would come a time when we were finally where we wanted to be spiritually, when we had finally learned all that we could of God and we had become perfectly the disciples we are called to be. I don’t know about you, but I wonder if perhaps some of you have felt a sense of frustration about spirituality, a sense of not doing enough or praying enough or reading the Bible enough. I don’t know about you. But I know that I feel this frustration. That I often say to myself, “next week I’ll read the Bible more” or “come Lent I’ll pray more.”

There is good news for those of us who feel this sense of spiritual incompleteness, who wonder why at this point in our lives we don’t have it all together like we thought we would, that we’re not suddenly spiritual grown-ups like we thought we’d be. The good news is simply this: God’s not done with us yet.
I think we get a glimpse of that good news in Paul’s letter to the Philippian community. Paul is writing this letter from jail, and so it’s striking how joyful a letter this is, how reflective of the wonderful relationship in Christ that Paul and the Philippians have. This is a community that Paul (along with Timothy) planted, that he has watched grow up, that has supported his ministry from afar and welcomed him when he is near. And as joyful as Paul is about the Philippian disciples of Christ, as proud as he is of this community, he does not believe that they have finished their journey. Listen to his words: “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.” God, Paul believes, will complete the growth of this community. But not yet. Not yet. God isn’t done with them yet.

This concept of God’s continued work in our lives is often called “sanctification.” John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement, did not by any means invent this concept, but he did put a particular focus on it in his writing and sermons. Wesley, who emphasized the importance of grace, argued that humans experience grace in different ways. There is prevenient grace, the grace that comes before—that is, the grace that is at work in our lives before we even realize it, before we even know to call it grace. There is justifying grace, or pardoning grace—the grace through which we experience forgiveness from God and reconciliation with God. And then there is sanctifying grace, that grace that continues to be at work in our lives, growing holiness and deepening our relationship to God.

Wesley actually believed that it was possible for a believer to achieve what he called “perfection”—not perfection in the sense of making no mistakes but perfection in the sense of always acting out of love. But he also felt that he never achieved perfection in his lifetime, that he was always going on towards a goal. In other words, John Wesley, the founder of one of the great revival movements in the church’s history, felt that God wasn’t done with him yet.

We can see the concept of sanctification in Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Paul writes: “And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight, to help you determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you maybe be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.” Even the Philippian community, Paul’s favored child, had growth still to do. Their love could overflow more, and more, with more knowledge of God, more insight into the love of Jesus Christ. They had come a long way. But God wasn’t done with them yet.

We can see the concept of sanctification at work in the psalm that we read as well. Psalm 51 is a penitential psalm, begging forgiveness for past sin. But the psalmist doesn’t ask only for forgiveness. It’s not enough to be restored to a past state of affairs, before the sin. The psalmist wants transformation. Wants “wisdom in [their] secret heart.” Wants “a new and right spirit within [them].” Psalm 51 is a prayer that has faith in forgiveness. But it doesn’t stop at forgiveness. God isn’t done with the psalmist yet.

And so God is at work in our lives. Growing. Transforming. Leading. There is no magical point in our lives when we have learned everything we need to learn about God, when we have walked every step of discipleship there is to be walked. We continue in prayer, in Bible study, in meeting together in worship, not because we have it all together but exactly because we don’t. Exactly because we are still growing and learning in Christ. Exactly because the one who began a good work among us is still working in our lives to bring it to completion. Exactly because God isn’t done with us yet.

God is, this very day, extending God’s grace to us. Grace is already here. We are merely putting ourselves in the way of grace. Putting ourselves in the way of grace with our actions, with our prayers, with our life together. It’s something we commit to again, each day, knowing that God is not done with us yet.  
I have to admit that I still don’t know how to polish a nice pair of shoes, and that’s just the least of the things my dad can do that I still need to learn. I have a long way to go. All of us, no matter what stage of life we are in, still have a way to go to be the people that God intends us to be. But this is not like a test to see how much we can achieve in a lifetime. This is growth, fast or slow, growth toward the sun of God’s  love for us. We have a long way to go but we don’t go alone. God isn’t done with us yet.

Oh and one last thing. Paul’s letter to the Philippians was written to a community, not an individual believer. God is at work in our lives together. Spiritual growth is not something that happens just to one person or another person in isolation. We grow together in love. We lift each other up. We hold each other accountable. We pray together and study the Bible together. Because no matter what stage of life we are in, life is something we share. And God isn’t done with us yet.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Another "a year ago" blog

A year ago I was being admitted into the acute unit at Silver Hill, with deep scratches on my arms and some combination of anger and fear ruling my life.

I watched the leaves change last year in Connecticut, which would have been more beautiful if I wasn't in a wire cage with no top, turning around and around while the smells of cigarette break wafting around me. I woke up each morning to the sun striking at just the right angle, turning everything to gold. And it was beautiful, even though I was waking up in a prison designed for my safety. Even though I was trapped.

I moved to the big house across the street and learned about radical acceptance and riding the wave and all these other esoteric names of techniques for getting myself to calm down enough to keep living. And there was such frustration, and so many trips to the psychiatrist to be rediagnosed and rediagnosed again. And the leaves changed and they fell off the trees into the rushing brook behind the house and I imagined my thoughts rushing away like that, rushing away to plunge over the little dam and disappear. And I read Rilke, and Henri Nouwen, and I prayed and I prayed and I prayed.

I'm sitting in the cafeteria at Princeton now, and the leaves are starting to change here in the middle of New Jersey, and they are beautiful. And it is so good to be able to watch them in freedom. But there's sickness in my bones, and that sickness wants to be back in a hospital, back in an environment where everything is controlled and everything is provided to you. And where I prayed. I prayed all the time. I prayed when I woke up and when I went to bed. And now I'm learning how to pray again, learning how to pray when it doesn't seem like the only thing holding me together, even though I know that it still is, it still is, it still is.

I had this clever, really insightful blog saved up for a long time that I haven't finished or posted. And then this came along and I had to say something. A year ago I wrote letters to the outside world and wrote songs about a troubled young person I met in the hospital and walked along the pond and prayed. And I am so, so thankful to not be there, to be here in Princeton visiting Sarah instead.

The leaves will still change this year. Somebody is watching them from a wire cage in Connecticut with cigarette smoke drifting around them. Say a prayer for that person. Say a prayer for me.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Sermon: On Loneliness

I preached this sermon, or something like it, at last week's Healing Service at American University. We did the service outside and there wasn't a whole lot of light so I ditched the manuscript and did the best I could, so what you're reading is what might have been preached. It's a possibility. 

John 15: 12-15

Psalm 88

 “You have caused friend and neighbor to shun me; my companions are in darkness.” -- Ps 88

As many of you know, about a year ago I had what might politely be described as a nervous breakdown. I would find out later that I had been living with undiagnosed bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder for years, but at the time I didn’t know any of that and I was just really, really scared.

I had to be hospitalized, and in the hospital there were social workers who led group activities on topics relevant to our mental illnesses. One day, the social workers led an exercise on support systems. They asked each of us to make a list of 5 supports in our lives, 5 people or things that we could rely on in times of need. Now you have to know that at this point in time I was nearly incapable of thinking of positive things in my life. Everything seemed awful and everything hurt. But 5 supports? I could do that. Heck, I could do that with just Methodist clergy. Let’s see. There’s Mark Schaefer, here at AU. He drove me to the hospital and then stayed with me for 8 hours while I got checked in. So that’s 1. There’s Mary Kay Totty at Dumbarton. She came and visited me every single day that I was in there. So that’s 2. There’s Jimmy Sherrod, the pastor of the Crossroads worship service that I attend in the summer. So that’s 3. There’s Kate Murphey at Wesley UMC. She served me communion in the hospital and we shared the extra bread with another patient who spread butter on the body of Christ. So that’s 4. And there’s Charlie Parker at Metropolitan, who called to check up on me when I told him I wouldn’t be able to come to work. So that’s 5. I wouldn’t even have to include friends and family. Piece of cake, right?

I was the only person in the group who could name 5 supports. One person could name exactly 0.

“You have caused friend and neighbor to shun me; my companions are in darkness.”

I remember being shocked by this. I was feeling incredibly isolated, painfully alone. But if I, with my legion of support, was feeling alone, what did I have to say to these fellow patients that I was sharing a table with? Did I have anything to offer to people who experienced such loneliness?

Loneliness is a ghost. It haunts the halls of psych wards and prisons, of high powered firms and of American University. This week I asked some students whether they ever get lonely at college. All answered yes. Several of them looked at me like I had two heads. Of course the answer was yes. Homesickness. The loss of a carefully built support system back home. Busy schedules preventing quality time being spent with one another. The expectation that being surrounded by so many people on campus will cure loneliness when in reality it can’t. Loneliness, it seems, is present here on campus at American University.

Loneliness, I think, is one sign, one symptom, of the brokenness of the world in which we live and move and serve. By loneliness I don’t just mean being alone. We all need alone time, and solitude is a powerful spiritual practice. But that ache. That hurt. That desperate longing for someone else to share intimate time and space with. That is something beyond just being alone.

Our scriptures witness to the power of loneliness. The psalmist whose words we just heard cries out to God: “You have caused my companions to shun me, you have made me a thing of horror to them…You have caused friend and neighbor to shun me; my companions are in darkness.”

I want us to stop here, on these words. Think about how incredible they are. These are the words of holy scripture, words which we call “the Word of the Lord.” These are words that have been affirmed by generation upon generation of Jews and Christians as being holy, representative of God’s work in the world. And they are blaming God for loneliness. They are not just describing loneliness, they are throwing loneliness at the foot of God and saying, “God, why have you done this to me?” And this, we say, is an acceptable form of prayer. This is a Psalm, what in Hebrew is called tehillim: praises. Somehow this psalm of desperation and loneliness praises God. We have permission, Biblical permission, to cry out to God in the midst of loneliness and pain. God can handle, not only our feelings of loneliness, but our feelings that we have been victimized by loneliness, that this loneliness Should. Not. Be.

God can do more than just handle our feelings of loneliness, though. God expresses a radical solidarity with our experience, with our hurt. We read a passage from the Gospel of John in which Jesus calls the disciples, the people he has gathered around himself in community, his friends. His friends. Now Christians make a rather bizarre claim about Jesus, a homeless rabbi who was tortured to death in a stinking backwater of the Roman Empire. Christians make the claim, the absurd claim, that in this Jesus we see the very face of God. This is a shocking thing to say. It is so shocking that the early church spent centuries arguing about what exactly it means. I’m in a class in seminary right now that is dedicated largely to learning about these arguments. There was a lot of name-calling, a lot of excommunicating and anathematizing, attached to disputes over such questions as: How can Jesus be both human and divine? How is Jesus, God the Son, related to God the Father? Did God die on the cross?

So we have this claim, this ridiculous claim, that Jesus, the Human One, is also somehow divine. And this Jesus, this Human and Divine One, calls to himself a group of friends. Friends. People to intimately share time and space with. Which to me, begs a question. If God needs friends, does God get lonely?

I believe in a God who, through Jesus the Christ, expresses radical solidarity with the human condition. A God who knows what it is to be lonely, knows what it is to need friends. Knows what it is to beat back the silence of seclusion, to gather companions to shed some sort of light into the darkness of isolation. A God who not only hears the broken cry of the psalmist, “You have caused my companions to shun me,” but who deeply understands that cry, who has even spoken aloud the words of another psalmist “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.”

So we have this God, this God who hears the cry of the lonely, the God who even bends so far down into the human experience so as to experience loneliness. And furthermore, we have this God who makes some sort of demand on our lives. A God who calls us to follow, to follow after this Human One, this homeless street preacher, this Jesus. So what are we called to do? How are we called to follow, in this world haunted by loneliness, on this campus, in this community?

Community. What a word. Dorothy Day, the founder of the Catholic Worker communities that continue to serve the poor and the hurting to this day, once wrote: “We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.” In the face of the power of loneliness, in the midst of a society in which, despite our access to communication technology and our iPhones and our Facebook profiles people experience increasing individualism and increasing isolation, we are called into community. Not just any community, either. A counter-cultural community. A community that pushes down walls of division. That throws it’s arms open to include, to embrace, undeterred by barriers of class or of race or of gender identity or of sexual orientation or of religion or of age or of mental health or, or, or, the list could go on and on.

Friends, God is forming us into that community, into that kingdom, even as we speak. But we are called into cooperation with that formation of community. We are called, yes, to work for that community. And we have a lot of work to do. Religious communities still divide themselves along racial lines. Along class lines. Along age lines. Many religious communities still exclude, explicitly or implicitly, lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people from their life together. Many religious communities still exclude those on the margins of society, those experiencing mental illness or addiction or chronic homelessness. And many religious communities are simply microcosms of societal loneliness. People arrive to church lonely and walk away lonely, with the walls hardened around our hearts unchallenged by genuine community. So yes, we have a lot of work to do.

But I see that work happening, here on campus at American University. I see conversations with people coming to a Methodist service for the first time. I see hospitality bags being assembled and distributed. I see the passing of the peace taking a central place in the worship service. I see a reconciling statement making it clear that LGBTQ worshipers are welcome here. I see people responding to Facebook friend requests and visiting people who are sick, often with soup in hand. I see people gathering around this simple meal of bread and wine that we will soon share together, made one by the grace of God. I see people lighting candles in the face of the darkness of loneliness.

Our work, the work of community, is not done. It is not done because there are still people in the psych ward at Sibley Hospital just up the road who cannot name a single support in their life. It is not done because there are people on this campus contemplating hurting themselves or killing themselves because they just do not see any way out of the loneliness haunting their lives. And if you are sitting here listening to this and you are haunted by loneliness, if you are hurting and you are feeling the pain of brokenness, know that this community is here for you, that Mark is here and I’m here and the person sitting down the row from you is here, that we will do what we can to break open the shell of isolation and to sit with you and to be with you in the midst of what you are going through.

Friends, our work is not finished. But our work is begun. And as we move forward, candle by candle in the face of the darkness of loneliness, we are accompanied by a God who is not a stranger to loneliness. A God who accepts us in the midst of the isolation that we inevitably feel. A God to whom it is acceptable to cry out in separation and in fear. And yet a God who calls us to not only be disciples, but friends. Friends of each other. Friends of those in need. Friends of God. And that, friends, is good news indeed.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Not to Lose Heart

This is a sermon that I preached at Wesley UMC on Sunday. I was asked to substitute preach on the first Sunday of a sermon series on faith and politics. This is one of those torturous pieces of writing that I wrote one sentence at a time, but it went ok when I preached it: 

 “Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.” When Pastor Kate asked me if I could preach today, she told me I was allowed to preach on whatever I wanted. Then she told me that this Sunday the cooperative parish begins a series on faith and politics, coinciding with the intensification of national election season. The series will explore the intersection of faith and politics, asking questions such as: “How does our faith affect our politics, if at all? What issues are important to us as a faith community? Is it possible to have political conversations in a Christian manner?”

“No way I’m touching that,” I thought to myself, “especially not to people I don’t know. I’ll stick with something safer.”

It was an easy decision to make. I’ve been cynical about politics recently, and the week that Kate asked me to preach was a particularly ugly one in the political scene, with name calling and personal attacks ruling the day on both ends of the political spectrum. So it was an easy decision not to preach on faith and politics. 

Christians should be wary of easy decisions, though, so I’m preaching on faith and politics after all. I’m preaching on faith and politics, despite my cynicism and my doubt, because Jesus told the disciples a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.

Why is this parable relevant? In this parable, Jesus instructs the disciples to model their prayer life after a patient widow, persistently demanding justice in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Jesus’ choice of a widow as the protagonist of the parable is important. In Palestinian Jewish society of Jesus’ day, widows—like widows in many societies today—were vulnerable because they lacked the economic means to provide for themselves. Widows were supposed to be protected by Jewish law, but in this case an unjust judge denies the widow her rights. The widow persists in her demands, however, and through her steadfast opposition to injustice she wears the unjust judge down. I love that line. Says the judge: “I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.” The patient widow wears down injustice.

In order to explain why the disciples should continue to pray and to hope for justice, Jesus lifts up the example of a marginalized woman who does not give up, even when it seems as if giving up is the logical thing to do. It is a story of radical hope, and Jesus ties the story directly into an admonition to continue to pray for justice: “And will not God grant justice to God’s chosen ones who cry to God day and night?”

As Christians, then, we are called to have a radical hope in the reign of God, a reign that despite seeming evidence to the contrary is victorious over the evil and injustice that we see all around us. But it’s hard to have a radical hope, isn’t it? When so much of the atmosphere that surrounds us, and especially so much of the political atmosphere that surrounds us here in Washington, DC, is marked by cynicism and despair, it is hard to counter that with hope. When complex social positions are reduced to shallow sound bites and personal attacks seem to rule the political playing field, it doesn’t seem like there is much room for hope. When the gap between the rich and poor continues to increase and social safety nets that protect the poor continue to be cut, it doesn’t seem like there’s much to be hopeful about.

And yet Jesus instructs the disciples to pray always and not to lose heart. Jesus presents the disciples with a picture of radical hope that is to guide their prayer life and their actions in the world. This radical hope is not a shallow optimism. The patient widow does not sit back on her heels and say, “I hope that things will get better.” Nor does she give up. She takes action, brave and persistent action, on behalf of justice.

What does this radical hope look like for us as disciples today, especially as it relates to the intersection of faith and politics? First, like the patient widow, our radical hope doesn’t give up. It doesn’t say, “working for justice is too hard,” nor does it say, “this is impossible,” nor does it say, “it’s never going to change.” Instead, our radical hope leads us to take the next step for justice, the next step that God is calling us to make for God’s kingdom, and to proceed forward one step at a time. Each step that we take is a prayerful step, looking always to a God who does not give up on us. Persistence in prayer, Jesus says, is as important for the disciples as persistence in action. In the parable,prayer is action, and action is prayer.

Second, our radical hope holds up the marginalized just as Jesus holds up the patient widow as an example of persistence and prayerful action for justice. Our radical hope is not so concerned with grappling in the halls of power as it is about the concerns of the powerless. We are to be amplifiers, megaphones, empowering the voices of the marginalized so that those voices might be heard by all of those with decision making powers.

All of those with decision making powers. Which raises a third aspect of the radical hope modeled by Jesus’ parable. Radical hope transcends partisan political boundaries. Radical hope is neither Democrat nor Republican. The only side it takes is the side of justice, of the marginalized, of the oppressed. It prayerfully wears away at political divisions. It is immune to name-calling and dishonesty and shallow sound bites of all sorts. The patient widow wears down the unjust judge not because of competing political parties but because an injustice has been done, and must be rectified.

This all sounds a bit too much like theory, though. What does radical hope really mean for us, today, in Washington, DC or in Maryland, during this election year? What sort of steps or actions can we take, what sort of prayers should we be praying, when our faith and our politics intersect?

Here’s one story, a parable if you will. In 2011, a federal budget was proposed that would strip massive amounts of funding from programs benefiting the poor. In response, Ambassador Tony Hall decided to pray and to fast for one month. He was eventually joined by 36,000 Americans, including 28 members of Congress. Reflecting on the impact of the movement, Hall says “Hungerfast didn’t focus on any one specific political ask. Instead, we sought to fundamentally alter the contours of the budget debate; we wanted to change the very nature of the political and spiritual environment within which the national debate took place. Our goal was to put a moral frame on the budget, and make the case that “budgets are moral documents.”” The fast did not entirely succeed in restoring programs for poor to the budget, but then again the patient widow did not always succeed in achieving justice. However, the amount of cuts was significantly reduced. More importantly, according to Hall, political discourse around the budget was changed so that moral considerations, rather than simply political expediency, were part of the conversation. The fast changed Hall as well. “In the end,” he says, “I believe fasting is effective because it moves us closer to the heart of God, resulting in a humble and quiet transformation of our own hearts that fundamentally changes the way we walk through life.”

And maybe that’s the most important thing about a politics of radical hope. It changes us. Jesus tells the story of the patient widow as an admonition to the disciples about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. Just as the patient widow works away at the unjust judge, so radical hope works away at us, disintegrating cynicism and despair, empowering us, forming us more and more in the image of the Christ who breaks down boundaries and frees us from all forms of chains.

So what does a politics of radical hope mean this election season? What does it mean to be a patient widow at the intersection of faith and politics? It means not to give up. It means that although we cannot always expect quick results, we can trust in a faithful God who will “quickly grant justice…to God’s chosen ones who cry to God day and night.” It means that we do not lose sight of God’s kingdom breaking out right here, right in the midst of us, right in the midst of what looks all-too-often like cynicism and despair. Breaking out in conversations. Breaking out in movements for justice and peace. Breaking out in members of DC’s homeless community advocating for their own needs and rights. Breaking out in churches and communities that fling their doors open wide to include and to embrace and to empower.

Yes, faith matters to politics. And politics to faith. But we approach this intersection with a radical, prayerful hope that informs all that we do and all that we say. Jesus told them a parable. So pray always. And don’t lose heart.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Sermon: Not to Lose Heart

Here is a sermon I preached Sunday at Wesley UMC in Washington, DC. I somehow got tapped to guest preach on the first Sunday of a sermon series on faith and politics. Here's what I did with it: “Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.” When Pastor Kate asked me if I could preach today, she told me I was allowed to preach on whatever I wanted. Then she told me that this Sunday the cooperative parish begins a series on faith and politics, coinciding with the intensification of national election season. The series will explore the intersection of faith and politics, asking questions such as: “How does our faith affect our politics, if at all? What issues are important to us as a faith community? Is it possible to have political conversations in a Christian manner?” “No way I’m touching that,” I thought to myself, “especially not to people I don’t know. I’ll stick with something safer.” It was an easy decision to make. I’ve been cynical about politics recently, and the week that Kate asked me to preach was a particularly ugly one in the political scene, with name calling and personal attacks ruling the day on both ends of the political spectrum. So it was an easy decision not to preach on faith and politics. Christians should be wary of easy decisions, though, so I’m preaching on faith and politics after all. I’m preaching on faith and politics, despite my cynicism and my doubt, because Jesus told the disciples a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. Why is this parable relevant? In this parable, Jesus instructs the disciples to model their prayer life after a patient widow, persistently demanding justice in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Jesus’ choice of a widow as the protagonist of the parable is important. In Palestinian Jewish society of Jesus’ day, widows—like widows in many societies today—were vulnerable because they lacked the economic means to provide for themselves. Widows were supposed to be protected by Jewish law, but in this case an unjust judge denies the widow her rights. The widow persists in her demands, however, and through her steadfast opposition to injustice she wears the unjust judge down. I love that line. Says the judge: “I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.” The patient widow wears down injustice. In order to explain why the disciples should continue to pray and to hope for justice, Jesus lifts up the example of a marginalized woman who does not give up, even when it seems as if giving up is the logical thing to do. It is a story of radical hope, and Jesus ties the story directly into an admonition to continue to pray for justice: “And will not God grant justice to God’s chosen ones who cry to God day and night?” As Christians, then, we are called to have a radical hope in the reign of God, a reign that despite seeming evidence to the contrary is victorious over the evil and injustice that we see all around us. But it’s hard to have a radical hope, isn’t it? When so much of the atmosphere that surrounds us, and especially so much of the political atmosphere that surrounds us here in Washington, DC, is marked by cynicism and despair, it is hard to counter that with hope. When complex social positions are reduced to shallow sound bites and personal attacks seem to rule the political playing field, it doesn’t seem like there is much room for hope. When the gap between the rich and poor continues to increase and social safety nets that protect the poor continue to be cut, it doesn’t seem like there’s much to be hopeful about. And yet Jesus instructs the disciples to pray always and not to lose heart. Jesus presents the disciples with a picture of radical hope that is to guide their prayer life and their actions in the world. This radical hope is not a shallow optimism. The patient widow does not sit back on her heels and say, “I hope that things will get better.” Nor does she give up. She takes action, brave and persistent action, on behalf of justice. What does this radical hope look like for us as disciples today, especially as it relates to the intersection of faith and politics? First, like the patient widow, our radical hope doesn’t give up. It doesn’t say, “working for justice is too hard,” nor does it say, “this is impossible,” nor does it say, “it’s never going to change.” Instead, our radical hope leads us to take the next step for justice, the next step that God is calling us to make for God’s kingdom, and to proceed forward one step at a time. Each step that we take is a prayerful step, looking always to a God who does not give up on us. Persistence in prayer, Jesus says, is as important for the disciples as persistence in action. In the parable, prayer is action, and action is prayer. Second, our radical hope holds up the marginalized just as Jesus holds up the patient widow as an example of persistence and prayerful action for justice. Our radical hope is not so concerned with grappling in the halls of power as it is about the concerns of the powerless. We are to be amplifiers, megaphones, empowering the voices of the marginalized so that those voices might be heard by all of those with decision making powers. All of those with decision making powers. Which raises a third aspect of the radical hope modeled by Jesus’ parable. Radical hope transcends partisan political boundaries. Radical hope is neither Democrat nor Republican. The only side it takes is the side of justice, of the marginalized, of the oppressed. It prayerfully wears away at political divisions. It is immune to name-calling and dishonesty and shallow sound bites of all sorts. The patient widow wears down the unjust judge not because of competing political parties but because an injustice has been done, and must be rectified. This all sounds a bit too much like theory, though. What does radical hope really mean for us, today, in Washington, DC or in Maryland, during this election year? What sort of steps or actions can we take, what sort of prayers should we be praying, when our faith and our politics intersect? Here’s one story, a parable if you will. In 2011, a federal budget was proposed that would strip massive amounts of funding from programs benefiting the poor. In response, Ambassador Tony Hall decided to pray and to fast for one month. He was eventually joined by 36,000 Americans, including 28 members of Congress. Reflecting on the impact of the movement, Hall says “Hungerfast didn’t focus on any one specific political ask. Instead, we sought to fundamentally alter the contours of the budget debate; we wanted to change the very nature of the political and spiritual environment within which the national debate took place. Our goal was to put a moral frame on the budget, and make the case that “budgets are moral documents.”” The fast did not entirely succeed in restoring programs for poor to the budget, but then again the patient widow did not always succeed in achieving justice. However, the amount of cuts was significantly reduced. More importantly, according to Hall, political discourse around the budget was changed so that moral considerations, rather than simply political expediency, were part of the conversation. The fast changed Hall as well. “In the end,” he says, “I believe fasting is effective because it moves us closer to the heart of God, resulting in a humble and quiet transformation of our own hearts that fundamentally changes the way we walk through life.” And maybe that’s the most important thing about a politics of radical hope. It changes us. Jesus tells the story of the patient widow as an admonition to the disciples about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. Just as the patient widow works away at the unjust judge, so radical hope works away at us, disintegrating cynicism and despair, empowering us, forming us more and more in the image of the Christ who breaks down boundaries and frees us from all forms of chains. So what does a politics of radical hope mean this election season? What does it mean to be a patient widow at the intersection of faith and politics? It means not to give up. It means that although we cannot always expect quick results, we can trust in a faithful God who will “quickly grant justice…to God’s chosen ones who cry to God day and night.” It means that we do not lose sight of God’s kingdom breaking out right here, right in the midst of us, right in the midst of what looks all-too-often like cynicism and despair. Breaking out in conversations. Breaking out in movements for justice and peace. Breaking out in members of DC’s homeless community advocating for their own needs and rights. Breaking out in churches and communities that fling their doors open wide to include and to embrace and to empower. Yes, faith matters to politics. And politics to faith. But we approach this intersection with a radical, prayerful hope that informs all that we do and all that we say. Jesus told them a parable. So pray always. And don’t lose heart.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Rachel Corrie, Patient Widows, and Having a Home

Justice was denied again yesterday in the case of Rachel Corrie, the U.S. peace activist and advocate who was killed in Gaza in 2003 by an Israeli military bulldozer, a Caterpillar D9. Rachel's parents, who I have had the honor of meeting, had brought a suit against the Israeli military in Israeli courts. The verdict of the case once again completely whitewashes her death. I'm no reporter. You can read about it more at CNN, or read this article in the Guardian, or this press release from Jewish Voice for Peace, which includes information about divestment. I support divestment, with my whole heart. But tonight I don't have the heart to write about it.

Cindy and Craig Corrie remind me of the patient widow in Luke 18, slowly trying to wear down the unjust judge of militarism and the organized destruction of a people. Cindy always speaks with such compassion in her eyes. My heart breaks for them as, once again, they relive the death of their daughter. A few years ago I remember Cindy talking about the trial, then in its early stages. The bulldozer driver testified from behind a screen. "They wouldn't even let us see his face," she said. "He'll stay a machine to us now."

Hearing about Rachel's death reminds me of the house demolitions that continue today in the occupied Palestinian territories. If you've been following this blog long enough you've seen me write about some of the ones that I saw. I remember the noise--I still get tense when those jack-hammer bulldozers dig into the asphalt--and the dust, and the sound of the mother keening. And that deep sunk pit in my stomach, that internal, accusatory voice whenever I opened my mouth to complain: "But you have a home, but you have a home, but you have a home."

I have not been doing advocacy this past year, I think for some understandable reasons. But if anything gets me back into it, it might be that voice. I have a home. I have a home. I have a home. And whether it's bulldozers in Palestine or poverty in DC, something has to be done as long as I have a home and someone else doesn't.

Rachel is dead. She died trying to protect a home from being demolished. What sort of life can we live so that everyone can have a home?

--

"oh rafah. aching rafah.
aching of refugees
aching of tumbled houses
bicycles severed from tank-warped tires
and aching of bullet-riddled homes
all homes worm0eaten by bullets and then
impregnated through bullet holes by birds" -- Rachel Corrie, as printed in Let Me Stand Alone

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

A cure for loneliness

This blog might very well be about my undying love for Jimmy Sherrod.

Or for you, for that matter.

I am surrounded by such incredible people such an incredible amount of the time. I am offered such grace, and I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know how to be grateful for it. And I don't know what to do  with the fact that there are so many people--I have met too many of them--who are still so alone in this world, or the fact that I can be lonely in a crowd of people, in a crowd of friends even.

I wonder often about a cure for loneliness.

I have told this story before, but it needs telling again. When I was in the hospital, in the psych ward at Sibley, one of the social workers asked us to do an exercise in which we were to name 5 supports that we had outside of the hospital. Five people who could be part of our mental health safety net. I could fill my 5 slots entirely with Methodist clergy and not even get to friends and family members. I was the only person in the group who could name 5. One person said he could not think of any.

Loneliness is fallout from the brokenness that we all see in so many shapes and sizes. Loneliness. As pervasive as economic inequality, as structural and overt violence, as racism and sexism. As omnipresent as war, but more subtle, growing more like weeds out of pavement. Is there a cure for loneliness?

Depression--and probably plenty of states besides depression--makes you lonely all the time. Being actually alone is the worse for me. The walls close in. The floor rears up. I scream, soundlessly sometimes, sometimes not. But you can be talking to someone you care about and feel alone. Feel trapped in a body you don't want, a mind you can't live with. Is there a cure for loneliness?

I don't know anything other than to surround myself with people who help me beat back the loneliness. To wage a constant struggle with it. To open the door to my room. To say hello to my housemates. To pray, and trust that I am heard.

There are people, so many people, who bring the candle of their love, of their presence, into the dark room of my loneliness. Thank you all. Despite all the barriers thrown up in your way, you keep coming. Maybe together we can find the cure.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Acclimated

I met with my new psychiatrist on Wednesday. I'm pretty sure I'm older than him.

This is an ageist comment, the kind of comment I hate when I hear it said about my young clergy friends. But I thought it, and I figured I'd keep this blog honest, so there it is.

Since we were new to each other, we had to rehash some of the ground that I've been going over since last June. He had to ask me the questions about hypomania and side effects and suicidal ideation and self-harm and all of that.

He was really positive about me and my current condition. And that freaked me out.

Here's an example. We were talking about suicidal ideation, and he asked me if I still experience it. "Sure," I said. "It's in the background, always there."

"So do you have a plan?"

"Sometimes. But it's controllable."

"Good. That's really good. That's great."

And that's the thing. I don't want it to be great. I don't want "Feeling suicidal but I'll be alright" to be a good thing. I don't want to be acclimated to this, to accept it as part of what's "normal" for me.

But it is, and I have to.

I've seen this before, which is one of the reasons it bothers me so much. I saw it in Palestine, with the shock of guns and Wall and checkpoints slowly fading into the everyday background buzz of life under occupation. I see it here in DC, too, with just how immune I get to my unhoused sisters and brothers, sharing hot sidewalks and gathering in doorways and under awnings. I just don't have to notice anymore.

So I'm susceptible to normalization, and I don't want to be. I want to keep my capacity for shock. For caring.

Where's the line between radical acceptance and just being acclimated to awful?

I don't know. I really don't know.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

We Were in Nicaragua

What to say about Nicaragua?

We flew into Managua and saw the congestion and the FSLN graffiti and the people, the people, the people. We were in Nicaragua.

The first night we played tourist and danced. We were in Nicaragua.

The next morning we met with Accion Medica Cristiana (AMC), Christian Medical Action, the organization we would be working with over the coming week. We learned about the land banks, plots of land offered to locals in the rural region of Matagalpa, who are given a no interest loan for the land that they have to pay off in 10 years. We would work on one of these land banks, El Progreso. We met Belinda, a UMC missionary working with AMC, as well as Alex, a mission intern (the same program I did, what seems like forever ago). We visited a dental clinic that Metropolitan UMC (the church I work for, the sponsor of the trip) supports, and Debora the young dentist cried when she talked about what the church's support had allowed her to do. We went to a market. We saw a volcano. We were in Nicaragua.



We toured Managua. We learned about Sandino, and then saluted the massive silhouette of him that overlooks the city. We joked about his swagger. We heard about the earthquake. We noticed the fresco of the conquistador over the entrance to the old cathedral, killing indigenous people. We ate at a chain, and Kate was upset about it.


We watched a baseball game and went to a Christian Base Community, one of many of such groups that had formed during the revolution and the contra war, providing voice within (and often outside of) the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. We heard the members of the community discuss the gospel, and the service was led by youth and the music as well. And afterwards we talked with the community, and people got defensive when they felt they were being accused of supporting U.S. policy in Nicaragua, and it was hard.

We spent most of the week in the rural mountains of Matagalpa. The views were incredible, opening up in vast expanses, and one day we were driving in a cloud with clouds clutching at the mountainsides across the valley and on the distant slopes you could tell that the sun was shining. We were in Nicaragua.



The people were incredible, too. We worked alongside the families of the land bank, building latrines. Concepcion laughed when I stumbled into the brick wall we had worked so hard on, almost ruining all of our work. Alex and Veronica did most of the work after that. I was, I am, of questionable use. But we asked questions and shared sugar cane, and on a rainy day played soccer with people of the community. And in the end we had three latrines, three steps toward public health, and we'd started two others. And we'd gotten to know the strength and the sharing and the compassion and the hospitality of this place. We were in El Progreso. We were in Nicaragua.



We stayed in Santa Luz during the week, in a little collection of buildings that even had some running water, shock-cold-and-you're-breathless. And Andy got sick, then Jimmy, then I did. It was miserable. But that doesn't stack up against the wonderful meals, the conversations. The children. The rain on the roof. The lightning. The stars the stars the stars. We were in Nicaragua.

We met with the Women and Community group, and heard the incredible work they're doing in domestic violence situations and with access to birth control and even providing shelter and comfort for a member of the community who had come out. And we swam in a lake formed out of an old volcano, and in the background another volcano loomed, smoking. And we leaped off of a dock together. And the volcano was still there, and all of our rhymes ended in volcano, and we drank Nicaraguan beer and played at being tourists. And we were in Nicaragua.

Flying back into the U.S. we had the craziest experience in the Miami airport. We barely made our flight. And then we were back in D.C. And now we are in the U.S., and the question is what to do now, what to do with all of these experiences, what to tell, what to show, how to act and advocate and amplify, what to do with all of the experiences that we had while we were in Nicaragua.

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The pictures here were all taken by my fantastic friend Anna. Thanks Anna!