Easter

We say he is risen, He is risen indeed. 

But do we remember? Why did he bleed?

He stood up to empire and religion allied

With the outcast and foreigner he identified.

Confronting the system and powers that be

Led to his undoing, being lynched on a tree.

So if he is risen, risen indeed 

Can we say he is risen, he is risen in me?

Has he softened my heart enough to see?

The immigrant and foreigner could easily be me?

We will all condemn Judas, on that we agree

Selling out for the silver, that just cannot be 

Yet for money and status, for one rung to climb

We'd sell our souls for just one more dime.

We can't undo all the choices we've made

For the past is sealed, the price must be paid

Our choice is this moment, to affirm or deny

To cease our frenzy and quit living a lie

To believe about Christ was never the deal

But follow his teachings, to make his word real.

Donuts and Ashes

The pile of Pączkis in my local grocer remind me that “Fat Tuesday” (Polish Mardi Gras) is upon us. Pączkis are rich cream or compote filled donuts. A final indulgence before Ash Wednesday begins 40 days of fasting. I choose not to observe this ritual because my body gives me plenty of reminders that I am returning to ash and dust.

This annual observance of gluttony and fasting is supposed to remind me that I am a sinner, a slave to “original sin” or “utter depravity.” The assumption is that I will somehow be transformed by ritualized indulgence and self-denial. Except that I am not. I remain vexed by behaviors and motives I do not understand. So from time to time I pray:

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."  

Even though I am no longer religious, somehow this prayer has stuck with me. When I recite these words, I often extend it, “that I may have mercy on others.” What is it about this prayer that resonates in me? 

As I thought about it, I realized that as a "sinner" I am simply a person with a shadow (dark side). I share this trait with all of humanity. Yet I was taught that being baptized or "accepting Jesus" would render me free of sin (my shadow). I was taught to place all of my sin, my wrong attitudes, motives, and doings on Jesus so I don't have to deal with my own darkness. St Paul wrestled with his darkness when he observed:

"For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing." -Romans 7:19

Like St Paul, I noticed that my darkness didn't go away. Paul finally asks “who will deliver me?” and answers his own question when he says “through Jesus Christ my Lord.” But what is it about Jesus that deals with our shadow?  Jesus makes it visible!

Jesus made the collective shadow of society visible. The shadow of society is reflected in its caste system. Jesus upended the caste system of his day by making invisible people visible. He took notice of the lame, the blind, the leprous, tax collectors, and prostitutes. He took them out of the shadows of society and treated them with dignity. In the end that was the charge against him, “he eats with tax collectors and prostitutes.”

Jesus also dealt with individual shadows. When he challenged the rich young man to follow him and the man refused because he had wealth and standing in society, his attachment to wealth was exposed. 

Simply observing religious rituals and practices alone did nothing to transform me or anyone else I know. Religious practices do help us feel good about ourselves. Acts of penance makes us feel like we've paid for our sins. Piety bolsters our standing in a community. But as soon as something challenges our notion of goodness, who is deserving of help, who belongs and who doesn't, our dark side comes out.

So what to do about our shadow? Keep it in view! Like a mischievous cat. Those of you who have cats know that silence means one of two things: they are sleeping or they are up to something. So we close off rooms to limit their range… and keep them in view. 

Our shadows are a part of who we are because we have substance. We exist. And we cast a shadow in the presence of light. Attempting to deny our shadow only results in projection on someone else. This results in blaming, shaming, and scapegoating.

“On a cultural level, shadow means what our group, our tribe, our religion, our political party deems negative, out of bounds, to be shunned, to be improved, or to be punished. Behind every social oppression lurks a piece of group shadow whose members are exporting it onto others who are not of their tribe. When the shadow part is not faced, it goes unconscious and lives there.” ~Ann Belford Ulanov, Where to put the Bad?

So I will skip the Pączkis. I will forgo the ashes on my head. I will try to keep my shadow in view. I will hold it in tension and accept that it is a part of me. If I can see my shadow, then I can be sure it will not act through me. I can treat all people with dignity, which is the most subversive thing you can do in this day and age.

Humanizing Christ

 "and they twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand. Then they knelt in front of him and mocked him." —Matthew 27:29

"Behold the Man"  by Antonio Ciseri

During Lent I’ve noticed how much oppression and evil in the world is tolerated, ignored, and even supported by those who identify as Christians. There seems to be very little correlation between the life of Jesus and the life of his followers. Sadly, what I and many others see are self-identifying Christians becoming more openly cruel and oppressive under the standard of the Cross. What is going on here? 

I believe it is how we understand Christ, our Christology, if you will. Christology is just a fancy theological term for the nature and work of Jesus of Nazareth. The dominant theology in the West is focused almost entirely on the divinity of Jesus. Unfortunately this understanding comes at the expense of his humanity. And ours. It has taken my entire life to realize this.

During my time in the church, I cannot recall hearing a sermon about the humanity of Jesus. Rarely did I hear a teaching about the Beatitudes, the Sermon on the Mount, or Jesus' encounters with outcasts. I heard many sermons and teachings about the fate of "sinners in the hands of an angry god," the evils of the world, the dangers of liberal thought, warnings about sexual taboos, and of course sermons hawking for money. Most of what I heard was fear-inducing and transactional. It was all about "the deal" of accepting Jesus and having my sins washed away. Having read the bible several times and the Gospels in particular, I began to see the human side of Jesus. Seeing the humanity of Jesus made the humanity of others visible to me.

Among his first public acts Jesus touched a leper. In Jesus' day, no one touched a leper. Jesus' touch healed the man. Sometimes we breeze over that passage and fail to see the human connection in that moment. That man may not have felt another human touch in years. When Jesus connected his own humanity with the humanity of the leper, he rehumanized him! The man's healing was social as well as physical. After that encounter and the healing of the centurion's servant, some folks were zealous to follow him. But what Jesus had done was a radically political act. It violated social and religious norms, and as such the action carried considerable risk. Jesus warned his would-be acolytes about the cost, a cost he never failed to fully disclose. He warned them of the consequence of his all-embracing humanity,  "the son of man has no place to lay his head" (Matthew 8:20). Note that in calling himself "the son of man" Jesus underscores his humanity. It's a phrase he uses many times in the gospels.

In acknowledging and illuminating the humanity of others,  Jesus confronted power structures that were built on a hierarchy of castes. The caste systems required a dehumanization of scapegoated people and separating them into strata of society. Jesus challenged the system by recognizing the humanity  of outcasts publicly. This was the light of Jesus. So, if Jesus was fully human, if indeed he was the light and life of men, the question arises, did he have a shadow? 

All those we generally accept as heroes, Lincoln, Gandhi, Bonhoeffer, and MLK to name a few, were flawed human beings. But their deaths made them martyrs. The passage of time and selective positivity of their biographers obscures our knowledge of the full range of their humanity. All these men, these heroes, had their shadows. They didn’t deny their shadows. Indeed in the light of day, their shadows proved they had human substance. Even Jesus had his shadow, the proof of his human substance.

“Could you not stay with me for one hour?”

“My God My God Why have you forsaken me?” 

When we dehumanize our heroes, we deny their human substance and make them inaccessible. I will go so far as to say we have dehumanized Jesus. Our Christology only sees his divinity and denies his humanity, therefore the substance of Jesus' teachings are ignored. His humanity is inaccessible to us. And when we have dehumanized Jesus, what light is left in our Christian religion?

The dehumanization that precedes all the others is the dehumanization of Jesus Christ. The dehumanization of Jesus is a fact of history, but it is also accepted as Christology (the nature of Jesus). We emphasized his deity at the negation of his humanity. Once we dehumanize our prophets, we kill them. Then we are free to build statues, shrines, and construct religions around them. Their very human biographies are lost and replaced with our hagiographies. We ascribe to them what we want to believe.

When Jesus "let his light shine" he illuminated "the least of these." He saw them. And he didn't just see them, he saw himself in them! So much so that he equated any good or evil done them as done to himself. So what can we do? Can we let our little light shine on the holy in the everyday, the mundane? It is possible to see (recognize) the holy and transcendent that is already here in everyday life:

"We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here, have my seat," "Go ahead — you first," "I like your hat." "  —Danusha Laméris, Small Kindnesses

It's that simple. It only requires us to slow down and look. To place ourselves in the shoes of others. To equate their wellbeing with ours. Then we will recognize the humanity of our fellow human beings. And when we see Christ in others, our kindness becomes a sacrament.

“if you have done it to the least of these, you have done it unto me [Christ].” 

Conscious recognition of holy moments. Recognition of the humanity of others. All others. Including those deemed to be "The Wretched of the Earth." Jesus has shown us the way, the truth, and the life. 

  

The Shadow of the Cross

"It was now about noon, and darkness came over the land..." Luke 23:44-46 

In the Gospel accounts of Jesus' crucifixion, we are told it became very dark from mid-day until three in the afternoon. During the three hours leading up to Christ's death, the cross cast no shadow! So how can we speak of a Shadow of the Cross? What might that darkness be? Perhaps that darkness is our shadow, the collective shadow that is cast by all of us. 

The Crucifixion was human darkness made manifest, the culmination of a plot by religious leaders to turn public opinion against Jesus and persuade the political rulers to use the force of law to execute him. The religious leaders were envious of Jesus. They hated him. They feared him. But it the end, they came up with a pragmatic reason to do away with him:

“What are we accomplishing?” they asked. “Here is this man performing many signs. If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and then the Romans will come and take away both our temple and our nation.” —John 11:47-48

They thought they were going to lose their temple and their country. (They lost them anyway). 

The desire to preserve an identity, a status, a way of life, and a social order can motivate human beings to take action. But the fear of losing these things can move human beings to do awful things and turn a blind eye to the suffering of others in the process. Fear drives the dark side of humanity. It is humanity's dark side. Humanity's shadow if you will. And the shadow is not just a general darkness of humanity, it is the dark side of each one of us!

We like to consider ourselves "good-hearted" and most of the time we are. However, we may carry a hidden and deep-seated resentment. Or more often, a deep seated sense of self-importance. It’s the kind of thing we slide through much of life not even noticing it until something brings it to the surface. We have a shadow, but it is hidden until something brings it to light. Often the trigger is something mundane. Someone cuts us off in traffic. Or takes too long at the self-checkout. Or disagrees with us in front of others. And then our "dark side" comes out. For me, impatience and anger are the shadows I know I've cast. But there are others: 

The Shadow of Misogyny The belief that the male is the provider and protector and controller of the agency of women whether they be his employees, his spouse, or his daughters. If there is an issue of his anger, his lust, his temptation, then fault must lie with the women in his life. The man projects the shadow of his flawed relationship with himself onto women.

The Shadow of Poverty The belief that I had complete agency over the station in life I inhabit. That my success had nothing to do with my birth, my upbringing, my race, my family's wealth, or that all these factors had nothing to do with my success. If on the other hand someone is poor, that is their fault. My shadow accuses poor people of making bad choices and ignores the environment in which they are forced to make those choices. Society's shadow is how wealth is built at the expense of the poor:

"The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you." —James 5:4

The Shadow of Racism This is really the shadow of our caste system as marked by race. We don't believe we are racist, claim people of other races as our friends, and we would probably vehemently deny it confronted. Yet we are quite comfortable at our place in the social hierarchy and more often than not, vote for people who promise to secure our place in it, even if it means oppression for others. Our shadow is the darkness we project on others:  

"The white man's unadmitted and apparently, to him, unspeakable private fears and longings are projected onto the Negro" —James Baldwin

The Shadow of The Market  The shadow of "the market" is its amorality. It is the economic framework of social Darwinism. The market assumes winners and losers and if you lose, too bad for you. The other shadow of "the market" is it's failure to account for externalities, the costs it keeps off the books. Things like damage to the earth wrought by extraction, industrialization, the discarding of waste to the damage done to humans by robbing us of the time we need for social reproduction, our capacity of "birthing and raising children, caring for friends and family members, maintaining households and broader communities" —Nancy Fraser 

The Shadow of The Valley of Death  Our shadow believes in "eye for an eye" justice. We may venerate the "Stations of the Cross" pondering the steps that led to the execution of Jesus, and yet support the death penalty and an ubiquitous gun culture which kills more children than any other cause. Our shadow enables a profit-focused agribusiness that drives family farms out of business, poisons land and water, and manufactures cheap, unhealthy food for the masses. Our shadow enables a for-profit healthcare system that charges exorbitant fees and denies care. If we are privileged with wealth, we can choose to eat healthy and exercise, shielded from the most pernicious consequences of this system, which fall like a consuming shadow on the working poor.

We are formed by these shadows, but we also form and reinforce them. Our shadows multiply as the sum of all of us into what we call "society":

"If you don’t know how your mind reacts, if your mind is not aware of its own activities, you will never find out what society is . . . because your mind is part of society; it is society. . . . It is not distinct from your culture, from your religion, from your various class divisions, from the ambitions and conflicts of the many. All this is society, and you are part of it. There is no “you” separate from society."  —Jiddu Krishnamurti [1895–1986] 

Society defends its image by punishing those who would make its shadow visible. The Roman Empire used crucifixion on a cross as both a punishment and a warning to would be disrupters. In those days Roman roads in Judea were lined with crosses on which hung malcontents, zealots, murders, and thieves. In an arid and sunny land the shadows of crosses testified to the brutality of men. The last thing the condemned would see was their own crucified shadow. But on the day the Son of Man hung on a Roman cross, there was no shadow. The darkness of what humanity had done was overwhelming. 

The ultimate evidence of our shadow is our denial that we even have one. Western civilization tells a flattering story about itself that lists its achievements in the arts and sciences, technological prowess, but downplays and denies its darkness. If the darkness is not denied outright, then it is spun into something good. The annihilation of the indigenous becomes "discovery." War becomes "liberation." Separation becomes "equality." Religion is particularly adept at this. The Crucifixion of Jesus becomes our salvation. Baptism becomes our citizenship. Confession becomes absolution. But none of these things, nor our beliefs about their efficacy, confront our shadow. The only solution is to admit to our shadow. But our ego gets in the way:

“We can patiently accept not being good. What we cannot bear is not being considered good, not appearing good.” —St. Francis of Assisi

In order to appear to be a good person to others, we deny, suppress, and try to hide our darkness:

“Abstract speculation can create an image of God that is foreign to the human heart. . . [A God that does not contain our shadows.] Then we try to live up to the standards of a God that is purely light, and we can’t handle the darkness within us. And because we can’t handle it, we suppress it. But the more we suppress it, the more it leads its own life, because it’s not integrated. Before we know it, we are in serious trouble.” —Bro David Steindl-Rast, The Shadow in Chrisitanity

We cannot purge out all our darkness. The best we can do is humbly admit that we have it and integrate it into the wholeness of our being. 

“Consider Gandhi, Oskar Schindler, Martin Luther King Jr. Add to them Rosa Parks, Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, Óscar Romero, César Chávez, and many unsung leaders. Their inspiring witness offers us strong evidence that the mind of Christ still inhabits the world. Most of us are fortunate to have crossed paths with many lesser-known persons who exhibit the same presence. I can’t say how one becomes such a person. All I can presume is that they were all called.

They all had their Christ moments, in which they stopped denying their own shadows, stopped projecting those shadows elsewhere, and agreed to own their deepest identity in solidarity with the world.” —Fr Richard Rohr

So when will we stop denying our shadows? And the shadows of society? Because when we do, we will have our “Christ moment” and a true salvation will be at hand.

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Jesus Enters Our World

Today is Palm Sunday, when the Christian world observes Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem. Jesus was welcomed into the city by the common people, but he was feared by the religious leaders.

The symbolism of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey was understood as the fulfilment of Scripture, “Your king comes to you meek and riding on an ass..."(Zechariah 9:9). But it was understood differently, depending on which group was watching the event unfold. 

The people, oppressed by a foreign power, were looking for relief. They saw Jesus as their liberation. 

The leaders, looking to keep their grip on power, were looking for threats. They saw Jesus as their enemy.

“Where you stand changes what you see” — Gustavo Gutiérrez

Jesus was causing quite a stir even though many people were not aware of who he was.  

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred.
People asked, "Who is this?" (Matthew 21:10)

But the religious leaders knew. The High Priest comprehended that the very presence of Jesus in their city was "rocking the boat" of their precarious power alliance with the Roman government. The leaders soon conspired to apprehend Jesus out of public view, present him as a criminal influence to the Roman governor, turn the common people against Him, and finally accuse Him of sedition to have Jesus condemned. 

“The unholy alliance of religion and politics collaborated in finding Jesus guilty.”
—Eugene H. Peterson

The centers of religious and political power were doing what they have always done, divide the people up against each other and crush any prophetic voice that would challenge their position. People in power always rely on the same tools against their enemies: lies, slander, and accusations. Too often, we fall for these deceptions.

Palm Sunday begins Holy Week, the remembrance of  Jesus' final week, his betrayal, crucifixion, and as Christian believe, the Resurrection. We are taught that this is the week that Jesus died to save us from our sins. But what sins? Having an impure thought? A flash of anger or jealousy? Failing to observe the sacrament? Missing services? Not dropping money in the plate? What sins? What sins was Jesus dying for that week? Perhaps it is this one:

“Sin, he reflected, is not what it is usually thought to be; it is not to steal and tell lies. Sin is for one man to walk brutally over the life of another and to be quite oblivious of the wounds he has left behind.” —Shusaku Endo, “Silence”

In the service of power and profit, our society walks brutally over the life of others. While the powerful deliberately harm the dignity, the humanity, and the voices of others, more often we stand aside in silence as it happens. Can we accept that not only did Jesus' die to save us from that sin but the manner in which in died shows us what that sin looks like?  

Jesus showed us what this sin really looks like when we desecrate the Image of God in others. May we be so revolted by the ugliness of dehumanization that we truly repent of it, our participation in it, our  quiet complicity in it. May we resolve to follow the example of Jesus, to re-humanize those that others have rejected, to bring encouragement and joy to their existence. 

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The Imperishable Flame

 

Two thousand years ago, in a land on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea, a man displaced by legal decree searched desperately for a safe place for his wife to give birth. Two years after the child was born they were displaced again as they fled “The Slaughter of the Innocents.” The king was just “mowing the grass,” a routine part of his periodic killing sprees to remind his subjects who was boss and to make sure no one would rise up against him. The king was paranoid about losing his power even though ironically, his rule was dependent on the whims of  a much larger empire. 

Thirty years later, the child became a man who confronted the power structure not by force of arms, but by rehumanizing the outcasts. The hierarchy of the power structure was built on a foundation of people at the bottom: the diseased, the disabled, the foreigner, and women. This man challenged the system by recognizing their humanity publicly. As a result he gained a following large enough to catch the notice of the powers that be. The religious and political leaders considered him a threat to their precarious alliance, so they conspired to have him charged with a crime and executed in what today we call a targeted killing. 

In the subsequent years this man's followers gathered in his name and broke bread together. They took his teachings to heart to welcome the stranger, bear ill will towards none, nor raise a sword against another human being. Their numbers spread throughout the land. But their growth was perceived as a threat so they were persecuted as enemies of the empire. A few centuries later, the tables turned when an emperor saw their faith not as a threat, but an opportunity. The followers were not just welcomed as friends of the empire, they became the religion of the empire. They would become the empire’s standard-bearers. The persecuted would become persecutors. 

The religion of the empire became so focused on miracle, mystery, and authority that it lost touch with humanity, its own and the humanity of others. The religion and the empire became so intertwined as to be indistinguishable. It fomented internicene battles, inquisitions, tortures, and crusades. It gave its blessings to conquests and subjugations. It became a  grotesque caricature of the beliefs and goodness it claimed to hold. 

But there were those brave few who remembered the teachings and the humanity of the one they followed. They renounced the trappings of empire: wealth, position, and violence. They spread their faith not by argument nor by the sword, but by their example of breaking bread with each other and sharing their bread with those rejected by the empire. They were never a majority. They often faced persecution for rejecting the values of the empire. But they were enough to keep an imperishable flame lit in the hearts of those who followed the way.

Awakening from the Sleep of Inhumanity

 

The Lenten season marks a time of fasting and self-examination for those of us who observe. It is supposed to be a time of repentance from sin and awakening to the spiritual dimension of our lives.  However, if Lent or other religious observances are supposed to be mark a time of awakening, then what are we awaking from? Sin?  Indifference? Materialism? Secularism? Greed? Intolerance? Hatred? Could there be a deeper sleep or torpor that we need to be awakened from?

In his book, The Principle of Mercy, Jesuit priest Jon Sobrino recalls his arrival in El Salvador and his immersion into the grinding poverty and oppression of the people there. It forced him to reframe his life in light a more fundamental question: 

“Are we really human and, if we are believers, is our faith human?”

Living among the people of El Salvador, he discovers the answer to that question: 

“to change our vision in order to see what had been there, unnoticed, all along, and to change hearts of stone into hearts of flesh — in order to let ourselves be moved to compassion and mercy.”

How could we be sleeping in a state of inhumanity? After all, in our personal dealings we are genuinely nice people. To the people we encounter, our family, friends, and co-workers, we are kind. But how about the people we don't encounter directly, the people we don't often see? Those who are part of the  infrastructure of humanity that makes our life possible.

We need to awaken to the fact that our life in modernity is only possible because of the people who work in supply chains, the people who plant, harvest, prepare, and deliver bread, produce, and meat to our grocery stores. Nearly everything we own and everything we wear is manufactured by people somewhere in the world.  The miracle of technology enables goods to be delivered to our doorstep with the tap on our smartphones. But the miracle of technology still needs the labor of human beings. It does not occur to us that the supply chain might be an actual chain, enslavement by other means, forcing people to work for inhumanly long hours, in occupations where people spend every waking hour just to survive. 

The sleep of our inhumanity might just be concealing idolatry. That is a strong statement. Our idolatry might not be our physical bowing down to a golden calf. Our idolatry is our unquestioned commitment to the structures that maintain our comfort, our society, and the social order. Sobrino writes:

“... it is clear that the true God is at war with other gods. These are the idols, the false divinities — though they are real enough — which Archbishop Romero has concretized for our time in speaking of the absolutization of exploitative capitalism and "national security." Idols dehumanize their worshipers, but their ultimate evil lies in the fact that they demand victims in order to exist. If there is one single deep conviction I have acquired in El Salvador, it is that such idols are real. They are not the inventions of so-called primitive peoples but are indeed active in modern societies. We dare not doubt this, in view of such idols' innumerable victims: the poor, the unemployed, the refugees, the detainees, the tortured, the disappeared, the massacred. And if idols do exist, then the issue of faith in God is very much alive.”

We may feel justified simply because we believe in God. But Sobrino shows us that faith is not only a matter of belief but of choice. Sobrino tells us that our beliefs must explicitly specify what we do believe in and what we do not believe in. 

“That is the reason we humans must make a choice not only between faith and atheism but between faith and idolatry. In a world of victims, little can be known about a person simply because he calls himself a believer or a nonbeliever. It is imperative to know in which God she believes and against which idols she does battle. If such a person is truly a worshiper of idols, it matters little whether he accepts or denies the existence of a transcendent being. There really is nothing new in that: Jesus affirmed it in his parable of the last judgment.”

An idolatrous society is necessarily a merciless society. Sobrino says, “idols demand victims.” Who among us can deny that our society is merciless to those on its periphery?  We dismiss the suffering as victims because we don't consider them neighbors. We are all familiar with Jesus' admonition to “love our neighbors as ourselves.” In Luke chapter 10, a teacher of the law responded to Jesus' teaching by asking “who is my neighbor?” Jesus then told him the story of the Good Samaritan and asked the teacher, “who was a neighbor to the man who was beaten by the robbers?” The Good Samaritan was good because he was merciful. He performed a charitable act, a singular act of mercy. The Gospel doesn't tell us anymore about the Samaritan, so we don't know if this was his pattern of life, a principle of mercy. 

If you dare go further down this road, read the book The Principle of Mercy (Google Book Preview).

The Fullness of Time

 

"in the fullness of time, Christ was born" —Galatians 4:4

2020 has certainly been a turbulent year. A disorienting year. The year of COVID. A year when the conflicts that have been festering in American society rose to the surface. A year when the scabs covering racial wounds were torn off to reveal the open sores that had never healed. A year when our health care system and its practitioners were strained to the breaking point. A year when so many have died. A year of added economic hardship for the many who were barely surviving.  A year when increasing inequality made record profits for a few. 

A year when so many daily rituals and routines have been upended. A year when it has been difficult to define or even mark time as one day blurs into the next. Christ also arrived in a turbulent year; his birthplace was under occupation. Religious leaders conspired with rulers of the empire to maintain power over oppressed people. It would seem to have been the worst time to bring a child into the world. Yet it was the fullness of time, the completion of time, or better yet, the right time for Christ to be born.

How can a wrong time be the right time?

The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.” —Luke 1:28-33

Mary was perplexed:

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?” —Luke 1:34

For Mary, this was not the right time.  Yet it was.  The Romans had brought a system of roads, common language, and trade connecting Palestine and Judea with the rest of the known world. The Roman Empire encompassed a huge swath of land, from the Britannia to Persia and India. The reality of travel and communication that was inconceivable in ancient times was now possible. The world was ready for the gospel of Christ to spread.

Hannah Arendt called this time of possibility, this time of new life, natality.

“The miracle that saves the world, the realm of human affairs, from its normal, natural ruin is ultimately the fact of natality,...  It is, in other words, the birth of new men and the new beginning, the action they are capable of by virtue of being born. Only the full experience of this capacity can bestow upon human affairs faith and hope,... It is this faith in and hope for the world that found perhaps its most glorious and most succinct expression in the few words with which the Gospels announced their "glad tidings": "A child has been born unto us".—Hannah Arendt

Prior to the birth of Christ, the people had endured centuries of darkness and uncertainty. The Babylonians conquered the land and took the people into exile.  Persia conquered Babylon and sent the exiles home to rebuild Jerusalem. A moment of hope only to be crushed by another conquest, this time by Alexander. The Maccabees stood fast against the heirs of Alexander to ignite an insurgency against oppression, celebrated to this day as Hanukkah. Another moment of hope. And then the final crushing blow came when the Romans conquered the land. To generations of a people, barely clinging to hope, the times seemed darker than ever. Then, something happened, that Hannah Arendt expresses as “something so unexpectedly and unpredictably new that neither hope nor fear could have anticipated it... [which] set the stage for an entirely new world”. The birth of Christ was about to change the world.

Ironically, news of this pivotal event was not given to the leaders in the halls of power, but to the "essential workers" out in the fields:

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Christ, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. ” —Luke 2:8-12

Thirty years later, Jesus would grow up and begin his ministry echoing the words of Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

This right time was “the year of the Lord’s favor.” But the right time is rarely a safe time. Proclaiming the right message at the right time almost got Jesus thrown off a cliff:

 “I assure you that there were many widows in Israel in Elijah’s time, when the sky was shut for three and a half years and there was a severe famine throughout the land. Yet Elijah was not sent to any of them, but to a widow in Zarephath in the region of Sidon. And there were many in Israel with leprosy in the time of Elisha the prophet, yet not one of them was cleansed—only Naaman the Syrian.”

All the people in the synagogue were furious when they heard this. They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff.”

They were not angry with Jesus for proclaiming benefits of healing, freedom, and forgiveness of debt ("the year of the Lord's favor.") They were angry because Jesus touched their idol, their religious nationalism, when he suggested that Elijah was sent to people other than Israel. 

So what about our time? In many ways this is a dangerous time. A plague has overtaken our land. Many are in economic distress. Politics are more divisive than ever. Religious nationalism has reared its ugly head. The sense that this is a dark time is hard to miss. This is definitely a pivotal moment. Things could go either way. As Sikh activist and author Valarie Kaur asks, “Is this a darkness of the tomb or a darkness of the womb?” Is this dark time the transition to the birth of something new? It all depends on how we respond to questions of this moment. 

The fullness of time always culminates in a specific moment. A live birth or a stillbirth takes place. In this moment is juxtaposed the promise of new life along side the risk of death. In choosing to say "Yes" to this moment, new possibilities arise. Possibilities we had not considered before.

We don't get to choose when we encounter these moments. Life asks the question and offers its fulfilment as the answer. Will our response be born of preparedness? Mary had no idea what would be asked of her, no comprehension of the joy and heartbreak that awaited her, but she was prepared to answer. 

So the question is: is this our moment? And what question is life, in this moment, asking of us? Mary answered "Yes". What will our answer be?

Stones of Remembrance

 

And Joshua set up at Gilgal the twelve stones they had taken out of the Jordan. He said to the Israelites, “In the future when your descendants ask their parents, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them, ‘Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground.’ 

—Joshua 4:20-22

In this story from the Torah, Joshua had instructed the Israelites to carry stones out of the Jordan river and arrange them as a memorial of their crossing. Leaving memorials in stone is a uniquely human thing we do. From ancient cave drawings, to pyramids, obelisks, statues, or simple grave markers, we leave our mark on stones, so that future generations would know we existed.

On May 24, 2020, the New York Times published excerpts of the obituaries of some of the 100,000 lives lost to the COVID pandemic ravaging this country. People from all walks of life. Parents, children, wives, husbands, professionals, veterans, and laborers. The AFL-CIO had previously posted a scrolling list of their members who died in New York due to COVID. On that list were everyday people, teachers, communications workers, healthcare workers, transportation workers, and grocers. Just ordinary people, “essential” workers in our current parlance. Everyday heroes who carried out their duties despite the risk. While these were electronic, virtual publications, most of these lives will eventually have their names marked in stone by their loved ones. Stones of remembrance. 

May 24, 2020 falls on a Memorial Day weekend. It is a time when we pause to remember the people who gave their lives in our country’s conflicts. Whatever our judgments about the nature of these conflicts, we ought to remember people who fulfilled their responsibilities at the cost of their lives. Their gravestones cover the hills of our military cemeteries as far as the eye can see. Stones of remembrance.

Of all the creatures on Earth, we humans have the ability to build a “durable world” as Hannah Arendt called it. We leave our mark. We alone have a written language allowing us to leave a record, discoveries, and hopefully, lessons learned. We memorialize the people we leave behind. Ultimately, we will be memorialized and become the ancestors of future generations. What will they remember of us?

Will they remember this period as a time when we let our rancor take us into a needlessly lethal pandemic and then onto a second Great Depression? Will homelessness, illness, and hunger reach record levels? Or will we look back on this time and recognize it as a pivotal point in history when people of good will seized this moment to build a more just, a more sustainable society?

The fewest of words for posterity are marked on our grave stones. The name of the deceased. The date of birth and death, separated by a hyphen. In that hyphen is our entire lives. When people come upon our graves one day in the future, what will they remember? What will they tell their children?

Acquainted with Grief

LuciusCommons Wikimedia

We suddenly find ourselves living through a time of a collective loss. Until now we never realized how much of our lives are marked in time and space by weekly schedules and commutes. Now that is gone. Every day feels like the next. If we are not looking at a calendar, we might even forget what day it is. My usually cheerful neighbor revealed his unease by saying, “this is crazy”.

We are also living through a collective loss of connection. Streets are empty. You can’t go anywhere except the grocery store. You are greeted by mask-wearing customers and empty shelves. You can’t visit family. You can’t shake hands. You can’t hug. You can’t kiss. You can’t see someone else’s face behind a mask. This is all very hard. This biggest loss for most of us is the sense of safety and control that we thought we had.

To the extent that the government has been a help and not a hindrance, it has prioritized economic relief for big business, limited relief for small business, and one month's living costs for the rest of us. To some degree that may help, but it won't replace a lost job. No government can compensate us for the loss of workplace routine, loss of purpose, the loss of camaraderie, the loss of loved ones, and the loss of milestones that mark and give meaning to our lives. That impact is profound because the reality is:

“We are all dealing with the collective loss of the world we knew. The world we knew is now gone forever” —David Kessler

We are suddenly inundated with this collective grief as we approach Easter and Passover. Normally we would approach this time looking forward to family gatherings. The spiritual meanings would have received a passing thought if indeed they are thought about at all. What is different now is that we can all relate to a collective grief and sorrow that we had not known before. Now we have made some acquaintance with the grief of Isaiah’s “suffering servant:”

“He was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him” — Isaiah 53:3

To add to this grief, is the isolation of being “despised and rejected”. We live in a seriously divided country, with starkly different views of reality. If we voice our concerns regarding the nature of the pandemic, the need for social distancing, and the government’s handling of the crisis, we risk being ostracized from our social groups. We cannot hide our face from this grief. Now we know. Viscerally.

The reality of such mass grief and suffering is largely incomprehensible to those of us with some degree of privilege in the “Western” world. But to people of no privilege, few resources, people of marginalized groups, this is familiar territory. For the most part, the Western world does all it can to deny the inevitability of suffering. It is an irony crystallized in the symbol of the Christian faith:

"It is amazing to me that the cross or crucifix became the central Christian logo, when its rather obvious message of inevitable suffering is aggressively disbelieved in most Christian countries, individuals, and churches. We are clearly into ascent, achievement, and accumulation. The cross became a mere totem, a piece of jewelry. We made the Jesus symbol into a mechanical and distant substitutionary atonement theory instead of a very personal and intense at-one-ment process, the very reality of love’s unfolding." —Fr Richard Rohr

At some point in the future this crisis will be over, but the scars, financial and emotional, will remain. We are in shock now and we will be processing grief for the foreseeable future. We will have to turn to others for support.  We may find that support lacking because so many will be struggling with their own grief. It might have to suffice that we can get some emotional support on someone’s “good day” and they will find support from us on our good days. We should be open to the possibility of needing professional help.

When we come back together, it will be tentative. We will have spent so long developing the habits of separation that coming together again will feel strange and unsafe. We will have to go through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. We need to be especially careful with the anger stage, that we don’t inflict harm on others. But we also have to be careful that we don’t hide or bury our grief. Instead we must allow our grief to be seen and witnessed, however difficult that may be.

"Each person's grief is as unique as their fingerprint. But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share a need for their grief to be witnessed. That doesn't mean needing someone to try to lessen it or reframe it for them. The need is for someone to be fully present to the magnitude of their loss without trying to point out the silver lining." —David Kessler

We have to develop habits of grace, both receiving it and giving it. We have to develop a receptivity to recognizing the grace all around us that we’ve ignored in the past. The sounds of birds singing, rays of sunshine peeking out from clouds, kind gestures from others, and most importantly, our life itself. We have to allow ourselves to receive grace. From that place we will be able to supply grace to others as they process their grief and try to reassemble their lives.

It is my hope that we will come out of this with a new gratitude towards life. May we gain a new appreciation for the “invisible people” that harvest our food, transport our goods, stock our shelves, collect our garbage, clean our streets, protect us from harm, and treat our sickness. May we learn to love and appreciate members of our families and be truly thankful for the time we have with them. And finally may we expect more of ourselves, more of our society, and more of our government.

The Sin of the World

Photo by Jmarchn  Wikimedia Commons

This Lenten season I find I am challenged to look at sin, not just my own, but the Sin of the World. It is awful and I desperately want to turn my gaze away from it. It is a knowledge and awareness that disturbs my peace.  In modern literature, few people crystalize this awareness better than author Stephen King, in the agony of condemned prisoner John Coffey:

"Mostly, I'm tired of people being ugly to each other. I'm tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world...every day. There's too much of it. It's like pieces of glass in my head...all the time." 

To see “Sin of the World” is to see its oppression, its racism, its misogyny, its hatred, its cruelty. Distilled to a single word: its dehumanization. It is like the Medusa. Once you see it, truly see it, it changes you irrevocably. The full weight of it is a burden that is too much for any one person to bear. Even the Son of God, who “takes away the Sin of the World” (John 1:29), needed others to help him carry the weight of it in the Garden (Mark 14:34) and while carrying the cross on the Via-Dolarosa (Matthew 27:32).

I submit that the Sin of the World is the desecration of God's Image (Imago Dei) in other human beings. To desecrate what is human is to desecrate the Image of God. At the Crucifixion, that desecration was on full display. Most of us have been taught that Jesus dealt with the Sin of the World by dying on the cross, in our place. We have had that idea in our heads for a long time, yet it seems to have changed very few of us. We ignore the Gospel narrative that Jesus confronted the Sin of the World by challenging its dehumanization. He did so by re-humanizing those he encountered.

The man with leprosy. Peter’s mother-in-law. The demon-possessed men. Matthew. The sick women who spent all she had, whom Jesus not only saw, but called “daughter”. The man with a shriveled hand. The crowds he had compassion on to heal and feed.  Zaccheus. The woman at the well. The “sinners” and tax collectors with whom he ate. Finally, as Jesus was dying on the cross, he saw his mother Mary, a widow who was about to lose her son. Looking at John, Jesus said “here is your Son” and to John he said “here is your Mother”. In that poignant scene, Jesus saw not only those closest to him, but he saw their distress and accounted for it. He could not alleviate the grief of his mother, but he saw to it that she was cared for.

In each case, Jesus truly saw people. He took notice of their existence and their plight. Jesus rehumanized them. He showed us “a new self, renewed in knowledge of the Image of its Creator” (Colossians 3:10). He healed our blindness. He restored our ability to see God’s image in others.

Jesus was God’s “Yes” to Cain’s question:

"And the LORD said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?” “I do not know!” Cain answered. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” "—Genesis 4:9

Cain’s nonchalant answer reflected his indifference to his brother's murder. Whatever happened to Abel, it was no concern of Cain’s. Indifference and dehumanization go hand-in-hand, because if we don’t reckon someone as human, we don’t care if they live or die:

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference." —Eli Wiesel

The Scripture says that the blood of even one human being does not lay silent:

"Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground!"—Genesis 4:10

If that is so, then the blood-soaked soil of the Earth, watered by countless murders, wars, and genocides, must scream to the ends of the universe. If any of us, who claim to know God, cannot sense God's grief at the sound of that cry, that scream, then can we really say we know God at all? Has not indifference to human suffering made us indifferent to God?

Dehumanization is desecration of that which is holy, God’s image in human beings. Once we have trampled that sacred representation of God’s image, our religious proclivities will demand a new object of worship. In America that object is wealth. My father used to say “money is god” here in the States and he was right. The wealthiest people in America are highly visible. The wealthy are revered by the media, the political establishment, and religion. It is no accident that the US spawned the "Prosperity Gospel". In such a system, wealth is the most visible sign of success and holiness, whereas poverty signifies failure and sinfulness. Poverty renders the poor invisible:

"If anyone wants to make himself invisible, there is no surer way than to become poor." —Simone Weil

The only answer to the Sin of the World is to have our sight restored:

"As Jesus and his disciples, together with a large crowd, were leaving the city, a blind man, Bartimaeus, was sitting by the roadside begging. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
Many rebuked him and told him to be quiet, but he shouted all the more, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”
Jesus stopped and said, “Call him.” So they called to the blind man, “Cheer up! On your feet! He’s calling you.” Throwing his cloak aside, he jumped to his feet and came to Jesus.
“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked him.
The blind man said, “Rabbi, I want to see.” " —Mark 10:46-51

It would seem an odd question, to ask a blind man what he wanted after he had cried out for mercy. What mercy could he have possibly wanted other than to see? Perhaps it was the mercy of being seen. His blindness, his inability to navigate the world, had reduced him to begging, but also made him poor and hence, in this world, invisible. He not only couldn't see, he was not seen. It is not hard to imagine that countless people stepped over or around him as they scurried about their daily business.

It might be that our redemption from the Sin of the World, the redemption that enables us to see, is the redemption that enables us to be seen. Human vision is not a one-way street when it comes to other human beings. "Human beings strike echoes in each other." (James Baldwin). When we look each other in the eye and recognize each other as human, it creates a resonance:

"When we receive and empathize with the face of the other (especially the suffering face), it leads to transformation of our whole being. It creates a moral demand on our heart that is far more compelling than the Ten Commandments." —Fr Richard Rohr

I surmise that we shrink back from the cure of our blindness because it keeps us in a state of faux innocence:

"People who shut their eyes to reality simply invite their own destruction, and anyone who insists on remaining in a state of innocence long after that innocence is dead turns himself into a monster" —James Baldwin

That may see harsh, but indifference is a form of nihilism. To remain in darkness is to remain in

"the blindness of a world that wants to end itself" — Thomas Merton

To be cured of our blindness means we accept God's "Yes" to Cain's question. We become responsible for our brothers' and our sisters' well-being. It means our prayers become a cry to Jesus, "Rabbi, I want to see!" It means we enact (live out) our faith by turning our gaze towards our fellow human beings in their distress and suffering. It means we look each other in the eye. This takes conscious effort, an effort that in Lent could be considered a penance. Perhaps the best answer to the question, "what are you giving up for Lent?" could be "I am giving up looking to myself, my image in the mirror, and I will look to others in their suffering, in the hope that we will see each other, and see in each other, the face of Christ and God's Image."

What Does It Feel Like to Lose Your Country?

The other day I encountered a posting from Mike Frost, a blogger I follow, titled So this is what it feels like to lose your country  He spoke of the loss and grief that comes when your home, your entire country is destroyed by fire, as was the case in Australia during the summer of 2019-2020.

The post evoked several memories of lost homes and countries. A few years ago, I was working into the Christmas holiday season along with a some colleagues who had also spent their allotted vacation during the summer months. A colleague and friend, a Chaldean Iraqi, invited me out to an Iraqi restaurant in the area, as a break from the monotony of being in the office during the holidays. For me, a Westerner of European heritage, it is always a treat to step outside my routine (and cuisine) to experience another culture. My friend wanted me to feel at welcome in his world, so he ordered up a sampling of Iraqi culinary delights, which needless to say, were delicious.

As I sat and took in the ambiance of the place, murals on the wall caught my attention. On the walls all around me were hand-painted images of village life in Iraq. I imagined these were images of life before the US invasion and subsequent flight of Chaldean Christians. It then dawned on me that my friend goes here to see pictures of a home country he can never return to. The thought saddened me.

Mike Frost's post reminded me also of my father, a refugee from Poland after it was invaded in World War II. He lost his family. The world and the people he knew were gone. Forever. He rarely spoke of his loss and grief. All he would say is "this is my country now". As I look back, I am also sad for his loss.

As a frequent visitor to San Francisco, I am also reminded of the homeless, refugees in their very own country. They are often economic refugees, unable to earn enough to keep a roof over their heads in the face of skyrocketing real-estate prices and stagnant wages. The addicted and mentally ill are also well represented among their number. They are truly refugees, although we don't think of them that way. The former are refugees, thrown out of the control of their own bodies, while the latter are refugees who have been thrown out of reality itself. When they are looked upon with revulsion or just simply ignored, when they are prosecuted or driven away by law enforcement, they are reminded of their status: they have no place in the land.

I live in Metro Detroit, home to a large community of immigrants, and now their descendants, of whom I am one. Metro Detroit is also home to a large Chaldean diaspora. A Lebanese diaspora. A Yemeni diaspora. A Balkan disapora. I could go on, but you get the point. America is home to a lot of ethnic groups, but we don't often think of the reason they are here. We assume that it is for economic opportunity, and often that is true. More often it was simply to escape persecution and violence in their homelands. That is even true for African-Americans who migrated from the South to flee racial persecution and poverty for economic opportunities in the North.

Nearly every one of the situations that cause people to lose their home and homelands are man-made. War and conflict certainly have a direct causal relationship to human displacement. Human-induced climate change also displaces people as ambient conditions and frequent catastrophes make areas uninhabitable. Religious and ethnic persecution add to mass of fleeing humanity. Today, there are over 70 million displaced persons world-wide by some estimates.

Perhaps the Biblical imperative to “not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners" (Exodus 23:9) is not such a dated concept. Rather it is a moral imperative. We should do everything we can to welcome the stranger. Everyone should feel welcome somewhere. We should also do more to change energy and defense policies which promote war and climate change, which in turn, drives people from their homelands. This will require much more of us who are privileged but not as influential as we could be. We will have to organize and engage the apathetic to make our voices heard. Otherwise, we too may find ourselves among those who know what it feels like to lose one's country.

All the Lonely People

Wikimedia Commons

"It is not good for the man to be alone." - Genesis 2:18

We like to think of the holidays as happy times when we gather to celebrate friends and family. Yet, for too many, the holidays are salt in the gaping wounds of loss and loneliness. This is borne out in a brief survey of today's headlines: "America's Loneliness Epidemic", "UK Appoints a Minister for Loneliness", "Public Health Relevance of Social Isolation and Loneliness". We have a problem. What we are intuiting and what our lived experience tells us is being acknowledged by governments, healthcare providers, and business leaders. We are lonely. And it's costing us.

There are so many factors that have contributed to this epidemic: our mobility (our lack of roots in a community), drastically shortened career life cycles, relationships based on utility or proximity (usually career) that end when we change jobs or move. Transitioning through life stages: student, career, single, married, parent, empty-nester, widowed/divorced, retired, and care-giver. All these stages are the realities of modern life. Transitioning between these stages disconnects us from others at the same stage. Establishing human connection at each successive transition is more difficult than the one preceding it.

In addition to transience, we have to recognize that modernity is mechanistic, i.e process oriented. Modernity rejects the spiritual, the metaphysical, the deus ex machina, i.e. it rejects any notion of non-material causality. Ironically though, modernity does have a deity: utility.

"Utility is the god of modernity"

― Esther Lightcap Meek  

Utility is the unseen medium through which we move. Every material thing, every occasion, every relationship is measured against it. Utility is the progenitor of work. We work to sustain ourselves and to give our lives a purpose. And certainly, our employer pays us for a purpose. But both employee and employer relate to one another out of utility. Once that utility ceases, so does our value to an employer. At that point, our employment relationship ends. In the 21st century world of work, our workflow can be so automated that we rarely interact with other humans. We report to a digital supervisor as automated systems call us to a shift or track our movements.

This bent toward utility extends beyond employment. It determines how much we will invest into maintaining friendships and family ties over over extended distances and through challenging circumstances. Marriage and significant-other relationships are no guarantee against loneliness, though our culture and technology pushes us to "pair up". Too often, we just end up being alone in pairs.

Whether we live by ourselves or with a significant-other, we will inevitably lose people in our lives. That being the case, we should always be open to establishing new connections. But, alas, we don't. There are many factors that may inhibit our ability to connect, but I will focus on this one:

"A national culture that promotes polite restraint, and which actively fends off and forestalls the forming of relationships between strangers, is one that might as well be inviting loneliness on its population." - Chris Bourn 

The author of this quote is speaking specifically about English culture, but I would suspect nearly all English-speaking countries have inherited this reserve as a cultural attribute. Because "utility is the god of modernity", we call on this god to justify (excuse) our breaking this boundary of reserve to establish a connection but only because something is needed or something must be done. We have forgotten how to connect with people for no other reason than they are people!

Another obvious but neglected connection is with our neighbors. Although I know my neighbors fairly well, I still have to resist the temptation to go buy a tool or contract a service when I could simply ask my neighbor to help me. "Sorry to bother you" is not simply a cliché or a movie title, but is too often our default to connecting with others. We need to view our need for help as an opportunity, not a liability.

Befriend your neighbors. When we truly know them, we are more willing to work for the common good. - Fr Richard Rohr

When we are friends with our neighbors and there is some degree of mutual reliance, it breaks the cycle of isolation. When my neighbor needs some staple item, she will knock on our door. It's happened a few times. One day, she stopped me to apologize for always asking for something. I replied, "No worries, what are neighbors for?" We have a long way to go to change our mindset.

To deal with the consequences of loneliness, many seek out the services of therapists. In this day and age, therapists provide an invaluable service to help us deal with loneliness. However, not everyone can afford therapy. Not to criticize therapy, but have we not commodified what used to be simple friendship? Have we not redefined a basic human need into into a pathology requiring a clinical solution? Yet:

"Healing and well-being are fundamentally political not clinical."
- Dr Shawn Ginwright

What Dr Ginwright is saying is that healing and well-being take place in the presence of others. But it's not enough to be in the presence of others. We have all experienced that feeling of being alone in a crowd. We must be seen and recognized by other people and we must recognize them. We must be open to it. It must be mutual. For that to happen, a mutually safe space must exist. Someone has to take the initiative by asking the other person about themselves. If there is one universal truth, it's that everyone loves to talk about themselves.  That opens up a space. That space has a name: hospitality. To be hospitable is to have a spirit that welcomes others into one's presence. A hospitable spirit is also open to the invitation of others.

In a hospitable space, we may be able to go deeper in sharing and connecting to that which makes us most deeply human:

"I have found that the very feeling which has seemed to me most private, most personal and hence most incomprehensible by others, has turned out to be an expression for which there is a resonance in many other people. It has led me to believe that what is most personal and unique in each one of us is probably the very element which would, if it were shared or expressed, speak most deeply to others. " - Carl Rogers

If we are able to connect at that deepest level, it would heal our deepest wound, loneliness, the scab of which is alienation. Alienation, that sense of disconnection and distrust of others, is the dry tinder that fuels the wildfires of divisive politics. Alienation is the root of what ails us in the West. It makes us good consumers, compliant laborers, fearful citizens, and an apathetic electorate.

In the end, we must choose to reach out. That requires courage, sparked by the hope of connection, the hope that we are not alone, and faith in a better future. Our willingness to enter the world  of others, to connect with people, is an echo of the Nativity, where God entered our world to connect with us.

What is Truth?

"Pilate asked Jesus, 'What is Truth?' "  John 18:38

I have to admit that lately I have been perplexed and saddened by the amount of lying going on in the world around me. At the highest levels of government, lying is the order of the day. Not that lying politicians are anything new, but the brazenness with which they do it now is over the top. I think we are all reeling from the unprecedented levels of mendacity and corruption we are witnessing. As we are being constantly gas-lighted and worn down, we too slip into a denial (lying to ourselves) believing that this level of mendacity is benign as long as it doesn't affect our daily lives.

I have also observed that lying is quite common in everyday life. I do not limit lying to telling a falsehood. I also include the failure to fully disclose the truth. By failing to fully disclose a truth, we lead people to believe a false narrative about a situation, which reduces to a lie. Decisions are made based on this information, which may have some seed of truth, but because salient information is not disclosed, the situation implied is nowhere near the truth of it.

We expect that a lie is admitted when confronted by irrefutable evidence. Now the highest levels of government, lies exposed are answered with even bigger lies. Having to push so hard to get at the truth is exhausting. It wears us at down. It tempts us to accept the liar's narrative. The status-quo. But going along to get along eats our soul, one bite at a time.

"Mr. Trump eats your soul in small bites... It starts with your sitting silent while he lies, both in public and private, making you complicit by your silence. In meetings with him, his assertions about what “everyone thinks” and what is “obviously true” wash over you, unchallenged..." -James Comey

In the presence of a liar we may find moments of strength to say "We will not cover for you". Many more times we quietly go along with the bullshit. More typically we practice denial. We don't want to believe something, so we tell ourselves it isn't so. We don't want to believe someone is addicted, embezzling funds, take sexual liberties with someone in their charge, or cheating on their spouse. It's risky to the status quo, to our station in life, to challenge the lies. The cost to challenge a lie is high. But the cost of living with a lie is even higher.

Every lie told, every lie believed borrows from a future reality. Life has a way of being real. We can deny (lie) that the science of human-induced climate change is true, but mother nature is having none of it. We can see that with our own eyes. We are experiencing back-to-back weather extremes that should be once in a hundred or five hundred year events. Because we have been in denial, lied to ourselves for so long, we aren't prepared to respond to the immediate consequences of reality, much less mitigate it in the future.

So what are the cost of lies? Belief in others. Belief in ourselves. Belief in objective truth. A completely lost ability to recognize truth itself. Our brains rewire themselves into a state of cynical distrust. Distrust is the PTSD response of having been lied to. This leads to cynicism, the terminal stage of distrust. At that point, we trust no one and no thing.

We may try to maintain a cognitive dissonance that lying in a broader or higher context is benign. That the lying is so far out of our scope that it won't affect us. However life, being real, will smack us back to reality. Ask top career officials in government who thought they could ride out the Trump administration. They were hastily promoted to cabinet offices as their predecessors quit or were fired. They thought they could hide, but now they are exposed. They have to either have to live the lie to preserve their careers or resign to keep their integrity intact.

The truth is always dangerous because it challenges the status-quo.

"Our environment lacks truth. And when truth is spoken, it gives offense, and the voices that speak the truth are put to silence. " - St Oscar Romero

"No person is more hated than one who speaks the truth" - Plato

Yet the truth must be faced, accepted, and ultimately spoken. First, we have to speak the truth to ourselves. This risks the death of our ego. Speaking a truth to others can result in the death of a relationship or even, as in the case of Romero, actual death. But the alternative, though it seems safer and easier, is bleak. To continue living a lie borrows (or perhaps steals) truth and reality from the future. When we eventually arrive at the future, we find we have borrowed against what is true and real and now there is nothing left to live on.

So back to Pilate's question: What is truth?  The answer was standing in front of Pilate in the person of Jesus. Not only in a mystical, metaphysical way, although I'll leave space for that. Truth resided in the earthly person of Jesus because his life and his words were consistent in every context of his life. What you saw is what you got, no matter what the setting. He embodied truth because his life was fully integrated. There was no distance between his life and his words. Those in power recognized the threat Jesus posed. Here was a person of such impenetrable integrity, whose words, life, and being were so unified that no carrot or stick could corrupt him into complicity or silence. Jesus had to be eliminated. Jesus knew the cross was where this would end. That is the challenge and the model for us. 

The Church of St Elsewhere

Mont Saint Michel in Normandy is about as other-worldly as a church can get. It is an island in the sea, one kilometer from shore.  Mont Saint Michel is a monument to wars between kings, kingdoms, and religions. It is a crumbling fortress against the outside world that must constantly be shored up against rising tides (and sea levels).

Mont Saint Michel is among the great church buildings of the world I hope to see: Notre Dame in Paris (though now all that remains are the stone walls), Westminster Abbey in London, and St. Peter's in Rome. For some reason I have a fascination with centuries old church buildings. It would seem to be an odd fascination since I rarely attend a church service these days.

Maintaining these physical structures of the church is a never-ending battle against time, nature, and changing human sensibilities. Hundreds of years ago, wealthy noblemen and kings commissioned the building of these structures to the "Glory of God". Artisans and laborers devoted their energies to buildings that would inspire wonder and awe from both  inside and out. Perhaps this is the all too human response to our mortality. We want to build something that will outlive us, though Jesus warned us, "Not one stone will be left upon another."

We humans are not satisfied with physical structures. We want organizational structure. Jesus exhorted us to gather for fellowship at the table, but we want to know which end of the table is the head. In the Gospel of Mark, James and John decided they want to be in charge. Not only did they want to form a hierarchy, they wanted to be the head of it!

Then James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came to him. “Teacher,” they said, “we want you to do for us whatever we ask.” “What do you want me to do for you?” he asked. They replied, “Let one of us sit at your right and the other at your left in your glory.” “You don’t know what you are asking,” Jesus said. “Can you drink the cup I drink or be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?” “We can,” they answered. Jesus said to them, “You will drink the cup I drink and be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with, but to sit at my right or left is not for me to grant. These places belong to those for whom they have been prepared.” When the ten heard about this, they became indignant with James and John. Jesus called them together and said, “You know that those who are regarded as rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Mark 10:35-43

Although Jesus told his disciples that  to "lord over" and to "exercise authority over" others was not to be the pattern for his followers, they began to adopt the world's structures of hierarchy. Most of the centuries of church conflict and turmoil was not so much about what the belief was as who was in charge.

A few centuries after Jesus had left this earth, the Roman model of diocese and archdiocese had been fully integrated into church governance, with bishops and archbishops as the heads. In the centuries which followed, the line between government and church were indistinguishable. The combination grew increasingly powerful, leading to the Crusades in the eleventh century. Over time, as nation-states formed, the influence of the church waned, but never completely abated.

Whatever its degree of influence on temporal affairs, the church knew that it was operating against the explicit direction of its Master.  Allowing space for monastic orders was a tacit admission of this truth. Most of the saints designated by the church, were either from monastic orders, founded orders, or otherwise operated at the fringes of the church. It was necessary to put some distance from the structures of power for people to even attempt to follow Jesus.

Jesus never left explicit directions on how to organize the nascent group of believers he was leaving behind, but he was very explicit about what structures and behaviors to avoid. Throughout history, Jesus' wisdom on these matters had to be rediscovered:

“the "small goodness" from one person to his fellowman is lost and deformed as soon as it seeks organization and universality and system, as soon as it opts for doctrine, a treatise of politics and theology, a party, a state, and even a church. Yet it remains the sole refuge of the good in being. ”― Emmanuel Levinas

This is why attempts to evangelize the world end up being an evangelization of the structures of power. The most notable example is the Roman Catholic church and its "Doctrine of Discovery." This gave European colonialists the moral cover to displace and enslave indigenous peoples. A number of non-denominational American churches have picked up on this as they setup satellite churches under the administration of one senior pastor. But truth is not found at the centers of power:

"If you really want truth, you need to escape the black hole of power and allow yourself to waste a lot of time wandering here and there on the periphery. Revolutionary knowledge rarely makes it to the center, because the center is based on existing knowledge. The guardians of the old order usually determine who gets to reach centers of power, and they tend to filter out carriers of disturbing, unconventional ideas." ―Yuval Noah Harari

Centralized power was always going to be a problem for the church. It's a place to hide all sorts of evil. It's why Jesus operated at the periphery. The margins are where he built his church. Father Oscar Romero realized this in the most trying of places, El Salvador in the late nineteen seventies.

Oscar Romero was appointed and installed as the Archbishop of El Salvador in 1977. He was placed as the head of the Catholic church in El Salvador. His position naturally overlapped with the centers of power at the time, the wealthy landowners and the government. A number of events, culminating with the assassination of his friend, Father Rutilio Grande, changed his perspective about the center of power and moved him to the periphery, the poor laborers of El Salvador. He began to voice the sufferings of the poor and painted a vision of what the Church could be:

"God wants to save us as a people. He does not want to save us in isolation. That is why the church today, more than ever before emphasizes what it means to be a 'people'. And that is why the church experiences conflicts: the church does not want just crowds; she wants a people. A crowd is a bunch of individuals, and the more lethargic they are, the better; the more conformist they are, the better." - St. Oscar Romero 

The "church" Romero speaks of, the communion of life, the church which forms a people, is alien to the concept of "church" in middle America. I have read many of  Romero's words. As I did so, I was saddened by the vast gulf, a great chasm, between the Church Romero speaks of and the church we have today. Romero was martyred as he tried to live out this vision of what the church could be.

Yet I remain hopeful. I see stirrings among the people who want to follow Jesus, who see the truth of his life and teachings. They are tired of living a lie, of putting on a smiling face when inside they are grieving. I am one of those people. I know there are others. Perhaps you are one of them. We can all lament and grieve the state of the church and we probably need to do that. But we also need to realize that the baton has been dropped in front of us. At some point we are going to have to pick it up and "run the race set before us" (Heb 12:1). We cannot run this race alone. We must nurture a hopeful expectancy to find others on the same journey, those who are heading in the same direction. We must learn to recognize the presence of God in people and places where we did not expect to find him. Quite often those places are at the margins of society. We should try to be more spiritually aware, living with a Jesuit expectancy to look for "God in all things." Let us try to learn from those times when we look back, kick ourselves and say "God was in this place and I did not realize it!" (Gen 28:16).

The church we seek, the people that follow Jesus, is the fellowship of saints and the body of Christ. It does not necessarily meet in a building, although it sometimes does. It is a people who will live and speak the truth, however imperfectly. It is a people who have come to terms with their own mistakes, sufferings, denials, and sins. It is a place where people can rejoice, but also grieve together. It is a place where people will bear with one another in all their frail humanity.

It meets at the Church of St. Elsewhere. Service times to be announced.