The pen is being challenged in it's long assumed primacy over whatever blunt instrument that serves ignorance
After driving up and down restaurant lane for hours with the whole family in tow my mother finally capitulated that it would be all right to try an ethnic cuisine with the caveat, “You can take me in there, but you can’t make me eat.” An American German Catholic to the core of her apple sauce she was not what today we would call multi-cultural. A waitress for twenty nine years at the same restaurant in Wisconsin she eventually warmed, or at least thawed toward the wait staff in New Mexico when our waitress suggested the cook could make her a hamburger instead of a taco. We kids rolled our eyes and wondered when if ever she would ‘get with the times.’
The current political climate in the United States might suggest that she was ahead of her time as the backlash against immigrant cultures dominates our headlines and legislatures. The Christian community, if such a broad concept still holds any weight, is smack dab in the middle of the great divide. Some churches offer sanctuary in the face of deportation, some ostracize the slightest deviance of a mythical Puritan norm.
When John’s disciples asked Jesus if He was the Messiah (Matthew chapter 11) He told them to go back and report, “the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is preached to the poor.” I find it telling that being considerate of the poor is on an equal footing with raising the dead as a proof of Christ’s miraculous mission. He further emphasized this sense of caring and compassion by stating, “if you give even a cup of cold water to the least of these, you will surely be rewarded.” Apparently this was not meant to be a mere suggestion as He stipulates, “If you refuse, to take up your cross, and follow me, you are not worthy of being mine.”
The worthiness of a human being from a culture other than the one we are raised in, is not for us to decide or even debate. The cultural differences, are just that. Not everyone appreciates jalapenos, and a culture that dehumanizes daughters for example, is not to be glossed over with a bland sort of different strokes for different folks philosophy, but the point of connection, the cross over, is where we find ourselves equal in Our Father’s eyes.
What would it take for each of to walk a mile in somebody else’s shoes? Maybe the first step in our journey, like the Good Samaritan’s, is to recognize the injury of prejudice and the wounds of racial intolerance. We are privileged to be ambassadors of Christ, the responsibility that comes with it is mindful kindness. The reward is a seat at the Banquet, next to your neighbor, and the Son of Man, the Prince of Peace, and my Mom.
I knelt, silently, with a world of believers in Saint Peter’s Basilica. The colors of skin, the shapes of faces, the cut of the wardrobe all part of the fabric weaving us together. The pilgrimage, long a tradition, made new by the escape from irrational politics to a place of faith. ‘Set your mind on things above’ is a tad easier when the ceiling vaults to a sky like proportion, the prayers of centuries past echoing just beyond candlelit whispers.
The devout, come out of the crowd, take a knee, and return to the turning world. What we bring to the throne comes home with us, an adopted dove of peace forever ours to feed and keep. We are connected by the presence of Spirit seeking an indwelling relationship. This brotherhood, this kinship sealed in the Lord’s Prayer. Our Father, emphasis on Our, welcomes us with robes and rings.
We run from love to find Love running to us bright as a train leaving a lifelong tunnel. The mind clears, the soul quickens, the heart expands, it really is our neighbor as ourself that defines our legacy, our children’s inheritance. We are all immigrants to the citizenship of heaven. It is not our home, but His. He invites us to take it by the hand by lending a hand to those in need. This is the custom of being heavenly. Grace is best known in movement, in generosity, in compassionate care, in extended family. Our Father.
The language of worship doesn’t need to be spoken, or translated. Adoration is the door we enter to know His people. While we are yet still afar off, while we are yet sinners, we are known, called home, and called to reconcile. Faith without action is dead. The most simple thing to share is the light in our eyes, and the greatest thing to receive is His perspective.
I went to church in a foreign land with Egyptians, Romanians, Italians, Germans, and a host of others. The whole time I had a sense of God opening his photo album to show me how His children have grown. Everywhere we turn, there is God with His Selfie-stick saying, “Smile.”
Unless you were born here, you must pass a citizenship test to become a citizen of the United States of America. You become naturalized by memorizing rules, regulations, and history. However you become a more natural American when you realize a hot dog can be both something you eat, or a show off on the ball field. It’s knowing the idiosyncratic nuances of the language, customs and cultural norms that help immigrants feel at home in their adopted country, and unfortunately it is ignorance of the customs and cultures they bring with them that lead to prejudicial persecution.
As heirs in Christ we are ambassadors to the world around us. In it, not of it. Citizens of Heaven if you will, but unless we know the language, the customs, and culture of heaven we will feel out of place in both worlds. The goal is not to try and force this world to match our expectations, but to live such heavenly lives that Christ’s proclamation, “The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand!” become a tangible reality for the folks we live with, work with, relax with, or come to meet as if by chance.
We don’t have to pass a test on chapter and verse to earn this new status. We are born-again into relationship with The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit by faith. We trust that He will never leave us, or forsake us, or to bring it a little closer to home, deport us, or ban us entry into His Grace. Love God, love your neighbor. Done deal. If love were our natural composition we wouldn’t need a commandment, or supernatural power to sustain it, but we do and we do.
We go and do likewise. We feed the hungry, we visit the sick and imprisoned, we give shelter, comfort, clothing, and fellowship. We are Good Samaritans before we are Good Americans, and we look to the day when they both mean the same thing.
Somehow becoming a climate crisis denier has become the social and political equivalent of defending God’s sovereign power. The world He asks us not to be of isn’t the earth, the natural vulnerable planet we are to steward, but the corrupt world of men’s lust for power. Trying to excuse, or ignore, the consequences of our environmental choices because we believe God could fix it all in a snap is lazy theology. Be ye transformed, by the renewal of your energy, is a gospel all of creation is groaning to hear.
Wisdom applied to our household trash, our consumption habits, and our modes of transportation would be a welcome change of scenery. Just by changing a letter, greed becomes green. What responsible personal choices might we make today, and tomorrow, to insure future todays and tomorrows for our grandkids and their grandkids?
There is nothing sacred about poluting our air and water. To do so for the profit of a few at the expense of the many is oppression. Our faith is built upon doing for the least of these and the least we can do is save a little breathing space for future use. The Tree of Life is any oxygen producing plant converting the CO2 gas in the air from a poison to a positive. I’d love to see a church youth group planting real live oaks, in righteousness, in the hood.
Picking up trash at the beach, giving carpool rides to shut-ins, pulling a neighbor’s weeds, by hand, to eliminate the use of carcinogetic herbicide are all community service projects waiting for the armies of the Lord to volunteer. Walt Kelly, creator of Pogo, a syndicated comic strip of yesteryear quipped, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” It is true the battle is the Lord’s, but like the Marines, He is looking for good personnel.
The song says they will know we are Christians by our love. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they knew us by our carbon footprint as well ?
A young friend of mine's best friend from high school died a few days ago from an apparent overdose. It wasn't an accident. Suicide. Young twenties. Relationship difficulties complicated his early re-hab progress. The enemy came but to lie, steal, and destroy. Jesus came that we may have life more abundantly, but as the poet John Donne says, "Any man's death diminishes"... us all.
My friend cried while telling me how horrible he felt not being able to watch his friend use heroin and now wondering what, if anything, he might have done to help the young man get sober. The second guessing afterthought is an all too common pain. I held him and told him to feel everything and raise his kids. I doubt there is a modern family among us that doesn't have some version of this story line cutting to the bone. Addiction is not fiction, but it is not the truth of who we are meant to be.
I'm clean twenty plus years, lots of people are, and more and more of us need to be. When I was using I couldn't imagine a day without getting loaded. What fun would that be? How could I feel special, unique, clever, connected, etc unless I was high? I went to meetings. I met people who knew my insides better than I did. I put the drugs down and began a process of not putting people down to make myself feel taller. It is a practice we could all use more of, especially where we might intersect the fragile.
Life and death is in the power of the tongue. Telling someone you love them helps them believe it. Of course actions speak louder than words, but words are the bullets and bandages in the battle of the mind. Tell someone you love them today. Tell yourself. Tell me.
Jesus loves you, I love you, and the list goes on and on and on from there. Make sure you add a few more names, could be the best thing you do today and tomorrow.
Being productive. It’s a common enough expression. I’m sure some Zen cats have taken it apart to stress, or would it be un-stress, the being part. Production gets the reputation, the practice behind it gets repeated, rarely completed, and competes with everything for it’s very existence.
I sometimes produce writing. I’m not very disciplined. I have two deadlines a month that I’ve honored almost without fail for a little over five years. I’ve written and published a book. I’m developing a webpage to catalogue over one hundred poems and essays, so yes I sometimes produce writing.
I mention this because it has only been a week or so since I realized I have something to say.
I play a saxophone for fun. I’m not in a band, haven’t had a lesson in way too long, but because I had a good foundation a few decades ago, and because I listen to music and have musical friends that support me, I can make a musical statement that makes sense in a simple tune. It is satisfying to do so, a reward for studious effort, an homage to who and what I’ve listened to, it is part of who I am, that being thing has a musical inclusion clause.
It is not required that I choose between being or producing as a writer or a musician. In fact I’m working on a book about the Holy Ghost as Muse called, The Sound of Spirit, as a way to satisfy the urge to weave these two expressive modes into a more unified life fabric. My recent epiphany revealed that not practicing my music shows up in my playing, and my spirit, as a malaise, a discomfort, that is only alleviated by getting the horn out of the case and into my mouth.
Curiously I had no such corresponding nag on my psyche for writing. I get inspirations here and there, and take pains to get something written, but it never occurred to me to practice my writing. I take writing for granted, so much so that I once had a dream that Saint Peter met me at the Pearly Gates and whomped me over the head with a bar from the gate because I didn’t take the gift of storytelling seriously. The dream was so real I checked for bruises when I woke up.
And then out of the blue, that may or may not be the color of the Holy Ghost’s eyes, I wrote something the other day because I had something to say, even though I was days away from having a deadline. I published it on my webpage and just like that, with a few keystrokes, and my copy and paste skills intact, I entered the real world. I became awake in a dream I’ve had since I was a child learning how to hold a pencil.
I hadn’t always wanted to become a writer as I intrinsically knew I am one, but I didn’t value the position as much as I would if I were able to play a jazz chorus and nail the 12 bar turn around. Because it was natural to me I lessened the supernatural value of the gift until I saw I was grieving the Holy Spirit by not realizing the gift was hand made, especially for me, and wrapped in layers and layers of treasurable paper that I would never tire of exploring.
My time in the world is more connectable when I type something out for public contemplation. Journaling, in my case, is a complete waste of time as my penmanship would likely get me accused of writing in tongues. God, in His wisdom and mercy, has got me tech savvy enough to sit up in my bed and write on my tablet. No small feat, maybe not parting of the Red Sea, or walking on water, but it raises the eyebrows, and hopes, of those who know me as a two fingered letter selector.
I am an equipped saint, ready to quip, and quicken. The writer inside of me is writing to the reader, or writer, inside of you because God, Our Father, wants us to be better acquainted. Jesus is the Author and Perfecter of our faith, and a great Editor. He justly changed my deadlines, into lifelines.
Ink on skin. Tattoo. Proof at one time a person had too much time and too much money. Art values aside, the painful, and addicting injection of pigment into the epidermis is meant to be a statement. It is an elaborate ritual, even if all you’re paying for is a satirical bar code across the back of your neck.
If budget would allow, and I wasn’t so skinny as to make site selection difficult, I’d get another one today. The system I’ve employed for the last four tattoos, and a few subsequent cover-ups, is to select a Bible verse worthy of commemorating and meet with an artist to come up with an original, or at least provocative design. At some point in the planning session I’ll ask the artist if they have a Bible handy as I want to check my verse reference to make sure it’s accurate.
It used to surprise me that a tattoo parlor would have a Bible in house as a tool of the trade. But as I've never having been disappointed in my request I can confidently state that if you are ever in need of a scriptural pick me up you can count on the denizens of the flashing neon dragon.
My private agenda is having the parlor staff research my verse selection, even to the point of having them read it out loud to me .Satisfied that the chapter and verse are correct, and adequately matched to an elaborate, but affordable design, I casually ask the artist or staff if they had any premonition they’d be ministering the Gospel when they got out of bed that morning.
Since the inkster is now captive to my flesh I can proceed to share the Spirit that is laden in the scripture we are permanently affixing to that narrow band of space that defines my bicep. One word of caution here, if you’re considering using this method to spread the message, make sure your selected patch can support the space required. I had to abbreviate Matthew 10:38 to Matt. when I could have gone with either Mark 8:34 or Luke 9:23. Aesthetics count.
There is also an advantage to memorizing your selected verse so you won’t be embarrassed like I was when somebody asks you what is Isaiah 35:1. Thank God someone standing next to me at the picnic knew the verse, but how often can you count on that happening? We are to be living epistles, and technically that directive speaks more to the qualities of our character than the intricacies of our body art and jewelry, but hey, we’ve got to start somewhere, n'est ce pas?