The following is an excerpt from the diaries of Amy Nee:
A terrific snowstorm tried to stop us, but thanks to John & Chantal's driving prowess we made it to Christina's parents in Geneva, Ohio. The heavy snow was beautiful but treacherous. I kept wishing I could be home with that snow and build a snowman and sled...
...We are at Dorothy Day House now, in or just outside of DC. I'm a little disoriented. We just had our first "check-in" of sorts with the NY crew who rolled in about an hour after us. I'm glad to be here but feeling very out of place and wondering what I am doing here--how to respond to this environment--how it even came to be that I am in a place and situation like this.
During the long, cramped drive (five of us in a Honda Civic plus two weeks worth of baggage, and we are not small!), I reflected briefly on some of my life stages; moments of awareness of my weakness, moments of empowerment. I thought about living on New England Ave in Florida and avoiding acknowledging my acquaintances sitting on the balcony as I walked below--aware and ashamed of my impulse to ignore those around me because I did not know what to say or how to act. I remember one night in KY when I decided to go visit the community where my roommate Maureen's dad lived. I was filled with anxiety. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and confronted myself in an utterly cliche but effective way. "You are lovely," I told this reflection, "and I like who you are and who you are becoming; why are you still afraid of people?" What is it that I am afraid of?
This inhibition and anxiety and self-doubt cannot be left unchecked. That is a large part of why I am here, to continue along the road of recovery. Also, because of compassion bound together with a believing/unbelieving hope. A terrible injustice is occuring to a large group of men and we just might be able to do something about it. So how could I not try? How could I not join with those who are trying? What does love require?
My dear sister Hannah, familiar with aspects of me that no one here knows, has promised prayer, "like a blanket." I will wrap that blanket around me, when I wake and when I sleep.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. -Joshua 1:9
Monday, January 10, 2011
Friday, December 24, 2010
I'll Be Home for Christmas
Snow is falling, soft and steady. I just came in from a walk, my coat and cap generously dusted with the lacy white flakes. There’s a golf course a block from our house. Covered in snow, that space of loping fields and scattered trees looks remarkably natural. Wild geese gracefully wander leaving webbed white markings, squirrels bounce quickly from one tree to the next. I stopped at the base of one tree and my heart melted with wonder as I watched intricate, individual snowflakes bind together and form a furry shawl on the bare, brown branches. A pack of kids were hurtling down the town’s only hill (aptly named “sledding hill”) with their parents at the bottom taking photos. I was tempted to ask someone if I could take a turn—I’ve only sledded once and long for an opportunity to surf the land like that again—but felt like today was one for observation. I took a picture in my mind (and on my phone) and walked on. When I got home I tried to build a snow-lady in the backyard to amuse the chickens but had little success. The true colors of our girls are beginning to show. They’ve always looked white as snow, but when compared to the real stuff their feathers are revealed to have a distinctly yellow tint.
All my life I have dreamed of a white Christmas. Holiday songs and almost every image of the season indicate that is what we are entitled to. Growing up in Florida, travelling primarily in the summer, snow at Christmas, or anytime, was relegated to the realm of fantasies and miracles. Many a prayer was offered up from children wearing tank-tops and shorts, “Dear Jesus, let this be the year!” This is my year, but it comes at a cost. For the first time I am not in Florida with my family during the Christmas holiday. Instead I have decided to stay at my home in Chicago. Our house, normally bursting at the seams, is nearly empty. The others that I live with are off visiting relatives. I am holding down the fort and Tonguy (our guest from Togo, S. Africa who is staying with us while searching for a long term living option) will be in and out over the weekend.
I appreciate the rare opportunity for solitude and am feeling peaceful and grateful. At the same time, I know that I am missing the cacophony of exuberant voices made up of a roomful of sisters; the excitement of welcoming my brother Adam’s partner, Allison, into the family home for the first time; the combination of my brothers and my dad that always results in subtly (sometimes not so subtly) coarse humor that we try not to laugh at but then laugh regardless because it’s funny; my two-year-old niece Indiana repeating back everything anyone says to her in her beautiful little bee-like voice; board/card game playing and movie watching; siblings piled up together on the same couch, the Christmas Eve candle ceremony (a.k.a. Nee family cry fest) when we all articulate are abundant love for each other.
This has been a year of great change for me. Great in both the large and the delightful sense. I have become so comfortable with my surroundings and so immersed in my activities that I temporarily lost sight of the heap of happenings that have occurred, many of which are quite momentous for me. I formed a number of intense crushes that have grown into something more. I don’t mean on individuals but on places and people and ways of being. I was wooed by the Divine Unknown (who I know as God) and came to reluctantly, irresistibly, re-engage in relationship with this God’s incarnation in the form of a man named Jesus. After much deliberation and vacillation I consummated this relation by being confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church. I continue to be delighted, bewildered, ashamed by, and affection toward this institution that has adopted me as part of the family.
Another family that has adopted me is the White Rose Catholic Worker community; a group of people I was drawn to from the moment we met and before that even. Last fall I took a class on Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. Learning about these individuals lit a fire in me. Their interior and exterior lives were integrated with a rare authenticity and their ways of thinking and being resonated deeply with a desire for life that I had not yet found a way to articulate. I was especially fascinated by Day and the Catholic Worker movement. Searching for people who were continuing to attempt this lifestyle I had the good fortune of stumbling upon John and Jake who, along with Jerica (and later, Regina and Marie) were in the process of establishing a new Catholic Worker in the neighborhood where I was already working as a live-in nanny. In the spring they announced me an “official” member of the community and I moved in at the beginning of August.
In between these major events I also did have crushes on a few fellas and a few had crushes on me but those interests never quite lined up. I continue to be pleasantly independent and am anything but lonely. I also did more travelling than I have ever done in my life. April, I received a surprise gift from my dear, as-yet-unmet, friend Laina who bought me a plane ticket to go visit my family in Florida. I traveled with my friend Cat and spent a week and a half in Arizona on the U.S./Mexico border. We worked with a group called No More Deaths that does humanitarian aid work and advocacy for migrants. It was a simultaneously beautiful and tragic experience, offering an intense education and stirring up a number of questions. It recalled to me a passage of scripture that I’ve often connected with:
“...I can guarantee this truth: Whoever gives any of my humble followers a cup of cold water because that person is my disciple will certainly never lose his reward.”
Matt 10:42 (GW)
I’ve often felt overwhelmed by the pain and needs of this world and the lives within it that I have felt immobilized. When I read this scripture though I am called to action, a cup of water I can give. One of the things I love about the community I now live in is the way we try to engage in small good things to meet practical needs while simultaneously wrestling with larger, systemic issues.
I returned briefly to Chicago before taking off again to spend three weeks in California. There I visited my older brothers, Adam and Aaron in Los Angeles; spent some wonderful time with my beloved sister-in-law, Ann Marie, and niece and nephew, Asher and Clover. That trip happily overlapped with a visit from my younger sisters, Ruth and Rachel. The three of us spent several days with our fabulous Aunts Nancy and Judy in Northern California. I also had the opportunity to stay for five days with the LA Catholic Worker where I connected with the wonderful community there and participated in their work of offering food, shelter, and solidarity to the homeless population of skid row.
In the fall the White Rose community packed up to travel to “Sugar Creek,” Iowa for a gathering of Midwest Catholic Workers that felt like a family reunion. November I traveled down to Georgia with several from our community, as well as our friend Aaron Z., to participate in the SOA vigil at Ft. Benning in Columbus. Another intense time of education. I went directly from there to Tallahassee where I was able to see the home and meet the friends of my darling sister Grace. She and I drove together to the Apopka house where I spent the next week and a half soaking up the presence of my family. During that time I had the great gift of collecting stories from my parents of their life together which I hope to share more about later.
Presently, I am taking a break from the frenetic composing of completely handmade planners. Our community decided, in mid-December, to being this “cottage industry.” The orders for planners (which, naturally, are expected at the beginning of the year) have poured in and at this point exceed fifty. The beautiful intention, thorough planning and ultimately haphazard execution of this endeavor acts as an apt representation of most of our undertakings here. Many thanks to dear friends Ben A. and Aaron Z. who have shared in the work and lightened it with their presence! We are now up to three “open meals” a week when we welcome friends and strangers to join us for dinner and fellowship as well as offering access to the showers and washing machine and whatever clothing items or odds and ends we can provide. We are in intense planning mode, discerning how to make the best use of 10 acres of land that has been provided for us to grow food on and continue our experiment with providing an alternative economy and way of being in relationship with the earth and each other. As our community grows (we have doubled, from three folks to six!) and our ministerial ambitions grow with it, we are searching for a larger home to live in and work from.
There is so much more that I could write. I’ve been thinking a great deal lately of my time in Kentucky, the way my spirit was shaken to a new life and liveliness by the remarkable geography there. The way my mind and heart were expanded by the remarkable people there. And somehow that is all connected to what I am doing now, who I am becoming now. I love this life. Though I struggle with the interior work of clarifying convictions, developing relationships, and growing in love and service and mindfulness; I am sustained by the belief that I and those struggling with me, are endeavoring to live faithfully. We are experimenting with truth, supporting and challenging each other along the way. Advent is a season of hope. We await a promised savior. We celebrate the birth of a poor child, hoping in his promised potential. I hope in the truth of his strange story and in the potential of us poor children of earth. May his Kingdom come. May we live as though it is already here.
Much love and peace and Merry Christmas to you.
Your always remaining and ever-changing,
amy elizabeth nee
All my life I have dreamed of a white Christmas. Holiday songs and almost every image of the season indicate that is what we are entitled to. Growing up in Florida, travelling primarily in the summer, snow at Christmas, or anytime, was relegated to the realm of fantasies and miracles. Many a prayer was offered up from children wearing tank-tops and shorts, “Dear Jesus, let this be the year!” This is my year, but it comes at a cost. For the first time I am not in Florida with my family during the Christmas holiday. Instead I have decided to stay at my home in Chicago. Our house, normally bursting at the seams, is nearly empty. The others that I live with are off visiting relatives. I am holding down the fort and Tonguy (our guest from Togo, S. Africa who is staying with us while searching for a long term living option) will be in and out over the weekend.
I appreciate the rare opportunity for solitude and am feeling peaceful and grateful. At the same time, I know that I am missing the cacophony of exuberant voices made up of a roomful of sisters; the excitement of welcoming my brother Adam’s partner, Allison, into the family home for the first time; the combination of my brothers and my dad that always results in subtly (sometimes not so subtly) coarse humor that we try not to laugh at but then laugh regardless because it’s funny; my two-year-old niece Indiana repeating back everything anyone says to her in her beautiful little bee-like voice; board/card game playing and movie watching; siblings piled up together on the same couch, the Christmas Eve candle ceremony (a.k.a. Nee family cry fest) when we all articulate are abundant love for each other.
This has been a year of great change for me. Great in both the large and the delightful sense. I have become so comfortable with my surroundings and so immersed in my activities that I temporarily lost sight of the heap of happenings that have occurred, many of which are quite momentous for me. I formed a number of intense crushes that have grown into something more. I don’t mean on individuals but on places and people and ways of being. I was wooed by the Divine Unknown (who I know as God) and came to reluctantly, irresistibly, re-engage in relationship with this God’s incarnation in the form of a man named Jesus. After much deliberation and vacillation I consummated this relation by being confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church. I continue to be delighted, bewildered, ashamed by, and affection toward this institution that has adopted me as part of the family.
Another family that has adopted me is the White Rose Catholic Worker community; a group of people I was drawn to from the moment we met and before that even. Last fall I took a class on Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. Learning about these individuals lit a fire in me. Their interior and exterior lives were integrated with a rare authenticity and their ways of thinking and being resonated deeply with a desire for life that I had not yet found a way to articulate. I was especially fascinated by Day and the Catholic Worker movement. Searching for people who were continuing to attempt this lifestyle I had the good fortune of stumbling upon John and Jake who, along with Jerica (and later, Regina and Marie) were in the process of establishing a new Catholic Worker in the neighborhood where I was already working as a live-in nanny. In the spring they announced me an “official” member of the community and I moved in at the beginning of August.
In between these major events I also did have crushes on a few fellas and a few had crushes on me but those interests never quite lined up. I continue to be pleasantly independent and am anything but lonely. I also did more travelling than I have ever done in my life. April, I received a surprise gift from my dear, as-yet-unmet, friend Laina who bought me a plane ticket to go visit my family in Florida. I traveled with my friend Cat and spent a week and a half in Arizona on the U.S./Mexico border. We worked with a group called No More Deaths that does humanitarian aid work and advocacy for migrants. It was a simultaneously beautiful and tragic experience, offering an intense education and stirring up a number of questions. It recalled to me a passage of scripture that I’ve often connected with:
“...I can guarantee this truth: Whoever gives any of my humble followers a cup of cold water because that person is my disciple will certainly never lose his reward.”
Matt 10:42 (GW)
I’ve often felt overwhelmed by the pain and needs of this world and the lives within it that I have felt immobilized. When I read this scripture though I am called to action, a cup of water I can give. One of the things I love about the community I now live in is the way we try to engage in small good things to meet practical needs while simultaneously wrestling with larger, systemic issues.
I returned briefly to Chicago before taking off again to spend three weeks in California. There I visited my older brothers, Adam and Aaron in Los Angeles; spent some wonderful time with my beloved sister-in-law, Ann Marie, and niece and nephew, Asher and Clover. That trip happily overlapped with a visit from my younger sisters, Ruth and Rachel. The three of us spent several days with our fabulous Aunts Nancy and Judy in Northern California. I also had the opportunity to stay for five days with the LA Catholic Worker where I connected with the wonderful community there and participated in their work of offering food, shelter, and solidarity to the homeless population of skid row.
In the fall the White Rose community packed up to travel to “Sugar Creek,” Iowa for a gathering of Midwest Catholic Workers that felt like a family reunion. November I traveled down to Georgia with several from our community, as well as our friend Aaron Z., to participate in the SOA vigil at Ft. Benning in Columbus. Another intense time of education. I went directly from there to Tallahassee where I was able to see the home and meet the friends of my darling sister Grace. She and I drove together to the Apopka house where I spent the next week and a half soaking up the presence of my family. During that time I had the great gift of collecting stories from my parents of their life together which I hope to share more about later.
Presently, I am taking a break from the frenetic composing of completely handmade planners. Our community decided, in mid-December, to being this “cottage industry.” The orders for planners (which, naturally, are expected at the beginning of the year) have poured in and at this point exceed fifty. The beautiful intention, thorough planning and ultimately haphazard execution of this endeavor acts as an apt representation of most of our undertakings here. Many thanks to dear friends Ben A. and Aaron Z. who have shared in the work and lightened it with their presence! We are now up to three “open meals” a week when we welcome friends and strangers to join us for dinner and fellowship as well as offering access to the showers and washing machine and whatever clothing items or odds and ends we can provide. We are in intense planning mode, discerning how to make the best use of 10 acres of land that has been provided for us to grow food on and continue our experiment with providing an alternative economy and way of being in relationship with the earth and each other. As our community grows (we have doubled, from three folks to six!) and our ministerial ambitions grow with it, we are searching for a larger home to live in and work from.
There is so much more that I could write. I’ve been thinking a great deal lately of my time in Kentucky, the way my spirit was shaken to a new life and liveliness by the remarkable geography there. The way my mind and heart were expanded by the remarkable people there. And somehow that is all connected to what I am doing now, who I am becoming now. I love this life. Though I struggle with the interior work of clarifying convictions, developing relationships, and growing in love and service and mindfulness; I am sustained by the belief that I and those struggling with me, are endeavoring to live faithfully. We are experimenting with truth, supporting and challenging each other along the way. Advent is a season of hope. We await a promised savior. We celebrate the birth of a poor child, hoping in his promised potential. I hope in the truth of his strange story and in the potential of us poor children of earth. May his Kingdom come. May we live as though it is already here.
Much love and peace and Merry Christmas to you.
Your always remaining and ever-changing,
amy elizabeth nee
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
SOA Protest: First Impressions
11-21-10
I write this while sitting in a courtroom waiting for the arraignment of those arrested yesterday for the civil resistance action and randomly during the mass arrest that followed. Regina and Annmarie are among them. Bail was set at over $5000 dollars. Our friends didn’t intend to pay, hopefully we won’t have to.
Chris “crossed the line” this afternoon, nimbly, over the fence. I cried. I don’t know why. Meg, Mary Ellen, Cat and a girl I’d just met gave me long hugs of consolation. He leapt into becoming a representative of those murdered by graduates from the School of the Americas. Now I have to care.
We were there to mourn those who have lost lives and loved ones as victims, those who’ve lost integrity and humanity as victimizers. We were there too to uncover the infiltration of militarization and corrupt powers that exist all around us. The SOA has itself become a symbol. This school that has become notorious for graduates who lead and participate in assassinations, coups, massacres, war crimes—trained on U.S. soil, in U.S. tactics, with U.S. dollars, implicating U.S. citizens.
During our informal “pre-crossing” mass I could hear the “presente!” chant of the procession continuing around us, the beating of the drum. Feebly, I drew toward a sense of empathy with those who attempt to worship while surrounded by death.
“What are your impressions from today?” I asked Aaron. He said the mass felt like it was the last supper. Jake was Peter, the right hand man, the organizer. Crowds of friends and followers gave mixed messages of praise, concern, encouragement and scorn to our lamb. I wondered if he thought of Christ’s crown of thorns as his fingers wrapped over the barbed wire strung across the top of the fence.
“We act in response to the holocausts continuing to occur around the world,” he had said, carrying with him the ID card of a seven-year-old Belgium boy who’d been gassed in nazi Germany. Many of those killed by SOA graduates were young children, infants, mothers. We wonder, in retrospect, how such things as the mass killings of Jews could be allowed to happen. Could it be that such cruelty continues” Could it be us allowing it now?
After the Chris’ crossing I sat in the shad of the stage and listened to songs of freedom being belted out by the powerful voices of the musicians collective. Brother Josh, who had painted his face white, worn a black robe and carried a coffin in the procession sate beside me. “How did it feel?” I asked. He said it felt like being family, as pallbearers often are. He thought about how when one dies, all the family dies too. He thought, if we were able to truly understand each other as brother and sister, wars would cease. We would know we were killing ourselves.
Waiting silently in the courtroom to hear our friends’ fate, I think of those arrested yesterday who were not prepared, who did not enter purposefully. I think about those without support. I acknowledge that this happens every day; often without justice, often without love. Now I have to care. This is the heavy gift that our brothers and sisters who risk arrest offer. Even when I don’t fully understand thief action, I see the value of this gift.
Gratefully, I accept. May I be found worthy of the gifts that I’ve received! May we all remember the cost, and the debt that remains.
I write this while sitting in a courtroom waiting for the arraignment of those arrested yesterday for the civil resistance action and randomly during the mass arrest that followed. Regina and Annmarie are among them. Bail was set at over $5000 dollars. Our friends didn’t intend to pay, hopefully we won’t have to.
Chris “crossed the line” this afternoon, nimbly, over the fence. I cried. I don’t know why. Meg, Mary Ellen, Cat and a girl I’d just met gave me long hugs of consolation. He leapt into becoming a representative of those murdered by graduates from the School of the Americas. Now I have to care.
We were there to mourn those who have lost lives and loved ones as victims, those who’ve lost integrity and humanity as victimizers. We were there too to uncover the infiltration of militarization and corrupt powers that exist all around us. The SOA has itself become a symbol. This school that has become notorious for graduates who lead and participate in assassinations, coups, massacres, war crimes—trained on U.S. soil, in U.S. tactics, with U.S. dollars, implicating U.S. citizens.
During our informal “pre-crossing” mass I could hear the “presente!” chant of the procession continuing around us, the beating of the drum. Feebly, I drew toward a sense of empathy with those who attempt to worship while surrounded by death.
“What are your impressions from today?” I asked Aaron. He said the mass felt like it was the last supper. Jake was Peter, the right hand man, the organizer. Crowds of friends and followers gave mixed messages of praise, concern, encouragement and scorn to our lamb. I wondered if he thought of Christ’s crown of thorns as his fingers wrapped over the barbed wire strung across the top of the fence.
“We act in response to the holocausts continuing to occur around the world,” he had said, carrying with him the ID card of a seven-year-old Belgium boy who’d been gassed in nazi Germany. Many of those killed by SOA graduates were young children, infants, mothers. We wonder, in retrospect, how such things as the mass killings of Jews could be allowed to happen. Could it be that such cruelty continues” Could it be us allowing it now?
After the Chris’ crossing I sat in the shad of the stage and listened to songs of freedom being belted out by the powerful voices of the musicians collective. Brother Josh, who had painted his face white, worn a black robe and carried a coffin in the procession sate beside me. “How did it feel?” I asked. He said it felt like being family, as pallbearers often are. He thought about how when one dies, all the family dies too. He thought, if we were able to truly understand each other as brother and sister, wars would cease. We would know we were killing ourselves.
Waiting silently in the courtroom to hear our friends’ fate, I think of those arrested yesterday who were not prepared, who did not enter purposefully. I think about those without support. I acknowledge that this happens every day; often without justice, often without love. Now I have to care. This is the heavy gift that our brothers and sisters who risk arrest offer. Even when I don’t fully understand thief action, I see the value of this gift.
Gratefully, I accept. May I be found worthy of the gifts that I’ve received! May we all remember the cost, and the debt that remains.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Confrontations in the Desert: Part 2
This synthesis of recent studies and the current reading spurred me to be more attentive to Jesus’ other responses, recognizing there was more to his meaning than I’d previously taken note of. The devil next presents to Jesus a vision of “all the kingdoms of the world in a moment’s time” (Luke 4:5) claims dominion and offers them with only one caveat, that Jesus worships him. Jesus answers, “You shall worship the Lord your God and God only shall you serve.” The reference here is to Deuteronomy 6:13. The words Jesus actually speak follow closely on the footsteps of what is often referred to as “the greatest commandment,” “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might,” possibly because it was presented as such in the gospels during an exchange between Jesus and an inquisitive lawyer. It is worth noting that in this exchange there is an added phrase, “and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” The words just preceding these are, “Hear O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one” which has become the Shema, the centerpiece of morning and evening prayer in the Jewish tradition. What really caught my attention here is the word “one.” During a recent morning of community prayer, one of my housemates prefaced his sharing point with an explanation of ones and zeros, “zero is a place holder, one is infinity.” One is infinity. This gave a sinking and soaring new depth to the phrase, “the Lord is one.” Satan offered Jesus a glimpse of all of the kingdoms of the world “in a moment’s time.” What is that in the eye of infinity?
Next comes Satan’s wildly decontextualized reference to the promise God makes via the writer of the 91st Psalm, “On their hands they [the angels] will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.” If you believe this, the devil says; why not jump from this precipice? It seems an odd taunt. The Psalmist promise was made in the context of God offering loving protection and being a fortress at a time of attack, not being a safety net for daredevils. Jesus’ retort is less direct but abundantly deeper. “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test,” he answers. But this is only the beginning of the sentence that, in Deuteronomy, is finished with, “as you tested the Lord at Massah.” What happened at Massah? This is a reference once again to the Israelites’ time in the desert, to the time when their gratitude for the gift of manna waned and they “quarreled with Moses,” because they were thirsty. Why, they asked, did you bring us out from Egypt? How quickly they forgot their chains and remembered only the convenience of a society with easy access to resources. The people are given water, but begrudgingly, and Moses names the place Massah [testing] and Meribah [quarrelling] “because of the quarrelling of the people of Israel, and because they tested the Lord by saying, ‘is the Lord among us or not?’” It is also the core line in a Psalm that consistently makes my heart quiver, “Today if you hear God’s voice, do not harden your hearts as you did at Meribah, as you did on the day at Massah, in the wilderness” (Psalm 95). The implications of Jesus’ response are far greater than a critique of Satan’s misinterpretation of scripture. It implies Jesus’ determination to trust that God is indeed among us, a fact that Jesus own presence affirms. And he would not prove it by dramatic self-aggrandizing acts but by a steady commitment to implementing the instructions inherent in the story of the manna—the theology of enough—even when it was inconvenient, unappreciated, unpopular; even when it got him in trouble with authorities and threw him out of favor with his own family and followers.
Following this, Jesus makes his first public address:
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18-19, Isaiah 61:1,2).
Next comes Satan’s wildly decontextualized reference to the promise God makes via the writer of the 91st Psalm, “On their hands they [the angels] will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.” If you believe this, the devil says; why not jump from this precipice? It seems an odd taunt. The Psalmist promise was made in the context of God offering loving protection and being a fortress at a time of attack, not being a safety net for daredevils. Jesus’ retort is less direct but abundantly deeper. “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test,” he answers. But this is only the beginning of the sentence that, in Deuteronomy, is finished with, “as you tested the Lord at Massah.” What happened at Massah? This is a reference once again to the Israelites’ time in the desert, to the time when their gratitude for the gift of manna waned and they “quarreled with Moses,” because they were thirsty. Why, they asked, did you bring us out from Egypt? How quickly they forgot their chains and remembered only the convenience of a society with easy access to resources. The people are given water, but begrudgingly, and Moses names the place Massah [testing] and Meribah [quarrelling] “because of the quarrelling of the people of Israel, and because they tested the Lord by saying, ‘is the Lord among us or not?’” It is also the core line in a Psalm that consistently makes my heart quiver, “Today if you hear God’s voice, do not harden your hearts as you did at Meribah, as you did on the day at Massah, in the wilderness” (Psalm 95). The implications of Jesus’ response are far greater than a critique of Satan’s misinterpretation of scripture. It implies Jesus’ determination to trust that God is indeed among us, a fact that Jesus own presence affirms. And he would not prove it by dramatic self-aggrandizing acts but by a steady commitment to implementing the instructions inherent in the story of the manna—the theology of enough—even when it was inconvenient, unappreciated, unpopular; even when it got him in trouble with authorities and threw him out of favor with his own family and followers.
Following this, Jesus makes his first public address:
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18-19, Isaiah 61:1,2).
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Confrontations in the Desert: Part 1
A Reading from Luke 4:1-14
I am always impressed by how a thoughtful reading of an old text develops new contours, shaped by daily learnings. I have long been fascinated by Jesus’ encounter with the devil in the desert. It is on of the few scenes where Satan takes the stage as a present character (the only others I can think of off-hand are in Eden—confronting Eve—and in heaven—reporting to and challenging God about Job). It is quite theatrical.
Originally I read this passage as little more than a character sketch. Satan is shown to be a manipulative antagonist, Jesus a pure-hearted overcomer. Over time the readings took on different shapes depending on teachers and circumstances in which I met them. The desert is a purifying space for Jesus. Now I read it as not only a time of refinement for him as an individual (and object lesson on using scripture as combat weapons), but a purifying of the law, a refinement of the historical understanding of God and God’s commandments.
Every word Jesus speaks in this scene is quoted directly from both the 6th and 8th chapter of the book of Deuteronomy, the book of the law. This is where God is reminding the Israelites of the lessons they received during their forty year desert wandering and outlining behavioral expectations preceding their entrance into the Promised Land. Jesus symbolically relives the Israelite experience, entering the desert for forty days, subjecting himself to hardship and temptation. He not only receives the lessons into his present context, but himself voices the words of God (in his Deuteronomical quotations) as he prepares to enter/usher in the Kingdom.
I was first struck by Jesus’ response to Satan’s suggestion that he turn stones to bread. “Man shall not live by bread alone,” Jesus says, directly quoting from the moment when God was reminding the Israelites of the lesson of the manna:
You shall remember the whole way that that Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, the Lord might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep God’s commandments or not. And the Lord humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with manna…that the Lord might make you know that people do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God (Deut. 8:2-3).
This reference to the Israelite experience with manna sprung to life for me since I had just been reading about it in Ched Myer’s book, The Biblical Vision of Sabbath Economics. The first chapter of this book introduces the manna story from Exodus as a story about “following instructions,” and a presentation of “Yahweh’s alternative to the oppressive Egyptian economy” (11). As Myers sees it, there are three defining characteristics to the instructions God lays before these desert wanderers. He works from the understanding that these are not arbitrary instructions that expire at the conclusion of the Exodus, but rather a training ground and introduction to a new economy for these people to practice as they enter their new life.
First, the “theology of enough.” The Exodus account states that “every family gathered just enough.” I have lately been contemplated the nuances of this word, “enough.” It can indicate both that there is plenty—“enough for all!”—and also that the verge of excess is being pushed—“whoa! That’s enough!” This first characteristic refers to the former. The “enough” that the people are being provided with contrasts with the destitution of their life in Egypt. The second characteristic draws on the latter notion of “enough.” Once again contrasting with the economic system of Egypt (and, to broaden the view, our current economic system), the people of Israel are firmly instructed not to store up. Wealth and resources are not to be accumulated. Finally, the characteristic of Sabbath discipline is introduced. Gather for six days, rest on the seventh. Myers points out that this is not only “good agricultural sense,” it also “functions to disrupt human attempts to ‘control’ nature and ‘maximize’ the forces of production.” It is a reminder that the earth and the resources we glean from it are belong to God and are a gift. Authentic practice of the Sabbath requires faith and, to borrow a phrase from Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, “abundance mentality.” It requires faith in what Myers calls, “an economy of grace.” Jesus’ reference to this lesson in response to Satan’s taunt about turning stones to bread indicates his radical understanding of and faith in God’s instructions and simultaneously foreshadows the many times he will practice and proclaim this “economy of grace” amongst his contemporaries.
I am always impressed by how a thoughtful reading of an old text develops new contours, shaped by daily learnings. I have long been fascinated by Jesus’ encounter with the devil in the desert. It is on of the few scenes where Satan takes the stage as a present character (the only others I can think of off-hand are in Eden—confronting Eve—and in heaven—reporting to and challenging God about Job). It is quite theatrical.
Originally I read this passage as little more than a character sketch. Satan is shown to be a manipulative antagonist, Jesus a pure-hearted overcomer. Over time the readings took on different shapes depending on teachers and circumstances in which I met them. The desert is a purifying space for Jesus. Now I read it as not only a time of refinement for him as an individual (and object lesson on using scripture as combat weapons), but a purifying of the law, a refinement of the historical understanding of God and God’s commandments.
Every word Jesus speaks in this scene is quoted directly from both the 6th and 8th chapter of the book of Deuteronomy, the book of the law. This is where God is reminding the Israelites of the lessons they received during their forty year desert wandering and outlining behavioral expectations preceding their entrance into the Promised Land. Jesus symbolically relives the Israelite experience, entering the desert for forty days, subjecting himself to hardship and temptation. He not only receives the lessons into his present context, but himself voices the words of God (in his Deuteronomical quotations) as he prepares to enter/usher in the Kingdom.
I was first struck by Jesus’ response to Satan’s suggestion that he turn stones to bread. “Man shall not live by bread alone,” Jesus says, directly quoting from the moment when God was reminding the Israelites of the lesson of the manna:
You shall remember the whole way that that Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, the Lord might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep God’s commandments or not. And the Lord humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with manna…that the Lord might make you know that people do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God (Deut. 8:2-3).
This reference to the Israelite experience with manna sprung to life for me since I had just been reading about it in Ched Myer’s book, The Biblical Vision of Sabbath Economics. The first chapter of this book introduces the manna story from Exodus as a story about “following instructions,” and a presentation of “Yahweh’s alternative to the oppressive Egyptian economy” (11). As Myers sees it, there are three defining characteristics to the instructions God lays before these desert wanderers. He works from the understanding that these are not arbitrary instructions that expire at the conclusion of the Exodus, but rather a training ground and introduction to a new economy for these people to practice as they enter their new life.
First, the “theology of enough.” The Exodus account states that “every family gathered just enough.” I have lately been contemplated the nuances of this word, “enough.” It can indicate both that there is plenty—“enough for all!”—and also that the verge of excess is being pushed—“whoa! That’s enough!” This first characteristic refers to the former. The “enough” that the people are being provided with contrasts with the destitution of their life in Egypt. The second characteristic draws on the latter notion of “enough.” Once again contrasting with the economic system of Egypt (and, to broaden the view, our current economic system), the people of Israel are firmly instructed not to store up. Wealth and resources are not to be accumulated. Finally, the characteristic of Sabbath discipline is introduced. Gather for six days, rest on the seventh. Myers points out that this is not only “good agricultural sense,” it also “functions to disrupt human attempts to ‘control’ nature and ‘maximize’ the forces of production.” It is a reminder that the earth and the resources we glean from it are belong to God and are a gift. Authentic practice of the Sabbath requires faith and, to borrow a phrase from Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, “abundance mentality.” It requires faith in what Myers calls, “an economy of grace.” Jesus’ reference to this lesson in response to Satan’s taunt about turning stones to bread indicates his radical understanding of and faith in God’s instructions and simultaneously foreshadows the many times he will practice and proclaim this “economy of grace” amongst his contemporaries.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Giving and Receiving
I parked my bike off the lake trail so that I could walk about the segment set aside for “nature preservation.” The city is trying to revive the flora of the prairie. The long brown and bowed stems I gingerly stepped over revived a memory. It was of a trail I frequented almost daily in Berea, KY—specifically of the small patch of lowland prairie carved from forested hills. Tall flowering grasses turned to straw-like sticks in the fall and were intersected by a narrow trampled path. A Midwestern sky with clouds like shoreline sand soared overhead. On one side was a wall of evergreens, ever waving, darkly mysterious and sweetly inviting. On the other side was an assortment of maples and oaks, one monumentally thick and knotted with reaching arms as strong as a mother’s.
Now, I am sitting on a stone wall, beneath the shade of a voluminous “Wooshing Tree” (a.k.a. Weeping Willow), facing the lake; a different kind of beauty. I felt turned inward. This morning I was squeezing a quick online conversation in with my sister, Hannah (in South Korea, too many time changes away for me to keep track of), before heading off to mass. Interrupted by a persistent knock at the door I resignedly went downstairs. It was Dennis.* He wanted money for a 7-Day bus pass to get to his new job. Despite some reservations I gave him what he asked for, admittedly as much out of curiosity—will he really come back to share meals with us and volunteer around the house as promised?—as out of compassion. Questions about what it means to serve the poor, and more to the point, what it means to know and love a person, to identify and meet their needs, surfaced and churned.
The day before I had met Rose at Pax Christi’s Mass for Peace and potluck. She is, I would guess, in her forties, but with a thick, weary body and soft, deep-lined stranger’s face that makes her appear older. Her hair is thin and brown, her eyes, pale blue. The top row of her teeth grow in an ascending slant ending in unfettered pink gums. She is friendly and open though difficult to understand, speaking in garbled tangential phrases. I saw her again at mass and she came up to me, I asked her if she’d be going to the brunch our friend’s community hosts next door. She said yes but didn’t know where it was, so we went together. Lately, I’ve lamented that I don’t have enough personal contact with the poor to legitimize my words and work. God’s gifted me with a glimpse of what a that life looks like, one man, one woman, at a time.
I keep being revisited by a phrase my housemate John brought into prayer once about “building a movement.” I frequently forget it or maybe I just don’t fully believe it. That we could be agents in the creation of another way of living that reaches beyond our little home, beyond our network of friends. After Saturday’s peace mass a sharing circle was initiated and two questions were posed, “what are you working toward” and “what gives you hope?” It was beautiful to hear the variety of projects that the men and women there had undertaken. Probably 98% of those present were over sixty and I was encouraged by their persistent dedication to working for peace, justice and being a voice for the voiceless. George, an older man and friend of our community said that he finds hope in Catholic Worker houses, and others like them, “because they give to the poor, but not from a position of power.” I was deeply touched by his words, and challenged to honor them.
Telling Hannah about Dennis I had the sense that she was wary of his authenticity. I couldn’t blame her, I was as well. I had to by intentional about reminding myself that there are many who don’t have their needs so easily met as I do. They have to either ask, or go without. If I was in a tough spot, there are people who would see and offer assistance. What happens with those whose needs stand before blind eyes and cry before deaf ears? (Later it occurred to me that part of not giving from power is not needing to know or control what happens with what I give, but to give of my excess regardless. Whatever Dennis’ intentions, I have more than I need and he has less.) Hannah posed the critical question, why don’t they have support? The answer remains concealed. The question though reveals a path to response: that we not only give alms, but ultimately offer relationship, become the church.
The time, insight, and commitment required for this can feel like an overwhelming cost. At times it seems unattainable, especially when thinking of the multitude in need not just the one at the door. Thinking about this while hurriedly biking to mass I felt a renewed recognition that this is what the Catholic Worker is for. We are here to fill in the gaps, to be family to those without, whatever the reason for that may be. We are and we are becoming the church. This requires resources that we, because of investing our time and talents in being present to the “least, lost, and lonely,” are often lacking as individuals. Hence, community, and not only that of this house. We, by some twist of fate, do have friends and family and a voice that is more likely to be heard in society. So, we ask for help on behalf of those who lack these gifts: Asking partly because we know we have not because we are more deserving but by some strange grace. We are obliged and grateful and overflowing.
I thought about the parable of the man who had a visitor. He had no bread to offer this visitor, so he went to his friend’s house, woke him from sleeping, and asked persistently until this friend, reluctantly and irritably, complied (Luke 11:5-8). During mass the gospel reading was of a widow who unflaggingly plied an unjust judge for justice against her adversary (Luke 18:4-5). I couldn’t help smiling, filled with both consternation and delight at the reading and at the way the judge says, “Though I neither fear God nor respect people…I will give this widow justice so that she will not beat me down by her continual coming.” How often Jesus upholds persistent petitioning! How often he upholds, even, begging, which we as individuals and as a society are so resistant to. We modern Christians often allocate this advocacy of begging to a symbol of spiritual supplication, to prayer. But why not acknowledge it as it is presented; a commendation of begging for help in addressing tangible needs?
At the post-mass brunch I sat at table, across from Rose, and watched as my friend Liz cheerfully, patiently, deciphered her confusing conversation. I though of the parable of the banquet where all are invited and the one of the lowest social position is given a seat of honor. I though of our little open meals at the White Rose where often the guests are strangers, some not even English-speaking, and how strange and how wonderful that no one present acts like anything unusual is happening. We are serenaded by guitar strumming and Spanish songs as we share a meal with brothers and sisters whose stories are a mystery to us.
Before mass had ended, kneeling before the Eucharist, I felt challenged by Christ’s presence. Each week I consume him, but am I in turn offering myself to be consumed as he would? I continue to wade through questions and confusion about appropriate giving, healthy relationships, appropriate work, effective ministry, and movement building. For today though, I choose to be grateful that when Dennis knocked—though I was reluctant to be interrupted, reluctant to part with cash, reluctant to be manipulated—the door was opened.
Now, I am sitting on a stone wall, beneath the shade of a voluminous “Wooshing Tree” (a.k.a. Weeping Willow), facing the lake; a different kind of beauty. I felt turned inward. This morning I was squeezing a quick online conversation in with my sister, Hannah (in South Korea, too many time changes away for me to keep track of), before heading off to mass. Interrupted by a persistent knock at the door I resignedly went downstairs. It was Dennis.* He wanted money for a 7-Day bus pass to get to his new job. Despite some reservations I gave him what he asked for, admittedly as much out of curiosity—will he really come back to share meals with us and volunteer around the house as promised?—as out of compassion. Questions about what it means to serve the poor, and more to the point, what it means to know and love a person, to identify and meet their needs, surfaced and churned.
The day before I had met Rose at Pax Christi’s Mass for Peace and potluck. She is, I would guess, in her forties, but with a thick, weary body and soft, deep-lined stranger’s face that makes her appear older. Her hair is thin and brown, her eyes, pale blue. The top row of her teeth grow in an ascending slant ending in unfettered pink gums. She is friendly and open though difficult to understand, speaking in garbled tangential phrases. I saw her again at mass and she came up to me, I asked her if she’d be going to the brunch our friend’s community hosts next door. She said yes but didn’t know where it was, so we went together. Lately, I’ve lamented that I don’t have enough personal contact with the poor to legitimize my words and work. God’s gifted me with a glimpse of what a that life looks like, one man, one woman, at a time.
I keep being revisited by a phrase my housemate John brought into prayer once about “building a movement.” I frequently forget it or maybe I just don’t fully believe it. That we could be agents in the creation of another way of living that reaches beyond our little home, beyond our network of friends. After Saturday’s peace mass a sharing circle was initiated and two questions were posed, “what are you working toward” and “what gives you hope?” It was beautiful to hear the variety of projects that the men and women there had undertaken. Probably 98% of those present were over sixty and I was encouraged by their persistent dedication to working for peace, justice and being a voice for the voiceless. George, an older man and friend of our community said that he finds hope in Catholic Worker houses, and others like them, “because they give to the poor, but not from a position of power.” I was deeply touched by his words, and challenged to honor them.
Telling Hannah about Dennis I had the sense that she was wary of his authenticity. I couldn’t blame her, I was as well. I had to by intentional about reminding myself that there are many who don’t have their needs so easily met as I do. They have to either ask, or go without. If I was in a tough spot, there are people who would see and offer assistance. What happens with those whose needs stand before blind eyes and cry before deaf ears? (Later it occurred to me that part of not giving from power is not needing to know or control what happens with what I give, but to give of my excess regardless. Whatever Dennis’ intentions, I have more than I need and he has less.) Hannah posed the critical question, why don’t they have support? The answer remains concealed. The question though reveals a path to response: that we not only give alms, but ultimately offer relationship, become the church.
The time, insight, and commitment required for this can feel like an overwhelming cost. At times it seems unattainable, especially when thinking of the multitude in need not just the one at the door. Thinking about this while hurriedly biking to mass I felt a renewed recognition that this is what the Catholic Worker is for. We are here to fill in the gaps, to be family to those without, whatever the reason for that may be. We are and we are becoming the church. This requires resources that we, because of investing our time and talents in being present to the “least, lost, and lonely,” are often lacking as individuals. Hence, community, and not only that of this house. We, by some twist of fate, do have friends and family and a voice that is more likely to be heard in society. So, we ask for help on behalf of those who lack these gifts: Asking partly because we know we have not because we are more deserving but by some strange grace. We are obliged and grateful and overflowing.
I thought about the parable of the man who had a visitor. He had no bread to offer this visitor, so he went to his friend’s house, woke him from sleeping, and asked persistently until this friend, reluctantly and irritably, complied (Luke 11:5-8). During mass the gospel reading was of a widow who unflaggingly plied an unjust judge for justice against her adversary (Luke 18:4-5). I couldn’t help smiling, filled with both consternation and delight at the reading and at the way the judge says, “Though I neither fear God nor respect people…I will give this widow justice so that she will not beat me down by her continual coming.” How often Jesus upholds persistent petitioning! How often he upholds, even, begging, which we as individuals and as a society are so resistant to. We modern Christians often allocate this advocacy of begging to a symbol of spiritual supplication, to prayer. But why not acknowledge it as it is presented; a commendation of begging for help in addressing tangible needs?
At the post-mass brunch I sat at table, across from Rose, and watched as my friend Liz cheerfully, patiently, deciphered her confusing conversation. I though of the parable of the banquet where all are invited and the one of the lowest social position is given a seat of honor. I though of our little open meals at the White Rose where often the guests are strangers, some not even English-speaking, and how strange and how wonderful that no one present acts like anything unusual is happening. We are serenaded by guitar strumming and Spanish songs as we share a meal with brothers and sisters whose stories are a mystery to us.
Before mass had ended, kneeling before the Eucharist, I felt challenged by Christ’s presence. Each week I consume him, but am I in turn offering myself to be consumed as he would? I continue to wade through questions and confusion about appropriate giving, healthy relationships, appropriate work, effective ministry, and movement building. For today though, I choose to be grateful that when Dennis knocked—though I was reluctant to be interrupted, reluctant to part with cash, reluctant to be manipulated—the door was opened.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Love Letter
Dear One,
This was a beautiful day; warm, sunny, blue. Yesterday was like it, unusual weather when October already is casting its first week aside. This sort of anomaly is welcomed here as we anticipate dark, cold days. I remember this weekend as at home, outdoors. I remember the main thought as, “thank you;” the main feeling, “Love.” Most of the rest, I imagine, will be forgotten, but these I will carry.
Do you know this wild love for living? It is oddly unaccompanied by fear of death. Though, it does know sorrow. Here is a thought I recall—it came alongside me where our garden grows in the alley between our backyard and the tall fenced soccer field of Loyola University. I was crouched filling a watering can from the barrel (filled by hauling water from the rain-catching-barrel attached to the house), feeling proudly like a farmer. The sun’s warm hand touched my shoulders, pretending to be summer. I was filled with love for that touch, for the solid ground supporting my feet, the little leaves of lettuce reaching from raised beds. I felt love for the shockingly white chickens chirping gratefully at having been release into a heap of bug-ridden compost, for Matt who was fixing Regina’s bike brakes, for John and Regina who were building a new worm bin to supplement our abundant need for a place to direct food scraps. I felt love for God, for letting me know all this, for myself for saying “yes” and living. Quietly entered the thought, “is it wrong to have all this joy when so many suffer?” Even while asking I knew the answer was no. Joy and grief are not exclusive emotions. They live side by side, and know each other well. Tenderly, even, they know each other deeper than I understand and one will seldom lose sight of the other. It is, in fact, joy that gives me grief (consider, maybe it really is a gift, in this context at least). Accident or oppression or ignorance, create walls detaching joy from grief. This is what turns loneliness to alienation, sorrow to despair. Joy compels me to break the barriers and love the grieving back to life. If I abandon joy for grief, I diminish the hope of their reunion.
What am I talking about? By four o’clock I was tired. Now, I am downright weary, but with a spirit well-rested, satisfied, and wanting to tell stories. Last night we (the White Rose) hosted a roundtable discussion on climate change. The large group broke into smaller ones. I inserted myself into a circle of folks talking about the spirituality of consumption and conservation, or something of that nature. I talked about mindfulness and interconnectedness. Others talked about small steps, about wants vs. needs and self-care and sanity. Someone said, “Fear.” The word punctured me and poured out further reflection. My heart pounds and hands reach not from fear—unless it be of the awful (awe-filled) variety typically attributed to awareness of the Holy—fear paralyzes. Admiration and affection move me. I am driven to address environmental justice because of a reverence, a tenderness toward the earth and other people, toward the wind—when I imagine it to be God’s continually whispering creation into being, or its just being a movement that coolly kisses sweat from my skin and dances with leaves—water, and waste that when managed well returns to life and sustains me and you and everyone.
I am moved toward a good life. Not the proverbial “good life” of ease and abundance. That is to say, ease in its time and abundance toward all; a life that gives as often as it takes, that says, “I love you” with its actions. Then too, a life that at times fills in the gaps left by the times when my actions inevitably spoke, “I don’t care,” “I forgot,” or (God forgive me) “I hate you.” A life like this means being compelled, when the occasion calls for it, to stand in the way of those who don’t endeavor for the good but do quite the opposite, intentionally or otherwise.
If I have an agenda in developing this life, it was woven into me, by my upbringing and by a spirit I consider to be God who I believe is Love. I can’t see the threads beginning any better than the end. It’s been molded over time by experiences and influential friends and an enduring (imaginary? maybe, but I don’t think so) relationship with the so-called-son-of-God who tried to teach a timeless truth. “Ask and it will be given,” he said, “Knock and the door will be opened…” He spoke these like a promise, but I hear them as a call too. Because he said also, “give to all who ask of you,” and “as you did to the least…you did to me.” I have been told too that we who believe become part of his body, in and out from God as he is. Do his promises too become mine? (I suddenly remember being barely twenty, on the phone with an ephemeral man, asking, “What does it mean to be a disciple? Does anyone live that way?” Afraid, because I’d realized I wasn’t and didn’t know how to be.) After all, if everyone gave when asked then those who asked would receive. If all answered to a knock, then the door, indeed, would open.
Of course, all don’t. It’s possible, probable, that all never will. Does that mean the much proclaimed Kingdom is not already here? Or does it come when we live (as we often advocated for in recovery) “as if”? The Kingdom is at hand when I practice personal responsibility and love my neighbor as myself. The Kingdom comes when I resist the evil in me and that in my government and culture (even when that resistance is rude, awkward, risky). Sometimes it means little more than the elusive quality of mindfulness, cultivating attentiveness and intentionality into our thoughts, words, and deeds. Before you buy that—where did it come from? Who worked for it and how were they treated? What waste has and will be created by it? Before you judge her—would you welcome the same judgment for yourself? Sometimes it means intentional planning and action. Many need to be wakened from slumber. Many need dull perceptions sharpened. Even those who see sometimes forget to look.
Dorothy Day writes, “We need always to be thinking and writing about poverty, for if we are not among its victims its reality fades from us. We must talk about poverty, because people insulated by their own comfort lose sight of it…” Contemplating this, I realize that the word “poverty” could easily be exchanged with a multitude of others. We need always to be thinking about the: workers who fill the jobs we ignore; children, mothers, fathers, who are killed by bombs our money bought; land abused for the sake of indulgence; people dying of thirst for water we flush down the toilet; people with confused minds and wounded hearts that need healing though there is no one to blame for their brokenness.
I consider all this and decide that it is too much. It is impossible to be mindful of so many things. It is absurd to hold all this in one’s hands and say, “I will carry you.” Yes, yes, as absurd and impossible as a camel passing through the eye of a needle! I will remember though that my hands are not mine only but part of a body made up of millions. I will remember that it’s been said that though with humans such things are not possible, “with God all things are possible.” Such a wild promise. When I consider the wildness of this life, it just might make sense. I will believe (Lord, help my unbelief!) I will let love give me the strength to embrace sorrow, and the arms of grief press me to create spaces where I can plant seeds of joy. Then I can listen to the promise, “the kingdom is coming, the kingdom is coming” in the context of the quiet, audacious assurance, “the kingdom is already here!”
But who am I to say these things—a sleepy sun-burned girl, lying on the carpet on her bedroom floor, surrounded by the clutter of shared space, listening to music mixes, pouring the fullness of her heart through pen to paper—I am yours.
This was a beautiful day; warm, sunny, blue. Yesterday was like it, unusual weather when October already is casting its first week aside. This sort of anomaly is welcomed here as we anticipate dark, cold days. I remember this weekend as at home, outdoors. I remember the main thought as, “thank you;” the main feeling, “Love.” Most of the rest, I imagine, will be forgotten, but these I will carry.
Do you know this wild love for living? It is oddly unaccompanied by fear of death. Though, it does know sorrow. Here is a thought I recall—it came alongside me where our garden grows in the alley between our backyard and the tall fenced soccer field of Loyola University. I was crouched filling a watering can from the barrel (filled by hauling water from the rain-catching-barrel attached to the house), feeling proudly like a farmer. The sun’s warm hand touched my shoulders, pretending to be summer. I was filled with love for that touch, for the solid ground supporting my feet, the little leaves of lettuce reaching from raised beds. I felt love for the shockingly white chickens chirping gratefully at having been release into a heap of bug-ridden compost, for Matt who was fixing Regina’s bike brakes, for John and Regina who were building a new worm bin to supplement our abundant need for a place to direct food scraps. I felt love for God, for letting me know all this, for myself for saying “yes” and living. Quietly entered the thought, “is it wrong to have all this joy when so many suffer?” Even while asking I knew the answer was no. Joy and grief are not exclusive emotions. They live side by side, and know each other well. Tenderly, even, they know each other deeper than I understand and one will seldom lose sight of the other. It is, in fact, joy that gives me grief (consider, maybe it really is a gift, in this context at least). Accident or oppression or ignorance, create walls detaching joy from grief. This is what turns loneliness to alienation, sorrow to despair. Joy compels me to break the barriers and love the grieving back to life. If I abandon joy for grief, I diminish the hope of their reunion.
What am I talking about? By four o’clock I was tired. Now, I am downright weary, but with a spirit well-rested, satisfied, and wanting to tell stories. Last night we (the White Rose) hosted a roundtable discussion on climate change. The large group broke into smaller ones. I inserted myself into a circle of folks talking about the spirituality of consumption and conservation, or something of that nature. I talked about mindfulness and interconnectedness. Others talked about small steps, about wants vs. needs and self-care and sanity. Someone said, “Fear.” The word punctured me and poured out further reflection. My heart pounds and hands reach not from fear—unless it be of the awful (awe-filled) variety typically attributed to awareness of the Holy—fear paralyzes. Admiration and affection move me. I am driven to address environmental justice because of a reverence, a tenderness toward the earth and other people, toward the wind—when I imagine it to be God’s continually whispering creation into being, or its just being a movement that coolly kisses sweat from my skin and dances with leaves—water, and waste that when managed well returns to life and sustains me and you and everyone.
I am moved toward a good life. Not the proverbial “good life” of ease and abundance. That is to say, ease in its time and abundance toward all; a life that gives as often as it takes, that says, “I love you” with its actions. Then too, a life that at times fills in the gaps left by the times when my actions inevitably spoke, “I don’t care,” “I forgot,” or (God forgive me) “I hate you.” A life like this means being compelled, when the occasion calls for it, to stand in the way of those who don’t endeavor for the good but do quite the opposite, intentionally or otherwise.
If I have an agenda in developing this life, it was woven into me, by my upbringing and by a spirit I consider to be God who I believe is Love. I can’t see the threads beginning any better than the end. It’s been molded over time by experiences and influential friends and an enduring (imaginary? maybe, but I don’t think so) relationship with the so-called-son-of-God who tried to teach a timeless truth. “Ask and it will be given,” he said, “Knock and the door will be opened…” He spoke these like a promise, but I hear them as a call too. Because he said also, “give to all who ask of you,” and “as you did to the least…you did to me.” I have been told too that we who believe become part of his body, in and out from God as he is. Do his promises too become mine? (I suddenly remember being barely twenty, on the phone with an ephemeral man, asking, “What does it mean to be a disciple? Does anyone live that way?” Afraid, because I’d realized I wasn’t and didn’t know how to be.) After all, if everyone gave when asked then those who asked would receive. If all answered to a knock, then the door, indeed, would open.
Of course, all don’t. It’s possible, probable, that all never will. Does that mean the much proclaimed Kingdom is not already here? Or does it come when we live (as we often advocated for in recovery) “as if”? The Kingdom is at hand when I practice personal responsibility and love my neighbor as myself. The Kingdom comes when I resist the evil in me and that in my government and culture (even when that resistance is rude, awkward, risky). Sometimes it means little more than the elusive quality of mindfulness, cultivating attentiveness and intentionality into our thoughts, words, and deeds. Before you buy that—where did it come from? Who worked for it and how were they treated? What waste has and will be created by it? Before you judge her—would you welcome the same judgment for yourself? Sometimes it means intentional planning and action. Many need to be wakened from slumber. Many need dull perceptions sharpened. Even those who see sometimes forget to look.
Dorothy Day writes, “We need always to be thinking and writing about poverty, for if we are not among its victims its reality fades from us. We must talk about poverty, because people insulated by their own comfort lose sight of it…” Contemplating this, I realize that the word “poverty” could easily be exchanged with a multitude of others. We need always to be thinking about the: workers who fill the jobs we ignore; children, mothers, fathers, who are killed by bombs our money bought; land abused for the sake of indulgence; people dying of thirst for water we flush down the toilet; people with confused minds and wounded hearts that need healing though there is no one to blame for their brokenness.
I consider all this and decide that it is too much. It is impossible to be mindful of so many things. It is absurd to hold all this in one’s hands and say, “I will carry you.” Yes, yes, as absurd and impossible as a camel passing through the eye of a needle! I will remember though that my hands are not mine only but part of a body made up of millions. I will remember that it’s been said that though with humans such things are not possible, “with God all things are possible.” Such a wild promise. When I consider the wildness of this life, it just might make sense. I will believe (Lord, help my unbelief!) I will let love give me the strength to embrace sorrow, and the arms of grief press me to create spaces where I can plant seeds of joy. Then I can listen to the promise, “the kingdom is coming, the kingdom is coming” in the context of the quiet, audacious assurance, “the kingdom is already here!”
But who am I to say these things—a sleepy sun-burned girl, lying on the carpet on her bedroom floor, surrounded by the clutter of shared space, listening to music mixes, pouring the fullness of her heart through pen to paper—I am yours.
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