New Problems. Old Answers.

10 09 2014

New Problems. Old Answers..

New Problems. Old Answers.

10 09 2014

Tonight, President Obama will talk about how to stop ISIS.  Or ISIL.  We can’t even agree what to call this thing.
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Who’d have thought?

The 21st Century has emerged as a souped up version of the 1st.  Beheadings and crucifixions share headlines with iPhones and iWatches.

How did we get here?  What do we do about such savage brutality?

The answer has a certain time worn quality too.

Attack it.

21st century power and technology versus the primitive savagery of the 1st.  Bring it on.

Airstrikes.  Unmanned drones.  Shock and awe.

In the 21st Century, the heavens are the source of tactical advantage, not the source of divine wisdom the 1st century thought them to be.

How far we have come.  How far we still have to go.

Using violence to destroy evil is how evil perpetuates itself.

The heart of the Christian message is God’s transformative response to evil.  How have we missed this?   How have we continued to thumb our nose at it, and gone our own waterboarding way into the future?

Evil is overwhelmed and degraded when the Good remains the Good in the face of Evil.

Jesus breathless judgement on the cross is barely whispered, you could hardly hear it as evil savagery raged around him…”Father forgive them for they don’t know what they are doing.”  Silly and unrealistic and more than a little naive, I know.  Still….

The Good is not the Good when it aspires to be a more powerful version of Evil on Evil’s terms.   That’s what the victory at Easter is about, isn’t it?

Our most powerful weapon against evil, savagery and brutality, is to be the best of who we are.   We can start by living up to what it says we are on the Statue of Liberty.  No evil brutality can compete with that.

We have developed fearsome weapons.  Our weapons though, can also create a safe place for everyone who chooses freedom and wants to live in peace, respecting the rights of all.  Not just the elite, or the chosen few.  Everyone.  What evil can withstand that?

At home, we can open our arms and hearts to the children streaming across our southern borders fleeing the violence at home.

We can begin to acknowledge the responsibility privilege conveys, not the sense of entitlement we imagine.

We can affirm the grace that carries us all and extend that grace like water to every thirsting brother and sister who has been left in the desert of neglect and disdain.

This is the arsenal that fights evil.  This is how evil is degraded and transformed.

Absent this, our 21st century power and capability is just more sophisticated savagery that Evil will happily adopt as its own.

The Praying Mantis

20 08 2014

The Praying Mantis.

The Praying Mantis

20 08 2014

As I started on my journal today, I felt something like a images-1prayer slip into place.  I was on the deck, watching the hummingbird perched on the feeder pole.  Guarding his feeder.

Yesterday, a praying mantis climbed down the feeder line to the hummingbird feeder.  Zen like.  Inscrutable.  The hummingbird didn’t care for this.  So it buzzed the mantis, and the mantis circled the line and the two went around for awhile, and the hummingbird flew off, wings whirring like the blades of a tiny fan.

I figured this was a hummingbird feeder and not a praying mantis feeder, so I went over and tried to blow the mantis out like it was the hundredth candle on a birthday cake.  It hung on flattened like in a hurricane, reporting live for the praying mantis Weather Channel.  Then it would mindfully continue its trek back up the line.

The praying mantis is one of the absurd scraps of my childhood.  We believed that there was a fine for killing a praying mantis.  $50.  An impossible sum when you got a quarter for an allowance.

I have no doubt forgotten many useful and important things from my childhood growing up in NJ.  This, I can’t shake.

Later, I learned about the female eating the male after mating.  Makes a $50 fine seem pretty plausible.  If you put those two things side by side, which would you think was the urban legend?

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to flick it off.  Too much baggage to sort out about praying mantises.  Best not to get involved, or leave any fingerprints.

I continued to harass it with my breath, the dogs barking helpfully while I blew, until it finally disappeared over the rain gutter to the roof.

What a prayer metaphor.  One part legend, another part an even harsher reality, maintaining mindfulness while dueling with the world’s hummingbirds and the furious breath of someone who has the wrong idea about all of it.

A LIfe in Prayer “Now What?”

19 06 2014

IMG_0054“Now what?” In a very real sense, that’s where prayer starts. Or at least what we normally think of when we think of prayer. It’s the point where life starts in a meaningful way.   A path has suddenly opened in front of us, and we’re ready to start walking.

As unpleasant as they are, God uses moments of crisis to wake us up.   Even if you wake up just to discover you’re not ready to out of bed. After my dream, I began to search for what the proof might be.   At least I knew now there was proof to be found. I just had to look.

Good Friday that year was a gorgeous day. The somberness of the day Jesus was crucified had a special significance that year.   I felt I had gone through my own trial, my own suffering. I could identify with the passion of Jesus.

The bright sun, the warmth of Spring, the bounty of summer freedom that lay just ahead on this most somber and holy day declared God’s presence, love and forgiveness. This is what the rainbow must have looked like to Noah.

I tried to remember as many Good Fridays as I could and I remembered them all as days just like this. Was this part of the proof my dream was leading me to?

This idea was so compelling I mentioned the gorgeous weather to a friend. We were playing stickball.

“It’s Good Friday today and it’s beautiful. Good Fridays are always like this. Makes you think.”

He shrugged, “You’re up.”

Could it be that there was an underlying logic to the world and everything that happened could be understood if we only knew what to look for?   Could it be that truth was always there, waiting for us to discover it, even if there were only crumbs of it? And God too?

Prayer is often the first glimmer that we are a part of something larger. That knowledge is born of prayer, and the engine that sustains it.   I am struck by how innate this is in us.   We teach children to bow their heads, fold their hands, close their eyes and pray. I remember my own nightly ritual at the altar of my bed. The truth is that praying may be as natural as breathing, especially in children. We should pipe down and learn from them.

I used to constantly talk out loud to myself as a child. Enough that it worried me. It wasn’t conscious or intentional. I would just suddenly be aware that I was talking out loud to myself after I’d been doing it for a while.

A couple times getting caught and laughed at taught me the prudence of keeping my inner dialogue between me and me. But I only learned discretion. I never stopped the conversation. No one does.

Anyone who has practiced any type of meditation or mindfulness practice knows that the brain is like the monkey the Hindus describe, constantly swinging from thought vine to thought vine. Driving us to distraction. Dragging us helplessly through the forest of our own thoughts, to the point that our thoughts become our identity. It can be a profound breakthrough to realize finally, “I am not my thoughts.”

Self-consciousness ends a kind of innocence and inhibition, we pack up our things and leave the Garden, but it doesn’t end the conversation.

Having kids, I saw the same thing. I would hear long conversations when I’d walk past their room and they’d be alone playing on the floor, sometimes projecting their inner voice to a car, or a toy soldier, or a book standing on end. It didn’t matter. Sometimes, it was their own hand, finger-striding like a behemoth at the end of their arm, through the toys scattered around them.   It’s no accident the words ‘playing’ and ‘praying’ are so similar.

The world is an animated wonderland before self-consciousness blossoms and moves it all indoors. Bedroom doors close, words are guarded, heart’s hold their secrets tightly and a necessary page of development gets turned again for all of us. We leave the Garden. We have no choice.

Looking back, I think the crisis of faith I experienced was the blossoming of self-consciousness and my inevitable transition from one world to another. Prayer was a part of the transition, before I ever knew to call it prayer.

In that sense, prayer is built into us. It’s how we engage our own existence in and with creation. Prayer begins spontaneously at first, becoming ritualized and utilitarian as we get older. The sense of prayer we are born with becomes something we do to get what we want as opposed to the way of being who we are.   In that sense for me, “writing is the form that prayer takes in me,”  as Pat Conroy says.

It wasn’t until years later that it rained on Good Friday. I immediately thought of that stickball conversation and I realized how well it had served its purpose. It had carried me over a bump in the road that was now long gone, like looking back at the road unfurling as mysteriously behind as the road that lies ahead. What we know is just another version of what we don’t know.

There is proof that Jesus is alive. Yes. God writes it in every heart in a language meant uniquely and individually for each of us.


Life in Prayer con’t

12 06 2014

One night that week, I had a dream that put an end to this chapter for me. It was simple. Sort of matter of fact. No parting of the seas, no walking on water. Just a voice that declared, “There is proof that Jesus is alive.” egy_6209_ww_sonne

Well, there you go then. I felt light and free when I woke. Considering how long this was gnawing at me, the whole thing was probably a microsecond in real time.

My dream voice didn’t say what that proof was, and my dream self didn’t ask. In a sense, the question, “Did Jesus exist?” had lost a lot of its power. It just didn’t seem that important. I was looking to draw conclusions. Hoping fervently for a “yes” which only opened the possibility of a “no.” Which one was it? Yes? No? Maybe both!

My dream voice didn’t offer conclusions, as much as a starting point. A place to begin.   Like someone had tipped the box I was trapped in over on its side, and I crawled out free, stood up straight.

I looked around at a vast, unencumbered landscape and asked, for the first time, “Now what?”

“Now what?” In a very real sense, that’s where all prayer brings us to and where living starts. Everything else is sleep walking.             And, as unpleasant as they are, God uses these moments of crisis to wake us up.   Even if you wake to discover that it’s too early to get up. You need more time to sleep. Go ahead, go back to sleep. That sleep is never the same. And sometimes the dreams in that in between sleep are even more vivid and compelling.

After my dream, I went back to sleep. I still wasn’t ready to get completely out of that box. I took the words as a challenge and an assurance. I knew that what I was looking for was there to be found. So, I began to search for what that proof might be.

Life in Prayer (asking for help)

11 06 2014

After a week of studying my pocket New Testament, I finally approached my teacher during a class writing assignment. We were supposed to be writing about a family trip we’d taken. I hadn’t written a word.images

The teacher sat at his desk, in the unfamiliar territory in the front of the room, while pencils scratched on sheets of paper like little insects tunneling to freedom.   This was the first time I had ever had a male teacher. All of us were trying to get used to this. It completely changed the room dynamics. Personally, I had no idea there ever were such things as male teachers. That they even existed. Who knew?

The world of the classroom is different for boys. There were no role models. There was no one, except other boys, to show you the ropes. It was the blind leading the blind. The classroom felt like the domain of women and girls. All the teachers were women. The behavior they valued, the skills they taught, felt foreign and unreliable. So we made it up as we went along as boys. Always having to play to our weakness in the classroom, we were full of bravdo, ignorance and insecurity. Because we were always on foreign turf.

Having a male teacher changed that, and I don’t know that I would have considered doing this if I had had another woman teacher that year.

Since I was tall, my desk was in the back of the room. Once I was briefly seated in the middle of the room, when the room was set up alphabetically. But a girl in the back of the room complained she couldn’t see the board, and I was again banished to the back row.  The male ghetto. Virtually all of us back of the room were boys. This was where we’d spent most of our school year and received most of our education. Back where the coats were hung.

Walking from the back of the room to the front of the room, where authority and power was centered, was like crossing borders, classes, ontological levels of existence. There was the resentful land of the smaller boys, mixed with a smattering of girls. On to the ruthless and sheltered land of the girls. On past the no man’s land in front of the teachers desk, and now, uninvited, I stood at the side of the teacher’s desk.

I stood there, and for some reason, was not sent back to my seat. The teacher looked up, and I took out my pocket New Testament like someone who had been caught stealing and before he could say anything, laid it on his desk and pointed to the red letters. It was the passage where Jesus called himself the good shepherd.

“What does this mean?” I blurted. I could feel that my whole face was on fire.

Of course, I couldn’t ask what I really wanted to know. Was this Jesus real like you’re real? Or is this all just made up? Would I ever really sleep again? Would I feel safe? Is there anything that can be trusted? I didn’t dare risk such questions because I didn’t know I was asking them.

He picked up the book, turned it over and looked at the cover, looked at the open page for a long time, and then he looked at me. But he didn’t look at me like a student in his classroom. He looked at me with profound kindness and respect that made me dizzy. My arms and legs tingled. He looked at me like I was real. Like there was something to see.

He closed the book and handed it back to me.

“You should probably ask your parents about that.”

I was right back where I started. I went back to my desk, through the now conquered borders of 5th grade society. All eyes raised, furtively looking at me as I went past. Wondering what had just happened. Wondering whether they should mock me, or applaud.

He hadn’t even taken my book away and stuck it in his desk drawer. When I slipped into my seat and tried to focus on the assignment, I realized for the first time that I half hoped he would.

(next time; resolution)


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