Monday, April 10, 2017

white bird

Seventy years are given to us!
     Some even live to eighty.

-- Psalm 90:10 (NLT)

Oh to be seventy again!

-- attr. Georges Clemenceau

. . . a small white bird banging in my heart.

-- Peter Meinke, "Poem to Old Friends Who Have Never Met"


The arithmetic is staggering. It staggers me. Today at about three in the morning I completed my seventh decade and -- get this! -- began an eighth. Doesn't seem right. When I say it out loud, my friends say surely that's wrong. But yes, I am living my eighth decade.

Older versions of scripture were more stately: "The days of our lives are threescore years and ten." In our age of vaccines and potable water and municipal sewer systems, the psalmist seems to bestow a right. I'm owed my seventy years, dammit, it's in one of those amendments somewhere. And if I don't get my threescore and ten then something has gone terribly wrong, so I'll retain legal counsel and there'll be an investigation to find out whose fault it is. Somebody has to be brought up on charges.

But entitled as I am to seven, an eighth decade seems to exceed my rights. I might finish it or I might not. The Constitution is silent about it. "Some even live to eighty . . . " how remarkable! how lucky!

And if you've already been blessed with a look into your medical future, if you feel on certain days the fatiguing race of medications through your body, if you know that other, more tiring chemicals are to follow and you know the name of your angel, you might see the next ten years as a contingent matter.

I was widely praised a week ago for not doing much. It brings to mind the secret motto of counseling: don't just do something; sit there! I came late into two meetings, both of them emotional. In each meeting a team of clinicians were coaching someone through a difficult decision. I listened hard, because it took me the whole meeting to catch up. What were they talking about?

By the time I figured out what the question was it had been answered and the team was leaving, and I stayed there with -- in one case the patient herself, in the other case a daughter who had made a hard decision. In both cases tears. In one the assurance that no, she wasn't about to die now, she had many days yet to live with us, and were proud how brave she was, to say that if her heart stopped she would not want resuscitation, would not want intubation. In the other case to say she really loved her mother, that her tears were the proof of how deeply, that the choice was a hard one with no clear answer, that we understood and would support her. In both cases a prayer to whatever it is that brings us here where we cannot bring ourselves, for the unearned gift that life is, for the chance to care about such things.

That's all.

I guess it worked.

There was a shoutout on the company email, much praise.

Perhaps I am entering a phase of minimalism. Perhaps I operate on automatic pilot, accurate without decisions. You might say "instinct." You might say "experience." You might say "lazy." Maybe I am letting go of something. Maybe that's okay.

It's a time to separate, and grasp other work. My heart is elsewhere. Where has it gone, mi corazon? Always a fool and now an old one, I can mess things up in that new territory where a small white bird flutters.

There is fluttering around those who start out in the work, sent to me so I can clear some steps for them, watch them in their wobble and point to pits where they could fall. The holy terror, the impulse to flee and the command to stay in the room for another breath, with what cannot be fixed. Then the reduction of that inbreak to documents so ill-suited it's hard to say whether one makes a stream of gobble or a string of lies -- the soul's war between priest and bureaucrat. This watching, their looking back for confirmation, for some years now have been my chief joy.

And now, even newer, the fluttering around those next to me, nurses and social workers and doctors and yes even managers, who under merciless pressure to produce numbers and protect posteriors, five or six or seven times a day send out their fragile emissary of compassion to broken places of the world, and then recall the shaken messenger before he can flame out -- in this my later stage I hear a call from them.

"Staff support" is in every chaplain's job description, and the job itself makes staff support impossible. In our work reports it's literally unrepresentable: unless I lie, it looks like goofing off. It's not another bloody meeting where, hell or high water, you staff will be supported by me the counselor and here's the agenda. It's not another complication in your schedule. It's my being with you. Maybe we talk about kids, or cats, or temples in Thailand, or John Cleese. Maybe it's you and me laughing till we choke with backstage jokery. Maybe it's me reminding you, or you me, that we don't deserve to be bullied.

These are sweet things, and I am perfectly capable of botching them. They are still sweet.

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Saturday, February 25, 2017

flat wrong

Who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter?

-- John Milton, "Areopagitica," 1644

. . . the powers of the president to protect our country are very substantial and will not be questioned.

-- Stephen Miller, February 12, 2017


I don't know why there should be something rather than nothing, but there is something. If there were nothing, then I wouldn't be here wondering about it.



Asilomar, Pacific Grove, CA, 2/19
And there is truth, for without truth there would be nothing. The Something is what it is no matter what we think of it. The earth is not round today and flat tomorrow, depending on someone's opinion. Or someone's belief. Or someone's faith. Earth is there, exerting itself against us in a characteristic way. If it did not have a character, it would be nothing.

Ever since there were sailors, it was known that the earth is round. Sailors know that the other ship disappears "over the horizon" not by becoming too small to see but by sinking beneath the curve of ocean.

There are those who say the earth is flat, but they are wrong. Flat wrong. To maintain their false opinion they must bury themselves away, not just from theoretical predictions and scientific data but from ordinary human experiences as well; and when their little dungeon crumbles and the voice of truth breaks in again, they will have to flee again. If there is no place left to run to, they might resort to violence. Ignorance is essentially aggressive.


The American faith in Milton's "free and open encounter" of thoughts is so severe that to a surprising extent we tolerate ignorance, with all the dangers that such toleration poses. We don't imprison people for speaking falsehoods, unless we can prove they have done serious and deliberate harm. We judge falsehood however, and judge it hard. If you say the earth is flat, you lose credibility. What else, I think, are you deluded about? Perhaps your bank balance is another article of your faith. Should I accept a check from you?

Flat-Earthers do not possess alternative truth. They are wrong. And potentially dangerous. Though the American principle extends to them a right to be wrong, we retain the right to question them. If they respond to our questions by fighting and lying, there are penalties to be paid.

Ignorance is essentially aggressive and potentially dangerous, but then we're all ignorant, aren't we? Truth exceeds the capacity of any of us. No one can own it. Despite our years and diplomas, you and I can only claim to have traversed a small part of Truth's expanse, and that is why we must discipline our ignorance. We must expect to be questioned, and when questioned we must provide answers. Stand and deliver -- the deepest commandment of civil society.

Emerson drew knowledge as a series of circles on the surface of Truth, each superseded by a larger one containing it. My first circle is the sweep of my eye over the horizon. I expand my knowledge by rambling outside of the circle's limits, or I expand it by climbing to a higher altitude from which a larger circle is visible. I see within my world the tiny circle of the flat-earther, within which the world might as well be flat. I see all around that circle its contradictions. Driving from here to the hardware store, taking the subway to midtown, one sees no sign of earth's curvature. But if one flies to Europe, the aircraft follows a Great Circle route that looks like nonsense on a flat map. I see this and am wise, and yet, from the wilds of some even Greater Circle, who watches me and knows me for a fool?

The wider the circle, the greater its territorial claim on Truth; but no circle is final -- "Around every circle another can be drawn." And so goes the progress of mind, of heart, of what we might with fear and trembling call civilization. The earth that looked so flat is revealed, when we go to sea or climb the air, to be round. The round rock spins and reels around a star. Our powers for good and evil expand.

There is of course resistance. As we build the larger circle, we invest in our carpentry; we don't like it when some yokel, whippersnapper shouts "False!" before the plaster dries. We wanted to enjoy our larger limit for a while, take some credit, receive the plaudits of a grateful nation. We don't want to see our drywall knocked down for some other dimension of which we had no notion. And yet it's that, or start to obsolesce. The rot on the vine begins.

Or more terrifying yet, we could start to defend our corrupted position, build the wall higher and thicker, send armies to defend against the threat of Truth, not only as it masses on the outside, but as it undermines and bubbles up on the kingdom's interior. In this way tyranny breaks out, a deadly plague to which nations are prone, but to which churches and political parties, families and social classes are susceptible as well.

The United States of America -- my beloved country -- is not a kingdom. No one gets to say, "This is the last circle!" It was designed by people who intimately knew the human lust for power, were aware that those who seize it almost never give it up unless compelled to do so. They invented something that changed the world -- the peaceful non-hereditary transition of power. They knew that no one has the whole truth, and they symbolized it in divided government; no one has the whole of power. They permanently divided power in a much-abused scripture called Constitution. Those who love America hold sacred the nation's separations of power.

In the America whose documents I learned by heart as a child, and to which I have pledged allegiance thousands of times, no one gets the last word. No one. Particularly that ill-paid employee we imprison in a White House four years at a time to do our dirty work for us. That public servant's word may be first, but will never be final. God help us we are only human, and the endless conversation is our only salvation.

A few days ago, deluded King Heffalump put one of his courtesans on TV to declare that no one can limit his power, or his proclamations. (No, I don't mean "courtier.") There was a revelation: we all saw how hostile to America, its people, its laws and its values were both the serpent and his master. Go back, sonny boy, sad herald with threadbare tights and kazoo for a trumpet, to the one who sent you. In the United States of America you have constitutional rights, but deserve no respect.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

unclean lips


Who am I to buy the communion wine?

-- Annie Dillard*


The most annoying thing about God, if scripture can even metaphorically be trusted, is that God forgives sins.

Forgiveness is unfair. You mean the idiot who cut me off at the exit, the broker who lied about the interest rate, the friend who won't talk to me for no good reason, the boss who won't stop interfering, these people don't owe me something, don't have to pay for their transgressions? When killers pose behind badges, when pastors counsel violence, when the mogul steals the widow's mite, are there no marks in the Book of Life? As a Universalist I'm supposed to imagine a banquet at the end of time to which all souls have been invited, but I balk at the scene where Slobodan Milosevic asks me to please pass the potatoes. I'm far from perfect, but I know I didn't orchestrate a six-figure ethnic murder. What's that guy doing here? I ask the host. What happens to justice when sins are forgiven?

But it's even more inconvenient when my own sins are forgiven. It blows my comfy perfectionism out of the water. Here am I, cultivating my woeful inadequacy, itemizing the reasons why I don't deserve to be good, secure in the knowledge that I am not fit to make the world better, listening to the long and weary list of sordid investments from which is born my presence on the earth, checking my privilege, owning my social location, confessing my embeddedness in structures of injustice, testing myself in a never-ending list of "isms" by which my perspective can be found wanting because we cannot see from all perspectives at the same time -- and now something bigger than me, with an arm of wind, sweeps my iPad and my notebook and my ID badge off the table and out of the room, saying it matters not, will you go? I wasn't planning for this -- this was a scene that wasn't supposed to happen for a good long time, in some future when I am finally ready and there's nothing wrong with me.

I've been having this bromance with Isaiah.**

The greatest torah (instruction) I take from my work is that, whether I like it or not, I am accepted. I've passed through hundreds of thresholds, doors of a hospital room or an apartment, to sites of holy terror, places where there's someone who unlike me is really suffering, truly behind the eight-ball, and where others are suffering for them. Their eyes turn to me -- me, you understand -- and they want my help, as if I had some help in my briefcase. If they only knew what an imposter I am.

"Woe is me!" said Isaiah, "for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips." What are you picking on me for? Don't you see how corrupt I am, how compromised my talents and how hopeless my situation? What do you want from me, who have to work with people like this? Find somebody better, wiser, more eloquent and well-connected, for god's sake! Find somebody . . . else.

And the seraph sweeps his inadequacy off the table, taking a live coal from the altar with a pair of tongs and touching the resistant mouth: "Your guilt is departed and your sin is blotted out." The voice from behind the seraph asks "Whom shall I send?" And the new prophet, doing the right thing after exhausting other possibilities, speaks the one remaining answer: "Send me." And this unclean man, from that moment, is "anointed." Not made perfect but authorized, dispatched, commanded -- to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to comfort those who mourn.

An intern sat with a sleeping patient who slowly came awake. "I thought you were an angel," said the patient. "Made your day, didn't it?" I said to the intern later. But the threshold is lower than we think: an angel (malak, angelos) is just a messenger. The patient looked at her and got a message.

We Unitarians have no choice but to own the third president who declared himself one of us and wrote into history the principle that all persons are created equal, each with unalienable rights. That Unitarian was, now notoriously, a sinner. But there's not a one of us who can say they wish those words had not been written; or that they had not been written by an American; or that they had not been written by a Unitarian. The world's a stage, and the theatre teaches that each of us has a curtain and behind the curtain is a mess, but we have to get on with it and there's no time to clean house.

There's a Christian doctrine called Incarnation. It means that Yeshua -- Jesus as many call him -- wasn't pure. He was made of blood and guts, born (as an ancient father*** said) inter faeces et urinam to a penniless family of a despised people in an awkward corner of empire. And that is the glory of it. No matter what your view of the Jewish prophet crucified in Jerusalem, life's greatest astonishment is that humanity is no excuse.

It's not that I'm good enough. It's that I'm not good enough and sometimes it matters not.


*Holy the Firm (New York: Harper & Row, 1977), p. 63.

**quotations from Isaiah, chapters 6 and 61 (NRSV)

***Bernard de Clairvaux

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Saturday, December 31, 2016

turn turn

. . . time for every purpose . . . 

-- Ecclesiastes, 3:1 (KJV)

'Tis the old wind in the old anger.

-- A. E. Housman, "On Wenlock Edge"


Racism has a new face. Or rather, turned its old one up again.

If you tell a racist he's a racist, he'll say damn right and hit you on the head with a two by four.

If you tell a liberal he's a racist, he'll say, "Gosh I guess you're right, let's spend a truly miserable weekend thinking about it."

A decade ago, quarreling with my liberation theology professor, I wrote that racism had been driven underground, and the driving of it had been a great achievement. Racism is a sin, no more to be erased from the world than lust or greed or gluttony; but if we could construct a world in which our hateful and violent impulses, rather than parading down the middle of the street in gaudy underwear, could only flit in shadows of the alley, we would have done something for the future and for our children who must live in it.

This is what we liberal religious believed, plausible at the time. We had loved the Huxtables, and in a year or two would send an elegant, unflappable, articulate and professorial black man to the White House. We turned therefore from confrontation with persons to confrontation with systems, and with ourselves.

We took stock of the categories and their demographics, and looked for ways to make the groupings look like America. Many advantaged groups have fewer persons of color than America as a whole (or none at all). Many disadvantaged groups have far more persons of color than America as a whole. It was clear that we should iron out the differences, particularly when those differences instantiate the divide of rich and poor, powerful and wretched. We didn't talk much, in these discussions, about the National Basketball Association or the African Methodist Episcopal Church, because they pose a question inconvenient for the leveling impulse: is it not possible that certain concentrations of race and culture instantiate the pride and nurturance of those with whom we would ally?

But we also took inventory of our selves. It's as if we thought that, if we stood for justice and yet perfect justice had not come, the reason for that imperfection must be imperfection in our souls. Fitting and proper that we should search ourselves for ignorances, assumptions of our limited experience, judgments written in pre-conscious experience; but if we wait for justice-work until there's nothing wrong with us we'll wait forever while the world burns. Taken too far, our soul-work is a narcissism. The zits of my spirit are just not that all-fired important.

We are, as my professor said, socially located. We are, as Mark Belletini said, embedded in radicalized structures. We are, as Christians say, all sinners. And we cannot wait.

No immaculate conception for us, and no transfiguration, no seminar that makes us whole. Messy as we are, we talk and act, and take correction, and repent, and talk and act again. We'll blunder, and we'll misconstrue, and we'll forget and we'll ignore and we'll be our partial selves, confess and be forgiven, and orient again toward the greater purpose. That is the sacred life.

When I was a teacher in the theatre I used to say, don't think about what's wrong with you. Your inadequacy will always be with you: Just think of it and there it is, staring you down, blocking your view. Look through it, to what you must see.

Racism and other abominations came out of the shadows last month. It isn't hiding any more, but marching down Main Street. It sings from the seat of power, and authorizes ministers to wreck the infrastructure of hope and opportunity. The malign sirens seduce one group of dispossessed to strike against the others, assuring the forever reign of those who have much, and plan soon to have more. Naked personal hatred is in the streets again, with flags and banners.

It's the old wind that knocks us sideways, in the old anger. The year turns tonight. Let's turn into the wind.

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Saturday, December 24, 2016

jahr zeit

. . . ora pro nobis peccatoribus . . . 

Chanticleer empowered Christmas again this year by singing at a great New York City Church, and of course they performed the Franz Biebl Ave Maria, a piece I never knew until I heard them sing it twenty years ago but is now compulsory for them and obligatory for me. I am not a Marian theologian, but when those twelve guys sing of the mother who will stand by us now and at the last hour, my bones melt. 

December is illud tempus. All the times and all years recur. Deploying the same lights and pendants, the same museum store stars and snowflakes and angels (plus one new of each) on a new tree, I suspend the course of life on those branches, and see what I have lost and gained, given and received. A ledger of credits and debits, from times long ago and recent.

A day boy could leave my prep school early if he didn't have a sixth period class. On those days I might walk home. Or I might call J from the phone booth and, with her permission, walk to her front door.

J and her husband had been youth counselors in my dad's church. When they gave up the work, some of their friendships lasted. Now and then four of us day boys would gather in their parlor. But I had an arrangement of my own.

When J saw me at her front door she would put me to work. Her two daughters, of middle school and elementary age, would be home in a while, and later their dad, and then there would be a family dinner. But in the interval, maybe an hour, I worked in her kitchen, and I had her attention.

Over cutting boards and paring knives, baking sheets and measuring cups, there was no anguish or existential tremor. I spoke of teachers, assignments, intramural sports, the latest tiff with my father, and she heard me as if I were not the strangest and most unlikely boy, as if I might grow into something. She spoke of daughters and husband, the preschool where she worked in the mornings, and herself. We would pass the time, and as time passed she was showing me how to be in the room with her, and I was learning how to be a person in the world. I could not have said even to myself that I adored her. Once or twice she asked me to stay for dinner, but mostly when the daughters and their dad got home, it meant our time was over, and I walked home happy.

In those days a girl of my age could crush me quick and hard without noticing, but this woman saw me, heard me, and didn't reach for the fly-swatter. She seemed to think I deserved my place and my time. It wasn't anything she said. She was herself the glad tidings. Later I would forget her teaching and regress, but the marker was there to be found again.

A shrink asked me, what was in it for her? And I wonder. Perhaps among the aromas of her kitchen she whiffed my safely repressed testosterone. Perhaps beneath my chirp she heard the pedal-point of adoration. Perhaps a boy's obliviousness to shades of feeling brought moments of quiet to a mother of girls. Perhaps she was curious what it would be like to raise a boy.

Or perhaps . . .

In my work I now and then meet a client who makes me think this one is mine. It's as if I have been sent by greater intelligence, because I'm the one who can help. I see where the wound is, and I know how to get to the sweet spot. No one else can do what I can do.

I met E in the hospital, raging that she had ever been brought there. Brilliant, peremptory, not to be trifled with. A white northeastern Episcopalian intellectual. A woman psychiatrist in a time when you couldn't be nice, you had to break the ceilings with your own head. I saw all this, and I knew where the sweet spot was.

E died for five years, holding court from her couch, bored and scared, vaping a cloud and soaking herself in Bushmill's Irish, fussing with her home attendant, wishing she could believe in afterlife, wondering what dying would feel like. She had given up her profession, and as macular degeneration took her sight away she could not work and she could not read. She grieved for and could not recreate the life of her mind.

Most every week I would come to E's parlor on Central Park West. Five times I saw the cycle of seasons conceal and reveal the Sea of Onassis. She bore a grudge against certain trees whose summer foliage hid the lake, and would have cut them down by her own hand if she could.

She wanted from me things that almost no one wants, things I put on the shelf when I go to work. My genteelly poor prep school culture, my easy reference to the Great Books and the lexicon of Classical Music. ("More Chopin than Schubert" was a phrase she would understand.) And she mined my seminary education. She wanted to know what "Incarnation" meant. And what a "Messiah" was. And what sort of place the "Kingdom of God" could be. And she didn't want church answers; she wanted to know what the original words were, and who had first written them, and what they thought they were talking about. I shared what little I knew. I revealed my growing conviction that Yeshua was, prior to Christian fantasies, a Jewish prophet preaching from the history of people who, unlike most historians, had lost everything, been reprieved, and wanted to do more good from their Second Temple than they had done from the First.

She always said, "There was something I meant to ask you, but I forgot what it is." Which was funny. So I brought her music, and poems, and passages of philosophy. When we needed to know more, we would look stuff up on the internet. Sometimes I left her laughing. Sometimes I left her (a chaplain's tribute) peacefully asleep.

It was a long rough ride, but I was glad tidings for her. And she was glad tidings to me, because she wanted from me the thing that is hardest to bear: intellect. She wanted me to help her figure out the answers. I couldn't bring the answers, but I could bring her the life of the mind.

A colleague asked me, what was in this for you? And noting that E had two daughters but no son, he suggested that she was a kind of mother to me, who could follow the racing of a smart son's brain and desired it for herself. I had known when I met her that the sweet spot was a place I could fill, and I had said, this one is mine.

And perhaps, so long ago, J scanned for my sweet spot and said, this one is mine. This is all my fancy. I could not ask the question I would ask now of a friend: how am I doing? what are you getting from this?

I think of J and E, two mothers of daughters borrowed for an hour at a time, one from my youth and one from my ancientness but about the same age. Their gifts to me are perennial, and I cannot repay such debts unless I pay them toward the future. Though I am timeless, the world grows younger every day.

About this time last year, my borrowed moms both died. I hope they know how much I love them.


And love I wish for you;
May you give it frequently.

Charles Stephen, Jr. "Some Wishes for You"*

I don't like wishing generic holidays. Christmas is what I know and what I have to give. So I wish you Merry Christmas whether you like it or not.



*The Gift of the Ordinary: a Meditation Book, (Boston: Unitarian Universalist Association, 1985), p. 10.

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Sunday, November 20, 2016

go boom

Get up, child.
Pull your bones upright.

-- Audette Fulbright Fulson, "Prayer for the Morning"*


Not in the morning. In the late afternoon. Walking in the neighborhood. On an errand.

Carol taught me. When the baby falls down and looks to you, you must show that you saw it happen. Oops, you say. The baby is picking herself up, looking at the elbow, the knee, touching the place, trying to characterize the catastrophe. Fall down go boom, you say. Want me to kiss it?

Maybe it's enough that you witnessed and proclaimed the hurt: oops, and then the child forgets and moves on, but maybe she needs the more specific intervention, comes to you, and you kiss the spot. OK? the baby runs back to her play, sooner or later to fall again. She learns the routine. One day she falls, says oops; looks at you and says (you repeat after her), fall down go boom. She laughs, and runs on.

Sometimes, of course, there are material injuries. More is required than words: a cleaning of the wound and a band-aid. Or -- god forbid -- the rare but constantly feared trip to the emergency room. And yet most of the time it's  a matter of management: own the hurt, assess the damage, repair if necessary, move on.

I went boom yesterday. Just walking in the neighborhood in the late afternoon. Crossing a quiet street. Coming up to the curb, where it dips to nothing for passage of wheelchairs and shopping carts. How did this happen?

My shoe must have caught on the curb, right where there was no curb. A collision path with concrete. Coming at me, too quick to stop. Almost at the same time, hands, forehead, chin, glasses on the sidewalk. Oops. Ow.

Damage reports. I'm still conscious. Glasses OK. Good. I put them back on my nose. I stand up. I put my hand to my forehead, then look at my fingers. A little blood.

A man comes up to me. You OK? Fall down go boom. I think so, am I bleeding (meaning am I bleeding a lot)? One spot on your chin, he says. I feel for the spot. Again a drop of blood. You want me to call an ambulance for you? No, I think. No, I say, I'll just go home (can't just pick up the cleaning now, can I?) Where do you live? Just the next street (not able to explain this as simply as I wanted to). Thank you, I say.

I'm steady on my feet (but now I wonder if I'm steady as I think). I'm wondering if my shirt will be all covered with blood by the time I get home, but it doesn't come in torrents, I'm just going to bruise and have ugly scrapes. I clean the wound with alcohol -- ow -- and look at the meaty mess of my face in the mirror. You should have seen the other, guy, I'll say.

I've had a fall incident. I fell and hurt myself for no good reason. I'm getting old. Am I a fall risk? If you're labelled a fall risk, you can't go anywhere by yourself: that's the rule with our clients.

I take my history. Every few years I have a fall, sometimes visually spectacular. I once tripped and rolled over the landscaping border of a building before limping in to see a client who lived there. In San Francisco a dozen years ago I took a movie-worthy summersault from the curb and stood up on the median with only a tiny scrape on the back of my hand. In a play reading in Chicago I sat in a chair too close to the platform edge, fell three feet and backrolled to my knees, picked up and continued. I take little injury from these incidents, and I attribute it to my theatre training -- I have the practiced, subconscious skill of rolling and distributing weight.

But this time was different. The concrete was too fast for me. Ow. No rolling, just the whip of my body, head at the end. Smack. I'm not as smart as I think I am, but that's hardly news. Just a reminder.

In the last year I've had a remission of arthritis, and rediscovered the workings of the knee joint. I've had good control of my sickness. I've felt like a youngster of fifty-five. But there's a limit to this blessing. Some day I'll be a danger to myself when I go walking, though I don't think this was that day. But I'll have a good long chance to think about it, as people react to my trivial wound, impossible to conceal. A certified wounded healer I am now.

In my life, my city, my work, I can count on a lot of concern and compassion (maybe more than I want). But lots of us are injured and can't count on compassion.

There's an injury many of us have received, a moral and spiritual injury -- an injury that we must heal and yet strategically conceal. We know we must own the hurt. We have fallen and gone boom. Some time is due. We can't move on without knowing what we move on from. We show our hurt to each other. Want me to bless it? Show it to the Spirit, to God the great and compassionate observer. If cleaning, stitching, bandages, emergency surgery are due, do what is needed. This is our homework. Do it at home.

But when we go into the world, let's not front our wounds. The forces let loose are not threatened by wounds, have only hatred for bandages and expressions of pain. "Empathy" is an obscene word for them. They throw parties because we are hurting. Micah tells us the Lord demands only that we make justice and do kindness, and walk humbly with the Spirit of Peace.

So go back into the playground, and threaten them with your justice. Speak the truth. Tell the stories. Claim your rights, and the rights of the bullied. Call out the bullies. Undermine their ideology of the fist. Hear the pain of those who chose this dream -- fall down go boom -- and ask them how they chose it, for they are victims. I call myself out here, for I don't know whether I am brave enough. I guess I'll be finding out.

*available at uua.org

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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

banana states



The people will waken, and listen . . .

- "Paul Revere's Ride"



I want to talk about other things, but I have to say this first.

I'm walking on the grounds of a retreat center in Ohio. I'm one of the first to get here. I have the garden to myself. The trees are gone brown, and most of the leaves have fallen. The garden has a brick wall but I do not feel enclosed, for the garden is on a slope, and I feel uplifted toward the hills around us. It is so, so quiet. How we can be so tucked away from flight paths and interstates I do not know, but of course I still have airplane ears -- the ringing silence that comes from decompression and partial recovery. Perhaps there is background noise that, in my stunned condition, I do not hear.

Ah yes, there is a nearby railroad. The sound of the train is very clear. It comes and then it goes.

We are gathering -- clergy of my disorganized faith -- as we do each November to draw each other out of ministry's prosaic miseries. We distract ourselves from the miseries by studying some question, chosen at the previous year's retreat. A year ago we chose Dystopia. We had no idea what our subject would mean when its day came around. One of us noted that now the day's newspaper would serve as dystopian literature.

The Heffalump will take power. His closest advisor is a white nationalist. He has promised to jail the opposition, to punish journalists who don't sing his song, to send occupying armies into communities of color, to send brownshirts after those who speak freely, to wall the nation off from the world, to impose religious tests on citizenship, to wage trade war against the markets into which we sell, to abandon European alliances while bombing the excrement out of any region of the world from which danger may come. These are the Heffalump's promises, recorded for history. I take him at his word. If he doesn't do these things, the Heffalistas will have his Heffahead.

From each of us our parish, our flock, our clients and colleagues demand comfort. But we have none to give. We are punched in the gut, gasping for breath and uncertain how long the oxygen will last. Grief work takes a while. And it begins with telling the truth. There is no emergence from grief without knowing that you will never be the same.

There can be no more dystopian novels. I and my country are living a dystopia. The country I have loved as a child, or rather a super-empowered minority of my country, have chosen to reverse the moral progress of the last half century, and they vow to uproot my country's foundational values.

I'm the kind of kid who knew how you are supposed to fold the flag when you put it away. I'm the kid who memorized the Gettysburg Address, the Declaration of Independence, the preamble to the Constitution. I could sing all four verses of "The Star Spangled Banner." I knew the story of the virtuous war: I could tell you all the battles, the years and the places. I can still perform "Paul Revere's Ride" from memory, and when I come to a particular line at the end, my throat catches.

But the people are not woke. They think they have wakened, but there are dreams within dreams, and they have emerged only into another delusion -- that by killing the messengers they can prevent the danger. If the Heffalump keeps his promises, it will not turn out well for them. As a child I pledged allegiance to the United States, not the banana states, of America.

I've said it. I'm not important, and my statement has no historical value. I say these things not to change the world, but to clear my throat. Now I can move on.

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