Praytell

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Reading The Times One Winter

Minneapolis, Minnesota

This sabbath draws to a close.

The air is cool, with a breeze gently swaying the trees along the bicycle path.

The scripture for the day is caustic.  “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus once said.  “Peace I leave with you,” he also said.  But not today.  “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather division.”

There is that within me that resists this angry Christ.  I drift into a sea of grace, into the wisdom of a Lincoln who noted that both sides of the civil war prayed to the same God, and the prayers of neither side were fully answered.  But no.  This Jesus who asks us to forgive, demands the taking of sides.  A line of “for” and “against” neatly positions itself in my mind, only to suddenly reappear as fragile, brittle, and even dangerous.

“Stay with me,” Jesus seems to say.  “You know how to read the weather.  Why can’t you read these times?”

I watch my front tire spin over the Greenway.  A few weeks ago I noticed one spoke was loose.  I tried to tighten it, but didn’t know how.  Took it to the shop.  They fixed it.  Suddenly, the wheel spun with new-found eloquence.  A small thing.  But once I noticed it, and did something about it, the result was astonishing.

A book caught my eye in the library a few days ago.  It told the story of the “Belgian Congo.”  Between 1890 and 1910, or so, some six million Congolese were killed in a frenetic search for rubber, timber and minerals in what we knew as Zaire.

The Belgians had a good story.  They were bringing civilization to the “savages.”  They would build the country “up.”  They would Christianize.  The era of slavery was over, but not its economic benefits.  The best way to make a profit is to pay no worker but still get the goods.  Works every time.  A young Belgian heard to story, but noticed something.  I do not remember his name.  But he noticed that when ships arrived from the Congo they unloaded ivory, minerals, timber and other natural resources.  When the ships returned, their holds were virtually empty, save for ammunition.

“Something is wrong,”  he said.  The propaganda line promised trade with the Congo.  But this was no trade.  If there were no goods going back what was going on down there? he wondered.  Without an economy, and no money to speak of, slavery was the only way to collect the rubber, the diamonds, and the timber.  It turns out he was exactly right.

The demand for rubber was so high that the Belgians thought nothing of going into a town and burning everything in it, and then planting rubber trees.  Much easier than clearing forests that stood in the way.  .  If “workers” did not bring in their quotas, they were killed.  There were, after all, many more.  When they were killed their severed hands were brought back as proof. One Belgian said he thought no more of killing a Congolese than he did a dog.

Six million.

Finally, the world began to take notice.  But it is so slow to read the times.  It did not “read” the human toll of sugar plantations in Haiti, Cuba, and Brazil.  It has not “read” the human toll of slavery that denies slaves any semblance of humanity.

Turns out the angry Jesus had and has good reason to be angry.  We, the compassionate and civilized people that we are sure we must be, are not all that compassionate, and all that civilized after all.

The sun is setting as I write these words.  Tomorrow, another day.  Another day to try again to read the signs of our times, and enlarge the circle of compassion we’ve been asked to live with all our heart, all our mind, and all our strength.  Such a call demands decision.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Wisdom Study #1: But What Is That?

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I awake full of both gratitude and astonishment.

The astonishment stems from an increasing awareness of how much I have yet to learn, understand, and take to heart.

The gratitude comes from my regular Wednesday morning practice of walking across the street to a church I do not attend on Sundays, but wouldn’t think of missing on Wednesday mornings as about eight of us gather around the word that will form Sunday’s sermon.

The first reading came from Ecclesiastes.

If you have never read Ecclesiastes, it may surprise you that it is in the Bible at all.  How did a book that begins with “Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities.  All is vanity,” ever make it into the Bible?

There are peace churches, hope churches, trinity churches, and countless churches named after saints.  But it is for sure there is no First United Church of Vanity, just as there is no First Congregational Church of Lamentation.  We’d prefer not to dwell in a world of wisdom.  We seem to prefer success.  We want things to work.  We’d rather not say life is a matter  “chasing the wind.”

But then Brian spoke.

I do not know Brian well.  I’ve gathered that his life has not been easy, and a month or so ago he had a heart attack.  “Welcome to the club,” I said.  But I do sense that in a world of all too many ups and downs, he clings to something more, something deeper, something more compelling.  Let’s call it faith, or let’s call it Christ.  Whatever its name, he has been found, denied, tested, lost and regained.

“I love this book,” he said.  “I read a chapter every day.”

“What?” I instantly thought for a moment.  Why would one read about vanity every day?  How could it be a tonic to read, “The heart of the wise is in the  house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. Better is the end of a thing than its beginning, the patient in spirit are better than the proud in spirit.”

True, true, and once again true.  But then he shared, which, of course, is what Bible study is all about.

I used to live a life of outrage, he said.  “I’d end the day reviewing all the things that went wrong, all the things that shouldn’t have been, I nursed grudges.  I could hardly wait to lay into everything that angered me.  But what good did all that worry and outrage do?  None.”

We are fixated on events.  There’s something more, says the Teacher.  Get a grip, we hear.  Streams flow into the ocean, and still it is not full.  That’s the way it is, the way it is going to be.  We must cling to something more.  In Little Big Man, a man determines it is a good day to die, so he goes to a hilltop and waits to die.  Then he doesn’t.  Too bad, he says.  Must have had the wrong day.  We can’t help but smile.  Yep, you thought this was going to happen but something else did.

The world of opinion begins to fade away.  The culture of outrage we are so likely to stoke is shown to be nothing.

One translation replaces “vanity” with “illusion.”  My hearing, being what it is not, isn’t sure if the word is “illusive” or “elusive.”  I hope it’s the second.

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.  Either way, the Teacher comes into a new light, and I am so grateful for the chance to open a book I knew “about” but have not known.

And you?

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Healing Sky over Morocco (L. Pray painting, Lauren Pray photo)

Minneapolis, Minnesota

“This morning’s scripture is deeply buried in the Second Book of Kings,” a pastor said to a group assembled for a Bible study on an impossibly hot Indiana morning.  What would it be? I wondered as I stood in the door, wondering also if I’d join those sitting on the floor or if it was time to get to work collecting the stories of the United Church of Christ.

There was once an Aramean general named Naaman.  Naaman had the respect of his king, his soldiers, and young girl he captured on a raid against Israel who served his wife.  He was the Eisenhower of his day.  But he had a problem.  It might have been leprosy, or just a bad skin condition, nobody quite knows but he was ashamed.  He wanted a cure.  That’s what we want when we go to the doctor.  We want a cure.

But Naaman’s problem was beyond imperial power, and the skill his physicians.  His wife and slave girl were concerned, and had been talking about it.  The girl had a solution.  If only he would go see the prophet in Israel, she said, he would be cured.  Naaman heard her, trusted her, and decided to act.  The king gave him a letter of safe passage and ordered the king of Israel to cure Naaman.

“Oh no,” said the king.  “It’s a trap.  If I can’t cure him Assyria will invade once again.” The king tore his garments in despair.

The prophet Elisha hears what happened and asked the king to let Naaman come see him. Naaman’s retinue of officers, servants, and soldiers knocked at the door.  Elisha did not greet him.  He sent a messenger who told Naaman to take a dip in the Jordan.

Naaman has never been so insulted.  He knew how the cure should work–Elisha would come out, raise his hands, call on God, and, immediately the cure would happen just as surely as people are cured these days on evangelist’s television sets.  But no.

The Jordan sounds like a mighty river, but much of it is little more than a creek.  It is certainly no match to the “real rivers” back home.  Ego is once again pierced.  Naaman flew into a rage.  The entire trip depended on this moment . . . and now, nothing but insult.  There are times I have taken my wife or children to an appointment, driving hundreds of miles, in hope of a cure only to find little could or would be done.  The heart breaks, anger ensues, there is nothing to do but go home.

Naaman turns to go home.  His servants love their master.  “Get a grip,” they say.  “If he’d told you to conquer Egypt you would have done it.  Why not jump in the creek?”  Sanity replaces impulse.  But once again the story thickens.  If Naaman is to jump in the Jordan, he will have to take off his armour, his helmet, the scarves that hide his shame.  He must be vulnerable, utterly and completely vulnerable.  Will he do it?

He does.

He emerges with skin as clear as that of a child.

“This is  story I must know,” I said to myself.  It speaks on so many levels–healing after dashed hopes; trust; healing extended not just to the people of one nation, but to the people of other nations as well, wisdom, character, honor, a people and their leader setting aside emotion to focus on the greater goal.

Naaman.

The Fourth of July honors our country.

We need Naaman to not let that honor get too narrowly focused, and to realize there are boundaries of self, nation, and faith to be crossed if we are to be healed.

And where’s that story?  2 Kings 5-27.  And in your heart.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Elijah's Crazy Mountains

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Elijah was the story.

Biblical scholars refer to it as the “Elijah chronicles.”

They are violent, ever-so human, emotional, tender, and gripping.  Every time I read them, or hear them something new hits home.

There is not enough space here to relate them to you if they are new to you.  But all you need to do is to “Google Elijah” and see what comes up.

When I hear the story, life emerges in all its visceral, unpredictable forms.  Like it or not, the Elijah stories are life stories.

Most people in the Bible have some sort of introduction.  We know about Moses being snatched from the river, we know that Isaiah was the son of Amoz in the days of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz and Hezekiah.  We know that Amos worked with sheep.  We know that Jeremiah was the son of Hilkiah. Each has an introduction.

But not Elijah.

He just appears.  Just like that.  Suddenly, there he is.  My NRSV Bible even has a note that says, “The story opens abruptly, leading some to believe that the beginning, with a proper introduction of Elijah has been lost.”

That’s the exactly correct word: abrupt.

The unexpected fall takes but a second.  Abruptly life is changed.  Most strokes happen in a second, though my two took more time.  But whatever the condition, one day we are okay, the next our lives are abruptly changed.  Conditions that appear as unexpectedly as Elijah.  They throw us off balance.

Indeed Elijah himself was thrown off balance.  Wanting to prove a point, and without instruction from God, he built an altar on top of a mountain and asked the priests of Baal to pray and see if their god could light it.  Baal decided not to.  Elijah doused the wood with water and asked his god to light it.  The pyre exploded into flame.  The priests admitted Elijah’s god was better than theirs, so Elijah decided to kill them all.

What?

After the abrupt ignition, violence arrived quickly, without introduction.  Proving a point is more important than the point proven.  This must stop, says the level-headed Jezebel.  We search for Osama bin Laden, she searched for Elijah saying she wanted his head.  Enough is enough.

Frightened for his life, Elijah runs away.  The one who cared not for the lives of priests cares about his own welfare.  Read the newspaper and this same story plays out, time after time.  Those who showed no mercy ask for mercy.

Hidden in a cave, a great wind arrives, with the power of the 29 tornadoes that alit in Minnesota a few days ago.  But God is not in the wind.  An earthquake arrives as abruptly as the Haitian and Chilean quakes.  But God is not in the trembling earth.  A firestorm arrives, as abruptly powerful as the fires the exploded in Montana not long ago, making the air itself almost flammable.  But God was not in the fire.

I know the story.  But this time something new hits me.

God is not in the abrupt violence, just as God was not in the abrupt slaughter of the priests.

But God was in a deep silence.  The violent story ends in a place of peace.

As it is with scripture, is it not also with us?  After the abrupt events that unexpectedly change our lives, do we not all go into a deep silence?

And then, we regroup and start again.  It’s all we can do.

And it is all we must do.

Go ahead.  Google Elijah.  And then, with imagination, Google your soul and see where it leads.

Saturday evening, June 19, 2010

Creation in Cadmium Orange and Ultramarine Blue

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I ran some errands today.

It meant the usual.  Normally I get all that needs to be “gotten” on my bicycle in this ever so bicycle-friendly city.  But today I drove.  I drove through a Jewish neighborhood, though I’d never taken note of that except for the name of stores and a Kosher grocery store.  Today it was different.  Today is the Sabbath.  I saw three, four, five families out walking to worship.  Some of the men had orthodox hats, some didn’t.  But they were all walking.

I found it beautiful.

The Sabbath begins as the day draws to a close.  We offer thanks and praise, and then fall asleep where we are restored.  Our bodies are cleansed, our muscles healed, our tensions and hopes tended to in dreams.  We awake renewed.  “And it was evening, and morning, the first day,” we read in Genesis.

I found the walking beautiful.  For whatever reason, I have never had a job in my entire life that required a commute.  In Maine, New York, Minnesota and Montana work and worship were just a few minutes’ walk away.  Walking to both became part of the Sabbath’s ritual.

The question posed tomorrow’s readings in churches around the earth is important, troubling and unavoidable.  “What are you doing here?” God asked a fleeing and fearful Elijah whose violent triumph proved to be no triumph at all.

“What are you doing here?” God may have asked me this afternoon.  “Running errands” is a true answer, but it doesn’t have much depth, does it.

The question seems to probe for something deeper.  Are we “just here?” or are we “doing something.”

A woman at the market was selling bread she had made in Iowa.  Her’s was a homegrown operation, and they were trying to expand.  She’d been making bread for many years, she said.

“How many loaves to you make a day?” I asked.

“A few hundred,” she said.  “But we’re hoping to expand.”

So there she was at the Whole Foods Market, trying to get them to carry her bread.  It was expensive.  I almost voted with my feet.

“It’s hard, isn’t it,” I said.  “You have a good product.  You know it’s healthy.  You grind the wheat.  You do the making.  Logic says they should carry it.  But they may just say no, and not even tell you why.”

She smiled.  “Good for you,” I said.  “I admire your courage to do this.  It is hard work.  And here you are, doing it.  I’ll take this loaf, and many blessings.”

“Thank you,” she said.

What are you doing here?

What are we doing here?

It is a Sabbath day’s reflection that asks us to re-engage creation itself.

I reached for paints, and found these once again in my soul.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

The Other Road

Minneapolis, Minnesota

There’s no doubt about it.  I’d rather be a wanderer than a wonderer.  It is wandering that sets the stage for wondering.

In this week’s Lectionary, it may well be that Paul and Silas were led by the Spirit to sail from Samothrace to Neapolis to Philippi in Macedonia.  Although Jesus doesn’t hem the Spirit in very often, we prefer exactitude, we want to say the Spirit led them THERE and NOWHERE else.

At each place, stories sprang to life.  The fortune-telling slave girl who brought money to her owner annoyed Paul to no end, by stealing his message in words born of her own experience: “These men are slaves of the Most High God who proclaim to you a way of salvation.”  Only a slave could discern another slave.  The discernment gave the city something to talk about.  One must put an end to whatever challenges social fabric (need I say, “Arizona?)  Paul and Silas are beaten, and thrown in jail for disrupting the public order.  What happened to Socrates could well happen to them.  Or you.  Or me.

When I was a child, I learned this song.  “Paul and Silas, bound in jail.  All night long.  One for to sing and the other for to pray, all night long, O Lord have mercy on me.”  Another version gives it a liberation twist, “one for to sing the other for to shout, the jail doors opened and they went out.  Hold on.  Hold on to the plow, hold on.”

There is such a thing as grapevine conversation.  I love the image of Paul and Silas, bound in jail . . . one singing, the other praying, and word of what they are doing passes to the other cells, just as it did when Mandela was imprisoned in South Africa.  Somehow or other, it was a word of hope that noted freedom is not a matter of “slave” or “free” but a state of being.

And so, the story goes, when there was an earthquake, the doors opened.  The chains came off the walls.  But the one imprisoned was the jailer, who thought he should kill himself because the prisoners might escape.  “Do not harm yourself, we are all here,” said Paul in a loud voice.  Those prayers, those songs, that sense of shared territory, it was deep enough to form a lasting connection.

Paul and Silas’  wandering, gave a lot to talk about.  We’re still reading about it 2,000 years later.

“When you return home, may you have many stories,” is about the best blessing a person can receive, or so it seems to me.

Wandering can’t help but give way to wondering.  If I was to sing, what would my song be?  Would it, if the rhythm is wrong, and my voice askance, would it inspire others to sing?  And, if I am to pray today, for whom, for what, do I pray?  Will prayer also wander, moving from one concern to the next, from one person to the next, blown wherever the Spirit wants it to go?

I have no exact answers.  But, last week, returning to Minneapolis from Madison, I decided to not follow the Interstate.  What I saw moved my soul.  Aware of problems on all sides, of oil spills in the gulf, of intemperate politics, aware of this, and wondering a bit about this . . . my soul couldn’t help but sing.

And you.

What is your song?

What are your prayers?

Who will you meet today?

May that meeting have many stories.

Many blessings,

Larry

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Healing Waters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

There is this “thing” about Scripture.

We think we understand it.  But then we find out we haven’t understood it at all.  This week churches have a choice.  They can read about Jesus’ sharing that although he will be gone, the Advocate will soon be arriving.  Or, they can follow Jesus to the pool of Beth-zatha where the lame wait for the waters to stir, trusting that when they do paralysis will end.

I cringed when I learned around the table this morning that this was the text.  The story is one of those miracle stories that we take as an easy lesson.  The man had been waiting 38 years for his healing.  Jesus saw him, and asked, “Do you want to be healed?”  Instantly, a sermon arises.  It is a sermon of judgment.  Do you really want to be healed?  I mean, really.  Or have you just given in to a life of sympathy and given up all hope?  Have you become so accustomed to disability that you actually like it?  Maybe you don’t want to be healed at all.

The man launches into a complaint.  Sure, he wants to be healed, but there are a lot of people around the pool and they get to the water before he does.  So there.  The excuse is a fact, and the fact is an excuse.

And then Jesus says, “Stand up, take your mat, and walk.”

The man does just that.

Sermon is over.  Jesus pierced his soul.  Jesus healed him, while the rest of those waiting watched, marveled, and longed that they had been blessed by his gaze.

Some fifteen or so years ago, two of our children were at Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children, here in Minneapolis.  We were doing all we could to ease their pain, to try and nip the disabilities with which they so admirably live in the bud.  Two had surgery, their brother and sister waited in the wings for their turn.

Several weeks later, I went to a church conference.  The text of the worship service was about a man Jesus made well.  He was lame.  He was paralyzed.  And he walked.  He didn’t profess to any belief, he was just healed.  Half way through the sermon, I found myself needing to slip out the back door.  I had to move away from the text that would not come true for my children.  I needed to gather something else, something deeper, something more compassionate than a seemingly random choice and an abnormal experience.

It was one of but two times I have needed to move away from worship to preserve something sacred.

And so, this morning, here comes the text laden with the implications of “performance.”  I keep looking at it.  Kept weighing it.  Kept wondering what its message might be other than miracle and psychological judgement.  Suddenly I realized something.

Jesus actually noticed his man.  He noticed him.  He talked with him.  He asked a question.  He heard its answer.  He paid attention.  I often believe that although we pay attention to those living with disabilities–yes, we have an elevator, yes we are mindful–we often fail to ask, “And you, what do you believe?  What have you learned about God?”

The text changed.  I need not run from paying attention to the vivid lives of those living with disability and talking with Jesus along the way.

Many blessings,

Larry

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Ashland, Wisconsin

Two days ago, my father and I walked a mile along two wooded lanes.  Slowly, he with a cane, we walked the lanes on a serene April morning.  There was not a hint of wind, Lake Superior was at ease, its waters calm, the weather warm.

Each step life announced itself.  Woodpeckers were at work on  the dead poplar, birch, and aspen.  A few blades of grass reached for the sky, pushing up through mats of grass and dead leaves.  Moss had started a slow return to life.  Fungus on tree barks and stones alike looked healthy as it basked in the sun.  A few buds looked like they might actually become leaves in a week or two.  The woods were open, every tree in full view.  In the distance, forests carried a bit of winter crimson, or a light gray lavender, and the white trunks of aspen.

We were surrounded by life.  Everywhere we looked, we found life.  An eight-inch tall white pine, a cypress the deer had not found, the eagle’s nest awaiting the return of the couple that has called it home for years now.  On the beach, one tree had dropped a blanket of pine cones in patterns only and artist could have created.  That night, long after midnight, stars stone through the black sky as the moon paved a pathway of light over the lake.

Life.  And death.  And life.  The two intertwined as subtly and powerfully as only resurrection can be.

Some years ago, I was in a class when the leader offered a guided meditation.  I’ll admit my spirit stiffened a bit, there is something about guided meditations that I resist, unless they are a Psalm.  She started out asking us to imagine a path through a beautiful, quiet wood.  At the end of the trail a beautiful trail appeared, full of wildflowers and green grass.  In its midst was a babbling brook. For ten minutes or so she asked us to capture the scene.

When she was done, one man said, “Oh my.  That was so beautiful.”

I decided to add my piece, though I knew I’d get in trouble if I did.

“What you have described is not life,” I said.  “It is Disneyland.  I live in the woods.  I walk in the woods.  The woods are full of death–blown over trees, rotting leaves, rocks that heave, bark that decays.  Without all that, the woods aren’t the woods.  And, to me, it is beautiful because it is alive in ways we don’t quite expect as fall gives way to winter, and winter gives way to spring, and spring gives way to summer.”

This is what my dad and I saw, what we loved, what we cherish.

And then, yesterday afternoon, he fell.  I could not reach him in time.  He fell.  Three women from the bank saw the fall and came over, so did the hardware store manager.  Something broke, and life arrived. We got him into the car and to the hospital here in Ashland I came.  The x-rays said he had broken his hip.  This afternoon, surgery.

Something lost.

Something found.

The light we saw yesterday is alive today.

Resurrection is not an event.  And it is not an illusion.

It is, to me, the truth in which we live.

Larry

Saturday, April 17, 2010

I Look Unto the Hills

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I do not know you.

But no matter.  Here’s what I do know.  We search for meaning, for answers, for solutions to life’s inevitable questions.  When we do, something we’ve learned invariably comes to mind.

And so I’m wondering.  What quote has been your guide?  What saying or sentence lodged in your heart has pointed the way to a world of meaning?

If you are a believer, what verse of scripture might it be?

The question, of course, should be in the plural.  When I was in high school, we were required to memorize, and recite in front of the class these readings:  The Gettysburg Address; the opening lines of Canterbury Tales; Hamlet’s soliloquy; Portia’s lines about mercy, “The quality of mercy is not strain’d, it falls like a gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath it is twice blest–It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes”; Robert Frost’s A Road Not Traveled; Marcus Antonius’ words asking “Friends, Romans and Countrymen” to lend him their ears; the opening lines of the Declaration of Independence and the preamble to the Constitution. All this was to be taken to heart.

And each continues to live.

Mercy is scarce these days, of instant commentary and rabid judgement.  Whenever I have a choice to make, I often wonder which is the road less traveled.  Whenever I led a funeral, I trusted though the commendation was for the one who died, the words were for the living.  And when I hear a seemingly innocence incite rebellion, Antony’s words come to mind.

I will stop there.

In churches around the world tomorrow, the 30th Psalm will be read.  Last Wednesday, I read it for our small group that meets weekly at Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church a block or two away from here.  As I read, a wave of feeling ran through me as the words touched something in my soul.

I am newly aware, not for myself, but for others, how distancing disability can be.  It is unacceptable in a world bent on perfection.  It is a problem, for those with it.  But they have often learned to live with it.  They have learned how to adapt, how to harness their spirit without physical strength.  For others to accept it is far harder.  What are they getting into?  Distance arises.

Aware of this the words of the Psalm spring to life.  “Weeping may come for the night, but joy comes with the morning,” we read.  When is that morning?  How long will it be?  What if things get worse?  “You hid your face, I was dismayed,” we read next.  Impatience is part of life.

And then a gutsy assault on God’s absence.  “If I just up and die, is there anything to be gained?  Do you think the dust is going to sing a Psalm of praise?  Think it through, God.  You don’t know what you’re doing.”

But then the feelings that fell rise once again, just as they do in real life.  “Be gracious to me.  Be my helper!”And then, somehow, it happens.  Circumstances may or may not change, but the soul has something to say after all.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.”

In such words, we find a way to find our way.

There are words, sights, and sounds that spell meaning.  Sometimes they contain us, sometimes they free us.  But always they tell something about us.

And you?

What teachings have inspired your life?

And why?

Sunday evening, March 7, 2010

Minneapolis, Minnesota

We have arrived at the end of the Psalm.

It has been a week of patiently filtering through its many levels of meaning.  It has been a week of saying, “I was wrong about that.  I guess I’ll need to take that back.”

In other words, it has been a week of change.  The Greeks had it right:  Everything is flux, evening the meaning of a poem 3,000 years old.

But now the Psalm comes to its end with these words:

You have been my help, 
and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
My soul clings to you; 
 your right hand upholds me.

I am grateful for the words, mostly because it has been a week of realizing how deeply they are needed.

Right across from our building, the Mason’s Zurah Shrine occupies a beautiful mansion, built perhaps 100 years ago.  Beside it is a large community hall.  When our Phillips neighborhood gets together, we do it there.  When Latino youngsters receive their first community, on Sunday afternoon their families all come to the shrine for a celebration.  Wedding parties  rent the shrine.  When there are Muslim celebrations, they often use the shrine.  Sometimes there are parties late into the night, and I’ve been tempted to call somebody and say, “It’s two in the morning!”  But then I realize my complaint is their celebration.  In short, that shrine is a center for a neighborhood that not long ago had more crime than any other neighborhood in Minneapolis.  Their facility has become “our” space.

I am not a Shriner.  But all four of our children were patients at the Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children here in Minneapolis.  They changed nothing, and would accept no insurance payments.  They wanted to help kids.  And so they did.

Last week, I saw a FOR SALE sign in front of the temple.  I could not believe it.  As I walked up its driveway and over to our building, I saw an elderly shriner, or Mason, getting into his car.

“What happened?”  I asked.

“We just can’t keep it going,” he said, somewhat sadly.

“Oh my,” I said.  “I am so sorry.  I live right over there.  And I have seen how deeply you have blessed the life of our community.  And my children have been blessed by you.  You do so much good.  Without you here, the life of our neighborhood will change.”

“I don’t know where we’re going to go,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.  “And thank you.  Thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Thank you,” he said with a bit of a quaver in his voice.  It was as though we both knew an entire age was closing.  These public spaces, these big churches, these common places, these places that serve the community . . . how can they survive?  Will they survive?”

It saddened me.

And saddens me.

In the shadows of God’s wings.

We are dropping to the earth all too fast.

In such a time, all we can do is to remeber what the Psalmist said:

“My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me.”

The week is over.

We have seen too many closings, and perhaps not enough openings.  But still, we bless God, and cling to the one who changest not, asking God to abide with us as we abide with God.