Praytell

Saturday, November 26

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Thanksgiving traffic ensures that the drive to and from Madison, Wisconsin, is not a solo venture.  A steady stream of cars makes their way both ways.  Most of them have “home” on their mind and in their heart.  Thanksgiving calendars romanticize what these gatherings will be.  They can’t portray the anxieties, the fears, or the sea change that cause life’s ship to rise and fall.  For my parents  “Independent Living” has drawn to a close, and in just a few weeks they will be in a “nursing home.”

So we gather together, just as the hymn says, “to ask the Lord’s blessing.  He hastens and chastens his will to make known.”  We do so trying to read that will, wondering what stories there are in the inevitability of time.

I do not remember just how the topic came up.  But when it did I thought I knew the story.  This time, however, it had a new twist as it probed one of civilization’s elemental dilemmas.

My father joined the navy during WWII.  As a geologist, his first mission was to map the coast of Japan for an invasion that might end the war.  As the war closed he  was told to report to San Diego,  find a wooden hulled mine clearer, and make his way to Yokohama.  He did so as ordered.  His ship, the USS Dutton, arrived in Yokohama and stayed there for a month before making its way to Hong Kong, Hanoi, and then back to San Diego.

“In Yokohama I heard about a temple and thought I’d go see it,” he said.  “The emperor had said to the Japanese that they should be gracious to Americans.  And so I went to the train station, and boarded the train and went to the temple.”

That’s the story I knew.  As I remembered it, he was the only American aboard the train.  He travelled, in uniform,  without incident, without fear.  Despite the ancient temples in Iraq, and beautiful mosques in Afghanistan it is impossible for a soldier to take a day off and travel, alone, in uniform, to visit them.  The center no longer holds.  There is no one in those countries who could say, “No more.  Lay down all arms.  Treat these soldiers well.”

How quickly things changed.

Before the end of the war Japanese soldiers died for the Emperor.  As soon as the Emperor said, “No more,” it ended.  A single voice had the staggering power to both spark war and end it.
“The conductors and people working at the station, were either children or very old,” said my dad.  “I know it is hard to tell the age, but they were so young.  There were no young or middle aged men.   And I knew why.  Their sons or fathers had been drafted, and been killed.  We knew about the flamethrowers, and so on.  There was nothing we could do about it.”

And so he arrived at the Temple that had somehow survived.  There was no incident, there were no bombs, he was utterly safe.

Thus the dilemma poises itself.  How wonderful it would be, if we lived in a world in which one voice can say, “No more violence,” and violence ceases.  How fearful it is when one voice says, “War,” and war immediately begins to reap its grim harvest.

We are caught.

The sea change of age, has said, “No longer here, but there.”  We listen to it.  We respond.  We resist a bit.  We do what needs to be done.

It leaves me to wonder, whose voice will say, “Put anxiety, fear, and violence aside?”  And who will the “we” be who hear it and do what needs to be done?

For now, perhaps it is best to keep giving thanks, remembering a serene train ride through a scared countryside, and hoping we will one day share a similar ride.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I love to love the story of Jonah.

It is at once an Aesop’s fable, a wisdom tale, and the words of a prophet.  At one time or another it fits us all.  We know what it is to have been swallowed alive and somehow survive to tell the tale.  It is the stuff of sermons.

But is also the story of churches.

Over the past five months I have been inside three gigantic churches.

One could have easily seated 800 people in its heyday just half a century or so ago.  All those pews, all those stained glass windows, all those organ pipes, all those steps that once weren’t considered a barrier.  All that space.  In time the need to keep up with the edifice virtually swallowed the congregation alive.  It had to begin life in another place, and that’s just what it did.

A second one seated 600 people.  Same story.  All those pews.  All those windows.  All those pipes.  But no longer all those peopleto pay nearly $100,000 a year just to heat it.  It swallowed them alive too, and they too found themselves on a new shore.

The third, built to be the most beautiful church in the city, told the same story.  It too could not keep up.

The fourth is a bit different.  In the early 1990s there was a new congregation in Minneapolis that was gathering much well-deserved attention.  There we were out on the edge of the prairie, and I confess that I grew a bit weary of reading all the stunning news about this new congregation.  They were growing by leaps and bounds.  So it was a shock when yesterday I met its pastor who said that when he came two years ago, there were just ten people at worship each Sunday.

“Ten?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

I should have known better than to have asked.  Clearly something, many things, too many things, went awry and somehow or other the church found itself in the belly of the whale.  Down there all you can do is pray.  A critic might say, “All you can do is confess.”  But that isn’t what Jonah did down there.  Instead, he called on the God he had denied and waited for life to happen.  Not surprisingly, it did.

“And now?  How many members do you have now?” I asked.

“We’re growing.  Maybe 70,” I think he said.

The altar table was beautifully set.  He said that they share communion every Sunday.  That’s a bit unusual in the United Church of Christ.  And it’s a bit unusual in progressive churches.  But its not unusual there.  It is felt, needed, anticipated, and received over and over again, this bridge to God that links heaven and earth and crosses the waters of life.

Is it anyone’s fault that there have been so many swallowings?  That big old churches can no longer sustain themselves?  Was there a single cause for the decline of an up and coming church?

I think not.   Relationships form, fall apart, reassemble, find new ways, and sometimes get swallowed alive.

Hmmm . . . isn’t there an Easter story in there somewhere?

But wait.  It’s not Lent.  It’s Advent.

It’s time speak of and learn from  new beginnings.

Blessings to you

Monday, November 23, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Here’s how it happens.

We’re walking along, surfing waves of anxiety, catching up on the news we probably already know, appreciating the  with the neighbor who happened to be leaving for work just as we were also leaving for work, the smile to a smile from a receptionist, when suddenly:

A thought occurs.

It is as dazzling as a meteor.  For a moment it lays claim to our imagination.

“Here I am,” it says.  “Make way.”

“Really?” we wonder.

“Find out,” it says.

We have no choice but to find out.

This happened to me last week, just as I’m sure it happened to you.

For years I have known that the word for library and Bible are linked.  Biblio, in Latin, means book.  The Bible is a series of 66 different books, each with its own time-frame and spiritual understandings.  Each is considered to be divine.

There are disagreements amongs these books.  “Do this and you’ll be rewarded,” poses the Deuteronomist.  “All is vanity,” we read in Ecclesiastes.  “Heaven is within you,” Jesus said.  Judgement is ahead of you, he warns in Matthew.  “This is the way to worship,” the priests in Leviticus want us to know.  “I hate your feasts,” God said to Amos.  Okay . . . you get the point.  Let’s move on to the meteor.

A thousand times I have heard this phrase:  The Bible says.  Often it is a veritable call to arms.  Always it makes the Bible singular.

Why have I never heard anyone say, ‘The Library says,” I suddenly wondered.

“It makes no sense,” I quickly answered.  Libraries have too many books to say one thing.  Those books are in too many languages to say one thing one way.  All one could say truthfully is that according to one book in the library, this is what appears to be true. Libraries don’t say anything in a singular voice.  That’s the whole point!

I needed, of course, to check my meteor thought.  And so I went to the library and found this in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary.

1 capitalized a : the sacred scriptures of Christians comprising the Old Testament and the New Testament b : the sacred scriptures of some other religion (as Judaism)
2 obsolete : book
3 capitalized : a copy or an edition of the Bible

Notice all those plurals.

And notice . . . best of all, from my point of view, that when it is referred to in the singular the meaning is obsolete.

Thank God for libraries, and all their books.

But the next time I hear someone say, “The Bible says,” I suspect a meteor thought will cross my mind.  I’ll smile, and gently ask, “What does the Library say?”

That’s it.

Time to get to work.

That’s the problem with meteors.  They disrupt things.

Still, all things considered, I’ll take all that come my way, and I suspect you will too.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

It suddenly occurred to me that although the book is written, it lacks a dedication.

I love those almost empty third pages of books reserved for a dedication.  No text crowds the single sentence.  No pictures compete with it.  Instead the entire page is dedicated to a single purpose.  That page, in my first book, held these words:

To my family

I meant my wife, our children, my parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and relatives I might not even know.

Such a dedication is common, of course.  On my book rack I see the book, “Encountering God:  A Spiritual Journey from Bozeman to Benaras” by Diana Eck.  If you haven’t read it, do.  The third page of the book is empty, save for these words:

This book is dedicated to my mother, Dorothy Eck,

and to the memory of my father, Hugo Eck,

and my brother, Laurence Eck.

These dedications are so simple, so elegant, and so utterly essential.  They are the cornerstones of every book.  Without the support, the care, the promptings, the love they represent, there would be no book, no journey from Bozeman to Bararas and, in my case, no healing.

So to whom should I dedicate the book?

The answer arrived in a single sentence:

To Those Who Saw Us Through

Were I to fully define the phrase the single page of dedication would turn into an entire book itself.  The book itself will have to do that.

With each passing day I am increasingly aware of those who see us through.  Last week my father and I went to the West Side Rotary Club in Middleton, Wisconsin.  The club, he shared with me, is losing members because they keep dying.  The big, younger, and more prosperous club is in downtown Madison.  This West Side club is for the most part elderly.  I could tell in an instant that the club members are aware of my father’s decline, as well as his pride, his reputation, and his life.  They didn’t ask him to move too fast.  They didn’t judge him as he drifted off to sleep as we heard an overly didactic lecture about the Black Hawk War if 1832.

“There will be a two-minute meeting of those who have rung the bell,” a speaker said.  Dad raised his hand.

“We’ve got a meeting,” his friend said.

“I wonder just how important it is for him to be there,” I gently said.

“Not very,” he said, with a smile and a glance that said, “Don’t worry.”

Rotary has a place in his life, as it did in my grandfather’s life.  It is a place that counts.  It is a place that travels with him.  It is a place that honors his presence, his ever so agile mind, his love of life, and his continuing need for community.  I found myself so deeply touched by all that commuity represents to my dad.  On the wall there was a banner I’ve seen before while attending that same club a time or two before.  It said:

The Four Way Test:

Is it the truth?
Is it fair to all concerned?
Will it build goodwill and better friendships?
Will it be beneficial to all concerned?

I liked the question marks.

And I liked the questions.  The world is so often spinning out of control.  But there on the west side of Middleton, Wisconsin, a group of elders wonder what they can do, what they can learn, and what friendship is all about.

I’m impressed at the way my father sees them through, and the way they see my father through.  And so, that’s what the dedication will be:

To Those Who Saw Us Through

Thank you.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

The word is “move.”

At first glance it seems simple.  But, like most words, if we pay attention to it we realize just how many dimensions it has.

I promise to not break into a sermon, but it’s hard not to mention that the name for God given to Moses so long ago is a verb rather than a noun.  God moves.  Flux is everywhere.  Life is movement.  Stone walls begin to lean given enough time.  Water eventually cuts through solid stone as it moves.  The wind moves.  The Spirit moves.  And we move.

In my life, the word “we” itself has moved.  First it meant my movement into life itself.  Then it meant my family’s moving from California (don’t tell anybody but I was born there) to Colorado.  Then I moved to Wisconsin, Kentucky, France, Geneva, then back to Wisconsin.  I met Connie, we married and we moved to the Great State of Maine, then New York, then Montevideo, Minnesota; then Grand Marais, Minnesota; then Big Timber, Montana with one, two, three, four children as “we” took on new dimensions.

Some of these moves were simple.

I took a single suitcase when I moved to college in the fall of 1965.  When Connie and I moved to Maine, everything we had in the world was contined within the confines of a 1963 VW.  But as the family expanded so did the word “move.”  Now it meant boxes.  Now it meant finding help.  Now it meant a commercial transaction with U-Haul.  Now it meant “everything.”

In time the word is bound to simplify once again.

From their farm, my parents moved to a Retirement Community.  They moved most “everything” even though there wasn’t space for everything.  And so, four years later, there are still boxes in their closet that have yet to be unpacked.

Age moves.

Our ability to “do” moves.

And now the Retirement Community has said, in no uncertain terms, it is time for them to move.  The new space in the memory unit of a Retirement Community has perhaps one fifth as much room as their current apartment.  Soon they will move.  But it won’t be a “move” at all.

When I left for college I took no dishes.  Neither will they.  I took a few posters, they will take their paintings.  I took a few books.  So will they.  I took some pictures, so will they.  I took no tables.  Neither will they, save for one handmade by my grandfather 75 years ago, and perhaps a stone table that they bought from a neighbor when they moved to California so many years ago.

This is a move.

But it is as though they will be packing for a trip, an extended stay, bringing with them those items that say, “I’m just a stone . . . but will you ever forget that trip?  I’m just a coffee cup, remember that time the coffee accidentally spilled and we all laughed?  I’m just a wooden fish.  Remember the mobile I once swam with?”

We will, of course, find places to store that which cannot be part of this move.  Perhaps the barn.  Perhaps a storage locker.  But carry-on items for the rest of this move will be limited.  The airlines only allow one checked bag (twenty dollars, please) and one carry on.  The new space will allow for one sofa, not two; one bureau, not two; the roll-top desk will have to stay.

It’s a move.

It’s a change.

They will be together.

That’s no move at all.  And that’s no change at all.  And for that I give thanks and praise.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I would like to start today’s column with a verse of scripture.  But I am wary of doing so.

If I do, will it be immediately dismissed?

If I do, will it be seen a propaganda?

If I do, will it roll me into the bundle known as evangelists?

If I I do, will readers read?

I do not know.

All I can do is share what happened to me this week.

At Bible study, on Wednesday morning, I learned that these were the words of the week:

Mark 13:1-8

As he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.”

I have read them many times before, and always thought they referred to an actual place, an actual set of stones, an actual event that was bound in time.

But not this time.

This time, the words spoke to another truth.

I have been a pastor for many years.  In those years I have seen so many times that which I did not wish to see.  I’d like life to end pretty much as it was.  It’d like its transitions to be serene, to be rational, to follow a natural sequence of events.  But there are times I had to “intervene” in the natural sequence of events to propose a change nobody wanted.  I have had to speak lovingly of a forced option, and have my words met with fierce resistance.

This week, my mom and dad, my parents, are coming to terms with the limits of their independence.  Suddenly, the responsible, rational, and all-too sane world has said, “It’s time” for something else.  Once upon a time, King Lear raged at a storm.  Once upon a time, Jesus wept over the city whose people would betray him.  Once upon a time, I wept when  my life seemingly ended.

Once upon a time, it turns now, is now.

And so it was we read the Good News.  And it wasn’t good at all.  It said all that is will be thrown down.  No, said the disciples.  Suddenly, and evocatively, I saw the connection.  The verses weren’t about stones in a temple four thousand miles away from Minneapolis, Minnesota, and two thousand years removed.  They were about age and the age of my beloved parents.  They were about our bodies that do eventually betray us.  They were about death . . . and ife.

My brothers and I, we would do all there is to do to say, “No.”  Like the disciples, we would say, “How?”  We would ask, “When?”

And perhaps Jesus would say, “Just wait.”

And then he would offer a word of painful hope:  it’s birthpangs.

Something new is about to be born.

Do not be afraid.

Once again, words written two thousand years ago hit home.  Oh, I say.  My fear for my mom and dad, my hope there will be no change–this is nothing new.  It is but the birthpangs of something new.

Easy to say.

Hard to live.

Tomorrow I head to Madison, and new discussions each asking, “What good can we do, now?  And by what means, now?”

Our road is your road.

Your road is our road.

Over it all, an encouraging word.

Birth.

Larry

Monday, November 16, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

It was five years ago that Connie knew what should, could and might even happen.  Rehabilitation had come to its end.  It had accomplished all it could accomplish.  There was nothing more they could do.

For three months we had entrusted the future into their capable hands.

“Time is on your side,” one of the therapists had said to me.  On that last day, her words came home to stay.  Grateful for the insight, I had yet to understand just how long a time it would take to heal.

Connie knew, better than I did, that the thought of returning as fall-time pastor four months after the strokes was delusional at best, dangerous at worst.  But she also knew that although therapy came to an end, life, purpose, and hope did not.  There had to be something to do.

She went to the neuropsychologist, David Gumm, PhD, who had overseen my rehabilitation.

“Would you write a book with Larry?” she asked him. She thought it would give purpose, hope, and some small way to give back to those who had given so very much to our lives.

“Sure,” he said.  “Let’s do it.”

I went to St. Vincent’s hopsital in Billings, Montana, every Friday to meet with the group of TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) and stroke patients.  David and I decided to meet for lunch each Friday.  An apple or maybe a peanut butter sandwich in his office sufficed just fine.  After lunch we met with “group.”

And so Over My Head began.

The chronicling of what happened began to find its way to the page.

So, of course, did the editing process.  So much of the early writing was confused, dreamy.  So many times my lines and thoughts snagged on the same rocks, the same logs that tried their best to block the stream.  How many times could I try yet again to prove them wrong?  How could I write about denominational abandonment without trying to “get back?”  Never return evil for evil, I had said at the end of church for 20 years.  Could I do so and still speak the truth?

I kept writing.

Then I revised and wrote yet again.

For four years I assembled rewritten pages.  After a year or so I put them in a box and left them there.   I tried to find a publisher, to no avail.  I put the pages back in a box.

Last year, on the eve of their 90th birthdays, I opened the box and shared the manuscript with my parents.  They read it, wiping away tears.  They called, their voices full of emotion.

“Your book,” my mother said.  “Oh my.”

It was, perhaps, what any parent does regardless of the age of their son.  But I didn’t take it that way.

“I’m not sure it will make it,” I said.

“For Goodness sakes, don’t give up on it,” my dad said.

Rehabilitation is not a short-term proposition.  It takes years.  The only thing that can block it is a loss of hope.  And the only thing that can renew it is a resurgence of resolve.

This weekend, I wrote the final chapters.  I did so wondering, what I had perhaps left out, what had happened that I didn’t even know about, what should be added, and what should be cut?  Memory and truth, after all, are cousins–not twins.  I realized with a certain urgency that there is no reason to protect the words from the final editing my editor, Paul Nockleby and I will do.  At a deeper level it is time to trust them, time to trust the stories and love their shapes.  It is time to trust, once again, that the woman I love saw the future.”

And so, here we are, on the cusp of a new creation.

And, as you know, you are too.

Larry

Larry

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

These have been medical days.

The hospital is not far away.  Two blocks, at most.  We navigate its hallways to find the office to find the doctor to explain what she found in the tests taken some weeks ago.  In its hallways, there are those dressed in blue, those with white jackets, those who push carts filled with food trays, secretaries, and lab workers.  Each has a security badge of some sort.

The questions we face are at once simple and complex.

Which badge will we read when we sit across from its wearer?  And what will that badge represent?  For us, the question has an immediate twin:  What will this person represent in the geography of healing?

Will there be trust?

Will this badge wearer be a solo player or is she part of a team?

The question has a reflexive answer.  We work as a team we will be assured.  It is care for the whole person that matters most.  Ad agencies that sell hospitals pick up on this hope in many ways.  Each is compelling, and hopeful.  Each promises some sort of checkmate to the diseases and conditions that afflict us.

But soon the line snags.

We’ll need this test.  This person gives that test.  That person gives this test.  We quickly find ourselves in a segmented society.  I do not mean for this to sound like a complaint.  It isn’t.  We cannot help but organize ourselves around distinct concerns.  The last thing we want is a dreamy hospital in which good intention makes up for a blood test that can reveal the ailment that can actually be healed with proper attention.

Yesterday’s appointment was reassuring in its certainty and precise in its recommendations for more follow-up tests.  We are grateful to have a potential diagnosis affirmed, and to think there might be treatments that work.  I said to Connie, my wife, that it might be a good idea to check in with the family practitioner who works with both of us.  We’re aware that is easier said than done.  When I visit her, I’m invariably concerned about Connie . . . when Connie visits her she’s concerned about me . . . and so our doc scarcely has time to actually think about either one of us as an individual.  To which we both say, “Mea culpa.”

“We’ll be needing a coach,” I said.  “We should give her a call.”  But we both realized that such a request flies in the face of post-modern medicine.  Would, for example, a cardiologist accept coaching from a GP?  Do specialists who have spent their lives focusing on a single ailment recognize a need a coach who knows ever so little about their specific ailment?  In the ideal world, we would say, “Of course they do.”  But in reality, the answer is less certain.

We decide to not make the call. Why put her in such a position?

We are aware that the desire to “do something” is counterbalanced by decisions to not “do something.”  And so we proceed, as best we can.  And we proceed with all the coaches we can find.  These coaches have many names.  Marriage.  Presence.  Family.  Friends.  Beauty.  Hope.  Music.  Words.  Prayers of acceptance and prayers for healing.

We need not make a pointed call to any one of them.  They are already there.  And we know that each one deepens.  As it does, and when it does, it is gratitude, not anguish, that rises in our soul.

Guarani Country Home

Wednesday, September 9, evening

Minneapolis, Minnesota

There is a noteworthy column in the New York Times that catches my attention each week.

It’s title?

Really?

Is it really true that hot water washes away more germs than cold water?  Science has investigated, and determined that there is no difference.

I love this column.  But more importantly, I love its question.  And so, after these days in Paraguay, I am compelled to write a column about Paraguay entitled, Really?

Paraguay is known by most Americans as one of two land-locked countries in South America.  You don’t need to ask, “Really?” because you remember it’s true.
We invariably refer to Paraguay as if it were the only geographic entity in the world that is land-locked.  But what about Utah?  How about Idaho or Nevada?  How about Inner-Mongolia?  How about Switzerland?  What might we say about New Mexico?  Or the Central African Republic?  Would Montana qualify?  But Paraguay, it seems, is the quintessential land-locked country.  Too bad.  Because, it turns out, Paraguay does have a navy.  Really?  Yes.

In Paraguay there are two official languages.  One is Spanish.  The other is Guarani.  Guarani is the indigenous language of Paraguay.  Imagine, for a moment, if all the citizens of Oklahoma were required to learn Cherokee as an official language of the state.  Or suppose all the school children in Billings, Harden, Broadus, Columbus, Big Timber, Bozeman, and Red Lodge, Montana, were required to learn Crow.  Really?  Yes, it’s true.  Paraguay is the one Latin American country that has officially embrace the people who were there first.

The Guarani people understood the plants of their terrotory to an extraordinary degree.  The markets are full of herbs I have never seen, but each has its own powers.  In winter, everyone has a cup of yerba mate, a mixture of herbs seeped in hot water.  In summer, the mixed herb drink is cold but simple to make.   Pour ice water over it, and sip it with a silver straw that filters the herbs from the water.  But after you take your sip it is gently required to pass the cup to the person beside you.  The silver is reputed to kill any germs.  Really?  Yes.  Really.

In the world of botany, three languages dominate the lexicon.  One is Latin.  One is Greek.  But the third is Guarani.  Really?  Yes.

In Paraguay, if you are rich, and if you live in Asuncion, and perchance your child is a Type One diabetic, he or she will live.  But, if you are in Paraguay, and you live in Candidita, or some other rural village, and are poor, you have a problem.  You must go to Asuncion to receive insulin.  The roads may be washed out. The trip is expensive.  And if you return home with the insulin, no diet is assured.  The chances are your child may die.  If he or she does, there will be no statiscs.  Really?  Yes.  Really.

Brazil has a “program,” Argentina is working on one.  Bolivia has nothing.  Paraguay is far away from finding a solution given its rural status.  There are always diseases that cannot be addressed.  Type one diabetes is one of them.

Really?  Yes.  Really.

Eli Lilly made its reputation on insulin, or so I’ve been led to believe.  For years I heard they didn’t try to make a profit on it.  It was too important to the lives of so many.  Really?  I’m not sure.

It’s a big world out there.  Those Type One kids in Paraguay are my brothers and sisters.  How could they not be?

Really?

Yes.  Really.

There’s a lot of healing to do out there.

Really?

Yes.

Really.

Ja ha..  Or, as the Guarani say, “Let’s get going.”

One Trail at a Time

Monday, November 9, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Now that I am a parishioner rather than a pastor I am surprised at how many times something in church hits both my imagination and my more pragmatic side.  Is there one?  Some might rightfully ask.  Yes, there is, both Connie and I would respond, but it is the essential background of our lives and it is often content to wait for its moment.

So there we are in church, this morning, at a meeting of the “Activistas.”  It wasn’t quite a social justice meeting, nor was it quite an immigration reform meeting, nor was it quite an information session.  I wasn’t just sure what it was, and in the first half hout I knew that I had indeed been gone for two Sundays.  My how life changes when we are absent for a bit!

But there we were.

Within about 30 seconds various hopes, dilemmas, and perspectives were shared.  I was not the recorder, but what was the news from the negotiations between teachers and the State of Minnesota; was the Interfaith Worker Rights organizsation going to make a stand, particularly regarding stolen wages (ie, people show up for work and aren’t paid); should a date conflict between a national organization working for Immigrant rights and an organization of Latino immigrants be resolved, not worried about, or just accepted.

So many starting points.  But we can walk but one trail at a time.

In Paraguay I realized that what we were doing was a story told a million times over.  I would like to find funds to pay the doctor, the nurse, and the receptionist who were tossed overboard by an organization I love and care for a great deal, I would like to honor the sacrifice they have made to serve the poor who live alongside the red roads of rural Paraguay.  These people matter to me.  Their cause matters to me.

But I realize, in the midst of or negotiations to receive free medications from the government of Paraguay, that our meetings are a matter of chance.  If I had gone to Burkina Faso, or the Congo, or Bangladesh, I would have found a similar small group of people taking on the principalities and powers and doing what they can to heal the world.  These people are in Senegal.  They are in Brazil.  They are in Minneapolis.  They are in Cheyenne.  They are undaunted by the odds.  They serve a deeper call.  They are not afraid of sacrifice.  They are fully aware of the Spirit’s loving presence.

“I wonder what would happen if we mapped the justice concerns of our church?” I wondered.  What if everyone wrote out their primary concern, and then addressed those two essential questions of ministry:  What good can be done regarding that?  And by what means?

I cannot be equally involved in all efforts.  Neither can anyone else.  We need a starting point.  A woman in our City of Lakes is being forced to leave her home due to forecloser proceedings.  I do not know her, but Lauren does.  And Lauren does not know the doctor who had not seen her two year-old son for two months after her salary was cut by an orgaqnization I love and care about a great deal.  And so on.

We need a starting point.

Justice is a universal cause, but it always demands a starting point that organizes our time, our efforts, and our deepest concerns.

What’s your’s?