Suddenly,
swiftly,
surprisingly,
sorrow storms the
bastions of his heart,
extinguishing joy,
expelling love,
crushing hope,
firmly establishing
for itself
domination
and
control.
7 November 2014
Louisville, KY
Tag Archives: hope
Sorrow
Filed under Louisville
Samuel Johnson
I remembered Samuel Johnson today and I was revived.
The Samuel Johnson I remembered was not the English author – I did not pick up a copy of Boswell. I met this Samuel Johnson almost fifteen years ago during a hot summer week in Orangeburg, SC. He and I have been accompanying each other in the Communion of Saints ever since.
On Palm Sunday of that year, in a quiet grove of trees about eight miles outside of Orangeburg, the Butler Chapel AME Church burned. Four young men admitted responsibility for the fire, although they maintained that it was accidental. The fire did not totally destroy the church. It did cause enough damage that the church could neither be used nor repaired. After a season of prayer and discussion, the members of Butler Chapel determined to build a new church.
Volunteers came from across the country to work on the church; their labor coordinated by the Church of the Brethren. That August, a group of us went to Orangeburg from Cleveland; some of my friends from Louisville joined us. We spent a week working in extreme heat. We installed insulation and drywall and windows. We finished drywall. We laid brick. Each day was a little different. Each day had some elements in common – mostly the people of Butler Chapel – the wonderful people who welcomed us and fed us, prayed with us and worked beside us. Among them was Samuel Johnson.
Samuel Johnson was a big man. Once he had been a strong man. A long-time member of Butler Chapel AME Church, Samuel had attended school in the building as a child. Samuel worked throughout his life. Worked well and hard. . . as a farmer . . . for the gas company.
When I met him, a stroke had stolen much of his strength. He walked with a cane. He walked better when he can use his cane and someone’s shoulder. I remember. A couple of times he used mine.
Although the stroke had taken much of his one arm and leg, it did not take his mind or voice or spirit. Unable to stay away while his church was being rebuilt, he came to the work site as often as he could. He watched. He visited. And from time to time, his eyes filled with tears of frustration as he wished that one more time he could swing a hammer.
Toward the middle of a hot afternoon (they were all hot – I can’t remember which one), I was working alone on insulation. A friend’s voice interrupted me. “Mark, go to the fellowship hall.”
“I’m busy.” I said. “I want to get this finished.”
Bob persisted. “Mark, stop what you are doing. Go to fellowship hall. You have to see what is going on. Take a camera.”
Reluctantly I got up. I found the camera went to the fellowship hall.
There, on a 2” x 10” board that rested on two overturned five-gallon paint buckets, sat Samuel Johnson. Around him, on the concrete slab, sat many of the young people of our group. Softly and slowly, Samuel spoke . . . telling them of his life . . . his family . . . his work . . . telling them of Orangeburg and his beloved church. As he spun stories and answered questions, tears filled my eyes. I was helping build a physical church; Samuel was building Christ’s body.
Why did I remember this story today? Who knows?
Perhaps it is because I have been thinking about the hurts of God’s people – the violence in Gaza and Israel, the children who flee Central America to come to the United States, bombing in South Kordofan, hunger around the world particularly in South Sudan and North Korea, gunfire on our country’s streets, on and on the list goes. It does not seem to end.
In the face of such violations, suffering, and pain, my efforts seem so small and insignificant. But Samuel Johnson reminds me of the importance of perspective.
I can look at life in terms of what I do not have – what I lack – what I cannot do. This is the view of scarcity.
In the case of Samuel Johnson, such a view has little time for an older man whose physical abilities appear to have been limited by a stroke. It would say he no longer has much to offer.
Alternately, I can choose to look at life in terms of what I have – what I can do – what I can share – the gifts I bear. This view is the view of abundance. When viewed in this way, the incredible gifts that Samuel has and shares leap into view. Samuel’s presence is an inspiration; Samuel’s prayers a source of strength; Samuel’s stories create and nurture community.
For me, the assumption of abundance frees me from working about what I cannot do – to focus on doing what I can – whatever that might be.
Remembering Samuel renews my spirit and challenges me to look at the gifts I have and figure out how to use those gifts. That work has begun and will continue and I expect I will bump into Samuel and a whole bunch of other saints as I do.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Antiracism, Friends
In This Place
This is the manuscript I took into the pulpit at Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church today. The preached sermon varied from the manuscript in some instances as the preaching event took place.
People often ask if I miss serving as a pastor in a congregation. I reply that I miss the community, the shared life. But I feel called to my work at the Presbyterian Ministry at the United Nations. I make mistakes; challenges and frustrations arise, but I believe I am where God has called me.
And then come those Sundays when I have the privilege to take part in the sacrament of baptism. And in the joy and wonder of the moment, I feel a tug to parish ministry.
Because I knew I would have that privilege this morning, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about children. Of course along with the filled expectation of the sacrament, this week has also brought tragedy and sorrow and hope.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Israeli children who listen for sirens and take refugee in bomb shelters.
Palestinian children killed upon a beach, under the crushing weight of collapsed homes, on the streets of Gaza.
Israeli and Palestinian children bound together in the violent spiral, not of their making, of occupation and resistance.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Nigerian girls abducted from schools and homes, wrenched from their families, held by a rebel group.
Children of Sudan’s Nuba Mountains who huddle in caves as bombs dropped by the government rain around them.
South Sudanese children whose stomachs knot from hunger and malnutrition that threaten their lives.
Syrian children caught in a chaotic cross fire.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Children forced to carry guns larger than they are tall in combat.
Children who breathe air-filled with dust and sometimes toxic gases in mines for gold.
Children used, violated, and exploited.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Children fleeing rape and gang recruitment and violence in Honduras, El Salvador, and parts of Guatemala who make their way to the United States to be placed in detention centers where they may experience cramped cells without enough food, beds, toilets or showers.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Children who lost a parent when a plane went down over the eastern Ukraine.
Children with AIDS or whose parents have AIDS whose lives will be affected by the loss of the researchers and scientists on that plane.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Children in our country whose lives are constricted and diminished by racism.
Children bullied because of their sexual orientation.
Children who know violence in their homes, their schools, and their communities.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
New babies, long-awaited, welcomed, cherished.
Children who receive encouragement, affection, support, and nurture.
Children who enjoy life, bring delight to friends, and share love with family members.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
And I have wept.
Sweet tears of joy and grace.
Hot, bitter tears of grief and pain and anger.
Purging, cleansing tears that have renewed my commitment.
And I have prayed.
For the circumstances that wound children.
For the children. By name when possible.
Prayer opens me to God.
Prayer also opens me to the children and circumstances for which I pray. It binds me to the children be they in Damascus or Detroit. It calls me to commit to act on behalf of the children for whom I pray.
Prayer makes and nurtures the relationships, key to pursuing justice. And prayer for justice and wholeness in one setting draws me out of myself to experience anew the connections between all forms of injustice. It reminds me of the interdependence of people and life. It transforms me as it leads me to pray—and then act—more broadly than I would have otherwise done.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
And I have advocated with government officials and others who are in positions to act to reshape realities for children.
And I have made contributions to groups caring for children in the United States and abroad.
And I have invited and challenged my family and friends to learn and pray and act.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
And I have come to this place, this sanctuary, this congregation.
I come to stand in community. For community is essential to confront the realities of the world. Only together can we stand against the forces that violate children; alone we cannot stand.
I come to sing songs, break bread, share the cup.
I come to celebrate with a family as they present their children for baptism. Affirming their faith in Jesus Christ in a world broken, fearful, and frightening. Proclaiming hope. Sharing love.
I come to remember the grace of God in Jesus Christ. In ways that may surprise us, frighten us, awe us, God is at work. Here. Now. In this community.
When I experience the presence of God, I join Jacob in his affirmation of wonder and faith: “Surely God is in this place — and I did not know it!”
And knowing that God is in this place, reminds me, fills me with hope that God in Jesus Christ is in all places. Even in places where heartache and horror seem strong; even in places where violations occur; even in places where people and relationships are most badly broken and fear and wrong seems strongest, God is at work.
In this place, I am reminded that God is at work in all places. And that sustains and challenges me to look for how God is at work and, as the Holy Spirit gives me grace, to join in that work.
Children have been in my heart and on my mind this week.
Faith in God in Christ have put them there.
And in this place, God invites us all to join in caring for the children. The children of this congregation. The children of this community. All the children, all God’s children of the world. May we hear and respond.
Filed under Current Events, New York, Worship
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia
All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
These words always move me during memorial services.
They give thanks for God’s gift of life.
They defiantly proclaim resurrection.
They offer a reminder that love and life remain stronger than death even in our moments of deepest grief.
All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
These words wash over me with new meaning today.
A friend received a life-giving transplant in the early hours of Friday morning. And I give thanks.
But I also know my friend received this gift because someone I will never know died.
And that someone and that someone’s family, in an act of unbreakable love and incredible courage and astounding grace, chose life for others.
And as tears well in my eyes, the words echo again and again and again in my soul: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
And I trust my family knows that when my time comes, any part of me that can be used, should be used. Here’s one site for information about organ and tissue donation.
All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Friends
Hope, courage, love
I have posted several times about my friend and mentor Merdine T. Morris. At her memorial service on April 12, I saw a photo of Merdine T. with her husband, Lucas. Luke. During the memorial service, Merdine T.’s friends and colleagues and pastors witnessed to her deep commitment to justice and peace and the countless ways she lived out those commitments.
Listening, I recalled the photo and remembered how Luke made Merdine T.’s witness possible. He stood with her, prayed for her, provided transportation for her. Luke was the good, good man who stood beside this good, good woman.
It seems only right to post a reflection about Luke. I wrote this for his memorial service.
Lucas Morris revealed hope. In a world so horribly obsessed with race, any crossing of the racial divide is an act of grace. As he lived, Luke endured the shifting and unchanging reality of being black in America where privilege is given to those who are white. He was wounded. But he was never broken. He was not embittered. He played a key role in helping to create the special relationship between St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church and Noble Road Presbyterian Church. And when the time came, he was willing – he and Merdine T. chose – to have white pastors. Amazing grace. What a gift of hope. If we refuse to give up, if we refuse to give in, if we keep on loving, maybe we can heal prejudices and remake systems and come together to live as God intends.
Lucas Morris revealed courage. Frustration filled his recent years. Illness touched him and it never let go. Every time he made even the smallest step toward recovery, something went wrong and he took two or three or ten steps back. Again and again and again my heart broke for him. My heart broke for Merdine T. But none of it neither the pain nor the procedures – neither the losses nor the limitations – none of it broke his spirit. His contagious smile – his ready laugh – his concern for others – it all remained and shone through on even his worse days. Our character is revealed not in times of ease but in moments of distress. Luke was strong and true.
Lucas Morris revealed love. He had deep, abiding love for Merdine T. and for his family. He had deep, abiding love for his friends. He had concern for all of God’s children. When visited, Luke would ask about Merdine T., about his friends, about my family, about others in the church in need. You may say it was a ritual. You may say it was a way of shifting the focus from his own situation. I know it was expressed his depth of feeling and caring.
Lucas Morris and I laughed together. We cried together. We prayed together. We agonized over the fortunes of Cleveland’s baseball team. That one year when Cleveland had no football team, we even followed the Pittsburgh Steelers together. With Merdine T. and Sean and Eric we shared the body and blood of Christ as well as ice cream and brownies. And one special morning when Merdine T. was in the hospital, Luke and I delighted in a high-class breakfast of Egg McMuffins.
I thank God for the gift of Lucas Morris. I thank God for the honor and privilege of being Luke’s friend. I thank God that for Luke all pain is past and he is received into the warmth and wonder of God’s love. I thank God that within that mysterious reality of the Communion of Saints Luke goes with me, goes with us, now and always. Amen.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Cleveland Heights, Friends
Tonight I wept
There are places I remember all my life
Lennon and McCartney got that right.
But there are also people I remember. And moments.
Moments I will remember as long as memory lasts. Moments that not only fill my mind as memories. Moments that fill my soul and spirit as the sights, sounds, feelings wash over me as though the moment had never ended.
The births of my sons.
The death of my father.
The murders of John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Bobby Kennedy.
The fall of the Berlin Wall.
The release of Nelson Mandela.
And more.
Tonight I wept as I relieved such a moment.
I finally watched Lee Daniels’ The Butler. I had not seen it in the theater, but I added it to my Netflix list and it arrived this week.
The film provides much to ponder. Alan Rickman as Ronald Reagan? Seriously?
The scene that touched me came near the end.
Cecil Gaines, played by Forest Whitaker, has retired from his position as a butler at the White House. He has reconciled with his son, Louis, played by David Oyelowo. His wife, Gloria, played by Oprah Winfrey, has died.
Cecil and Louis are in his house on November 4, 2008. The votes in the Presidential election are being counted. As the moment nears when the media will declare a winner, Cecil calls his son to come to the living room and watch. Louis arrives in time to see history happen.
As the newscaster in the film announces Barack Obama’s election as President of the United States of America, I found myself transported back to the night it happened. And I wept.
I wept in joy at Barack Obama’s victory. At progress made. At hopes realized. At the possibilities before us then and now.
I wept in sorrow at how much work remains to achieve racial justice. At the oppression, discrimination, and injustices my sisters and brothers endure.
I wept in frustration at shortcomings and failings of President Obama’s administration to meet the expectations of the moment. At potential unfulfilled.
But most of all, I wept remembering my friend Merdine T. Morris. Shortly after the media announced Barack Obama’s election, I called Merdine T. Together we laughed and cried and prayed.
The film scene transported me through space and time and as I heard again the joy and hope and pride and concern Merdine T. expressed that night.
Merdine T. recognized the historic significance of President Obama’s election. She also understood the arduous work that lay ahead for him and for our country as we continue to come to terms with the racism and other systems of oppression and discrimination dividing us. Merdine T. knew first-hand racism’s bitter sting and enduring power. She knew Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. personally as our mutual friend Carol reminded me. She knew hopes shattered and dreams, not only deferred, but devastated. She knew the tears that water and the blood that mark the road to justice.
But Merdine T. Morris never gave up. She held to faith. She held to hope. She held to love.
And so I wept tonight because Merdine T. and her husband Luke trusted me and were my friends, because Merdine T. and Luke welcomed me with grace, because Merdine T. and Luke accompany me in the Communion of Saints, because, to paraphrase Bruce Springsteen, writing about another unforgettable moment:
Her strength gives me strength
Her faith gives me faith
Her hope gives me hope
Her love gives me love
Tonight I wept in gratitude. And my tears were good.
See you along the Trail.
Facebook moments
Facebook moments.
The photo of a friend’s new baby.
The announcement of a new job.
The good news of a test passed.
The realization of shared values.
Bring a smile.
Facebook moments.
The departed family member.
The deceased friend.
Present in the Spirit.
Present in cyberspace.
Tug heartstrings.
Facebook moments.
Echoes through the past.
Reminders of what was.
Stabs of longing lost.
Taunts of what will never be.
Challenge us to change.
With gratitude for Myra Hutchins
11 February 2014
Shire near the Hudson
Life
In a world tattered and torn,
a world battered and worn;
In a world of sorrow and pain,
a world of horror and shame;
In a world where I weep for the evil we do,
a world where I grieve for what sisters and brothers endure;
In such a world,
I give thanks.
In this world,
I give thanks
for hope and faith
for love and grace.
In my world,
I give thanks
for tender mercies and boundless joy,
courage unexpected and strength unforeseen.
In our world,
I give thanks
for a baby’s first cry
and a parent’s first smile.
I give thanks
for life.
23 January 2014
New York, New York
For
Joann, Mike, and Austin
Roja, Joel, and their newborn daughter whose name I will list as soon as they tell me
And all new parents and babies
Filed under Friends
Merry? Christmas
I woke up this morning with “Merry Christmas” on my mind. I have said and written and read the words many times through the years. Lately, I have found myself wondering whether “merry” conveys enough meaning for the day we celebrate the birth of Jesus. I turned to the online Oxford Dictionaries to learn more about the word. While I will probably do some further research, here’s what I found:
merry
Syllabification: (mer·ry)Pronunciation: /ˈmerē/adjective (merrier, merriest)
Lively works. It points to the life, the new life, the full and abundant life, that breaks into the world at Christmas.
Rejoicing works. The birth of Jesus brings great joy. Festivity? Christmas is a festival of the church. Festivity picks up on the dimensions of joy.
The third definition, not so much. It does bring the story of the first Pentecost to mind. It’s not completely out of the
Merry Christmas, wishing life and joy works. But I wonder if there might be other ways to express the greetings of the day and season that plumb more meanings and point to other dimensions:
- Christmas blessings
- Blessed Christmas
- May the joy, hope, peace, and love of Christmas be yours
- May justice roll at Christmas
- Peaceful Christmas
- Peace-filled Christmas
- Hopeful Christmas
- Hope-filled Christmas
- Christmas grace
- Grace-filled Christmas
- Christmas memories
- Remember at Christmas
- Gracious Christmas
- Healing Christmas
- Expectant Christmas
- May you know the comfort of Christmas
- May you know the discomfort of Christmas
- Faith-filled Christmas
- Faithful Christmas
- Holy Christmas
- Happy Christmas
I will still use Merry Christmas, but I want to try to expand the greetings I share at Christmas. Brian Wren reminds us of the need to Bring many names, beautiful and good to express the wonder and mystery and majesty of God. We need something similar to capture the depth of Christmas’ meaning.
What words and images would you add?
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Advent
Christmas songs
Two Friars and a Fool looked at “Christmas songs that are actually good” yesterday. They tend to focus on songs used in worship services. Their lists include a shout-out to the Chieftain’s version of St. Stephen’s Day Murders.
Two Christmas songs I have to hear over and again at this season are Christmas in the Trenches by John McCutcheon and The Rebel Jesus by Jackson Browne. They rarely appear in worship services, but each song speaks of the radical turning-of-the-world made possible in Jesus. They speak of peace and possibility, alternatives and hope, compassion and justice. Those themes emerge as we gather each year round the manger. Jesus embodies those themes in his life. He invites his followers to live into them as well. Sometimes we do.
How about you? What Christmas songs speak to you?
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Music
Along the Graybeard Trail 