Talking Points

I watch the news on TV sometimes, and listen to the political pundits, which, I know, is not really the same as being informed.  Sometimes I think it would be better for my health not to listen at all.  It is not that I prefer to be ignorant.  But what I realize, after listening for awhile, is that I actually learn very little.  What I hear is "Talking Points."

Talking points have become very predictable.  I know almost exactly what everyone is going to say.  It is as if someone gave the commentator a piece of paper, and told them what to say.   And I am not sure what I dislike most about the talking points.  I'll admit, sometimes it is just the fact that I disagree.  I think they are not taking something into consideration.  Sometimes it is the utter partisan predictability.  But sometimes it is the fact that they don't really feel real.  They don't acknowledge how messy life is, how complicated real solutions to our political issues really are.

They are talking points, not a real conversation.

So I am thinking about talking points, and wondering if perhaps we don't have talking points in the church sometimes too.  I was thinking about this on Sunday, when I preached about Jesus casting out a demon.  It's a really rich piece of scripture, and there are a lot of theological points to be made, the authority Jesus has, the power of evil, how Jesus won't let the evil spirit speak.  And I love all these points, and I'm really good at talking about them.  I learned a lot in seminary, and I have been in the church for a long time.  And I have been praying and talking to Jesus for a long time too.

But while writing down and thinking about all of the relevant points, sometimes other thoughts creep in, wreaking some havoc on the talking points I am so good at.  I think, Jesus, I have known you for long time, and I believe that you can cast out demons, and that you have more power than evil.  But I have to say that sometimes, terrorists blow up more people in Kabul, a young woman in despair completes suicide, a baby is stillborn, a drunk driver kills a family of four -- and it's hard to talk about Jesus casting out the evil, because there is so much evil still here, and I don't know what to say about it.

The talking points are fine, but they aren't enough.  They don't acknowledge how complicated life is, how messy faith is, how you can have trust in God and be floundering at the same time, how you can be trusting and rebelling, a sinner and a really good person, and how God is sometimes really hard to believe in, if you live in the world.

I remember a confirmation class a long time ago.  A junior high student was having a hard time with a particular aspect of faith that evening.  "You can't tell me what to believe!" he said.

My colleague sort of chuckled and said, "It's my job to tell you what to believe."

What he meant, of course, was it was his job to tell us what our faith's answers are to the great questions of life, what kind of God we have, what we believe about sin and evil, that God is the Trinity and Jesus is completely God and human, what it means when we pour the water over someone's head, where to find hope.

Those are the talking points.  But underneath the talking points, there is something else.  There is testifying to God's voice and God's silence in our life, why we believe when it doesn't make sense, what we do when everything falls apart.  And sometimes it does.

From My Missionary Days

This week's gospel reading has to do with being salt and light, and for some reason, it makes me think back to my days as a missionary in Japan.  I suppose when I considered what in God's name I was doing over in Japan being a missionary, I more often thought of it that way:  I may not be making great big visible waves (I thought), but I was being salt and light by being God's person in Japan.

But when I start thinking back to those days so long ago, I also remember a particular passage of scripture.  It was the scripture verse that I used for one of the only two sermons I preached in Japan.  It was a scripture verse from Ephesians 2, about how Jesus has broken down the walls that separate us, and made us into one people.

Of course, the author of the letter to the Ephesians is referencing two particular groups:  Jews and Gentiles.  They were divided by culture and religion.  The Gentiles were regarded as far away from God.  There was a 'dividing wall of hostility' between them.  But, not any more.  Jesus reconciled them to one another on the cross.

Think about that.  Jesus reconciled them not just to himself, but to one another.

So, I'm thinking about dividing walls of hostility right now.  And not just that great big long expensive one that the President wants to build on the southern border.  And actually, not even primarily that one.  I am thinking about all of the other dividing walls of hostility that there are, even though Jesus says that through his cross, they don't exist.

I recently saw a message on social media about how terrible it is to care more about refugees than it is about homeless veterans.  And I thought:  who told us we had to choose?  Someone is erecting a dividing wall of hostility, and to what end?  There is the wall between the women who marched and the women who did not think it was necessary to march.  There are walls between immigrant and native, documented and undocumented, and Christian and Christian.

I was not born yesterday.  There are real differences between us.  There are things that each of us are right about, and wrong about.  But you know what?  There are also fake differences between us.  We really are all in the same boat.  We all bleed, we all fall down, we're all going to die.  We are also all beloved by God, for some strange reason.

Another person wrote on a social media post that he is not going to care about refugees because, "their lives are not more important than mine."  All right.  But their lives are not LESS important than mine, either.

I am a person of privilege.  I have never been a refugee.  I have never had to flee my home.  In fact, for most of my life, I have fit in with my surroundings pretty well.  But for a few years I at least knew what it felt like to be a stranger, a foreigner whose tongue tripped over the new words she was learning, who often got lost and had to rely on the kindness of strangers, who stuck out where-ever she went.

And I tell you what:  that experience made me cling to the cross, and find my hope in the demolition of those dividing walls.  For in all of our beautiful diversity, and for all that we refuse to see it or believe it, it is still true that we are no longer strangers or sojourners, but we are children of God, with Christ himself the cornerstone.

Reading the Bible in Church

Today was All Saints Sunday in Church.  We did many things in church.  We sang, we prayed, I preached.  We opened our hands and received communion.  We even said, "Christ is risen!"  We lit candles to remember those in our lives who had been saints to us, who had reflected the light of Christ to us.

And, we read from the Bible.

We read from the Bible every Sunday at church.

But today it felt different.

I felt the weight of the appointed Gospel, from Jesus' Sermon on the Plain.  It is appointed for All Saints Sunday, but this year I didn't preach on the gospel.  I preached on being a saint, and I preached on being a witness, but I didn't preach on these particular words.

But I read them, because they were the words of the appointed gospel for today.

Two days before our National Election, I read the blessings and the woes.  Blessed are you who are poor.  Woe to you who are rich.  Blessed are you when you are reviled, and people speak ill of you.

And then, three little words:

Love your enemies

I don't know what my congregation heard when I said these words.  I felt time slow down while I said them.  "Love your enemies,  and do good to those who persecute you."

I felt like Jesus was speaking them directly to me.

They were words not just for the election, but for how to live afterwards.  I am not sure that it is possible, but I am certain that it is necessary.   Love your enemies.  I don't think that means, "Let your enemies walk all over you."  It also doesn't mean, "Let your enemies get away with evil."  It also doesn't mean "Show contempt for your enemies."

"Love your enemies."

I opened the Bible and the words of Jesus exploded in my face.

They made me consider again what it will mean, and what it might cost to be a follower of Jesus, in such a time as this.

Witnesses

Tomorrow is All Saints Sunday in my congregation.  I love this Sunday, for many reasons.  I love lighting the candles.  I love remembering.  I love saying the names and knowing some of the stories of the particular saints in my own congregation.

I don't know why it has never occurred to me before how close All Saints is to Election Day.  But on Sunday I will be naming names and lighting candles and talking about the hope and witness of the saints.  On Tuesday it will be Election Day.  Many have already cast their vote, or will cast their vote.      

To be perfectly honest, this election feels different for me.  There have always been negative ads.  There has always been passion.  There have always been both hope and fear.  But it feels different this time.  Fear seems to have the edge over hope.  We are witnesses, but what are we witnessing?

Maybe a better question is this:  What do we hope for?

Tomorrow is All Saints Sunday, and as I light the candles, I will think of the hope of the saints.  I will consider the hope of the saints as the hope for a better city, a place of abundance, where the table is set, where all will be fed, where all will recognize the beauty and value of the children of God.

But the hope of the saints is not limited to that better city.  That hope lights my way right now, even when fear grips me.  The hope means that whatever happens on Tuesday, I will live hoping for a world where the poor are blessed, where the weak are protected, where there is enough for the hungry.  I will live looking for ways to provide shelter for the homeless and for the refugee.

Tomorrow I will light the candles.  And remember that I am a witness too:  I am a witness not to any particular political candidate, but to the love of God.  Every candle is a witness:  against fear, but mostly -- for the victory of God.

Conservative and Liberal Are Both Good Words

I was visiting with a member of my first parish one day many years ago.  He was also a tall, humble man, a retired pastor who had spent all of his ministry serving churches in rural Nebraska and South Dakota.  Now he had come back home to retire.  I remember him stopping in to my office often to chat, to ask me questions about the current state of the Lutheran church.  He was a Norwegian Lutheran, and my background as a child had been with the Swedish American Churches.

"We always thought that the Swedes were more liberal," he said to me that day.  "Liberal?" I asked.  "In what way?  Liturgically?  Morally?  Theologically?  Politically?"

He didn't even bat an eye.  "All those ways," he said, with a sweep of his hand.

Liberal.  Conservative.  We bat those words around a lot these days.  Sometimes when we say them, they sound like accusations, or even like character assassination.  "We always thought that the Swedes were more ... liberal", he said.  "Watch out!  He is pretty... conservative," (as if in warning.) Liberals are permissive.  Conservatives are judgmental.

But I can't help thinking:  At their roots, Conservative and Liberal are both good words.

Think about it:  Conservative means to conserve, to recognize value, not to throw out the old in pursuit of everything new.  I love to go to antique stores, and sometimes I think that the treasures I find have more character than all of the new, cheap stuff I can find in the discount stores.  Does this mean I am conservative?

Teddy Roosevelt, a Republican, started the National Parks system.  It was a conservative initiative, a movement to preserve something of value for future generations.

My conservative congregations in South Dakota did not chase after brand names with big price tags.  They weren't flashy.  They didn't go in for expensive, flavored coffee (at least not while I was living there).  They weren't caught up in the latest fad.

I knew that they didn't like "Liberals", and I heard it bandied about in a scornful way.  But what does the word "Liberal" really mean?  It means -- generous.  "Apply liberally" -- means -- Apply generously.  Use a LOT.  And whatever you think about people you CALL liberals, it would seem to me that being liberal would itself be an attractive thing.  I want to be around generous people -- people who are generous with their time, generous will their good will, generous with their resources.

So the word "liberal" really means generous and the word "conservative" really means to conserve, to save what is of value.  And maybe what those of us who call ourselves liberal or conservative need to ask ourselves is:  are we really being generous?  Are we really preserving what is valuable?  Are we who we say we are?

Liberal and conservative are both good words.

But are we who we say we are?

Grieving with Hope

On Monday evening, I met with a family to prepare for a funeral.  We got together to discuss music and scripture readings, to share stories from the life of their mother and grandmother.

When we talked about Scripture readings, they were certain about Psalm 23.  It was their mother's favorite psalm.  We should all read it together.  As for a Gospel reading, they would leave that up to me.  And the Holy Spirit.

Her son had brought along his own Bible. He opened it, and turned to 1st Thessalonians, chapter 4, verses 13 and 14.   He said that I didn't have to use it it in my sermon, but he had found great comfort in these verses, which he read to me.  "But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died,  so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.  For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died."  These are verse that I have read often, and have often considered when preparing a funeral sermon.  Resurrection hope does not mean that we don't grieve.  We still grieve when we lose someone we love.


For some reason I have been thinking about these verses for the past couple of days.  Even though they are meant to apply specifically to those who have died, we grieve other losses too, and it occurred to me that perhaps the verses apply then as now.


Take Elections, for example.  I overheard a conversation on Facebook between some acquaintances, when the election didn't go their way in their particular area of the country.  Everyone was grieving, in a way, almost despairing about what it would be like to continue living here for the next two years.  A couple of people were suggesting other, better regions of the country where they could move.  It made me wonder if those of us who are passionate about politics and the relationship of our politics and our faith can grieve with hope, and what that would look like.  What would it look like to look into the heart of a political loss -- when a candidate you respect and admire does not win her case, when an issue you believe is crucial for creating justice and abundance goes down in flames -- and grieve with hope?  


I am also thinking about churches, and about the Church.  We are in decline, as everyone says.  We are post-Christian, so many people say.  The church is dying.  I don't doubt that this is true.  In my own community two churches have closed in the past two years.  My colleague went to a seminar last week and brought back this statistic:  75% of the churches in my denomination are in decline.  I don't know about you, but along with the rest of my work, I am also grieving.  I am not always sure what I am grieving, whether it is a loss of sense of community, or a loss of shared meaning, or simply the losses of the people I used to see at worship every week, who now come much less frequently, if at all. 


What would it mean to grieve with hope?


First I think it is to not be afraid to acknowledge our losses.  The church is dying.  The dreams I had for my community seem farther away instead of closer.  My father was 84 years old, but I still miss him.  I grieve.  


But to have hope means to hold fast to dreams, and not just hold fast to them, but to work for them.  To have hope means to keep on teaching children to read, and sharing bread, and standing up for those who have no voice.  To have hope means to return to worship again and again, standing up and singing and praying and serving and listening for the voice of God, raising you from the dead.


What does it mean to grieve with hope?

What I Did Today

I voted.  I wrote a funeral sermon.

All right, I did a few more things.  I took my computer to the computer doctor, and luckily, they were able to fix it quickly.  I wrote a funeral bulletin, and an annual report which had something to do with the church as a community, and I met with another family about a funeral, which will take place on Friday.

But in my mind, it comes down to this:  I voted.  I wrote a funeral sermon.

I don't know much (or anything) about the politics of the person at whose funeral I will preach tomorrow.  I know that she liked Ronald Reagan, because he said, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"  She was a German immigrant, had lived through World War Ii, and was sponsored to come to the United States by a Lutheran Church in Minneapolis.

What I know is that she taught her children to pray.  What I know is that she liked to sing, to swim, to bike, to garden.  What is know is that she is inscribed on the palms of God's hands.

While I was writing this evening, I had one ear on the election results.  We were trying to find out about a friend who was a candidate for state office in another state.  We heard that there was a barrage of negative ads in the final days of the campaign, accusing our friend of being self-serving.  (He had served long ago in another state legislature.)  We know our friend to be a person of integrity, the opposite of self-serving.  You might not agree with his politics, but he is NOT self-serving.  That is politics, I suppose.

Earlier today, I voted.  I voted because I do think it is important.  I want to create more equitable communities, healthier communities.  And, I'll confess, as much as I want my candidates to win, I am just as jazzed by the fact that my state consistently has the highest voter turnout in the nation.  I'm proud to see high school students working as election judges.  Still, I vote because I have hope:  hope that my community can become a better place, where justice and kindness will flourish.  When my candidate loses, my hopes are wounded.

Today, I voted.  But tonight I wrote a funeral sermon, and another kind of hope.  I wrote about the hope for the eternal city, where love has the last word, where death is no more.  I wrote about the hope for the crystal river, where the saints will gather, where we will meet again, singing.

Holy Conversations, if we can have them

I just started reading a book recently.  It's called "Holy Conversations", and it's about strategic planning in congregations.

You might think, "why write about a book that you have barely started reading?"  That would be a good question.

We will be embarking on a strategic planning process in my congregation soon.  The other pastor thought that this was the book we should use to go through the process at our church.  He wanted me to get ahead on the reading, so that I could be help discern the right mix of people to be a part of the conversations.

Coincidentally, I already had a copy of the book.  I've been thinking about strategic planning as a spiritual discipline for awhile.

So, while beginning to read this book at the end of last week, one sentence struck me, and made me think:  "The plan does not transform the congregation; the conversation transforms the congregation."

I'm not sure that I've ever really intentionally thought about it this way, but I immediately realized that it was true:  Conversations transform us.   Conversations change the way we think and feel, and affect who we become.  It isn't always or necessarily and positive transformation, either.  I remember the conversations I overheard as a young girl -- the arguments between two of my uncles:  one a staunch Democrat and proud 6th grade teacher, and the other an extremely conservative Republican (he used to remind us that the founding fathers only intended landowners to vote).  Listening in on those conversations affected my politics, made be both fascinated by politics, but also anxious about political fights.

Of course, the more powerful conversations are the ones in which we are active conversation partners, listening and speaking, telling and hearing stories.  Perhaps these are the ones called "Holy Conversations", where we dare to take time to find out what it important to one another, what we agree about, where we disagree.

When I think about it, I realize how seldom we really have a "Holy conversation" with one another.  I wonder why it is, and the first thought that comes into my mind is this:  we don't have time.  We are busy people, and it's hard to find the time to sit still, look into each other's eyes, see the image of God in each other's faces, and know who we really are.

But I don't think that's the only reason we so seldom engage in a Holy Conversation.  I think it's also because it is risky to find out that we don't all agree with one another (and I'm not just talking about politics, here, not even mainly).  Perhaps it's easier to assume that we all agree: about which hymns are the best to sing, which way we should pray, how we should reach out and serve, which community issues should most define our discipleship.  There's a risk to finding out that your community contains a diversity of pieties as well as politics.

But even riskier is this:  I suspect that in a truly Holy Conversation, all participants are open to being transformed.   What will happen to me if I listen to an older person tell me of their experience of the liturgy and how it has formed them, or if I hear a new member talk about what it means to feel welcomed, or excluded, by the way we worship?  I just had a conversation with a woman who brings her granddaughter to church with her on occasion.  She told me that her granddaughter would like to go to church more often, but it's hard because "she doesn't know what's going on."  This statement cuts me to the quick, which is the beginning of transformation.

So we're going to do this thing called 'strategic planning,' and I don't know much about what it will look like yet.  But, as we move along, I will be reminding myself again and again that it is not the plan that will transform us.  It is the conversations, the holy conversations that will transform us, turning us again and again, back to God, and back to one another.

A Confession

It is the night before the national election.  I plan to go vote before I go to church in the morning.

I have voted in every election since I was eligible,  except one:  in 1984, I was in Japan, I was a poor student, and I couldn't afford to make all of the different train trips it would take for me to apply and get an absentee ballot and send it in.  I voted as a college student and as a worker, as a seminary student and as a pastor.  I loved that my little church was a polling place for elections.  I liked following and voting on the local ballot initiatives as much as nationwide elections.

I have strong political convictions, although in my deepest heart of hearts, and as a Christian, I recognize that the Reign of God is deeper than any of my convictions, and there will never be a political candidate that will bring in the "Reign of God."  I do believe that there are policies that better honor the image of God in all of us, but I know that others feel differently.  I also believe in my deepest heart of hearts that even though I have strong political convictions, nobody knows everything or is wise about everything.  To have a democracy, you have to have at least two different points of view (preferably even more); if you don't, you don't really have a democracy.  So I believe that the best community decisions and the best policies really are created as people with different commitments and visions talk to one another and hash it out.

So, in this very wearying election season, I've been reminding myself and reminding others that, as Father Greg Boyle has said:  "There is no them and us.  There is only us."  I have been reminding myself and reminding others that faith in God unites us, not faith in whatever political project we believe in, however much we believe in it.

Here's the confession, though.

It's really hard.

It's really hard because there are so many venues that speak lies and half-truths about things that are dear to me, and I see them.  For example, I see someone joking that "Barack Obama will take an early lead, until all of the Republicans get off work."  I see another set of statistics that blame one particular political party for the budget deficits and debts, when I know (even though I don't know everything, I know a few things) that the picture is much more complicated than that.  And if we don't ever realize that it's more complicated than that, we will never get the will to fix it.

I hear people pointing fingers and saying, "It's all your fault!"  People on all sides stretch the statistics to fit their own devices.  I want to be able to say, "There is enough blame to go around," because I suspect that is the truth, really.  And (to be honest) there are times when I want to say to someone I love, someone who is a fellow member of the Body of Christ, not "I love you," but "give me a break."

Tomorrow is Election Day.  I keep believing that what unites us is the body and blood of Christ, given and shed for all of us.  But it's hard.  And I fear that it's going to get harder.

But I pray that we will all have the strength to do that hard thing:  to come together to make good communities, and to see the imprint of God on each other's foreheads.

In Praise of Uncertainty

The thing I want to know is:  how can they be so sure?

There is a group of pastors participating in an act of Civil Disobedience in October 7.  To be perfectly honest, I am not one of them, though I am not totally opposed to pastors engaging in civil disobedience on occasion.  I did once stand up with a group of pastors and other religious leaders who were pleading for fair treatment for undocumented workers.

But this is different.

October 7th is Freedom of the Pulpit Sunday.  Pastors all over the country are going to speak from the pulpit on political matters, and even endorse candidates.  They take the IRS restriction on political speech from the pulpit to be offensive.  In acts of defiance, they are going to send tapes of the sermons to the IRS, daring them to take action.

And the thing I want to know is:  how can they be so sure?  How can they be so sure that they know who "God's candidate" is?

An acquaintance of mine, someone I knew long ago, and got re-acquainted with through the wonders of Facebook, told me that he would never go to a church where the pastor was afraid of the IRS.  He also told me that he would vote for the candidate who had broken the fewest of the commandments.  (I did not ask him, but thought, "How does anyone know which candidate has broken the fewest commandments?")

As for me, when I step into the pulpit, there are a few things about which I am certain, and many things of which I am uncertain.  I am certain that God calls me to forgive sinners, which means that there are sinners out there.  I am certain that God is hiding in the poor, vulnerable and unseemly among us, and that God's work gets done in the unlikeliest of ways.  I am certain that God calls us to do justice and love kindness.  And I will admit that I have certain opinions about the best policies to follow to make sure that we do justice and love kindness, but I am not so deluded as to think that my opinions are the same as God's truth.

The thing is:  I am not tempted to endorse candidates from the pulpit, but it's not because I'm afraid of the IRS.  It is because I do not believe that endorsing candidates is what a pulpit is for.  I don't think it's the preacher's job to tell the people in their congregation who to vote for.  I think any preacher who stands up and endorses a candidate from the pulpit is abusing the power of the pulpit.  I'm really sure about this.

There was a time long ago that I spent among the Certain.  They were fervent Christians who explicated the Bible, had prayer meetings, sang heartfelt songs.  There were some things I loved about worshipping with this group of people.  They were Certain about who was saved and they were Certain about who was not saved.  They were Certain about how we should live our lives, and what it meant to be a true believer.

It came to me gradually that there was an understanding that a person could only vote one way and be a Christian.  And I was certain that they were wrong about that.   I am certain that God works in our political system, and I am equally certain that God does not work through one party or the other.   God's in the mess, that's what I believe, and that's what I hope.  And that the love of God will eventually embrace and redeem us all.

If the IRS ever tells me that I can't preach the love of God for everyone, I'll be the first to send them a tape.

And folks:  if that time ever comes, that's when we will need to practice Civil Disobedience.  I'm certain about this.

God and Political Platforms

I heard that the Democratic Party took God out of their platform for 2012.

I had some misgivings about that.

Then, I heard that this week they put God back into their platform.

I had some misgivings about that too.

When I first heard that the Democrats had taken God out of their platform, I had misgivings because there are so many people who already think that Republicans are the party of God and Democrats are the party of the opposite of that.  And I know that there are plenty of Christians on the left, and that there are also plenty of non-believers on the right.  From a Public Relations standpoint, it seemed like a train wreck.

All public relations aside though, I have misgivings about the concept of God being in political platforms, and not from a separation-of-church-and-state standpoint so much as from a theological standpoint.

It's not that I think that God has no place in politics.  In fact, if you have a faith, you can't help but express your faith in every area of your life, including how you live in the public arena, including who you vote for, what causes you support, what kind of community you want to live in.  So when people use "separation of church and state" to mean that people of faith should not let their faith influence their public life, I think that is pretty much impossible.  If you are an elected official and you are a person of integrity, your faith and values will influence how you do your job.

I also don't think that Jesus is "above" politics, and doesn't care how we live our lives.  It's true, "his kingdom is not of this world," but it also abundantly clear that Jesus cares about how we treat our neighbor, our enemy, the poor and the weak among us.  Those issues are not apolitical.   The hope that we have for God's reign of love has an impact on how we live every aspect of our lives right now.

But when we talk about God in the context of a political platform, suddenly, instead of listening to God and letting God guide us, we are using God as a rubber stamp for whatever our own political agenda might be.  The question then is:  Who is in charge here?  Are we instruments of God's peace?  Or are we trying to make God an instrument of our own desires?

God will not be co-opted.

(this is a draft and may be changed or deleted....)

Politics is the new Religion

(My husband wanted me to post this, after a short conversation this morning.)

Sometimes I think we confuse faith and politics. 

Faith is about ultimate concerns, and high ideals.  It is about holding fast and not compromising.  Faith is a matter of life and death (although it also gets us through the day).  Faith is "blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

Politics is practical, down-to-earth.  It's not about perfection, but it is about improvement, in one way or another.  In politics, there has to be compromise, making deals, getting hands dirty. 

Lately it seems that faith has become practical and politics more ideological.  I'll bet if you go back a century or so, you won't find many sermons that are "practical, and relate to our daily life," as is common now.  Back in the 18th Century, the sermons were called, "Sinners in the hands of an Angry God," (for example) not "8 Ways to have a Happy Marriage."   

Now politics is about ultimate concerns, a matter of life and death.  I'm right and you're wrong.  We can't work together.  No compromising.  In some cases, our political commitments have become our religion. 

I have a friend who proselytizes for the free market.  If he were as zealous for Jesus, I think the whole world would be Christian (or at least his neighborhood.)  He is Very Suspicious of the Social Justice Christians, who, to be fair, are probably Very Suspicious of him.

Practical, down-to-earth, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-things-down.  That's politics.  It's down to earth, humble, sometimes-your-hands-get-dirty work.

A lot of people have observed that Americans hate politics.  There may be a lot of reasons for this, but I suspect this is one of them:  that politics has become the new religion, where people draw lines in the sand and declare those who disagree not only Wrong, but Unrighteous.  Those who disagree are The Enemy.  If you are Liberal, conservatives are commmonly called "Idiots."  Or is it the other way around?  If you are Conservative, liberals are commonly called "idiots."  Or, Hitler.

Don't get me wrong, I think politics is important, and is part of making the world a better place.  A better place, but not a perfect place.  But politicians are not Messiahs, whether the politician is Barack Obama talking about "Hope" or Sarah Palin's with her "Mama Grizzlies" or even Ronald Reagan's "It's morning in America."    If you doubt, imagine even one politician, even the most honorable ,respectable, politician you like best, saying something like "Love your enemies, and do good to those who hate you."   Especially in an election year.

So I pray for all of us, politicians, pastors, people who hate politics, to roll up their sleeves and get things done, to make the world better, if not perfect.  And then I pray that the vision of God's reign of love keeps burning in my heart.

A Few Small, Good Things

In the midst of disappointments, I'm not one to put my head in the sand and give up.  But I do think it's all right to take a moment and consider some simple pleasures:

1.  I finally finished the cable shawl.  Well, I haven't tucked the edges in yet, but I have finished everything else.  Aaah!
2.  I swam tonight -- 10 laps!  The fitness coordinator said it's actually better if I can swim earlier in the day, but I say, you have to take it where you can get it.   I don't know why this is, but swimming does seem to reduce my stress level.
3.  It was almost 70 degrees again today.
4.  Mark Ritchie is still the Secretary of State of Minnesota.  I love listening to him talk about how his loves his job and how he loves our state and our tradition of civic involvement.  I don't know where he grew up, but you can just tell he loves the electoral process.
5.  I am looking forward to attending a church "house meeting" tomorrow night with a group of amazing women.  I got some great feedback from the first one.
6.  Our confirmation  lesson tonight was the feeding of the 5,000.  At the end of the worksheet, there was a crossword puzzle.  Most of the answers were pretty easy, but I have to admit, there were a couple of clues that mystified even me:  1.  strange meal where rice and whipped cream may be served in the same bowl; 2. Jesus didn't serve this with the bread and the fish.  As I was leaving church tonight, one of my seventh grade boys came running up to me and said:  "I know the answers!  I know the answers!  'potluck' and 'beverage'."
And 7. (the number of perfection) the boys had their best prayer time ever, tonight.

Fear Itself

You can't reason with a dog.

During the past couple of weeks, there has been an odd development in Scout's temperament.  She's always been a little skittish when there are thunderstorms or fireworks.  But for the past couple of weeks of so, she has suddenly grown fearful about walking down our block.

It started when we crossed the street one day, on the way to our favorite pond.  We were going along nicely up the street, but there was some construction work going on around the corner, and as we got closer, Scout started to do her famous "walking backwards" dance, which signals not just stubborn "I don't want to go where you want to go"-ness, but actual fear.

You can't reason with a dog.

I know, I've tried.  I get her to stop walking backwards and just sit.  That does work sometimes, but even if I talk to her in a nice, bright, soft voice, and tell her there is nothing to fear around the corner, or just past that car that is running, or past that group of children that is shouting -- even if I tell her all these things -- she doesn't believe me.

In the past couple of weeks, she has started walking backwards a couple of times on our block, which is so disheartening.  I don't want her to become like one of those people who is afraid of everything, who hides in their house.  And though there is no sign of this happening, I certainly don't want her to become one of those dogs who growls and snaps at people because she is afraid.

You can't reason with a dog.

I'm working with her a little bit each day, not trying to force her to go where she doesn't want to go, but trying to increase her comfort, even if we just go a few more steps.  We're working on broadening her circle just a little bit, and hoping that she discovers that she will not get hurt.

You can't reason with a dog.

It starts me thinking about how fear can be irrational, which is not the same as saying that there is nothing to fear.  I certainly think there are plenty of things to fear in the world today.  It's not the great depression, but the economic situation is frightening, and the deficits are frightening, and the both the wars and the terrorists threats are frightening.

To be perfectly honest, though, I'm more frightened about the people running around, calling people they don't agree with "Nazis" or "Marxists" or "Communists."  I'm more frightened of some of the people who are afraid. 

I read a conversation between two conservatives.  One of them interviews the other, saying, "I don't agree with President Obama's policies and I wouldn't vote for him.  But I don't believe it's accurate to call him a communist or a socialist.  Why do you do it?"  The other one says that he's going to keep saying the same thing, because, of course, there's more than one way to understand the word "socialist".   (By some understandings, Medicare is socialist.  Perhaps by some understandings, Public Education is also socialist.)

But the words "Socialism," and "Communism," of course, elicit fear.   And fear can cause us to do many things, including snarl and bite.  You can intentionally make a dog afraid, and then set him loose on a victim.

A long while ago President Franklin Delano Roosevelt said that the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.  I don't think he meant that there was nothing to be afraid of.  There were plenty of things to be afraid of during those depression years.  But if you really want to be afraid, check out what scared, desperate people are capable of.  Over in Germany, someone used a whole nation's fear and desperation to rise to power, to create scapegoats and to murder people.  

In the meantime, I'm going to take a deep breath and admit that I'm afraid, too.  I'm afraid of the fear I hear and see, and the consequences it might have.  But I am trying hard not to snarl or growl, and not to start walking backwards either.   Instead, I tell myself that I have hope -- I believe in the love of God for every person.  I believe that in the end, Love wins.  I believe that hope is greater than fear. 

And I just go a few more steps forward, every day.

Dr. Laura and the First Amendment

My friend Joelle has been writing some good commentary over at her blog about the recent outcry over Dr. Laura's use of the "N" word on her program recently.  She went on a rant, but then later apologized.  She also read a letter from a fan about how she's not a racist, but was trying to make a point. 

Sure.

Today, she quit her show.  She says she quit her show because "she wants her first amendment rights back."  You know, the right to say anything she wants (she still has that right) AND not be criticized for it. 

In other words, she wants first amendment rights, but she wants to make sure the people who disagree with her don't have them.

I've never been able to figure out some people's pouting when they are criticized for something they have said, that "they don't have first amendment rights."  The first amendment gives you the right to say what you want, no matter how stupid or thoughtless it might be.  It doesn't mean that other people don't have the right to disagree with you publicly (a nice way of saying "criticize".) 

In fact, I might venture a guess that part of the point of the first amendment is not just for individuals to have the right to free speech.  The point of the first amendment might also be a robust conversation about competing ideas, a "marketplace of ideas" where people talk, or write, and other people get to decide:  was that a compelling argument?  Or just stupid? 

If you censor yourself because you don't want to have to respond to people who disagree with you (and might even have good arguments),  you are censoring yourself.  Of course, you have the right to do that.  But don't say that your first amendment rights are taken away.  Just admit that you really can't defend yourself, except in the community of the like-minded. 

Freedom of speech:  if it's a good idea for you, then it's a good idea for other people, too.

Abraham Lincoln Couldn't Get Elected President Now

My husband is reading a biography about Abraham Lincoln, and once in awhile I benefit by hearing one of his insights.

"Did you know that Lincoln had a problem with depression?"

"Did you know that Lincoln failed at a business and took 20 years to pay back the debts he incurred from it?"

"... he was skinny as a rail and wore all of his pants too short."

"....he was a spell-binding public speaker and used to like to get up on a soap-box and hold forth."

It has occurred to me, more than once, that Lincoln could never get elected President today.

Or, at least, I would be very surprised, if he was. He was President during the worst time our country ever had. And in four years, he did not win the war of solve all the problems of slavery.

Sometimes I think we suffer from a kind of delusion: the 60 minute TV delusion. We think that every problem has a perfect solution, and it should be be simple, and solvable in 60 minutes (2 hours at the outside), about the length of a TV show.

Sometimes patience is necessary, and humility as well. Difficult problems require patience, and the knowledge that no possible solution is perfect. After all, we are still dealing with the divisions between southern and northern states and the consequences of slavery even now.

So right now we're trying to figure out health care. Some people want single-payer, and others think that Medicare was a big mistake. Some people die because they are unable to get cancer treatments or they have a pre-existing condition. Some are afraid that the solution proposed is too complicated.

Right now if you are over 65 you get Medicare. If you are employed, you often have access to private insurance through your employer. If you are poor enough, you have access to Medicaid. If you are a veteran you have access to insurance through the VA system. If you are unemployed or working poor, you might have no insurance, or you might have some access to insurance through your state, depending on where you live. The cost of your insurance and the choices you have are different depending on the state you live in, and often depending on whether you live in a rural or urban area.

It seems to me that insurance is already complicated.

In the meantime, we're all just trying to make things better for our neighbors, our children.

There are only three things I'm sure of:

1. It's going to take more than 60 minutes to figure it out.
2. Whatever the solution, it won't be perfect.
3. Abraham Lincoln still couldn't get elected President.

How Rush Limbaugh Saved Me Money

Monday is our day off. We try to spend at least a smidgeon of time doing something fun on Monday. This always includes going out to breakfast (today was the Birchwood Cafe), and one other sliver of a fun thing. It makes doing laundry, cleaning, and other errands just a bit more bearable.

Today the other sliver was going to an antique store we hadn't been to in a long time. There's a town near us where the main street has been well known for having a number of antique dealers. When we got there this morning, however, we found that some of the antique dealers were gone (it looked like one whole mall was going to be converted into a senior high rise -- to get ready for us Baby Boomers, you know), and a couple of others weren't open on Mondays.

Our favorite store was not open yet, so we walked up and down the streets, peering in shop windows for a few minutes. When it opened, we proceeded to hunt up and down the aisles for treasures. The first time we were on this block was during advent a few years ago. It was mid afternoon on a snowy day, and all of the store windows had vintage Christmas decorations in the windows. Lovely! We have bought several things in this store in the past.

Today, I started picking out a few things upstairs. Then I headed downstairs where there is usually a wonderful array of vintage books (I love old books!). Having just read The Graveyard Book, I was looking for an old copy of The Jungle Book to read next.

After a couple of minutes, though, I became aware of a Voice that was coming over the radio downstairs. The Voice was ranting and raving, not just criticizing, but saying really over-the-top things. And after about 10 minutes I got really tired of it, and decided that I wasn't going to buy anything in that store.

I told the store clerk why. She said that she only plays classical music, but seemed unperturbed.

I remembered about 5 years ago, during a presidential election, how one of the small businesses in a quaint neighboring River Town had bumper stickers and buttons for all major candidates. When asked, he simply said, he wants every member of the town, no matter their politics, to be a potential customer.

What I told the store clerk was, "When I'm shopping, I don't want to hear either right-wing OR left-wing propoganda. I just want to shop. I won't be buying anything today."

An Inaugural Greeting

"Happy New Era."

That's the first thing my husband said to me this morning.

That's what I want to say to you, too.

The weight of so many expectations, and so many hopes for change, must be enormous. As for me, behind all of my specific hopes, is one:

that this might be a new era of participation in our democracy, that citizens are empowered to find their voice, and to work for justice in their communities.

What is your deepest hope?

"Happy New Era."

"Fundamental Change"

I have been reading in several places recently essays and writings by people who wonder what Barack Obama meant by saying that he was going to preside over "Fundamental Change." I can't figure out exactly what tone the people are using with that question: suspicion? fear? disgust? contempt? The writers often seem to think that "fundamental change" means somehow the dismantling of democracy.

Here is what I think "fundamental change" means.

I think fundamental change means means a shift to empowering citizens to participate in our democracy. I hope it means calling us to speak, and act upon our values, instead of simply being asked to "go shopping." I hope it means calling us to vote, but even more, to organize for the things we value: whether those things are health care, advocacy for children, equal access to education. I hope that fundamental change means empowering a grass-roots, bottom-up democratic republic. I hope that fundamental change means teaching civics and citizenship. And I hope that fundamental change means valuing both personal responsibility and a more just society.

The weekend before the election, I watched Rev. Al Sharpton and D.L Hughley on CNN. They were talking with real wonder in their voices about the possibility that an African American might really become president. It was as if a door had been opened, not only for one man, but for a people, and the name of the door was "Full Participation." Rev. Sharpton said, at one point, that now was "the time to step up, to take responsibility, to take leadership, to prove that we can do it."

I thought, if this is what Barack Obama means by "fundamental change", it truly is not about him.

It's about us: our voices, our leadership, our power, and our resonsibility.

He may be the President-elect, but he is still a human being. When he is right, we will need to support him. When he is wrong, we will need to call him to account.

It's the same in the community of the church. The church is not primarily an institution, but a body of people committed to a common mission. We're grass-roots, bottom-up servants and leaders, supporting each other and holding each other accountable to the truth.

At the Risk of Sounding Redundant.....

In this prolonged, and many times dreary, negative election season, this brings a smile, and reminds me of the gift of our basic freedoms.



I first saw this over at Andrew Sullivan's blog.