Ash Wednesday

3/9

I leave my clergy lectionary study group to grab a cab and head to the church. It’s Ash Wednesday and I’m looking forward to Lent. I always do. The reflection, the self assessment, the   desire for repentance, for reconciliation comes relatively easily. It’s what this journey leads to, the resurrection part that’s hard. I know that there must be death before resurrection, but for this church, for me personally, how much has to die before there can  be rebirth?

There was that same continuing argument with Krystin about choice. To what extent did Jesus choose his scriptural responses to  Satan and to what extent were they just there? From deep inside? Like when you’re in a pastoral situation with someone and the words just come? But, I say, they’re never just there. They’re the response to years of study, prayerful reflection, engagement with others...We learn what we practice. Spring training, that’s what this  time is, spiritual spring training. 

I open the doors, go to the steps. I post the signs made by Jim announcing the imposition of ashes.  Start to sweep. Peter arrives. He was one of the performers at our Balcony Music Festival. And runs his own design and communications business. We go to Popover’s. His son’s favorite place with the warm popovers and apple butter. Like others I know, Peter’s left the Upper Westside for Harlem. Part financial, for a family. Part diversity. More and more this neighborhood has felt to him as white as Seattle. 

We talk about P&G’s, where he met Amanda at an open mic night. The open mic circuit, the motley community of musicians that is  P&G’s on Monday nights.  We agree that it would make a great TV show. Or for Peter, a documentary. I share  with him our vision for the  church. For the building . For the Centre. For our centennial gala. For Amanda’s envisioned concert series. He shares with me his work, his ideas. He asks questions. I so don’t know what I’m doing here, but I keep seeking relationships, having conversations. It must come together. We’re behind already.

I have to run up to Advent Lutheran to pick up some palms from my friend Pastor Elise. We were at SPSA last Palm Sunday, have no palms of our own. They come from Advent’s altar to my hands and I’m back to the church.  I place votive candles on the steps and light them. (Note their Mardi Gras colors.) Light a scented three wick candle in the narthex. 

A woman enters with a stroller and two children. A Latina nanny. I put on my white alb. My Peruvian stole. I light the Christ candle. I get a tarnished communion cup from the Session room and take it to the table. Taking a page from my friend Elise, I place the dried palms in the cup and light them. The flame rises up, the smell of burnt palms filling the air. Elise likes to let it linger as long as it lasts. When the flame is out, I mix in the consecrated olive oil to make a paste of ash. I make the prayers, read the scriptures. Invite her forward.

Say the words reminding us of our mortality. Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Place my finger in the ashes, mark the sign of the cross on her forehead. She crosses herself, thanks me, gathers the children and leaves. Next is Rachel and her daughter Nadia. They come forward. After the ashes, we talk. Nadia picks up a bulletin from last week. “I used to read these when I cleaned at Jim’s. It was my connection to church,” she says,then  “maybe it’s not so popular anymore, the ashes.” I remind her that these doors were closed for three years. “or maybe people just don’t like to show their religion in public, in these times.” As we talk, others arrive. I see Rachel and Nadia out to the steps. Say goodbye.

From noon to one, they come. More nannies. More strollers. A mother and son. And then a young man, Daniel. I ask if he lives in the neighborhood. “No, I work here,” he says. I impose the ashes. He crosses himself. Says thank you. Looks around. “It’s magnificent,”he says. “ Needs some work, but beautiful. These doors, they’re always closed. But I was on my way to St. Gregory’s and saw the open doors, the candles. I said to myself, I got to go in.” I tell him our story. He nods. “Yes, it will take some work. But if the doors are open, people will come in. Like me.” He tells me that he’s a porter at a building down the street on 86th.  Then he says he’s got to go back to work. “Thank you, Father,” he says. and is on his way.

With the exception of Rachel and Nadia, all my visitors have been Latin. And workers. And many, immigrants. That’s part of what I have loved about this day. Who walks in. Participating in the popular faith of the people. When I was a kid, this was foreign, strange, not what we did. Me and two or three other kids would sit alone in the classroom  while all the other kids went away and came back with eerie  marks on their foreheads. It seemed a bit scary. And I felt like an outsider. The one thing my anti-papist tradition taught us was to be not Catholic. What we knew about  Jews was that they were not Catholic. My mom and sister are stills somewhat aghast that we do this. 

There’s no real theological reason not to do ashes. It’s culture, tradition. Our most recent prayer book has a service “for the imposition of ashes.” In this neighborhood, the lines between what’s Catholic and what’s latino are often blurred. And my colleague Katherine from her Anglican background  brought her own liturgical love of  ashes.  She helped create the service we used for so many years, serving  beside me, noon and late afternoon, then racing to get to the community service at West End. I like being connected to this. To see who comes in. I remember the year a bus driver pulled up to the bus stop, came running in, got his ashes and jumped back on his bus. 

I extinguish the candles. Bring the votives back inside. Lock up the doors. I’ll be back later. 

Typing this, the smell of burned palm ash and olive oil lingers on my fingers. 

                                                * * * *

The sun is going down as I open the doors again. It’s the time of day when the sun comes through the rose window from the west. I put the votives on the steps again. Light the narthex candles. And the Christ candle. And wait. 

People start stopping in after work. A tall African-American woman named Lacaya says, “It’s not like when I was a girl. The churches were open all day. All day today I’m walking around. The churches closed.” I tell her we were open during the lunch hour. She tells me she saw the open door, the light shining out from  the inside. Knew she wanted to stop before she headed home to the Bronx. To her own Apostolic  Church. Retail workers, domestic workers, working class African-Americans and Latinos on their way home. 

Arcadia comes in, right from work. Startles me in the candlelit quiet. Another Latina woman stops by. They chat in Spanish. Deacon James comes in, greets Arcadia. An Italian woman comes in with her daughter, Sophie. She’d seen the lights, wanted to come inside. Had been here once before.  With her father. 

It’s getting time to lockup for the night. Acadia brings a young woman from the neighborhood and her daughter to the front of the church. “She wants ashes, “ says Arcadia. The come to the table. The daughter asks her mother what to do. “He’ll let you know,” she says.  And so they are the last. I finish. Walk out with Arcadia. Lent has begun.

365 days a year

Obama fix the church

3/7

Sunny. And cold again. After a day of rain. Sweeping while I wait for the last plumber to come and do a boiler estimate. Exchange greetings with Gary Greengrass walking down 86th on his day off. Lots to do today. Lots of trash. The steps are littered with cigarette butts, an empty pack.  Remains of an empty take out meal from Trader Joe’s. Bags of clothes. (Please...) And a sleeping bag. Someone is definitely sleeping here. 

Dog poop in front of the church. Uncool. Definitely uncool. Empty vodka bottle. An umbrella carcass. As I’m sweeping, a man walks by and tosses a crumpled paper into my trash can. I look up, smile, carry it to the corner trash basket to empty. He laughs.  

“Que pasa con la iglesia?”he asks, “muchos anos ...cerrado...”       

 “No, la iglesia esta abierto. Todos los domingos...” I’m searching for words.                              

“Is ok, man. Espeak English. I espeak English. I live here 45 years. Right up there, on 87th. Why they wanna tear it down?”                                                                                                                

“No. We were never going to tear it down. Only the church house on 86th. To get the money to fix it up. Takes a lot of money to fix it up. Look there,” I point  out new piles of red dust and pieces of the building washed off by yesterday’s rain. That same old problem.                               

“So who gonna fix it?”                                                                                                                      

“We are, you are,” I smile.                                                                                                        

“Obama,” he says, “Obama fix the church,”  and he laughs.

We shake hands. Introduce ourselves. He’s Gustavo. From Cuba. I tell him about the members of the church who came from Cuba so many years ago. From First Presbyterian Havana. And First Chinese Havana, across the street. He’s intrigued. “Listen,” he says, “I got to get another coat, I’m freezing.”

I go back to my solitary work thinking abut the rally yesterday at Times Square. Long Island Congressman Peter King is opening a congressional investigation into radical Islam. So  we gathered in the rain, Muslims, Jews, Christians and yes, Atheists under banners that declared, “Today I am a Muslim.” No one of us should be separated out. No one religion. There’s enough dangerous folks in every religion to go around.

And I’m thinking about all that needs to be done. Fixing the door to the sanctuary, outdoor signage, a spring clean up day, call Con Ed for a meter reading,install a phone line for the fire alarm... .... It’s overwhelming. I finish 86th Street. Wash off the steps. Go back inside. How long will I wait for the plumber. It’s been over half an hour. Enough.

Back outside, there’s more debris. As I stoop to pick it up, there’s Gustavo again. He’s now in a red down jacket. Chestnut face, wire rim glasses. He smiles again. He tells me his story. Coming  Cuba after the revolution. Just in time for the Vietnam war. Luckily getting into the reserves. Not having to go over. (“Gracias a Dios”). His union. And his long time at Bloomingdale’s. he points to the building on 87th that used to be a Section 8. “There, I live there,” he says. 

I ask him about church. He tells me of where he’s been. Dissatisfaction with the new priest. Looking around for a new one. “ You should come visit,” I say, “todos los domingos a las once”

“Who,” he says, “who the priest there?”                                                                                              “Me, “ I say, “I am.”

 He looks at my black down jacket, my Santurce Cangrejeros baseball cap. “I come every day to clean up. Someone’s got to do it.”                                                              

“You do a mass for me? My mother? My family? My friends? My family, all seven, dead in Cuba. All dead. You do a mass?”                                                                                                        

I try to explain what a Presbyterian minister is.                                                                              

“I know, I know,” he says, “so you do a mass for me? For my family?”                                        

“OK. So Wednesday is el miercoles de las ciniezas. We do ashes from noon until one. You come then, we’ll talk.”                                                                                                                              

“All right. I come Wensday. I see you.” He smiles. We shake hands again. And I head north on Amsterdam.

Transfiguration

3/5
Quiet, warm, windy day. A one woman in a wheelchair, blanket across her lap, in front of Barney Greeengrass.

3/6

Walking up 86th, I see Marty. He’s holding his hand out, asking passersby for “tips,” as he puts it. I walk over and say, “hi.” “So, Reverend, have you had a lot of legal fees, with the building, you know?” I think, if he only knew. “Yes,” I say. “Litigation and all,” he says, “my brother’s an attorney. Specializes in real estate. I should have put him on your case.” “The whole landmarks thing,” I say. “Went on for years,” he says, “but thank God you’re back in, thank God you’re in.”  “Yes we are. We’re back in,” I say. “Hey, and they’re sleeping on the steps again, you know?” “Who,” I ask, “anyone we know?” “No, I went by there this morning at 6 am, there was some guy I didn’t know...” “OK, Marty, thanks, I’ll check it out. You have a good one, ok?” “And you , too, Reverend.”

Under the scaffolding I see one of those SUV shopping carts. Think it might be George. But then I see a giant plastic bag filled with aluminum cans and I realize it’s an independent recycling entrepreneur. Together, they keep the city streets free of cans. When I open the doors and begin to sweep, he gathers his cart, his cans and takes off down the street. 

It’s a mild, windy, rainy, typical March day. One that will be warmer outside than in.  

The line of people  waiting to get into Barney Greengrass winds in front of the church steps. Getting through the crowd to get to the restroom at Popover’s is like trying to get onto a crowded subway car at rush hour. I’m remembering what was in the Church Information Form when I applied for this job. On this block, the main Sunday morning ritual is brunch. Maybe that’s what we need, good coffee, good pastries,a warm place to sit and talk. 

I go back to the church and find Jim inside getting ready. An older African-American woman dressed for church has arrived. I welcome her, invite her in. She’s a soloist at a church in the Bronx just moved to the neighborhood. Juan comes by with his guitar, Amy will not be coming today. I see Rachel’s walker right inside the door. I’m talking on the steps with  Elder Philip. Then we see her, Philip drops to the steps in mock shock. An elder has returned.

She had left several years ago.  It  was in the midst of what felt like an endless church fight. The kind that make people ask themselves why they need this. They’re worse in a small church. Less of a buffer zone. It took me a long time to realize that in a church with a culture of conflict, you can change all the people  and the conflict continues. Until you change the culture itself. It’s sad when good, faithful, committed people get driven away. She’s heard good things are happening. Has come by to see.  

As Church begins, I share with the congregation my thanksgiving for the group that met at Stony Point last weekend to take the first steps in creating a new criminal justice network. For me, the issue has been primarily pastoral. I’ve performed the marriage of a relative in New York City’s Tombs. I’ve been to court with numerous members, have had members and members’ children incarcerated. Enough so that I’m always immediately dismissed from jury panels even though I’d gladly serve. The worst was a (then) teen age girl, victim of  fetal alcohol syndrome, who through a kafkaesque sequence of events has had simple arrest for shoplifting jeans turn into a 15 year state prison nightmare. This is part of the human reality behind the fact that the US incarcerates more of its citizens than any other western industrialized nation. And more proportionately than China. 

It’s Transfiguration Sunday. That final blast of light before the shadows of Lent begin. The season that began with a star shining over Bethlehem ends on a mountaintop.  The season of Epiphany ends. That word I love, that moment where like in a flash of light you just get it. It’s a portal, a door way Sunday, like Christ the King into Advent, this Sunday opens the doorway into Lent.

Our story begins on another mountain, with Moses. Receiving the Law. How the giving of the law created community. Made community possible. On the seventh day, like a new creation. Fire and smoke up on the mountain. Moses coming down, shining. And coming down to find the people already dancing around a golden calf. Mardi Gras run wild. 

Paired with Moses is the story of the Transfiguration. Jesus appears in his one shining moment with Moses and Elijah, the law and the prophets. But since it’s the end of epiphany, we need to be on the lookout for ongoing  epiphanies, moments of getting it. And allowing ourselves to be and changed by the experience. Ongoing epiphanies. It leads to the question, are you born again? In our tradition, we don’t have a particular day when we met Jesus. We don’t make a decision for Christ. It’s a gift of grace. And the reality is, yes we are born again--over and over and over again...

It’s a daily experience of dying and rising again. In the Jewish tradition, the first thing you do when you wake up is to give thanks for another day of living.  Daily. 

I’m thinking of the song from the movie 127 Hours: 

If I rise, one more chance

All our dreams, more than this  

It plays as Aron Ralston frees his pinned arm from the rock in the cave that holds him and comes back into the sunlight, back into freedom. At the cost of leaving part of himself back in the cave. For us, to free ourselves, to move back into light, back into life, we may have to leave part of ourselves behind. Not something physical, like Aron’s arm. But maybe something even more painful, something from inside. 

Our church is moving into the light, vote by vote, into the world of full inclusion for lgbt folk at every level of church leadership. Don’t forget, that started here, in 1978. We called it More Light. Because in our tradition, the scriptures are not frozen, they are a living word. The Holy Spirit can always shine  more light on the word and lead us to deeper understanding. 

So, the voice breaks through the clouds and says, This is my son, my beloved. Listen to him. Just like at Jesus’ baptism. And what happens? The disciples fall to the ground in fear.  And what’s important is what Jesus says, and in what order. He says Get up...do not be afraid..and touches them in their fear.

Make sure you hear that, it’s rise first, then not fear...Living in  fear is a form of death. To be afraid is to be controlled by that fear. To be afraid is to bring what you fear closer into being by the power of your fear. And the way to get out of it is to rise up, get up, get moving, even as you tremble. Think of how we’ve begun to do that. And maybe you get a little taste of what it was like to be in Egypt as people got up and step by step stopped being afraid. 

Christ has risen...and we are int the process of rising. We called our old project rebuild for rebirth. Now, we’re about being reborn to rebuild. And the way we do that is to take on concrete actions towards transformation. Specific, real, visible steps. Like when we committed to coming back here. 

Years ago in this sanctuary, there was a controversy when we used the Battle Hymn of the Republic in this service. Too martial. Too militant. But it was these words that drew me:

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free;
While God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! While God is marching on.

Julia Ward Howe. Abolitionist. Seeing in the midst of the Civil War a transcending cause, the freeing, the liberation of people. And in that transfiguration...

That’s where it has to be lived out, not on a mountain top, but here right where we live. As we rediscover our own call, our own witness in this place. 

Deacon James and Elder Ana help me serve the communion. Philip sings Let the light of the lighthouse shine on me. And then we all sing Canto de Esperanza (Song of Hope) and its time for our circle of blessing. And Ana’s coffee again.

Out on the steps, Jim is relating an incident at Presbytery. A trustee talking about West-Park having spent all its endowment and now trying  to hang on. In a totally unrelated meeting.  Where do such narratives come from? Get told  until they’re accepted as true? Become the basis upon which people make decisions without our even knowing it? And how much damage is done? In PHEWA, we have a principle we learned from our Disabilities Concerns Network, namely,  nothing about us without us. At every level of the church we need to stop talking about and start talking with.

A long day at the office

3/3

Twenty degrees feels so much colder on the way down...

Today there’s a large bag with so much stuff in it I’m not even going to look. Straight to the trash can on the corner. I keep wondering what goes through people’s minds...

The representative from Warner Brothers was referred to us by HBO. Last year, HBO had looked at the empty Mc Alpin Hall as a possible set location for their new series Boardwalk Empire. The lack of  heat and bathrooms was a problem. I still sometimes wonder what the set would have looked like. Imagine Knucky Thompson here in West-Park.

The scout is looking for a space for a holding area for a new movie being shot in the neighborhood in March and May. This kind of usage could be very helpful for us. I remember  in years past, before  we left, all the times the Law and Order cast and crew were here. The shooting of Revolutionary Road with Leonardo Di Caprio that brought a block full of vintage cars to our street and the extras to West-Park while Leon hung out at Barney Greengrass. 

And then  my all-time favorite...the Saturday Night Live sketch shot in our sanctuary. It starred Renee Zellweger and was a wedding with everyone in Kiss costumes. Never did quite get that. The scout is impressed by the openness of the space right now and the opportunities that presents. He'll get back to us.

Then another plumber comes to check out our boiler. Estimate number two. He remembers when they came right after the burst pipe accident two years ago. Wants to know the story, since then. I tell him the whole landmarks saga. “Landmarks?” he says, “the KGB.  Look, it started out all right back in the sixties when they saved Grand Central. But this is completely out of control. KGB, Gestapo tactics. Look, I have a client in Chelsea. They’ve got granite sidewalks. Granite. Who can affirm to replace granite? Are you kidding me? Every window, every door knob, and roofs? Jesus..oh, sorry, Reverend....KGB. It’s not right...” I just nod my head. Been there.

Again we cover everywhere. he’s checking out the hot water heater. Wants to check out the roof. We crawl up the ladder and into the old scout room looking for the doorway out onto the roof. It’s dark. Shaky footing. “That’s it, I’m done,” he says. “be careful, reverend,” as we head back down. “I’ll send you the estimate, ok?” he says as I see him to the door. One more to go...

Finally, I meet a young woman who has started her own marketing/consulting firm. She represented one of the craftspeople at the festival. She fell in  love with the church. Loved the use for the crafts fair, the music festival. She connected with Amanda. And was blown away by George on the steps. His Afro-centric apocalyptic vision was mind blowing for one from the  Black Baptist community. She laughs when I talk about his combination of  Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, the Black Hebrew Nation and George Clinton, Bootsy Collins and the Funkadelics. 

We talk  about our upcoming centennial celebration. How important it is to our future. Amanda’s concert series, the possible synergy. She will draw up a proposal. We’ll talk more.

We finish our coffee. Time to head home. Think I’ll stop and see Rachel on the way. 

Planning is power

3/1

Today: large clumps of rice and bits of Chinese food. Remains of an iced coffee and a plastic spoon. No chopsticks? Must not have been in New York long. I take the time to not only do Amsterdam but the long windy stretch of 86th as well.

Thinking of my breakfast down the street with Marsha.  Lining up more plumbing companies for estimates on the boiler. This must get done. Everything else depends on it. Talking about how things get stuck. Great ideas still born. Getting from here to there. The difference between visions and reality. Thinking back to the Planned Parenthood rally on Saturday.  I brought back my favorite button:  Planning is power.  Of course in the context of the rally it has to  do with family planning, the power that comes from being able to be intentional about reproduction. No, about children. But for me, for us, there is a broader metaphoric meaning. Planning is power.

The cheese never stands alone

2/27

On the steps this morning:

Lettuce....

JIm and Holly are the first to arrive. They’ve brought a big banner. Ultimately, it should hang from the scaffolding outside. But this morning, It will stretch across the front of the  sanctuary.  It’s big, it’s bright, it’s multitcolored. Celebrate the journey, it says. It’s a gift from the Stony Point Conference Center, where my friend Rick is the Director. (See December 19) It was inspired Thursday afternoon  at my apartment gathering for neighborhood clergy friends. My parish priest, Father Duffel, said that we needed a tent. Something to cut down the emptiness of the sanctuary. Bring it closer. Something new. Something to attract the press. It isn’t a tent. But it is a banner. 

Two visitors today. Cece, longtime friend of Holly. And Jim, the hospitality professional with the amazing smile back for a second Sunday.  And Rachel is back! This is her first Sunday back since that day in August when Amanda and I, at the end of a run,  found her in Central Park. She’d fallen walking her  dogs.Tangled up in the leash.  A young man had picked her up, placed her on a bench, called 911.  As she was placed on the gurney and wheeled to the ambulance, she looked up and said, “I’m afraid I won’t be in church tomorrow.” She’d broken her hip. And this feisty octogenarian retired nurse has fought her way back. Her presence fills us with hope.

My sermon begins by remembering what a big day yesterday was. Some of us went to  the rally in City Hall Park, in solidarity with Wisconsin, with labor. I tell them that my favorite sign of the day was carried by a group wearing cheeseheads.  Their sign read  the cheese never stands alone. I’d have taken a picture if I hadn’t been in the middle of the street. It’s all about solidarity, here, there, around the world. Something is happening.  And then much of the crowd marched over to Foley Square to join the Planned Parenthood , women’s choice rally.  And somewhere in Chinatown the  Chinese Staff and Workers Association, the Saigon Grill workers union, was  celebrating the Lunar New Year.

And it was a good day for those fighting for the full inclusion of people from the lgbt community at every level of church leadership. In the voting, presbytery by presbytery, four yesterday continued their support. Five continued in opposition. And three moved from opposition to support. Indian Nations (Oklahoma,) Central  Nebraska and Sacramento, California. For the first time the double digit lead in voting  has grown to fifteen. Of the nine switches necessary for victory, the count has already reached eleven.

We agreed to pray for those voting next week:  North Central Iowa, West Virginia and Yellowstone.  Then on Friday, Mission,(Texas.) Saturday, Grace,(Texas again) then  Northern New England and Ohio Valley. The struggle that was begun at West-Park back in 1978 (see that rainbow  banner up there?)  may finally come to victory. 

This leads me, however indirectly, to Isaiah. He says to an exiled people, says to the prisoners, “come out, show yourselves....” The people are stuck in Babylon. They have been deprived of hope. They have to imagine the unimaginable. Like in the Middle East, Who, who even three months ago, who could have imagined Egypt?

It is nothing less than the end of fear. As one older Egyptian said, “once we stopped being afraid, they could no longer hurt us.”There is no more hiding.  Once people are not afraid, anything can happen. This passage, (Isaiah 41: 8-16,) is filled with  typical Isaiah themes. Themes  of roads, highways, the journey. We are always on the road. En el camino as my friends say.

My son Daniel yesterday wanted to know why we would watch the movie 127 Hours when we already knew the ending. The ending was not the point, I told him. It’s how you get there. Like the revolution in Egypt. And our own journey. It’s how you get there. 

Fear not is a major theme of Matthew from the angel and his pronouncements on. And here (Matthew 6:24-34) Jesus is preaching against fear. And yes, we’re still in the sermon on the mount. What took Jesus maybe a morning to preach is taking us weeks to get through. It’s how you get there. Jesus wants to to free us from worry, free us  from fear.

And then there it is, ” You cannot serve God and wealth....” I’d love to see that engraved somewhere indelible. Like in the front of a Presbytery meeting. But how do we not worry? Especially now that  we are in that lilies and birds place...

Worry is its own reward.It accomplishes nothing. It is  substitute for action. It wears you out, makes you think you’re doing something, but you’re not. But how do we not worry? 

How? Jesus says,But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

Really? Has anyone ever experienced that? My dad used to say, follow your heart. The money will take care of itself. Not necessarily so. But its about the journey again. The how you get there.  Building a community that is immediately recognizable as a place where people are truly caring for one another. Where the cheese never stands alone. 

 So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.

And as my kids say, word...

I can’t talk about this without remembering Bobby Mc Ferrin and his song, Don’t worry, be happy. In light of everything, really?

Here is a little song I wrote 

You might want to sing it note for note 

Don't worry be happy 

In every life we have some trouble 

When you worry you make it double 

Don't worry, be happy...... 

Ain't got no place to lay your head 

Somebody came and took your bed 

Don't worry, be happy 

The land lord say your rent is late 

He may have to litigate 

Don't worry, be happy 

Look at me I am happy 

Don't worry, be happy 

Here I give you my phone number 

When you worry call me 

I make you happy 

Don't worry, be happy 

Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style 

Ain't got not girl to make you smile 

But don't worry be happy 

Did you realize that this was the theme song of the 1988 George Bush Presidential campaign? Fitting somehow.  Until Bobby McFerrin said NO. Nobody asked me. 

I’ll always remember a mission retreat we held back in Pittsburgh. It was being facilitated by a member of  that definitive  social witness in Washington, the Church of the Savior, an intentional Christian community.  The retreat leader, a round little guy in sandals,  insisted upon playing this song  every break. It was driving me way crazy, making me me nervous. Finally, my good friend John said, let’s head for the bar. It took a long time for me to discover what an amazing and creative  artist Bobby Mc Ferrin really is.

What yesterday was about, the rallies  was bad decisions, stupid decisions.  Now those who are responsible  want to remove even those  last vestiges of protection and regulation. Without them the chasm between rich and poor would grow even deeper and the middle class completely vanish.  In that context,  we have to ask, what would it mean to really follow Jesus? Where money is not first but where we watch out and care for one another? Jesus seems to say, no he does say, that if we do that the rest will follow....

Can we believe?

As we stood in our circle of blessing following the service, I asked what favorites people had for the Oscars that night. Of course, the King’s Speech had  lots of supporters. I mentioned my own appreciation of Winter’s Bone, the grim but heroic  story of courage and determination in the midst of Ozarks meth country. One of us shook her head, laughed and said,  well, that’s my family. 

I see P_____ walk up and kneel before the Christ candle again,placing her hands on it, fervent in prayer. Her case is dragging on. Pressures growing and with them her inner sense of what’s going on in her apartment. I place my hands on her head. Give her a special prayer for protection, for peace. 

Ana’s cafe con leche again. In this cold, it’s almost sacramental.