don't eat alone

I was driving to work early this morning, as is my custom more days than not, and took my usual exit off of I-40 at Fayetteville Road. The ramp bends up and over the freeway to get to the mall and there’s a traffic signal just before the bridge. As I came up the hill I saw two cars in front of me, one in either lane and both with their flashers on. The car in my lane had seen better days. Through the back window I could see a woman sitting in the driver’s seat. A man had gotten out of the SUV in the other lane and was beginning to push the small car out of the way, though he was having some trouble because there was still a bit of an incline. I pulled my Jeep over to the side, jumped out of my car, and hit the back of the woman’s car running to give us a little momentum.

“Big Man!” exclaimed my pushing partner, and we both laughed as we got the car off to the shoulder as well. I reached to shake his hand, but he met me instead with a giant hug. “Thank you, Big Man,” he said. “We did good.” We were both smiling as we went back to our cars and on with our lives.

It was a good day.

Peace,
Milton

On this second Sunday of the Advent season, I read the Hebrew scripture passage as if I were the prophet, which I have done for over twenty years in various congregations, and which has been preceded almost all of those years by my singing the chorus of “Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord” from Godspell. In this year’s lectionary cycle, today’s passage was taken from Isaiah 40 — the very verses that served as the basis for Stephen Schwartz’s lyric:

A voice cries out:
“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.” (NRSV)

Ginger began her sermon asking, “What does it mean to prepare the way of the Lord?” And then she invited us into the beginnings of a conversation about what happened in Durham over the weekend specifically alongside of a larger conversation about race in America. She quoted a blogger she had read somewhere in her preparation (and whom she was not able to identify at the time I wrote this) who defined privilege as being able to keep doing what we’re doing when bad things happen.

I am a straight, white, male. If I were only rich I would be four for four on the privilege scale. I have never had anyone follow me around in a store because they expected me to shoplift. I have never been stopped for driving white. I work hard to be inclusive and to be a part of working for a more just and compassionate world. And, for the most part, I get to keep doing what I’m doing. Her definition is powerful to me because she is not necessarily passing judgment. She is stating an important truth.

After my father died, I felt as though I needed to call all of my friends whose fathers had died before mine and say, “I’m sorry. I meant well, but I had no idea this is what it feels like.” One of the hardest things was being in a public space where people were going on with their lives as though nothing had happened. My father was dead. Yet, in their world, nothing had happened. They got to keep on doing what they were doing. While my father was alive, I lived in a state of privilege, if you will, even though I didn’t realize it.

As I listened to Ginger preach, I wrote down these words: “If we are to step out of our privilege we must embrace the grief of the world as our own. We must find a way let their grief enter our world.” My sentence didn’t answer Ginger’s question; it only added to it. How do we prepare the way of the Lord? How do we enter another’s grief?

I don’t think we can break through our privilege voluntarily, or by ourselves. I can’t just decide I’m going to be less privileged. I need something that disrupts my world view, that breaks into my life. I need a visceral experience of grief that breaks through and lets me connect to a wider world.

Though I have been a part of a number of protests, I would not call myself an activist. I am not well versed in the philosophy and logistics of how to pull off a demonstration, or why protesters do what they do sometimes. In many cities, people have blocked streets and highways, or impeded access to public venues, an approach I didn’t understand until this morning. Perhaps I should say I have come to an understanding of it. The road blockages cause the comings and goings of those on the highway to be disrupted. They can’t keep doing what they are doing. The disquietude in their day is an invitation to see beyond the inconvenience, to realize they can’t just keep on, that being human requires more of them than simply driving by.

I will admit I understand the metaphor better than I do the actual blocking of the highways. That said, I am grateful for those who risk going overboard to call me out into the grief of my world. One of the powerful implications of the Incarnation is that God did something God had never done before in experiencing what it felt like to be human, which meant leaving the privilege behind. Emmanuel: God with us.

And God was never the same after that.

Look back at the verses from Isaiah:

prepare the way of the Lord:
make the ground level
smooth out the rough spots
exalt the low places
knock down the high ones
and the glory of God will be revealed.

I’m pretty sure that means God expects more of us than a couple of carols and a pageant when it comes to living out the implications of the Incarnation in our lives, even more than a well-intentioned blog post, perhaps. Preparing the way — making the ground level — means knocking the pile of privilege on which I stand out from under myself, which I can’t do alone. Preparing the way means talking about this stuff out loud and on purpose and way beyond when it becomes uncomfortable.

But this post isn’t about trying to say I know what we need to do next. What I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry. I meant well, but I had no idea this is what it feels like.”

Peace,
Milton

The protests have been in my mind all day. Here are a few of the songs that have been the soundtrack in my mind. As we walk this Advent road, these are good tunes for the journey.

The first is a John Fogerty song covered by Mavis Staples and Jeff Tweedy called “Wrote a Song for Everyone.”

Met myself a coming county welfare line
I was feeling strung out, hung out on the line
Saw myself a going, down to war in June
All I want, all I want is to write myself a tune

Wrote a song for everyone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for everyone
When I couldn’t even talk to you

Got myself arrested, wound me up in jail
Richmond ’bout to blow up, communication failed
If you see the answer, now’s the time to say
All I want, all I want is to get you down to pray

Wrote a song for everyone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for everyone
When I couldn’t even talk to you

Saw the people standind thousand years in chains
Somebody said it’s different now, look, it’s just the same
Pharoahs spin the message, round and round the truth
They could have saved a million people, how can I tell you?

Wrote a song for everyone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for everyone
When I couldn’t even talk to you

Jackson Browne has been a part of the soundtrack of my life since high school. His latest recording holds this gem, “Standing in the Breach,” among others.

Although the Earth may tremble and our foundation crack,
We are all assembled and we will build them back.
And let’s just say the lives remain and held within our reach.
Try to put our world together, standing in the breach.

So many live in poverty while others live like Kings.
Though some may find peace and acceptance in all that living brings.
I will never understand, how ever they’ve prepared,
How one life is struck down and another life is spared.

Though the earth may tremble and cast our work aside,
Though their efforts resembled the fluctuations of time.
We rise and fall with the trust and belief and love redeems our seed.
And our backs and the hearts together, standing in the breech.

You don’t know why,
It’s such a far cry, in what this world could be.
You don’t know why,
But you still try for the world you wish to see.
You don’t know how, it will happen now after all that’s come undone.
But you know the change that the world needs now, is there in everyone.
The unpaid debts of history, the open wounds of time,
The laws of Human Nature always tugging from behind.
I want to think that the earth can heal and the people might still learn,
How to meet this world’s true challenges and if it costs their own can turn.

Though the earth may tremble and the ocean’s pitching arrives,
We are all assembled.And we will lift our eyes
To the tasks that we know lie before us and the power of our press besieged,
And lift our souls into the Heavens, standing in the breach.

You don’t know why,
It’s such a far cry from what this world can be.
You don’t know why,
But you still try for the world you wish to see.
You don’t know how,
It will happen now.
For all that’s come undone.
But you know the changes the world needs now is there in everyone.

Sarah Jarosz covered Bob Dylan’s “Ring Them Bells” and their effort will close out our song session.

Ring them bells, ye heathen
From the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries
’Cross the valleys and streams
For they’re deep and they’re wide
And the world’s on its side
And time is running backwards
And so is the bride

Ring them bells St. Peter
Where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand
So the people will know
Oh it’s rush hour now
On the wheel and the plow
And the sun is going down
Upon the sacred cow

Ring them bells Sweet Martha
For the poor man’s son
Ring them bells so the world will know
That God is one
Oh the shepherd is asleep
Where the willows weep
And the mountains are filled
With lost sheep

Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few
Who will judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells, for the time that flies
For the child that cries
When innocence dies

Ring them bells St. Catherine
From the top of the room
Ring them from the fortress
For the lilies that bloom
Oh the lines are long
And the fighting is strong
And they’re breaking down the distance
Between right and wrong

May we keep marching and singing together.

Peace
Milton

As soon as work was over this evening, I raced across Durham to meet Ginger at the Armory for the Durham Symphony Holiday Concert. Downtown was full of activity: something at the Durham Performing Arts Center (DPAC), a crowd around the downtown Christmas tree, and the usual folks finding their way to one of our many excellent eating and drinking establishments. As I passed the tree, I realized they were protestors joining those around the country trying to figure out how to respond the what has happened in Ferguson, Staten Island, and now Phoenix.

The concert was festive and charming. As we left, the conductor told the crowd that protestors had blocked the Durham Freeway and we might need to take an alternate route. “No alarm,” he said. “Just passing along information.” Since Ginger and I had not seen each other all day, we went into a restaurant and split the cheese plate so we could talk for a bit. As we were getting ready to leave, a group of about one hundred walked by chanting, “These are our streets.” We joined in and walked the three blocks past the Farmer’s Market and up Corporation Street. There were five or six cops on bikes who were pretty casual and considerate. One of the group threw a stone their direction and was quickly shouted down by those around him. Ginger even posted how proud she was of our police to Facebook as we walked.

At the intersection of Corporation and Rigsbee, the crowd turned left toward Motorco and Fullsteam and Ginger and I turned back to the right, to where our cars were parked and also where the police substation is. There were six or eight cars with their lights twirling and a line of cops blocking the street. As we got closer, we realized they were in full riot gear and carrying axe handle sized sticks. There were almost as many of them as there were protestors. About ten of us stood on the sidewalk and tried to tell them they were taking the wrong approach. There was no need for a power struggle. No need for a show of force. It was a protest, not combat. When the enemy didn’t show up, the makeshift army loaded onto a bus and went after them. Literally. They saw where the protestors were and blocked the street to create a confrontation. They arrested about forty people and then kept marching up the street even as the protestors went the other way. The only reason there was any sort of agitation was because the police made it happen.

Ginger called 911 three different times to report what was happening. The last time the operator asked if she would like to speak to an officer and one found her on the street. I walked up in the middle of their conversation. He said the protests had been going on for five hours and “you can’t let civil disobedience go on for five hours.” (Why not?) When she asked about the sticks, he said they were for pushing people back, not for hitting them. “They are better than guns,” he said.

“Those aren’t the only choices,” was my reply.

When I was teaching at Charlestown High School in Boston, one of the biggest lessons I had to learn was not to take personally the anger and rage some of my students. I was not the cause of their rage, though sometimes I became the target. When I could keep my senses and not get hooked into a power struggle, we could work things out. If I got hooked and we both got mad, the kid usually ended up getting suspended because I was the one with the power of the institution behind me. If I got hooked, it was because I let my fear get the best of me. Our police let their fear get the best of them this evening. How can a couple of hundred people marching and chanting be so intimidating and frightening to require our police to act as though they were in a war zone. There was no war. No battle. Just a protest: people walking down the street chanting and carrying signs.

We once referred to the police as peace officers: they kept the peace. Now they are law enforcement and some have even been given surplus weapons by the Pentagon. Rather than figure out how to foster a peaceful protest, they come to break it up, literally and figuratively, as though the creative expression of anger and frustration is dangerous in and of itself. The Durham Police had a chance to do something great tonight, to show America how a city can work together to work out its frustration and pain. And they blew it. Here’s hoping someone in blue will realize the error and do it differently the next time.

As we walked and the cops gathered, I thought of this old recording of Simon and Garfunkel singing “Silent Night” juxtaposed with the evening news. It seems like an appropriate carol to close.

Peace
Milton

I don’t know who said it, or where I first heard it, but for years I have remembered the First Rule of Theology: there is a God and it’s not me. I find comfort in that sentence. Being God looks like an incredibly difficult job. There’s something about the Incarnation that flips that statement over, however. God stepping into the big messy middle of human life to say, “There are humans and I’m one of them.” A change for the God who told Job to make the sun come up and then they could talk.

Emmanuel. God. With. Us.

The recent news from Ferguson and Staten Island are symptomatic of the continuing drift of our society into Us and Them on most any issue. We are us. All of us. Down to the last angry protestor, the last scared cop in riot gear, the last suicide bomber, the last self-absorbed member of Congress, the last manger in Bethlehem. Life, as Anne Lamott said this week, is forgiveness school.

In one of my training sessions at the computer store this week, a woman asked me to explain something she didn’t understand. I have explained it many times, and I have analogies and metaphors that have proven effective. I used them all up and tried to come up with a couple more and she said, “I hear what you’re saying and I know it makes sense, but I just don’t see it. I don’t get it.” What I loved about the interaction, though it was quite frustrating not being able to communicate, was it never became adversarial. We both stayed on the same side of the struggle, pulling for and with each other.

If life is forgiveness school, then we have a lot to learn. We aren’t getting it. We can only learn together. Forgive, and we shall be forgiven.

God. With. Us.

Peace,
Milton

I have been ruminating much of the day on a contrast presented to me by The Writer’s Almanac this morning. Along with the daily poem, they marked two anniversaries. In 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat in the front of the bus to a white passenger. In 1913, Henry Ford introduced the assembly line to American automobile manufacturing. Neither move was impulsive.

My earliest recollections of being told about Rosa Parks left me to picture her as a tired old woman who became the center of a storm, but that picture was not accurate. She was young, intelligent, and tenacious. She was the secretary of her local NAACP chapter. She stayed right where she was because it was a way to make society move on. Her resistance may have been a small act, but she had a bigger picture in mind.

Henry Ford had his own big picture in mind: making an affordable car so he could make a truckload of money. Using an assembly line sped up production and reduced both the cost and the price of the Model T. It also meant that people stood on the line doing the same thing for hours and hours, so much so that the evolution of the assembly line replaced the humans with robots. Ford hired Diego Rivera, the Mexican muralist, to paint an homage to the assembly line. Rivera’s images depicted the dehumanizing nature of the work, his own sense of the bigger picture. Ford was furious.

One of the big pictures painted by the Incarnation is the value of being human. God poured God’s self into human skin not as some sort of self-loathing or punishment, but because being human is good. Jesus comes in compassion and solidarity as the most human of us all, full of grace and peace and love. His big picture looked a lot more like Rosa’s than Henry’s. From the start of the story of creation, God has not put a high value on efficiency and control, leaning more towards those things which catch us by surprise, make us laugh, or pull us deeper into love with one another. You can’t build a flower or a sparrow or a two-year old on an assembly line anymore than you can build a friendship or a marriage or a neighborhood.

Though we wait for Christ to be born again in our time and in our midst, let us not wait to take small steps towards one another, waging peace in every word and deed, painting a big picture of love.

Peace
Milton

As Advent begins, I am breaking my blog silence — which was not intentional. I have been writing, but my energy has been aimed at a new book called This Must Be the Place: Reflections on Home that will come out next fall thanks to the good folks at Morehouse Press. To be able to say I am working on my next book feels great; actually finishing the manuscript is more taxing.

Though there is work left to be done, keeping my Advent Journal matters to me. I need to write. I make the journey to Bethlehem through these nightly posts. This is a promise I want to keep. So here I am.

This first Sunday in Advent was Ginger’s first official day at Pilgrim UCC seven years ago. She actually started work a couple of days earlier officiating the funeral of the parent of one of the members here. Yesterday we received word that Ginger’s cousin who had Stage IV liver cancer had died. She was forty-five. Her son, who was twenty-four and had muscular dystrophy, died two days earlier. It was not hard to find resonance as we sang today:

and you beneath life’s crushing load
whose forms are bending low
who toil along life’s climbing way
with painful steps and slow . . . .

John Berger says in Greek the word metaphor means porter: a carrier. A metaphor carries the idea, the meaning. The way darkness steals the daylight of the late afternoon in these days carries the weight of grief and struggle. We are running out of daylight even as we wait for the Light to come. Something in these days always takes me back to a scene in Fiddler on the Roof where the Jews were being run out of their village by the Russian soldiers and one of them says to the Rabbi, “Wouldn’t this be a good time for the Messiah to come?”

Meister Eckhart, a thirteenth century monk, said it another way that speaks to me even more:

We are all meant to be mothers of God. What good is it to me if this eternal birth of the divine Son takes place unceasingly, but does not take place within myself? And, what good is it to me if Mary is full of grace if I am not also full of grace? What good is it to me for the Creator to give birth to his Son if I do not also give birth to him in my time and my culture? This, then, is the fullness of time: When the Son of Man is begotten in us.

Jesus told Nicodemus he needed to be born again, born anew, to re-enter life in a spirit of grace and hope that had died in him. or at least had grown old. Eckhart told us Jesus needs to be born again into our present tense for God’s light to continue to break forth and we are the ones who must give birth to such Love and Light. In the Incarnation, God was not superimposed on humanity, but born right in the messy middle of it all thanks to a teenage girl who had the courage to say, “Let it be.” Now it’s our turn.

Peace,
Milton