I have posted this poem before. It remains one of the most powerful statements of gratitude I know, so I’m sharing it once again.
Thanks
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
we are made of dust
but I’m not so sure —
our bones, perhaps
but our spirits . . .
our spirits are made of
the stuff of sautéed garlic
the hope of rising dough
the laughter of bacon frying
the tenacity of friendship
every morsel of mortality
a reminder to remember
from love we came
and to love we shall return
“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1)
As definitions go, the opening verse of Hebrews 11 — the “faith chapter” — is about as good as it gets. Faith is at the heart of what we can’t make happen, of what we cannot see, of what we cannot by ourselves create. Faith is relentless hope, determination in despair, love informed by grief.
I’ve been thinking about faith a great deal as Election Day approaches because I despair in our election process. And I am not alone. As I sat down to write, I typed “voting quotes” into the search window. Here are the first few that showed up:
Bad officials are elected by good citizens who do not vote. (Andrew Lack)
If voting changed anything, they’d abolish it. (Ken Livingstone)
The great thing about democracy is that it gives every voter a chance to do something stupid. (Art Sander)
Vote for the man who promises least. He’ll be the least disappointing. (Bernard Baruch)
If I look at my experience in American life and politics, I have to say they’ve pretty much nailed it. This election cycle has only deepened my skepticism, if not my cynicism, in the whole process. The presidential campaigns have spent enough money to eradicate poverty and have been evaluated by a feckless and pompous media primarily on how well each postured in their public debates. Ain’t democracy grand.
But cynicism is the easy way out. To decide I am above such a display is the arrogant intellectual equivalent of taking my toys and going home — or so I was reminded as I took part in the “Souls to the Polls” gathering here in Durham last Sunday afternoon. The march across our downtown from First Presbyterian Church to the Early Voting Station at the Durham History Museum was sponsored by Durham CAN (Congregations, Associations, and Neighborhoods) which is an organization that brings a cross-section of our city together to solve problems. By their own definition, they choose “winnable fights,” so I was intrigued that they would see a voting drive as such a victory because not one of us in the room had enough money to buy our way into any of the halls of influence. There were no media representatives present. We had no signs or placards. We didn’t even have police to monitor the intersections as we marched; we waited for the crossing signals. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, about two hundred of us walked across town and voted.
And I was reminded that voting is an act of faith: the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
With that in mind, I dug deeper in my search for words about voting and I found these more substantive words from a more substantive human being, I suppose — Dr. King:
And God is not interested merely in the freedom of black men and brown men and yellow men, but God is interested in the freedom of the whole human race and the creation of a society where all men will live together as brothers. No, we need not hate. We need not use violence. There is another way, a way as old as the insights of Jesus of Nazareth, as modern as the techniques of Mohandas K. Gandhi. There is another way, a way as old as Jesus saying, “Love your enemies. Bless them that curse you. Pray for them that spitefully use you,” as modern as Ghandi saying through Thoreau, “Noncooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good.” There is another way, a way as old as Jesus saying, “Turn the other cheek.” And when he said that, he realized that turning the other cheek might bring suffering sometimes. He realized that it may get your home bombed sometimes. He realized that it may get you stabbed sometimes. He realized that it may get you scarred up sometimes, but he was saying in substance that it is better to go through life with a scarred-up body than a scarred-up soul. There is another way. This is what we’ve got to see. And oh, there is a power in this way, and if we will follow this way, we will be the participants in a great building process that will make America a new nation. And we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. This is our challenge. This is the way we must grapple with this dilemma, and we will be a great people. And let us have faith in the future — I know it’s dark sometimes. And I know all of us begin to ask, “How long will we have to live with this system?” I know all of us are asking, “How long will prejudice blind the visions of men and darken their understanding and drive bright-eyed wisdom from her sacred throne? When will wounded justice lying prostrate on the streets of our cities be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men? Yes, when will the radiant star of hope be plunged against the nocturnal bosom of this lonely night and plucked from weary souls the manacles of death and the chains of fear? How long will justice be crucified and truth buried? How long?” I can only answer this evening, “Not long.”
In the morning before we marched that afternoon, Ginger preached on Jesus’ healing of Bartimaeus, the blind man who was given his sight. “Throw off your cloak,” Jesus admonished Bartimaeus, as though the cloak was a part of the blindness. “Throw off the unfamiliar,” Ginger challenged us. “Do you want to be healed?”
She went on to quote from a sermon by William Sloane Coffin in which he asked, “How do we feel about what we think?” How are our lives informed by what we say matters to us. How does what we think about certain issues find incarnation in our lives? It is in the answer to that question that faith becomes a verb. I think our nation hungers for real leadership. I think those with the microphones in this country are not saying what matters most. I think we as Americans are more driven by convenience than compassion. I think we need revolutionary change in our country.
How do I feel about what I think? If I choose to do so, I can feel cynical and despairing. Even hopeless. But such is not my choice. I, who has never had a letter answered by a politician, walked across town with people who were acquainted with grief and discrimination in ways I’ve only read about, yet who walked with determination and purpose to the polls. When I got there, I was greeted by a young African American man and an older white woman, both of them offering smiles and words of congratulations. And I voted. Not because I believed, all of a sudden, that my ballot had some sort of magic power. I voted as an act of faith: the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
How long before love gets the last word? Not long.
This past Sunday, our church finished a month long celebration of our 125th anniversary. One Sunday we returned to the little wooden church out in the woods where our congregation began; two Sundays ago, we spent the afternoon listening to Jeremy, our amazing accompanist, transport us with his words and music. And it was on that same Sunday as we sat in worship and Ginger “went off book” following the Spirit with prophetic words of challenge for us that I began thinking about how we could best measure our time, both past and future, as a congregation.
You’re probably way ahead of me. Before I had even begun to write down what was passing through my head, it already had a soundtrack: “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes . . .” and I wrote, “How do you measure the life of a church?” Then I listed:
in bricks
in coffee hours
in committee meetings
in spagetti dinners
in mission trips
in sermons
in hymns
in Christmas pageants
in workdays
in pastors
in conflicts
in capital campaigns
in budgets
in baptisms
in Communions
We say a great deal about who we are by how we mark our time. And by how we spend it. Life in the Brasher-Cunningham house is hectic right now and I never quite get to the bottom of the list. (So different from other times in my life!) The other night, Ginger asked if I had done something that had she had asked about before and I answered, “I haven’t had time.” She responded with a correction we offer each other as a gentle reminder of reality: “You haven’t made time.” And I corrected myself.
We both work to be diligent about remembering that “I don’t have time” is, for the most part, a euphemism for “that is not important to me” — or at least not as important. How I mark my time and spend my time shows me what matters. Coming to terms with what really matters based on the way I spend my time is not always a pleasant realization. The same is true for congregations. When we look at how we actually mark our days and spend our time, what matters most?
How do we measure a year in our lives together?
You know, when it gets right down to it, the folks from RENT answer well: how about love — seasons of love. So may it be.
this morning while the sun was waking and the air was waiting to be warmed we walked as though we had no other purpose but to walk together
as though nothing else was as important as passing under the changing leaves and letting the schnauzers sniff most everything along our way
then we circled back to meet the demands of our day the stuff of schedules and promises important and immediate and both came home tired
however loud the daily drums beat however long the list of all that must be done let me not forget — or perhaps always remember walking with you is the best of my time
A friend of mine had this little poster on her Facebook page this morning. It showed up on the heels of a conversation at work last night about the nature of atoms and how much space there is in them. (I didn’t understand everything, but I did listen.) One of my colleagues said, “Atoms are made of mostly nothing.”
Not so with stories.
Over the past two Saturdays, I’ve had the privilege to gather with groups of people in two different area churches to talk about my book. The first was a potluck where we invited people to bring a dish that had a story with it. As we ate, we told the stories: pizza that carried memories of being an AFS exchange student; applesauce flavored with other fruit, as grandma used to do; green tomato relish, from another grandmother; Waldorf salad from childhood; Christmas tamales; Key Lime Pie and memories of the Woolworth lunch counter; mom’s sausage rolls; mom’s biscuits; mom’s bean salad; Nebraskan corn casserole; German muesli; and Italian mushrooms and tomatoes.
We shared the stories with tears and laughter, digesting the love and tenacity with which each of us held those memories. And the humor. One told of sitting in a doctor’s office one day and seeing a magazine with the word “posthumous” on it — a new word to her: after death. She first confused the word with hummus, so she brought hummus to our meal, saying it reminded her of the way we bring food to one another after a funeral. Post hummus.
The second gathering was over tea, with some snacks, and in the course of our conversation I asked those gathered to talk about what meal time was like growing up, which also led us to talk about what meal times are like now — what we have held on to and what we have worked to change. Before long, we were talking about much more than food: family dynamics, dreams found and lost, the unexpected turns of life. Once again, we digested the gifts offered to one another and left stronger and feeling more loved, even in the midst of much that remained unsettled and unsure.
Each time I have a chance to hear people tell their stories, I am more convinced that when Jesus said, “As often as you do this . . .” he wasn’t talking about the ritual of Communion as much as he was every time we break bread, together or alone. When we stop to nourish our bodies we must also remember we are nourishing our souls, lest we fail to do so. Every meal from a ham sandwich to a high holy day is a chance to remember, to digest — again — the truth that we are wonderfully and uniquely created in the image of God and worthy to be loved.
There was much about today’s worship that moved me. We observed World Communion Sunday and our meal was accompanied by some amazing music, which is what I want to share tonight. Three women at church covered a song by the Wailin’ Jennys called “One Voice.” I had not heard it before. It is as fine a Communion hymn as any I know. So tonight, I share their words and music — with gratitude.
One Voice This is the sound of one voice One spirit, one voice The sound of one who makes a choice This is the sound of one voice This is the sound of voices two The sound of me singing with you Helping each other to make it through This is the sound of voices two This is the sound of voices three Singing together in harmony Surrendering to the mystery This is the sound of voices three This is the sound of all of us Singing with love and the will to trust Leave the rest behind it will turn to dust This is the sound of all of us This is the sound of one voice One people, one voice A song for every one of us This is the sound of one voice This is the sound of one voice
Tonight the Red Sox will play the last game of a disappointing season that ended long ago, as far as any aspirations for the post season were concerned. The only thing that matters about tonight is that it would be nice to beat the Yankees on the way out. As far as the Yanks go, the game matters only as far as bragging rights go; win or lose, they are going to the playoffs. That said, I’m going to watch the game tonight instead of the presidential debate because the game has more significance. The debate is the political equivalent of professional wrestling: all posture and no substance.
Ever since Richard Nixon’s loss to John Kennedy was attributed to his poor showing in their televised debate, candidates on both sides have worked to master the medium, to make sure they come off in the best light, and to learn how to spar and wait for the right moment to deliver a “zinger.” So they talk about how well the other one debates in order to lower expectations, the pour over old tapes to look for strengths and weaknesses, and they sequester themselves to practice, practice, practice so we can all gather around our televisions like a mob at a cock fight to cheer for our favorite and shout down the other. When the debate is over, all that will be added to the equation is fodder for the 24 news cycle, who are the ones who fomented the fervor in the first place.
So watch baseball or Law and Order reruns or something that matters. Skip the debates. Better yet, get together with a group of people you trust and who don’t all agree with you and have a discussion about what needs to happen in our country that avoids the catch phrases and cliches that fill our airwaves. Talk about health care without using the word “Obamacare.” Talk about class issues in our country without referring to the “Forty-seven percent.” Don’t run to opposite poles and scream at each other. Don’t settle for political theater and honest discourse. Get together, eat together, and then listen more than you talk.
. The first was a potluck where we invited people to bring a dish that had a story with it. As we ate, we told the stories: pizza that carried memories of being an AFS exchange student; applesauce flavored with other fruit, as grandma used to do; green tomato relish, from another grandmother; Waldorf salad from childhood; Christmas tamales; Key Lime Pie and memories of the Woolworth lunch counter; mom’s sausage rolls; mom’s biscuits; mom’s bean salad; Nebraskan corn casserole; German muesli; and Italian mushrooms and tomatoes.