don't eat alone

In the Grand Scheme of It All,
truth rides in on small things –
the way a shooting star
defines the Universe
in a fleeting gesture
of magnificent futility.

In the Giant Medical Center,
we stood beside the bed,
the small room stuffed
with relatives and machines,
neither saying much
of anything.

We came bearing Cupcakes:
chocolate, at his wife’s request –
our small gesture of
confectionery compassion.
My wife asked the ailing
octogenarian to

Name three highlights . . .”

“That’s easy,” he said
and then he reached out
his hand across the bed rail
and took her hand
so familiar, and said,
“It’s you.”

Peace,
Milton

The lectionary it seems uses the last few weeks before Advent to dish out some difficult passages. This morning’s came from Haggai.

The children sang, “If you’re happy clap your hands”
and Ginger gave a nod to “Glory Days,”
We sang “Wayfaring Stranger” with piano – not a band
and then wrestled with the prophet’s turn of phrase

as he talked about the Temple and replacing old with new,
that we’ve been called to what we can’t expect;
clinging to control we, as the faithful, cannot do
and still hope our dry bones God will resurrect.

Haggai hits hard with a simple proclamation:
Glory Days, they’re gonna pass you by;
for memory is more than the seed of resignation,
the future more than a mansion in the sky.

Temples built of volition and intention
host folks filled with compassion and redemption.

Peace,
Milton

P. S. Since it made the sermon, I might as well let it end the post as well.

This is the week of found poetry for me, or perhaps I should call it delivered poetry: words given to me. Here’s a comment from my friend, Mitch, on one of my recent blog posts.

hey milt:

up above, you wrote “the chards of the past” . . .

just wanted to point out that what you MEANT to write was “the SHARDS of the past.” glass that breaks is spelled “shards;” the vegetable is spelled “chard” (i.e. “swiss chard”).

so, unless you were referring to the greens of yesterday, i think you meant “shards.”

Here’s to the chards of the past — and to kind and friendly editors.

the greens of yesterday
(shards of chard)

start by breaking the rainbow
stems at the bottom of the leaves
stack them like wood
and chop them into dice
toss them against
the side of the sauté pan
sizzling with acceptance
as they slide through the olive oil
be patient
tenderness takes time

lay the leaves flat
one on top of the other
like scrapbook pages
and then roll them up
tightly from one side
the way Cuban women
once rolled cigars
while readers unwrapped
novels to pass the time
and share the stories

slice the leaves
across the rolls
chiffonade is the name
which must have a story of its own
the chard segments fall
first in tiny spirals
and then unravel
like a good story falling
into layers of meaning
shards of suggestion
on the cutting board
like unread tea leaves

when the chard first
hits the pan it makes
a sound somewhere between
applause and anticipation
the moisture evaporates
shrinking the size of the leaves
distilling flavors
memory reduced to essentials
to how we want to remember
to what we want
to carry away with us
when we leave the table.

Peace,
Milton

Somewhere in the middle of my morning, Ginger sent me this text:

sitting outside the doc listening to old school jazz watching the rain fall on the maroon and amber leaves and wishing we were together

I couldn’t help but hear the poem already at work, so I set out to find it. Here’s what I found.

jazz like blue

the strains of
the music started
in a windowless studio
where they kept time
like promises
turning old school
improv into melody
that seeps now
like strong medicine
into the waiting room
jazz like blue
rain keeping the beat
and wondering off
to tap the leaves
maroon and amber
until they let loose
and fall into the song
the same song
I know your heart
hears looking out
some other window
keeping time for me

Peace,
Milton

Some years ago, Ginger and I were walking along the sidewalk in Davis Square in Somerville, Mass. when we passed a homeless man sitting in a doorway. Just as we drew even with him, he barked, “Change!” loudly enough for the people across the street to hear him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any,” Ginger said.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” I pleaded.

Same word, different ears.

The story came back to mind over the last few days, as the election hysteria crescendoed, along with the predictions of the Democrats’ demise, and most of the news analysts couldn’t complete a sentence without talking about change. And I wondered about their working definition of the word. It can mean to alter or transform; it can also mean to swap out, as in exchange. Then, of course, there’s the pocket-full-of-change variety, or as far as this election was concerned, the truckloads full of change.

I found some comfort in looking up the word, though I felt I knew the definition, because it helped me come to terms with the reality that the “change” our politicians talk about, particularly when they are the ones out of power, is about the swapping out and the change I dream of has more of a revolutionary edge. Our political process is more pendulum than promise, more vengeance than virtue, more hubris than hope. Based on their track record, to see tonight’s election as profound change in Congress makes as much sense as thinking it’s a whole new ball game because two football teams swapped ends of the field at halftime.

When I look at the rest of the world, I am amazed that we move from one party in power to the other with little or none of the violence that plagues some nations. Then again, none of those nations have the resources we do. And we can only see our process as relatively violence free if we ignore the way we talk to each other. This election season has been a verbal bloodbath. We have little to be proud of. We are angrier, meaner, and more extravagant in both our budgets and belligerence than we have ever been. And we are obsessed with elections. Everyday is election season. By Monday, people will begin announcing they are running for President in 2012 so we can all pick sides ands scream at each other some more.

Politicians and special interest groups whose donors remain anonymous spent more money and aired more attack ads than just about any other election. I heard one party pundit praise his candidates for “not getting mired down in talking about the issues.” Mitch O’Connell made a point of saying his top concern is to make sure Obama is a one term president. Not the war in Afghanistan. Not the economy. Not anything other than win, win, win. And he’s far from alone in his sentiment, on either side of the fight.

I voted today, and I also wondered if my actions did anything more than perpetuate the system. I work hard not to shop at Wal Mart because of the way they have chosen to run their business over the years. Why do I keep participating in a system that is invested in making sure people with money have the most influence, holds a warped view of power and what it means to be in charge, and has no appetite for transformation?

The question is not rhetorical. Neither is it a cheap cynical shot. It’s very alive to me. Whatever the issue – immigration, poverty, nuclear arms, foreign policy, health care – shouting each other down is not the same thing as a meaningful discussion. Making political or parliamentary maneuvers to block legislation is not the same as honest dialogue. Well-financed sound bytes are not legitimate substitutes for substantive articulation.

And simply repeating the regurgitation is not reporting, either.

I have no illusion that anyone beyond the fellow members of my neighborhood board listen to me, when it comes to politics. I’ve no money to give, no constituency to offer, even if I am a straight white guy. But speaking up does not feel as futile as voting to me because I believe words do change things – transform things. And I trust what I see in the life of Jesus and in the gospels: real change is not instigated by the powerful, or by appealing to them, or, perhaps, voting for them.

I’ve made several attempts at ending this piece that have moved from overly sincere to sanctimonious to sappy, none of them satisfactory. So I think I’ll go for small. I can’t fix the big issues, so I will choose to look into faces. Anar, a man who works at one of our local grocery stores, works with Bhutanese refugees moving to the area and needs Target gift cards to help them set up house. I can do that. We teach English classes on Wednesday nights at our church for local Latino immigrants. I can do that. I can cook for whoever I can find. I can keep making Kiva loans. I can help my students live through high school. I can love my wife. I can have a lifetime of hope and opportunity by choosing to meet the needs in front of my face.

“Change!”

What do you hear?

Peace,
Milton

The text today told the story of Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus. And here’s where the story took me.

When Zacchaeus hit the streets, he had to assume
he was down the list of who folks hoped to see;
he might have done much better had he showed up in costume,
but for all his faults, he had no one else to be.

The children’s song calls him a “wee little man”
and makes him sound all Scottish, short, and cute
when he was the kind of guy to rob his mother’s pension plan –
an outcast and an outlaw and a brute.

But Jesus saw a climber who was more than just a jerk,
and called out his name in front of everyone,
looking beyond his faults and his lousy line of work
to see him once again as Abraham’s son.

The promises of grace were made
for even the shortest of the renegades.

Peace,
Milton

This week’s parable was the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector who came to pray (Luke 18:9-14). I was struck, in the sermon, by the idea that both men missed the mark by clinging so tightly to their view of the world, rather than praying for eyes to see what God might have to show them.

To his disciples, Jesus told a people-watching story:
Two men came to the Temple for to pray –
One was proud enough to stand in all his glory,
The other racked by guilt, despair, dismay.

One thought he was worthless, the other thought, “I’m best,”
Though both through the same gate had probably entered;
One proclaimed his purity, the other beat his breast,
And both in their own way were quite self-centered.

And I can ride the rail between the two men in the Temple,
Moving twixt presumption and persistence;
But either way I’m vulnerable to pride – its just that simple –
When it comes to grace, I take the path of most resistance.

Whether hubris or humility,
I can hide my vulnerability.

Peace,
Milton

The text today was the parable of the unjust judge (Luke 18:1-8). The story is not an easy one. One of the main things I took away from this morning was a big part of the call to live like Jesus lies in our persistence. The widow just wouldn’t give up until she got justice. Would that those at the margins of life could depend on us to be so tireless and determined.

The widow relentlessly pleaded;
To her justice the judge finally relented.
She finally got what she needed,
And I’m wondering who each represented.

Am I like judge, grown tired and cold,
numb to needs in Haiti and Darfur;
or could I be the widow who never gives up,
whose hope and persistence endure?

It’s not about tired, but tenacity:
at it’s heart, what the story is saying
is live with both hope and audacity —
practice love, practice peace, practice praying

I will live out more of what Jesus meant
When I persist beyond my discouragement

Peace,
Milton

Today is Blog Action Day.

The topic is WATER, namely the lack of safe and sanitary drinking water for a large part of our fellow human beings on the planet. Most of the stuff that has come my way in preparation for today has been overwhelming to me. The statistics are poignant, but also paralyzing. It’s hard to know where to start. You may have read them as well, but I picked out ten things from this well documented list to illustrate the issue.

• 1 out of every 8 people on the planet lacks access to safe water supplies.
• More people in the world have access to a cell phone than to a toilet.
• 3,575,000 people die each year from water-related disease.
• Only 62% of the world’s population has access to improved sanitation – defined as a sanitation facility that ensures hygienic separation of human excreta from human contact.
• Diarrhea remains in the second leading cause of death among children under five globally (1,500,000 deaths per year). It kills more young children than AIDS, malaria and measles combined.
• In just one day, more than 200,000,000 hours of women’s time is consumed with collecting water for domestic use. This lost productivity is greater than the combined number of hours worked in a week by employees at Wal*Mart, United Parcel Service, McDonald’s, IBM, Target, and Kroger,
• At any given time, half of the world’s hospital beds are occupied by patients suffering from diseases associated with lack of access to safe drinking water, inadequate sanitation and poor hygiene.

I know. The statistics are daunting and the problem seems overwhelming. No wonder we got so excited to see the Chilean miners rescued. It was a terrible situation that was actually solved. If only we could deal with the rest of our world’s problems thirty-three people at a time.

This water issue is solvable, however. The problem is not water supply but water purification. People are dying, mostly, not from lack of water, but because the water they have is their drinking water, their washing water, and their toilet, as well as the dumping grounds for whatever industry is upstream. And there are people out there coming up with solutions as hopeful and as revolutionary as what we saw watching the miners come to the surface. One of those is my brother and his church who are doing work in Bangladesh, among other places. I wrote him as I was preparing for this post and here’s what he wrote back.

The region where we are working is a rural area filled with villages that sustain their existence through fishing and farming, primarily. These are families that live on a few dollars a day. Wonderful vibrant villages filled with awesome people — so loving and welcoming. We have made so many wonderful friends. We are there offering micro loans, establishing schools (high illiteracy rate), health clinics, agriculture training, eye glasses, dental clinics, distribute mosquito nets (so far, about 5000 have been given out), and general encouragement for the families.


The issue we have found, over the past three years we have been there, is that the water is killing them. There is no clean water for them to drink and the water coming from the wells is contaminated with so much — mostly heavy metals: arsenic, mercury. We have been working with some scientists from Dow Chemical, and an organization called Aqua Clara International to develop some way to improve the current technology (which is small, reproducible filters) so that the families can use that will filter these elements. They have made great progress and we should have a prototype on the field in the next year or so. They have done great work around the world to provide clean drinking water for people. It’s wonderful to see. Amazing — and greatly needed.

What he’s talking about is something that can be done in a five-gallon bucket. Something that is portable, useable, affordable, and doesn’t require teams of NGOs to maintain. Something that could be a micro loan kind of industry for a small village. Something that could change the world.

We need to support dreamers like these – the ones with big hearts and skinned knuckles – so we can do more than drown in despair and statistics while our brothers and sisters are killed by the water they drink.

Please do what you can. Start by signing this petition.

Peace,
Milton

T. S Eliot’s amazing poem The Waste Land has found me twice in the last few days.

First, let me confess. I love the poem and I am moved by the poem, but I am far from understanding it. Still, it keeps coming after me. The first touch was at school, reading Robert Cormier’s novel, The Chocolate War, in which Jerry Renault, the young protagonist, tapes a poster in his locker that borrows a line he attributes to Eliot’s poem (I have since learned it is from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock):

Do I dare disturb the universe?

Jerry is trying to figure out his place in the universe, as well as working to discern whether the point is to stay under the radar or to make choices that offer a chance for more than one might reasonably expect out of life. I made mock ups of the poster, as it is described in the book, and handed them out to the class when we got to the chapter where it is mentioned. They looked as confused as I feel trying to make sense of Eliot’s Latin and German. I have more time with them.

The second instance was in my reading this afternoon of Mary Gordon’s Reading Jesus: A Writer’s Encounter with the Gospels, which was a gift from my friend, Sonya. Part of what I liked about Gordon’s connection to the poem was that it grew out of a confusion of her own.

“These fragments I have shored against my ruins.” These words from Eliot’s Waste Land involved me in an interesting misreading that went on for several decades. I had habitually misread the plural “ruins” as the singuar “ruin.” I was shocked to find out what I had done, and not pleased with Eliot’s words: I preferred my own invention. I had interpreted the line to mean that the words were a preservation against personal ruin. But “ruins” suggests a public spectacle – like the Parthenon or the Acropolis – and what would be the point of shoring fragments against these colossal wrecks? Such an act becomes an act of witness rather than of self-preservation.

Gordon and Eliot know what Jerry is beginning to learn: when we disturb the universe we set things in motion we can neither predict nor control. Life is less cause-and-effect, in any sort of direct sense, and more of a Ray-Bradury-butterfly effect: who knows what comes of the choices we make other than every little move matters. I wrote a few words in the margin next to the last sentence of the paragraph as quickly as they came to me:

This is the watershed of Christianity in America.

At the risk of sounding too self-congratulatory, I think I may be on to something. Between pitches for the pledge drive this afternoon, I listened to some government official talk about the rising terror threats aimed at our nation. I don’t doubt that there are people in the world who want to do us harm and I also don’t doubt that cranking up the Fear Making Machine is good politics as the midterm elections draw near. Regardless of who is doing the mongering, the call to fear is the call to self-preservation: we must do what it takes to (God, I hate this phrase) “secure the Homeland.” Give up rights. Take away rights. Damn the torpedoes and the consequences. Forget talking softly and get something bigger than a big stick. The bottom line quickly becomes utilitarian, mercenary, and cynical. If self-preservation is our core value, the circle of those we can trust will only grow smaller, whether we’re talking about our country or our Church.

Till I read Gordon’s words, I had never thought of bearing witness as the opposite of self-preservation. When I saw the word “witness” in its context, I thought of the organization, Witness.org, which sums up its mission in the slogan, “See it. Film it. Change it.” For the last twenty years, they have been giving cameras to people in parts of the world no one sees so they can tell their stories in hopes, not of self-preservation, but of radical change.

Jesus kind of change. Gordon, again:

The radical challenge of Jesus: perhaps everything we think in order to know ourselves as comfortable citizens of a predictable world is wrong.

Much of the conversation in American Christianity has to do with how we save the church, or how we change the church. The conversation may be well intentioned yet it is a conversation centered in self-preservation. We want to keep our doors open. We want to be at the center of things. We want to be culturally significant. We talk a lot about correcting the universe, but not so much about disturbing it.

When we come to church, we come looking for comfort, for hymns we love, not for disquietude. I love being a part of a community of faith where often is heard an encouraging word, and I wonder if we would do well to hang one of Jerry’s posters behind the Communion table to remind us that life is about as predictable as the God who breathed it into us and that our mission has nothing to do with being God’s Gatekeepers and everything to do with going out into the highways and byways and bring everyone who is hungry to dinner.

But there’s more.

I’m not trying to be a travel agent for a guilt trip here. I’m trying to voice my own disquietude born of my reading today, which means I have to go back to Gordon one more time. She is responding to the parable of the Prodigal Son, particularly the encounter between the father and the older brother, in which the father says,

“Everything I have is yours.” The good boy is not left bereft. But what has been lost has been found. What is acknowledged here, what is given the greatest weight, is the terrible blow of loss. The loss has seemed final, and then: reprieve. Resurrection. A new chance. A rebirth whose wage is celebration. “We had to celebrate and rejoice.” had to: an injunction, a duty. The duty of celebration.

And the story ends here. With an assertion of the rightness of celebration. The propriety of joy.

When we, as American Christians, read the parables we would do well to cast ourselves as the older brother, the rich man walking past the beggar, the jealous workers, and any other part that describes those who see themselves as the dutiful and the deserving. Everyone of the parables sounds the same disturbing note: we are called to live generous and joyful lives.

And trust God will take care of us all.

Peace,
Milton