Home Blog Page 20

lenten journal: the weeping time

We could not have asked for a more beautiful day in Savannah. The high temperature was in the upper seventies, there was a consistent breeze, and very little humidity. We walked from our hotel down to Bay Street, one block up and parallel to River Street, to find a place to eat lunch and then to traverse the Historic District to get our bearings as we prepare for the rest of the group to arrive in a few days.

The downtown area of Savannah is built around twenty-two squares, which are beautiful block-sized parks with giant oak trees whose branches are hung with Spanish moss the way my mom used to hang icicles on our Christmas tree. We probably saw seven or eight of them, each with at least one historical marker. In between we passed other buildings that had significance in Savannah’s story, and we began to recognize names: Oglethorpe, Greene, Wesley, to name a few.

We ate lunch at Treylor Park–because of the name, mostly–and had good food. Then we followed the cobblestones down to River Street, passing all kinds of tourist shops, and found the Waving Girl statue built to commemorate Florence Martus who greeted the ships entering the harbor by waving a cloth from the lighthouse on Cockspur Island in search of her lost lover–and she did it from 1887 to 1931, so I don’t think she was a girl.

Another marker in front of Independent Presbyterian Church honored Lowell Mason, a sacred music composer from New England who lived in Savannah for a time. He wrote, among other things, the hymn “My Faith Looks Up to Thee,” which we sang in church last Sunday.

We walked and read and walked and read and found nothing that spoke about the city’s history with slavery, or its history with civil rights. I learned tonight that there is an African American monument that was erected in 2002 (2002!) down by River Street, but we didn’t see it or any signs pointing to it.

We walked up Bull Street and came to Johnson Square, which holds a giant granite obelisk commemorating Nathaniel Greene along with eight markers that tell about Washington’s Southern tour, Christ Episcopal Church, John Oglethorpe, John Hearndon Mercer, the city plan of Savannah, and the Historic District itself.
But here’s the thing: Johnson Square was the site of the largest sale of human beings in the history of our country that took place in March of 1857. Over four hundred enslaved people were sold for a cumulative cost of $303,850, which would be about $10 million today. They called it “The Weeping Time.”

A hundred and sixty-six years later, we stood in the place where it happened–in a city built by enslaved people–and found no mention of it.

One of the enduring stories for me in the Hebrew Bible is that of Joshua telling the people to build an altar after God had delivered them. “Stack up the stones,” he said, “so that when the children ask why they are there you can tell them the story.”

Savannah is full of monuments and markers, stones stacked up to tell the stories of white people who founded the colony, who fought in wars, who built churches, and pretty much all of them owned slaves, though that part of the story is not repeated. None of the stones we saw were stacked up so the stories of enslaved people would be remembered, even though the city–hell, our country–would not exist without them. Instead, people walked through a beautiful park on their way home from work or to do something fun, because this is a fun town. They hid the story so well they have almost forgotten it.

A big part of there reason Ginger leads these trips is to remind us that the stories we learn as we travel are much like some of the stories that are closer to home that we have not told well. Connecticut was essential to the success of the slave trade, and a number of people were enslaved in the state. Eighty were enslaved in Guilford, one of them owned by a Congregational minister.

It’s hard to write about this without sounding sanctimonious. I know I am not saying anything new, or even saying it better than it has already been said. But walking across land that holds such a heinous and invisible history I saw that whether we tell the stories or not, we live with the consequences. Then again, if we don’t tell the stories, we will continue to magnify the consequences because we aren’t telling the truth. Until we do, we will live in the weeping time.

Peace,
Milton

 

 

lenten journal: disquieted

We flew to Savannah today.

This coming weekend is the annual Civil Rights History Trip that Ginger leads with a group from our church. In past years we have gone to Birmingham, Selma, and Montgomery; Richmond; Durham and Greensboro; Memphis; last year to Hartford and Boston; and this year to Savannah. Each year, Ginger and I go a day or two early to make sure all the details are in place. Since Avelo Airlines only flies from New Haven to Savannah on Mondays and Fridays, we have a bit more time.

On the flight down, I read a good chunk of Black, White, and the Grey: The Story of an Unexpected Friendship and a Beloved Restaurant. The book is written by the two co-owners, Mashama Bailey and John O. Morisano. She is the executive chef and he is the entrepreneur that bought the old Greyhound Station to turn it into a restaurant. She is Black and he is white. Their restaurant is closed on Monday and Tuesday. I will report on Wednesday, I hope.

Neither Mashama or Johnno, as he is called, are from Savannah but they found their way here to open The Grey. She had some family ties here and lived in the city for a short time as a kid. He came here as an adult. Both moved from New York. Part of their story, beyond their partnership and friendship, is about working to feel like they belonged here. In many ways, that has always been the story of those who came to this city.

I learned from the book that James Oglethorpe settled Savannah for King George II in 1733 with three distinct rules: no Jews, no Papists, and no slavery. For Oglethorpe and the other trustees of the colony of Georgia, these were prerequisites for the utopia they imagined they could create.

In the summer of that year, severe illness gripped the young settlement. Serendipitously, a ship carrying a group of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews landed seeking freedom to worship–and they had a doctor among them. Oglethorpe relented on the ban and welcomed the group. Congregation Mickve Israel is the third oldest synagogue in the US. However well-intentioned, the slavery ban was never enforced. About four hundred enslaved people lived in Savannah when it was founded and they were the ones who did the construction work to build the city and then were moved to work on farms. The Catholics were admitted because of General Casimir Pularski, a Polish Catholic soldier who fought against the British during the Siege at Savannah. Those who fought with him got to stay after independence. The Catholics and Jews assimilated into the city in ways the Black community did not, like most American cities regardless of location.

i put the book back in my bag as we landed. We got our luggage and found our way to the Rideshare Area where Muhammad, our Uber driver, picked us up to take us to our hotel. We shared the ride with a couple from our church who came early to have a few days to themselves, so I sat in the front seat on our ride, which meant I got to talk to Muhammad.

I learned he moved from Baltimore a couple of years ago and has traveled mostly up I-95 as far as Philadelphia, seeing Virginia and the Carolinas. He drives part-time and works in a lumber yard, but his main job is at Fort Benning, where he goes for two week stints with some regularity to teach troops about Islamic culture before they deploy to the Middle East. I asked if there was a significant Muslim community in Savannah and he said there were about 350 families and a mosque. I wondered what it was like to teach people about your culture and your homeland when you knew they were going there uninvited. I didn’t ask.

I was disquieted. I felt grateful for the conversation, and I was troubled to think he was being used by the military for his knowledge even as he lives in a country where many will assume he is nefarious because of his name.

When we pulled up to our hotel I realized it was almost next door to The Grey. The window facing the street is just as it was when people came to catch buses. In those days, you would have looked in on the segregated lunch counter. Today it is a beautiful bar where anyone can sit. Both the hotel and the restaurant sit on Martin Luther King Boulevard, which is the western border of the Historic District. The two establishments sit in a liminal space between the high end tourist area and the projects and a neighborhood, I assume, is inhabited by many who keep the Historic District humming for tourists but who do not reap many of the benefits of the wealth displayed there.

Let me be clear: We are not here to learn about Savannah because none of these disparities exist in Connecticut. The biggest difference between Guilford and Savannah’s Historic District is our restaurants don’t stay open as late. Well, that and the people who work in our town but can’t afford to live there have to travel farther than crossing MLK Blvd. The systems in our state that make sure we have “good schools” are well entrenched. We are here to learn more about who we are as we learn some of the stories of Savannah.

Disquietude is a good teacher.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: spokane

spokane

a family is eating
outside Spokane
the daughter is still
in her soccer uniform
the mother chats as she
passes the potatoes
the father is tired
and trying to engage
the dog is waiting for
someone to share

they will finish
their dinner
their conversations
their homework
they will turn on
the television
their phones will
ring several times
it will not be me

none of them knows
I live in Connecticut
or what I did today
they don’t know
I can cook or sing
that I’m writing
a poem about them
or that I’ve never
been to Spokane

they are finding
their dreams
building their lives
breaking their hearts
living out their days
without missing me
or knowing me
and they are not
the only ones

my phone has never
carried the message
“come to Spokane
we can’t live without you”
i could say the same
about any number of
dinner tables right here
in our little town
that thought carries
both relief and sadness
I’m not sure which one
is easier to live with.

Peace,
Milton

`

lenten journal: architecture and allen wrenches

I grew up hearing about Nicodemus coming to see Jesus at night, but we didn’t say much about him other than Jesus told him he had to be “born again,” which made him a hashtag ahead of his time. As I thought about him this week, my mind found a connection with architecture and Allen wrenches. I can’t explain the thought process, but I like where it took me.

________________________

When I was a youth minister in Texas, I got to know a man named Mike who taught Sunday School for ninth grade boys. He did a good job. He connected well with the kids, yet he was serious most of the time. I met him for breakfast one day just to get to know him better and found out he was an architect. We were contemplating a renovation of some of the space we used for our young people and when I mentioned it he came to life. He began talking about how we are shaped and influenced by the spaces we inhabit, and how our sacred spaces both reveal and affect our understanding of God and ourselves. When we change our surroundings, we open ourselves up to new possibilities.

When I worked as an editor, one of the potential authors I interviewed had been the rector at St. Paul’s Cathedral in Boston, which sits right on the Common and that defines itself as “a house of prayer for all people.” For several years, they shared space with a Muslim congregation that met in the basement. When the main sanctuary was to be remodeled, the church talked about how their space might better reflect their motto. They pulled out all of the pews and replaced them with chairs that could be moved around. They built a labyrinth in the floor tiles. Then they put the necessary sinks and faucets in the walls so the Muslim congregation could do their cleansing ritual on the main floor rather than the basement. They changed their surroundings to reflect who they wanted to become.

At First Church in Guilford, Ginger overheard the ministerial intern use the phrase “the theology of boxed pews,” meaning people get accustomed to being in their place in church. Box pews, which are those that have the doors on the aisle side, allowed allowed families to sit together in a regular spot and provided shelter from the cold in a drafty building. They were typically purchased or rented by families and the cost could be substantial—sort of like the private boxes that ring stadiums today.

It’s hard to know whether theology made the pews, or the pews shaped the theology. Maybe we could call it congregational anthropology. Either way, the nature of the pews and the room invite people to stay in their places. There is one way into the pew and one way out. To get up to pass the peace takes effort. They are a warm congregation. They like to be together. And the pews make it hard to show that to one another on Sunday morning.

We are shaped by our spaces.

Nicodemus, the religious leader who came to see Jesus at night, was a person who was defined by a specific religious architecture, if you will. He was a Pharisee, which meant he was a part of a group whose job it was to make sure everyone followed the religious law to the letter–that they stayed in their place. My friend Sid talks about “flat box theology” as a way to describe folks who want life to be like an IKEA kit with (sort of) clear instructions that mean if you just do what they say you end up with the furniture you want. If I follow that metaphor, Nicodemus was one of the people with an Allen wrench.

The traditional take on Nicodemus has been that he came to Jesus by night because he was too frightened or embarrassed to be seen talking to Jesus in the daytime. Rabbinical sources reveal that nighttime was the preferred time to study the Torah. Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish, who lived in the early 200s, said, “The moon was created only for Torah study.” And when Nicodemus found Jesus he said, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God, for no one could do these miraculous signs that you do unless God is with him.”

He spoke to Jesus as if he was a part of the group, as though he understood the flat boxes. Perhaps he came at night to have a significant conversation about theology, as rabbis often did. Jesus’ response blew up the furniture, in a way: He said, “Unless you are willing to be born anew, you can’t understand God’s architecture.” Then he went on to talk about how the Spirit of God cannot be confined by a kit or a pew or any kind of structure that thinks it provides all the answers.

Life changes. People change. God changes as we learn more and become open to the creativity of the Spirit. God did not create us to become accustomed to or expectant of things staying the same. The God who continues to give birth to the universe calls us to new birth again and again and again.

Nicodemus heard what Jesus said and replied, “How are these things possible?”

It’s a great question that Jesus doesn’t answer directly, other than to say God is in the habit of extreme makeovers, and those willing to trust the renovating power of the Holy Spirit will find life larger and more creative than any structure or system that promises perpetuation. The point is not to see how long we can make things last but to see how God can make things new.

As we sit in this room where the pews have been in place for a long, long time, and we try to figure out what it means to be the people of God in Hamden in 2023–everything from what worship should look like, to what committees we need, to how we meet the needs of the community around us, to how we honor our history without being beholden to it, to how we grow in our love for God and for others–we may want to ask the same question: How are these things possible?

Let’s start here: we are not furniture. We are people created in the image of God, in the image of One who cannot be controlled or defined, a God who is Love so radical and relentless that it knocks all the walls down if we are willing to look up from our manuals, drop our Allen wrenches, and pay attention.

What is waiting to be born anew among us here?

This morning we share Communion, the bread and cup that tell the story of life and death and rebirth. As we come to God’s Table together to share the meal Jesus shared two millennia ago, how can we be reborn in this ancient ritual? How can we create space for God to break loose?

Come, let’s talk about it over supper. Amen.

Peace,
Milton

Thanks for reading. I write a free weekly newsletter, mixing metaphors that comes out every Tuesday. I would love for you to subscribe. If you would like to support my writing, you can become a sustaining member or buy me a cup of coffee.

lenten journal: you have nothing to say

you have nothing to say

forget what the flowers
told you or the smile
from the little one
in front of you
at the coffee shop

how can you give voice
to the joy of a schnauzer
or speak to the grief
that rises with the sun
day after day

anything you say will
only reinforce
your insignificance
no one is waiting
to hear from you

stay silent say nothing
you are depressed
you are depressing
that’s old news
no one wants to hear

no–you are not broken
you’re broken-hearted
speak through the pain
write into the night
sing songs you know by heart

and listen shut up and listen
not to the noise and nonsense
listen to friends and trees
who never believed that
you have nothing to say

Peace
Milton

 

lenten journal: worth noticing

On Thursday morning I walk across the Green to meet my friend Peter for coffee at Cilantro, the one coffee shop that opens at 7. I follow the sidewalk down the center and then take the spoke that gets me to the crosswalk and then to coffee and friendship. Peter and I have been meeting for at least five years now, I think, and I’ve made the same walk there and back each week, with a few gaps in the calendar here and there.

This time of year, the days have gotten long enough where it is daylight while I walk–at least until Daylight Saving Time kicks in and I go back into the dark. I walk past the same light posts, past the monument to our soldiers who fought in the Civil War, past the town Christmas tree, and past a whole bunch of trees that line the sidewalks, some tall and old and others young and aspiring.

I pay better attention on my walk home because I have been stirred to life by good coffee and conversation, and also because of The Art of Noticing, a book I first read two or three years ago that offers ways on paying better attention to the world around us. One of the exercises is to take the same walk several times and notice tree bark.

The first section of sidewalk is lined with big trees on one side and close to a giant weeping willow on the other. The first tree looked wounded, as though a large piece of bark had been stripped away. It left strata of shades of brown and green that ran vertically like a mine turned sideways. The array of colors looked like ages. The light section felt like new wood and little dimension. The darker ones felt deep and ancient, as though I was looking through a dimension into something more profound.

When I got to the second tree, my eye caught a painted stone lying at the base of the tree with the words “shine bright” written on its face. It was nestled in curve of the trunk where it entered the earth. A plant had begun to grow underneath the stone and a tuft of grass was growing next to it. I took a picture and then put my phone in my pocket and just stood and looked to see what I could see.

The scene turned into a tiny landscape. The bark to the right began to look like a dry waterfall that fed the vegetation and the flatter section dotted with lichen became a granite outcropping like those I see along the highway.

So much more is going on that what we see.

Sometime before the pandemic, Kindness Stones were a thing in Guilford, as I am sure they were in many other places. Brightly painted stones with gentle messages showed up all over town on doorsteps, along sidewalks, in trees, on window sills–all of them inviting the finder to carry it with them along with the message. They are rarer these days, so the tiny blue boulder of blessing stood out and also opened a mystery as to who put it at the base of a hundred year old tree and why.

I continued home in the dampness of yet another chilly and cloudy day, the mist attaching to my sweater as if to say I was not simply an observer; I, too, was part of the scene, part of what was worth noticing.

I went on about my day, first to the gym and then to church and then to visit some folks that can’t get to church right now for health reasons. I went so they would know we missed them. They welcomed me with pie and coffee, so I had a meal-sized piece of apple pie for lunch. The drive back to Guilford is mostly by interstate, the great highway of inattentiveness, where we fly by all sorts of things. When I got home, the same mist marked me once again as a part of the scene. Our waiting pups barked belonging from behind the gate–another bark worth noticing.

It was a good day, as far as I could see.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: lost chapter

I spent about an hour this afternoon talking to a couple who have been church members for a long time. For health reasons, they have not been able to attend church, but watch on our YouTube feed. They are both in their eighties and have been married over sixty years. I mostly asked questions and listened to stories about their lives and their life together.

The husband requires consistent care, so they have a caregiver who is at the house, and who happens to be from Ghana. I told him I had lived in Accra and we spent a few minutes connecting over our shared history, even though that was long ago for me.

I haven’t thought about Ghana in a long time.

We only lived in Accra for six months. While we were in Texas on furlough, my dad told us that the mission board had asked him to spend a year in Ghana on a special project. Instead of going back to Nairobi, where I had started high school, we moved to West Africa, leaving all our stuff at our house in Nairobi. After a year, we would go back there. Though it was still Africa, it was a different world from Kenya. The language was difficult, the heat was relentless, and the weather alternated between humid winds that blew off the ocean and the Harmattan, a dry, sandy wind that blew from the Sahara.

We did our best to settle into Accra. I began eleventh grade at Ghana International School, and was finding my way. Sometime in November, my parents greeted my brother and I with news that we were moving back to the US because my parents had decided to resign. Something had happened to cause the decision, but neither my brother nor I ever got the whole story, or even a significant part of it. We never went back to Nairobi. On December 12, 1972–my sixteenth birthday–we left Africa for good and moved to Houston, where I started my fourth high school in three years.

As I spoke to the Ghanaian man today and tried to remember life in Accra, I realized my memories are few. I can see the school building, which was walking distance from our house. I remember the intense traffic, all the drivers hitting their horns incessantly. I remember the movie theater, whose answer to not having air conditioning was to have walls but no roof. We entered the doors, but then watched under the stars. I remember the worship services and all the different rhythms as people clapped along with the singing.

My memories are murals, landscapes–not photographs like the slideshow that plays in my mind when I think of Zambia or Kenya. I didn’t stay long enough to make friends, and my parents left angry and hurt, neither of which were feelings they processed well. In our story, Ghana was more of a layover than a destination, not because it was a bad place but because we never found a way to join the story.

When we lived in Marshfield, Massachusetts, we were sitting on our front porch one morning when the recycling truck came by and I realized I had forgotten to put our bin out. I grabbed it and ran down the street after the truck. When I caught up to it, the man who emptied the bin spoke in an accent I recognized.

“Are you from Kenya,” I asked.

“Yes, from Nairobi” he said; “why do you ask?”

“I lived in Nairobi when I was a boy. It was a good place.”

He smiled and we stood and swapped stories for a few moments, long enough to figure out we had played rugby against one another while I was at Nairobi International School and he was at Nairobi School. And we both liked the chapati and keema at Iqbal’s restaurant.

That conversation opened up a host of memories; today’s made me wonder what memories I failed to pack when we left Ghana because I was carrying too much grief. I thought I was living a different story, and when it changed that chapter got lost.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: unending pie

unending pie

“good thing love is an unending pie”
were the closing words from a friend
after seeing pictures of our new pup
Loretta running through the snow

grief has swirled through the
season like an unending blizzard
squalls of sorrow drifts of absence
melt into tears that pool and freeze

Lizzy! still sniffs where the others
used to sleep and just walks away
Loretta follows like she wants
to hear stories or share snacks

she doesn’t know what she missed
anymore than we know her story
but here we are trusting that love
is an unending pie enough for all

the aroma of love in the house
is a gift and a hardship because
because no one stays forever
but we stay as long as we can

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: incrementally

Because I am at a point in my life where I hold the record for the amount of Milton on the planet, and because I had my third cardioversion in November to correct my atrial fibrillation once again, and because I felt like I was beginning to petrify, I started going back to the gym a little over a month ago. Well, to say back to the gym is a little generous; it has been many years since I went with any consistency. Still, I am getting there three days a week and I feel better.

I have gone long enough to begin to notice people who are there at the same time I am. There’s one tall guy who seems to stay on the elliptical machine for a couple of hours–always the same one–and people he knows join in on either side for conversation and exercise. I also see an older man and a teenaged girl who look like grandfather and granddaughter. I say that because he mostly stays on the treadmill (usually the one in front of my stationary bike) and she moves around to different machines. When she walks behind him, he sticks his hand out and she gives him a hand slap. There’s the woman who puts her treadmill at such a steep angle that she has to hold on for dear life, and the high school boy, whose waist is about twenty inches, who flexes in front of the mirror in the locker room seeing muscles that are not readily apparent to the rest of us.

Then there’s the round man with the shaved head who has to take out his hearing aids so he doesn’t kill the batteries when he sweats and works his way around the circuit of machines and platforms designed to give a full workout in thirty minutes. Wait–that’s me: ten minutes on the bike, thirty on the circuit, and ten more on the bike. My lack of hearing aids means I only have to abide the bass line of the music throbbing through the place–my one time to be grateful for my hearing loss.

Five weeks in, I am not writing to say I have lost a huge amount of weight or soared to new athletic heights. I remain an amazingly mediocre athlete. My weeks of physical therapy after my knee replacements taught me that seeing how much weight I can move is not the point. Motion is lotion, as they say–light weight, more reps. The circuit of machines I follow has a green/red light that signals when it’s time to move to the next station, so the time passes quickly, and I remain fairly self-contained. I leave my phone in the car, I can’t hear much, and I’m just there to move every time the light changes because I want to feel better, and I want to feel better about me.

I leave the gym each time feeling a little tired and pretty good. I am learning to appreciate something I don’t particularly enjoy, but it’s not a drudgery. It matters. I continue to be in a season where the landscape of my depression is bleak, and it has been a long season. Making it to the gym Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays helps me navigate the terrain. It no longer feels like an anomaly on my calendar. It is part of my routine. I am learning the value of increments–small amounts of change that add up.

Nothing happened at the gym today that made this the day to write about it, other than I was there for my sixth Monday in a row, though later in the day than usual so I didn’t see the usual faces. On the way home, I stopped to pick up some groceries so we will be well-stocked for some sort of weather event over the next twenty-four hours, whether it is a snowstorm or what Ginger and I like to call a Dan Fogelberg (the snow turns into rain). I made chili and cornbread and we are snuggled in; whether we have to hunker down remains to be seen.

Part of the reason I went later today is we met with a dog trainer to talk about how to help Loretta get over her “stranger danger” when someone comes to the house. Along with some specific ideas, the trainer talked about the need for Loretta to have both physical and mental exercise. She gave us some great ideas. As I drove to the gym, I realized the same is true for me. Though I don’t feel the need to race around the yard eight times as fast as I can, I need both physical and mental exercise–the two feed on each other.

I have talked about going for many, many months. Five weeks ago, I actually did it. That first Saturday morning, I did not have a plan other than going that day. Then I went on Monday, and then I charted out dates for the next couple of weeks. Increments grew into intentions, or perhaps the other way around, and then into ritual–into meaningful repetition–something other than talk. I find myself marking time by gym days, much like I mark time by Sundays, or Newsletter Tuesdays, or regular coffee dates I have with friends this Lenten Journal. They are promises I want to keep. And they are all kept incrementally, one day at a time.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: temptations

My sermon this week grew out of my conversation with Matthew 4:1-11, which is the account of Jesus’ temptations while he was in the desert for forty days. The story is about more than giving up for Lent.

_________________________

The temptations. What comes to mind when you hear those words?

I hear music: “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” or “My Girl.”

Perhaps you think about the things you try to do without, or things that seem to have your number.

Many years ago, I was in the supermarket and picked up a commemorative Oreo tin–with cookies inside–because I love tins. As I was checking out, I commented to the woman at the register that I liked the tin because now I had somewhere to keep an open pack of Oreos. She smiled and said, “Like you’ve ever had a problem with an open pack of Oreos.”

I felt seen.

We think of being tempted by bad things or immoral things or addictive things–and those are legitimate concerns, but that is not what our passage today is about.

Early in Epiphany we looked at the story of Jesus’ baptism where he went out to where John was baptizing people to mark the beginning of a new chapter in his life. Though we have talked about other things in Jesus’ life, today’s passage took place right after the baptism. Jesus heard the voice say, “This is my beloved child in whom I delight,” and then he went further into the wilderness to figure out what it meant to be that beloved child.

How do we live a life that reflects and honors our belovedness?

People already had expectations it seems. John questioned who should be baptizing whom. The word was already spreading. So Jesus went off by himself–except he was not by himself. Well, we don’t have a complete account of what happened in the desert because he was out there for forty days and what we are told took about a minute and a half to read. We can infer that the conversation took place at the end of the time when Jesus was hungry and vulnerable, but if we turn to Luke’s account even that is not clear.

Whatever happened on the other thirty nine days, Jesus faced three decisions, none of which were immoral or evil in and of themselves: make bread out of stones; put on a show of God’s power; put yourself in a position where you are safe and have control. Each time, Jesus refused the opportunity or the demand, yet in his ministry he did miracles that fed people and he healed and did other things that showed God’s power; and he even rode into Jerusalem on a donkey with people cheering as if he were some kind of royalty.

The difference was the motivation behind his miracles was not the same as what the tempter encouraged. It was not so much the actions as the motivations behind the actions. Theologian Maggi Dawn writes,

If temptation were all about blatant wrongdoing, it would be far easier to avoid. Most people do not want to commit crimes or indulge in dissolute and destructive behavior. But what about seeing a way to achieve something good by a shortcut that just marginally blurs true integrity or allowing a gift to seem altruistic when it masks personal pride? True temptation lies in our capacity to justify the means by the end and nudge ourselves into tiny, incremental compromises.

Jesus knew life could not be reduced to avoiding a list of unacceptable behaviors or strictly adhering to a set of laws or rules. The gospels are rife with stories of Jesus breaking the law for the sake of relationship. At the same time he said things like, “You have heard ‘do not kill’ but I tell you if you live with uncontrollable anger towards someone else you are doing damage.”

“Love God with all of your being,” he said, “and love your neighbor as yourself.”

It seems the unspoken admonition in those familiar words is “love yourself like you are God’s beloved child.” To trust we are really, really loved gives us freedom to “Love God and do what you like,” as Augustine said. Singer-songwriter Guy Clark hit on that inner sense that we are God’s beloved (at least when I hear it) when he sang,

you’ve got to sing like you don’t need the money
love like you’ll never get hurt
you’ve got to dance like nobody’s watching
it’s gotta come from the heart if you want it to work

The tempter lost his grip on Jesus because Jesus wasn’t willing to reduce his relationship with God to a list of dos and don’ts. Jesus was beholden to anything but love. To be God’s beloved child meant choosing to do whatever needed to be done to help others know they, too, were beloved.

I learned from Ginger this week of the Platinum Rule. She is taking a class to become a death doula and it came up in her reading. You know the Golden Rule–do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The Platinum Rule is “Do unto others as they would have you do unto them.” Learn their love language, learn how they best receive love and package it that way, and they have a better chance of being able to trust the love we are offering.

If you were not able to be at our community Ash Wednesday service at Hamden Plains UMC, you missed a good time, which may sound like an odd thing to say about an Ash Wednesday service when most think of it as the “dust to dust” liturgy, but it was sacred and fun. We did get ashes and the reminder of our mortality, but it wasn’t bad news. It came along with us singing “People Get Ready” and “I’ll Fly Away.” It was both solemn and joyful, as this whole season of Lent should be.

We may be tempted to make it about the rules, about what we are doing without, but let’s not fall prey to that temptation. It’s like Sister Mary Clarence taught the choir of nuns in Sister Act to sing along with the Temptations*—with a slight change:

I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day
when it’s cold outside,
I’ve got the month of May
I guess you’ll say
what can make me feel this way
(and the nuns sang)
my God . . .

We are loved, we are loved, we are really, really loved. Don’t be tempted to forget that. Amen.
(*It was only when I went to find video that I remembered the nuns sang, “Nothing you can say can tear me away from my God,” not a version of “My Girl.” It would have worked though, don’t you think?)

Peace,
Milton

The next edition of my weekly newsletter, mixed metaphors, goes out on Tuesday. The subscription is free, and I am ten folks away from reaching 350 subscribers. Click here and I’ll send it to you.