Saturday: Called to Community

"Jesus' feeling for the possessed man is different from his feeling for the beloved disciple; but the love is one. Feelings one "has"; love occurs. Feelings dwell in man, but man dwells in love. There is no metaphor but actuality: love does not cling to an I, as if the You were merely its "content" or object; it is between I and You." -Martin Buber

Often times the City is one of the hardest places to be. It is messy and confusing, busy and disfuctional. But Christians are called to community. For Martin Buber love occurs in the space between two reconciled individuals. We are meant to be in relationship with one another and part of growing in community is growing in our ability to serve eachother.

Friday: The city to which God has sent you

It's been nearly two months now since I've moved to Seattle, a city that has approximately the same population as the entire state I am from. Shortly after arriving here, I found myself living in an intentional community and at the same time began reading a book entitled The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris. Ms. Norris grew up in Honolulu and spent many years living in New York City. She now lives in a town in Western South Dakota that is about 19 times smaller (by population) than the entire Fremont neighborhood . She has spent an exceptional amount of time living in an Abbey in Northern Minnesota as an oblate. While reading her book, this stuck out to me:

A city is a place where the worst and best about humanity come to the fore, where we're forced to be realistic enough to lock our doors even as we rejoice in being able to celebrate the greatest achievements of our culture. The Christian vision of heaven is of a city, the New Jerusalem, and Christian theology suggest that the Godhead itself is a kind of city, a community of three persons, or in the Benedictine Aidan Kavanagh's words, "a collective being, with unity." Kavanagh laments that in contemporary society the city's sacred potential as a symbol of community has been "invested in sovereign individualism, which allows us to retreat into a myopic unworldliness. "[Our] icon is not a city," he writes in On Liturgical Theology, "whether of man or God, but the lone jogger running through suburbia, in order, we are told, to feel good about himself."

Cities remind us that the desire to escape from the problems of other people by fleeing to the suburb, small town, or a monastery for that matter, is an unholy thing, and ultimately self-defeating. We can no more escape from other people than we can escape from ourselves. As Basil the Great wrote to a friend after leaving the city of Caesarea in the fourth century, "I have abandoned my life in the town as the occasion of endless troubles, but I have not managed to get rid of myself." Images of the city are impossible to avoid in the monastic choir, as scripture is full of them. You're reminded, over and over, that in fact you have come here to be a part of the city of the living God, and you're challenged to make something of it. Do you reflect Benedict's belief that "the divine presence is everywhere?" Do you work, as Jeremiah reminds us to do, for the welfare of the city to which God has sent you? Can you say, with Isaiah, "About Zion I will not be silent, about Jerusalem I will not rest, until her integrity shines out like the dawn, and her salvation flames like a torch?"

While I certainly don't think it unholy to live in suburbs, small towns, or monasteries, nor do I think that that the point, for me, Ms. Norris pretty much sums it up and I thought it should be shared.

Thursday: What does my voice sound like when I pray?

This is from the Lectionary

Psalm 59

Deliver Me from My Enemies
To the choirmaster: according to Do Not Destroy. A Miktam [4] of David, when Saul sent men to watch his house in order to kill him.

59:1 Deliver me from my enemies, O my God;
protect me from those who rise up against me;
2 deliver me from those who work evil,
and save me from bloodthirsty men.

3 For behold, they lie in wait for my life;
fierce men stir up strife against me.
For no transgression or sin of mine, O Lord,
4 for no fault of mine, they run and make ready.
Awake, come to meet me, and see!
5 You, Lord God of hosts, are God of Israel.
Rouse yourself to punish all the nations;
spare none of those who treacherously plot evil. Selah

6 Each evening they come back,
howling like dogs
and prowling about the city.
7 There they are, bellowing with their mouths
with swords in their lips—
for “Who,” they think, [5] “will hear us?”

8 But you, O Lord, laugh at them;
you hold all the nations in derision.
9 O my Strength, I will watch for you,
for you, O God, are my fortress.

A REFLECTION:

I have been wondering what kinds of things to ask of God? And wondering what sorts of things are appropriate and good to ask for?

What does the content of this psalm say about the one writing it?

What strikes me when I read this Psalm is not just what the Psalmist asks of God, but rather, what kind of relation to God he must believe he has that he can ask the the things he asks. I can't imagine being this bold with God. To me, it feels odd, or inappropriate. But, I like it for some reason. It feels honest. Feels true.



What voice do I use when praying to God, and what does that say about how I feel about God?

Wednesday: Abandoned Prophets or Prophets Abandoning?

I’ve been thinking a lot about abandonment lately, abandonment and prophets.

We live in a world that is unjust. We live in a world that has yet to realize the fullness that it was created for. What is standing in the way? Abandonment.

I’ve grown up quite comfortably. I have a wonderful and supportive family, am blessed with a significant number of mentors and surrogate parents and have developed a number of fulfilling and real friendships that I can still cling to.

I’ve never had to worry about food. I’ve never had to worry about a warm bed in which to sleep. No body has ever threatened to take my possessions, my family, my life away from me. You’d think that I’d be able to go on with my life thinking that everyone was as happy as I am.

But I can’t.

When I was seven or eight years old, my family was visiting my dad in France, where he was working at the time. I remember that we walked a lot, and consequently, I complained a lot. It was my first time visiting anywhere other than Washington State where my parents were from, the first time I ever remember taking public transportation and obviously the first time I was ever surrounded by a significant number of people who did not speak my language. In more ways the one I was in a foreign land.

I remember one day walking out of the Metro to some museum or other educational destination that my mother was dragging us to (which I am grateful for by the way). As we were walking, I noticed a significant number of people sitting along the corridor with vessels for money and change. The first thought I remember having, is that Paris Metro stations were very dirty, and smelled bad.

The second and more significant has to do with a scene that has stuck in my mind ever since. There was a woman, sitting on a blanket, leaning against the wall. She wasn’t saying much that I can remember, although it was very noisy. What I can’t get out of my mind are her feet. They were deformed. She may or may not have had a child with her and she was more than likely starving. The thought I had: there is something seriously wrong here

I am still not sure today whether I imagined this scene, pieced it together from other scenes that I witnessed as a child in a foreign country or if it is indeed what it is. What I do know in whatever case is that the world had and has abandoned this woman. There were thousands of Parisians and visitors walking by, not giving her a moments notice. What of her hunger? What of her pain? What of her opportunity for life? Love? Happiness?

How many abandoned people and places do we walk by each day? What is our responsibility as followers of Jesus to these places of abandonment?

The definition of a prophet I most identify with describes a person gifted with profound moral insight and exceptional powers of expression. A brief glance though history and one may think that there is some sort of prophet clause. It may go something like this:

“All those who in anyway seek to bring light to truth, injustice and the world’s abandoned places will not be liked, in fact they will be hunted, hated and beaten until they are silent.”

Rules of History, clause 578 “The Prophet Clause”. (yes I made this up.)

Ok, so maybe not in every instance is the situation this violent, but there is I would say a significant amount of evidence to support that some such clause exists.

Jesus was, among other things, a prophet. He was constantly found doing things that “he should be doing” but knew he had to anyway. He was rejected by the religious leaders of the time for this, and was subsequently rejected by the political leaders.

If we are followers of Christ, what does this mean for us?

Two weeks ago the Federal Government invaded a United Parcel Service facility here in Seattle and arrested over 50 undocumented workers. These people have families, bills to pay and were busy making sure that thousands of Valentines Day presents made it to their recipients safely. A group of local leaders met with Immigration to express their concern and their willingness to offer undocumented immigrants a sanctuary from the Government. One of these leaders was the Dean of Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral where I work. Late last week we received an email from a woman who was angry, angry that the Dean could find the nerve to speak on behalf of people who were breaking the law and angry that he would call himself a Christian for doing so.

My question is, if it is not our place to speak on behalf of those who have no voice, to be willing to break laws that don’t make sense in a world created by God, what is our place? To sit quietly and watch people suffer? Are we not called to be today’s prophets, providing “profound moral insight” to the world around us?

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! Luke 13:34

I leave the desert renewed for love and I enter the city raw and open to the suffering that is around me, in the city I live in, in the city that I love. I am surrounded by people and places that have been abandoned and prophets, prophets who are as yet afraid to speak.

Tuesday: In the City

I love living in the city. I wouldn’t trade for anything the last 16 months that I’ve been fortunate enough to live in Wallingford, Seattle. Sometimes I can convince myself that it’s like living in a little town. Especially on the days when I’m running errands in the morning, and see familiar faces from Cota on the street. Or when I bump into my teacher at the grocery store. And, of course, the view of downtown is amazing.
Herein lies the dichotomy:

One morning, several months ago, I was taking my cockatiels to their vet appointment and I noticed a girl sitting next to her backpack, under the eaves of the Marco Polo hotel building, across the alley from my apartment. (On the other side is a Blue Video store.) I was in a hurry, and for some reason assumed she was a student because of the backpack. When I returned from Burien two hours later, she was still there. From over thirty feet away, I asked her if she was okay. She gave an empty ‘Yeah’ reply, and as I was about to take her comment at face value, I noticed that she was visibly upset, as if she had been crying most of the time that I had been gone. I went inside my cozy apartment, and stewed. I didn't feel comfortable inviting her in, but how does one extend hospitality outside of one’s home? By the time I made some phone calls and got a game plan together, she was gone. Now I always have a crisis phone number in my cell phone, just in case another opportunity comes along for contact, but of course none has presented itself. Yeah, I live just a few feet away from Aurora and I see working women fairly often, but most of the time they ask me where the closest gas station is, or something of that vein. Not for help. Nor would I expect it, I guess. That's probably not my role.

I could wax on about how my city ‘home’ doesn’t allow me to just sit and meditate on a blade of grass for hours on end, or to see my future spread out before me in the clouds. Traffic noise and the possibility for constant distraction, which always go in tandem with densely populated urban areas, make such activities (or lack thereof) nearly impossible. However, as compared to the stigma of being just a few feet away from people whose lives are so different from my own – so lacking in security – these gripes about not being able to commune with nature in its true form just fall like pebbles on a tin can. Hollow, empty, without resonance.

I don’t know how to tie these thoughts into the gospel passages for this week. Some of the OT references are about enemies, but as a friend and I discussed over a beer a few days ago, I can’t remember the last time I’ve truly yearned to have my enemy smoted. Or even when I last had an out-and-out enemy. And the passage about Christ chatting with Elijah’s specter just creeps me out. I don’t know what to make of that, or what it implies about the nature of the afterlife. But, these are my thoughts about the tension that lies within urban dwelling. And that’s all I’ve got.

Monday...another manic monday

Luke 13:31-35

There may be some of us reading this that remember that 80's song by the Bangles, I think it was call Manic Monday. I'm not really a big fan, but as I read this weeks gospel and the words that come before it and after it, I was left feeling manic.

Last week, the beginning of Lent, was about being in the desert. Part of the desert experience is the desire for an oasis, and this is where we are led in the lectionary. Well, Jerusalem isn't really an oasis though is it? In an e-mail, Matt called it the anti-oasis. We find Jesus in the city teaching about the least important people in society ending up ahead of the most important when all is said and done. The response by the Pharisees? The tell him to leave because Herod is going to kill him. It might seem that the Pharisees are trying to help Jesus, but with the end in mind, he tells him he wants to stay in the city known for killing prophets thus joining in that illustrious lineage.

Imagine the stress. Imagine the weariness. In some ways it isn't hard on a day like a Monday to identify with Jesus. Jesus learns that someone powerful is out for his head. He is reinforced with the desire of the Pharisees for him to get out of town. We are struck by Jesus' desire to do what he has to do even though he isn't wanted and even though people are actually making it hard for him to do his work.

My Monday doesn't seem so bad I guess. I have deadlines hanging over my head for work. I have a paper due that I didn't work hard enough on. I have to ride the bus into the city to go to class that I haven't done the reading for yet. I have phone calls to make to vendors to fix an apartment up so someone will be willing to live there for just under $900 a month. What is your Monday like? Was Jesus just having a case of the Monday's in our text for the week? It seems that Jesus life was just one big Monday. Did Jesus every get to enjoy the comforts I enjoy, even on what is often considered the worst day of the week? I mean I have work that pays for my rent. I get to ride a bus to take me where I need to go. I get to go to a middle class, white, seminary where I can solve the problems of my own heart along with that of the church and even the world.

Monday is a symbol of the urban anti-oasis that Jesus experienced. But Jerusalem isn't just a continuation of the desert either. In the desert, we have nothing. In the city there is an abundance of everything. Though the writers of this blog live in Seattle, not all of us identify with the city life Jesus is experiencing this week. We all have oasis's that we construct that are more like anti-oasis's. Think of your home, apartment, car, the internet or whatever oasis from the desert of your life and ask whether it provides the comfort and relief you need or if it offers the hostility and pain that Jesus experienced in Jerusalem? So what do we do with this hostility? What do we do with our illusions of relief? Is life comfortable or painful for you?

For me, it is both comfortable and painful, but if I'm honest my comfort is false and pain is always with me. The oasis that I create, just creates more hostility not relief. If this is true for you, then what are we to do? I'm going to follow Jesus and do what I do. I will go on my way, which if I'm at my best will be the way of Jesus as well. I'll just keep on keepin on as the saying goes. I mean what good is it to run away now? We're in it. This is Lent. This is the long journey to the Cross and the Grave. This is the journey of death. Feels like a Monday huh? We've got a long week to struggle and wrestle, but the Resurrection is also at the end of this journey through deserts and cities. Grace and Peace to you, to us all, on the journey this week.

Lent 2 - In the City

Here's a link to Luke 13:31-35, this week's Gospel text:

http://divinity.library.vanderbilt.edu/lectionary/CLent/cLent2.htm

When I was in high school I played basketball with a kid named Jonathan Brooks. He was tall and quick, and his Slinky-like spiky hair would fall back and forth across his head as he ran up and down the court. He'd average something like 18 or 20 points per game, and when he'd shoot a jump shot, he'd expect to make it, and everyone else would expect him to make it, too.

In the early days of my high school basketball career, before I'd grown into my body and when I found simple tasks like jogging to be plagued with pitfalls of coordination, Jonathan took me under his proverbial wing and tried to teach me how to play the game. Though he had very limited success, Jonathan never gave up and, until he left our team, was more or less my teacher in a master/padawan sense.

When he was a senior and I was a sophomore, Jonathan left our team to attend a premiere prep-school in our league. I didn't hear much about him, except that he was captain and that he was thinking about going into the Air Force. But about halfway into the season, our teams met on the court.

I walked to the center of the floor right before tip-off, taking my position next to a referee. I hadn't talked to Jonathan yet, but he stepped across the circle to shake my hand. I reached out and moved to speak with him, to catch up for a few seconds about how he was doing, what he was up to, the usual long-time-no-see exchange. Instead of sticking around, however, he gave my extended hand a quick squeeze and muttered "good luck" before resuming focus on the tip-off. He probably figured he couldn't socialize with the enemy.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. A conversation, a hug, a few kind words - something familiar from someone I thought I knew well. But the familiar failed me, and I what I found instead was, well, hostility.

We've walked with Christ into the desert, and have wandered with him through temptation and reflection. Now we look to the city, to Jerusalem, to Seattle. There's a great sadness in our text, a deep regret for the "safe" that fails. What do we do when we come upon what we expect to be an oasis in our journey, but only find conflict? How do we live in the tension between comfort and hostility?