Last night I watched a movie about super hero kids which turned out to be surprisingly violent. It was cartoon violence--the movie was actually a comic book adaptation--but the blood looked plenty real to me. In an attempt to disengage from the gore on TV, I opened my laptop and scrolled through the headlines.
It wasn't better. A man had barricaded himself in a burning building, shots were fired somewhere else in the city. Even People, my refuge of ridiculous pop culture, was no better, highlighting a tragic story of a child lost.
The world is sometimes simply too much for me. I reach my limit of bad things for a day, and I want to shut my eyes and pretend it's all a comic book, none of it heartbreakingly real.
At those times, I often remember words from Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest whose writing I find deeply resonant. This morning, it's these few paragraphs I remember; the whole piece can be found here. May these words be a reminder to you, too, of the beauty that always lies beneath and behind the heartbreak.
There is always tragedy somewhere, as the news reminds us so well. But there is not always tragedy everywhere, which the news does not make quite so clear. The good news, also known as the gospel, is that where ferries are going down, brave people are diving into water to lift thrashing children to safety. Where crops are failing, generous people are providing relief for farmers and migrant workers, and where a young girl is kidnapped from her bed, an entire community is turning out to hunt clues, post flyers, cook food and keep watch with her family.
Meanwhile, there are entire towns where nothing terrible is happening for an hour or two, where parents are caring for children with remarkable tenderness, where nurses are tending patients, mail carriers are delivering packages, and at least one man who owns a small business is taking off work early to coach a girl's soccer team. Terrible things will continue to happen in these places, which the best efforts of such people will not be sufficient to prevent, but their bursts of gratuitous kindness are the mustard seeds from which healing bushes sometimes grow. They constitute the alternate reality that I want to live in, even if it means limiting my exposure to other kinds of news.
When I resist the economy and despair of the dominant world in which I live, I resist from a minority viewpoint that I learned in church. In that alternate reality, which operates on the divine economy, human beings are worth more than what they can buy or sell, and suffering breaks open as many hearts as it breaks down. There are many kinds of evangelism, I know, but here is one I can embrace: in a culture of fear, addicted to the bad news of sin and death, to keep telling stories of human kindness and divine grace—without commercials of any kind. In a world like ours, the church may be the only corporate sponsor that can afford to deliver such good news for free.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Riding the Bus
I took the bus back to WES last Thursday, returning from a rally for DC voting rights (and a celebration of the 90th anniversary of the 19th Amendment, one of my favorites). I don't take the bus that frequently these days, but I always enjoy the experience. Even more so than the metro, the bus feels like the transportation of the people: families, office workers, teens, tourists.
This past Thursday we were joined by a preacher--or rather, by a young man who was definitely preaching. He was sharing his gospel, one I would describe as American conservative Christian. The main message was a personal relationship with Jesus and the possibility of salvation through that relationship.
This isn't my truth, but I wasn't bothered by his sharing of what was obviously important to him. I was more interested, though, in the reactions of my fellow bus-riders. The young man testified for at least 20 minutes, from the time I got on until he got off. The riders, who were I imagine from a variety of faiths and from no faith background, were...tolerant. There were a few sidelong glances, some subtle seat shifts, but for the most part people kept chatting with their seatmates, or reading their books. They sidled past him to get off at their stops, and stood up to let each other sit down, just as bus riders always do.
What struck me, then, was not the unusual situation of a bus ride combined with gospel revival, but the experience of witnessing human toleration for different behavior in a very condensed setting. My guess is that there were plenty of other people on the bus for whom, like me, this man's gospel was not exactly their own. But he wasn't intending to bother anyone with his words, and indeed he didn't. People managed just fine, adjusting their earphones as needed or listening if they cared to. In a time of incivility and division--at least as it's presented in the mainstream media--it was a little window into quiet respect for difference.
That day, the bus got me where I needed to be in more ways than one. So thanks, S2, and all your Thursday afternoon riders.
This past Thursday we were joined by a preacher--or rather, by a young man who was definitely preaching. He was sharing his gospel, one I would describe as American conservative Christian. The main message was a personal relationship with Jesus and the possibility of salvation through that relationship.
This isn't my truth, but I wasn't bothered by his sharing of what was obviously important to him. I was more interested, though, in the reactions of my fellow bus-riders. The young man testified for at least 20 minutes, from the time I got on until he got off. The riders, who were I imagine from a variety of faiths and from no faith background, were...tolerant. There were a few sidelong glances, some subtle seat shifts, but for the most part people kept chatting with their seatmates, or reading their books. They sidled past him to get off at their stops, and stood up to let each other sit down, just as bus riders always do.
What struck me, then, was not the unusual situation of a bus ride combined with gospel revival, but the experience of witnessing human toleration for different behavior in a very condensed setting. My guess is that there were plenty of other people on the bus for whom, like me, this man's gospel was not exactly their own. But he wasn't intending to bother anyone with his words, and indeed he didn't. People managed just fine, adjusting their earphones as needed or listening if they cared to. In a time of incivility and division--at least as it's presented in the mainstream media--it was a little window into quiet respect for difference.
That day, the bus got me where I needed to be in more ways than one. So thanks, S2, and all your Thursday afternoon riders.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Changing Chairs
We're trying out some new (well, re-purposed) chairs in the WES library. The new ones are much smaller than the big, clunky ones we've been using...and as I sat in them today I got to thinking about how the big ones kept us just a bit further apart from each other. They even had wheels, so we could make a quick getaway!
There are so many ways we try to keep other people at arm's length. I especially notice this when I'm driving--I encounter so many people on the road, but encased in our own steel boxes I don't really see them at all. And how about buying groceries or pumping gas? We might murmur "thank you" or nod hello, but do we ever actually look into the eyes of the person no more than five feet away from us? The other human being sharing our space?
I came across a wonderful passage about the power of really seeing another person during my summer fiction-reading blitz. Like the best fiction, it starts out with the very particular and becomes a treatise on how to live. I'll leave you with it, from Alexander McCall Smith's wonderful Sunday Philosophy Club series:
"She moved away from the rug shop. A man inside, anxiously waiting for customers, had seen her and had been watching her. Isabel had looked through the glass, beyond the piles of rugs, and had met his gaze. She was sensitive to such encounters, because in her mind they were not entirely casual. By looking into the eyes of another, one established a form of connection that had moral implications. To look at another thus was to acknowledge one’s shared humanity with him, and that meant one owed him something, no matter how small that thing might be. That was why the executioner was traditionally spared the duty of looking into the eyes of the condemned; he observed him by stealth, approached from behind, was allowed a mask, and so on. If he looked into the eyes, then the moral bond would be established, and that moral bond would prevent him from doing what the state required: the carrying out of its act of murder."
There are so many ways we try to keep other people at arm's length. I especially notice this when I'm driving--I encounter so many people on the road, but encased in our own steel boxes I don't really see them at all. And how about buying groceries or pumping gas? We might murmur "thank you" or nod hello, but do we ever actually look into the eyes of the person no more than five feet away from us? The other human being sharing our space?
I came across a wonderful passage about the power of really seeing another person during my summer fiction-reading blitz. Like the best fiction, it starts out with the very particular and becomes a treatise on how to live. I'll leave you with it, from Alexander McCall Smith's wonderful Sunday Philosophy Club series:
"She moved away from the rug shop. A man inside, anxiously waiting for customers, had seen her and had been watching her. Isabel had looked through the glass, beyond the piles of rugs, and had met his gaze. She was sensitive to such encounters, because in her mind they were not entirely casual. By looking into the eyes of another, one established a form of connection that had moral implications. To look at another thus was to acknowledge one’s shared humanity with him, and that meant one owed him something, no matter how small that thing might be. That was why the executioner was traditionally spared the duty of looking into the eyes of the condemned; he observed him by stealth, approached from behind, was allowed a mask, and so on. If he looked into the eyes, then the moral bond would be established, and that moral bond would prevent him from doing what the state required: the carrying out of its act of murder."
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Tomatoes: Pay What You Want
Driving around rural Maryland this past weekend, I saw the lowest-key farm stand: a card table on the side of the road, with a plate of tomatoes and a big sign reading "Tomatoes. Pay What You Want."
It was the kind of experience that makes us nostalgic for a simpler time, or a smaller community, where we had that kind of trust in each other. But two ventures happening now--and not in rural Maryland!--make me wonder whether we aren't more trustworthy than we give ourselves credit for.
Panera, the sandwich cafe, has opened a non-profit branch in Clayton, MO where customers are invited to pay what they can (and volunteer their time if they can't pay at all). Here's an article about it: http://www.bizjournals.com/stlouis/stories/2010/05/17/daily21.html. The upshot is that it's working--people are mostly paying what the items go for in a regular Panera, and sometimes popping in a little extra to cover those who can't.
Then I read about a completely free store in New York City, where people are dropping off items they aren't using, and picking up what they need. Here's the article: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/16/nyregion/16free.html?_r=1.
The sign at that store reads "Take what you want. Share what you think others might enjoy (not limited to material items)." Seems as though if we try, we can put up that roadside stand anywhere we want.
It was the kind of experience that makes us nostalgic for a simpler time, or a smaller community, where we had that kind of trust in each other. But two ventures happening now--and not in rural Maryland!--make me wonder whether we aren't more trustworthy than we give ourselves credit for.
Panera, the sandwich cafe, has opened a non-profit branch in Clayton, MO where customers are invited to pay what they can (and volunteer their time if they can't pay at all). Here's an article about it: http://www.bizjournals.com/stlouis/stories/2010/05/17/daily21.html. The upshot is that it's working--people are mostly paying what the items go for in a regular Panera, and sometimes popping in a little extra to cover those who can't.
Then I read about a completely free store in New York City, where people are dropping off items they aren't using, and picking up what they need. Here's the article: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/16/nyregion/16free.html?_r=1.
The sign at that store reads "Take what you want. Share what you think others might enjoy (not limited to material items)." Seems as though if we try, we can put up that roadside stand anywhere we want.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Marriage equality, one pop culture moment at a time
I've been working this week to get ready for the Big Commit, a marriage equality rally in DC on Sunday afternoon. The rally is bringing together a number of gay rights and advocacy groups, and it will serve as a counter demonstration to the National Organization for Marriage's One Woman One Man summer tour.
I love a rally--the flags waving, the music, the great speakers. But I'm also aware that in the end, rallies aren't going to change the hearts and minds of America. That's what we have People magazine for.
Earlier this summer, I picked up an issue of People (a favorite escapist read for me). One of the human interest stories was about a woman with a rare and difficult to diagnose disease. The article followed her journey from doctor to doctor, the toll it took on her professional life, the light at the end of the tunnel now that she's received a diagnosis. Pretty standard stuff, and of course accompanied by a couple of photos, including the usual shot of the woman in the hospital, hand held by her spouse. Who was a woman.
The fact that this article featured a same-sex couple wasn't even noted; not a single line about their status, their families' opinions about the relationship, nothing to suggest that it was the least bit unusual. Because, of course, it isn't. And that's what gives me real hope: when People magazine thinks your same-sex relationship isn't the interesting part of your human interest.
Here's hoping I'll see you at the rally, and that in a few years we won't have to rally anymore.
I love a rally--the flags waving, the music, the great speakers. But I'm also aware that in the end, rallies aren't going to change the hearts and minds of America. That's what we have People magazine for.
Earlier this summer, I picked up an issue of People (a favorite escapist read for me). One of the human interest stories was about a woman with a rare and difficult to diagnose disease. The article followed her journey from doctor to doctor, the toll it took on her professional life, the light at the end of the tunnel now that she's received a diagnosis. Pretty standard stuff, and of course accompanied by a couple of photos, including the usual shot of the woman in the hospital, hand held by her spouse. Who was a woman.
The fact that this article featured a same-sex couple wasn't even noted; not a single line about their status, their families' opinions about the relationship, nothing to suggest that it was the least bit unusual. Because, of course, it isn't. And that's what gives me real hope: when People magazine thinks your same-sex relationship isn't the interesting part of your human interest.
Here's hoping I'll see you at the rally, and that in a few years we won't have to rally anymore.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Cold drink, anyone?
I write this post in beautiful weather, but the last few days have been just scorching--especially for those without power. Monday I drove around town doing errands, and I was struck by odd sensation of passing through powerless neighborhoods, with plenty of air conditioning and functioning street lights just across the road. The power grid works, apparently, in mysterious ways.
I was also struck by how patient the drivers were, how everyone brought out their best behavior for a day they knew would be a little hectic. At one of those powerless intersections, I watched as a small, woman police officer, working solo, directed a complicated traffic pattern. Her hand flipping up, then making a fist, then pointing, she looked like a uniformed conductor, leading a silent symphony of obedient musicians.
And then a car pulled up next to me, a delivery vehicle. It stopped a little fast for my taste, and I could see the driver lean out the window and begin to gesture to the police officer. Great, I thought. Here comes the wise guy, thinking he knows best when to go.
The police officer turned to him, and I tensed for the confrontation I could already see coming.
The police officer nodded briskly, and pointed toward the median. The delivery man darted out of his vehicle, and set down the cold drink he'd offered, complete with a straw. They waved, and he got back in his car, ready to follow her next instruction.
Sometimes people are just plain nice. The little tiny drama on Monday morning was a reminder to me not to be so surprised.
I was also struck by how patient the drivers were, how everyone brought out their best behavior for a day they knew would be a little hectic. At one of those powerless intersections, I watched as a small, woman police officer, working solo, directed a complicated traffic pattern. Her hand flipping up, then making a fist, then pointing, she looked like a uniformed conductor, leading a silent symphony of obedient musicians.
And then a car pulled up next to me, a delivery vehicle. It stopped a little fast for my taste, and I could see the driver lean out the window and begin to gesture to the police officer. Great, I thought. Here comes the wise guy, thinking he knows best when to go.
The police officer turned to him, and I tensed for the confrontation I could already see coming.
The police officer nodded briskly, and pointed toward the median. The delivery man darted out of his vehicle, and set down the cold drink he'd offered, complete with a straw. They waved, and he got back in his car, ready to follow her next instruction.
Sometimes people are just plain nice. The little tiny drama on Monday morning was a reminder to me not to be so surprised.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Ripping up the pansies
I've been thinking about all the wonderful words shared by our Coming of Age graduates this past Sunday, and especially about one young woman's story about learning that mistakes are okay. That learning is part of my ongoing journey, and I don't think I've figured it out yet!
But today I spent some time gardening with my father and we decided that the pansies, which had gotten leggy (not enough sun) and yellow (not enough water), really needed to go. We picked a few plants to save in a pot, but mostly turned the soil right over, raking through the green and preparing the bed for a new life with vinca minor--a much more appropriate choice for the location.
And it felt great! Almost as good as the time that I ripped out the half a sweater I'd been knitting, having finally accepted that the pattern just wasn't a good one. Somehow, even though making mistakes can feel scary, realizing mistakes and taking action to fix them feels great.
So I wonder if in some ways we can re-frame mistakes as solutions waiting to happen...and if that helps us to plant with abandon, knowing that we can always pull it up and turn over the earth if we did it wrong.
But today I spent some time gardening with my father and we decided that the pansies, which had gotten leggy (not enough sun) and yellow (not enough water), really needed to go. We picked a few plants to save in a pot, but mostly turned the soil right over, raking through the green and preparing the bed for a new life with vinca minor--a much more appropriate choice for the location.
And it felt great! Almost as good as the time that I ripped out the half a sweater I'd been knitting, having finally accepted that the pattern just wasn't a good one. Somehow, even though making mistakes can feel scary, realizing mistakes and taking action to fix them feels great.
So I wonder if in some ways we can re-frame mistakes as solutions waiting to happen...and if that helps us to plant with abandon, knowing that we can always pull it up and turn over the earth if we did it wrong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)