New York: Everyone's City

My family and immediate area was lucky to escape most of Hurricane Sandy's wrath, but I've been reading about and looking at pictures from New York and New Jersey with a sense of such pain and loss. And that has me thinking about why I feel this heartache so deeply--why the images in the paper and on TV feel like the images of my town, not some place hundreds of miles away. Of course there are people I love in New York City and its surrounding suburbs, and I've visited the city enough in childhood and adulthood to know many of the streets I now see flooded and overrun with debris. But there's something more there--something that I think the country experience on 9/11, too. New York feels like our city, all of our city...or anyway it feels like my city in some way that I can't quite define but surely experience. I spoke last Sunday at our Remembrance Day platform service about places, and how they can remind us of the people we've lost. Now I'm thinking about places we've lost, and the way that we can lose places we've never even been: places that we meant to visit, or that hold a place in our own or in our culture's imagination. How many songs are about New York City, how many plays or movies are set there? Somehow we've all been to New York, whether our feet have ever touched ground or not. And then there's a piece too, I think, about the humanity there...the sheer numbers of people in New York City and its environs, the humanness in all its messy, diverse glory. We can all find ourselves in the faces of New York, if only because there are so many faces to look at. And that, too, tugs on our heartstrings. I don't have any questions today, just the musings of someone who is thinking of my human family north of here. And I bet that, whoever you are and wherever you live, you are too.

Music, Mystery, and Magic

Twice in the last couple of months I've had the experience of hearing a musician create a sound that seems...impossible. Once was at a platform service at WES, when the percussionist Tom Teasley created the most amazing melodies by--as far as I could tell--banging in random places on an overturned bowl. The other time was this past weekend at a colleague's installation ceremony, where an electric violinist used what turned out to be a looper to layer his own sounds on themselves, creating a virtual symphony all by himself. Those experiences, which at the time I just enjoyed for their beauty, got me thinking about mystery and magic more broadly. I liked learning about the looper and how the electric violinist produced those layered sounds, but in some ways it was even cooler when I didn't know how he was doing it. I feel the same way about magicians...I don't really want to learn how the trick works. I enjoy the suspension of disbelief. And how about in the world at large? Rooted in a humanistic faith, many of us value the scientific method, our ability to explore and experiment and learn about our world. Is there a place in all of that for mystery and magic? Are there some things that we don't need to, or don't want to, learn about--things that we just want to wonder at? I imagine the answer is different for each of us. I know plenty of scientists who would say understanding exactly how the universe works makes them find it even more awe-inspiring. And others who say we'll never answer every question anyway, so we can be assured that some things will be mysteries, at least during our lifetimes. For me, a little mystery and magic is a good thing. How about you?

Being...Quiet.

This past Tuesday, I finally did something I've been meaning to do for about seven years. Something I thought would really add to my spiritual journey. Something I've just got to tell you about (obviously, since it's now become a blog post). Something I might talk to you about, too, if I see you...because I really do like to talk. I went on silent retreat. Before you feel impressed with me, I should say it was only four hours of silence. Less, if you count the centering circle in the beginning and the sharing circle at the end. But it was still the longest period of time I have been intentionally, thoughtfully silent. And guess what? It was great! Part of that was the beautiful scenery, a retreat center near Gaithersburg, MD. And part of it was being intentionally quiet along with 20 or so other people, all of us with our own books or journals, our own walks or front-porch sitting, our own thoughts. Similar to meditating with a group of people, I found the energy around me palpable, and so interesting to experience. I was aware of other things, too. I'm someone who's usually on the lookout for metaphorical meaning in the world (a hazard of both my profession and my personality), but that became even more true when I was silent. Suddenly everything I saw or did took on a meaning, reminded me of whatever I was thinking about or wondering about, every question I came to ask. It's not that I thought those were messages sent from on high, but that I found a way to create meaning, to see meaning, in the everyday occurrences that life provided. Of course I was also more aware of my other senses and abilities when my mouth wasn't busy talking. I appreciated the wind more, the flowers. I was able to notice more deeply than usual. Have you tried being intentionally silent for a while? Perhaps much, much longer than I have! What was your experience like? Or--what else brings you that kind of experience in life?

Whose City Is This? Wait...Which City Is This?

I've been thinking even more than usual about DC recently, since the last week has had a lot of Washington Interfaith Network events for me. I've been to a meeting with the chancellor of DC schools, a clergy breakfast to talk about education in Ward 4, a strategy team meeting for city-wide action, and this morning a neighborhood canvassing walk to sign up "WIN voters"--basically, people who agree with WIN's platform of affordable housing, jobs, and education and who are willing to learn more. Anyway, all those conversations with clergy in the city and neighbors and lay members of congregations, combined with all the driving around DC for these various meetings (which were in NE, SE, and NW) has me wondering which city DC really is. Is it the seat of national power, the marble and guards and power deals? Is it the Petworth row houses where I was this morning, the mix of longtime residents and new folks? Is it Ward 2, where they want more trash clean-up on the streets, or Ward 8, where they just want jobs, jobs, jobs? DC is even more complicated than most cities, I think, because it's the nation's capital as well as being a city made up of pretty distinct neighborhoods, even villages. What I've been struck with is how much I've learned just from the conversations I've had in the last few days, through a cracked-open door or across a boardroom table. And how these seemingly different cities can come together around some core issues. DC politics can be disheartening and frustrating--maybe because it's all tied up in national politics (and that dependence is a whole other post about autonomy and voting representation). But today, after two hours walking the neighborhoods and asking people what they care about, I'm feeling more hopeful than usual about our ability to create a new political will, a will of the people. If you want to sign up as a WIN voter, go to their website. And let me know if you did, so WES can get credit! We've committed to signing up 500 voters, and my great experience this morning has me thinking we might just be able to do it.

Let Us Text Together

Here's another article from that same alert reader who sent me the generations piece--about what one synagogue did to reach out to a younger generation. Basically, this "experience" (specifically not called a service) invited participants to live text throughout the time, and those texts were shared anonymously on a big screen at the front of the sanctuary. People shared prayers, hopes, regrets, wishes, and the occasional joke. Is this what the future holds? Do we want it to? Reading this article, I felt pulled in two directions--directions that often pull at me, actually. One is to be a religious community that engages with people in whatever way they want to and are equipped to engage. In this case, that means social media and texting and the culture of immediate and constant public disclosure. For the people in this experience, the chance to engage that way seems to have been meaningful. They were able to connect, and they hadn't been able to connect in more traditional ways. On the other hand, I'm drawn to the idea that this immediate media culture isn't necessarily the healthiest way to live a life--and that part of the role of a religious community is to offer an alternative. Can texting really be meditative? Isn't part of why you come to a platform service, or a church service, or a synagogue service that you get to take a break from all of that? I don't have answers here. Most religious congregations, I think, choose a middle ground: they have a Facebook page but they tell you to turn off your cell phone when service starts. What do you think? Is the most important thing to reach people wherever they are? Or do we need to invite people in and offer them a different way to be?

Generationally Challenged

This blog post won’t make sense without this op-ed, so read it first! First, don’t blame me—this article was sent to me by a WES member who is (I believe) an official baby boomer. I’m either a young Gen X or an old Gen Y, I never can tell. I’ve never been that tied into generational differences, partly because I usually feel a bit like a generational misfit, and partly because my vocation is one that calls me to be in, and build, relationships that cross generations. But still, I find the author’s thoughts interesting, particularly as they relate to religious communities. Congregations can get stuck in all kinds of ways, and can find different dividing lines: the kind of music they like, when they want to meet, which social justice cause they should take on. It makes sense that they might get divided generationally, too, and as a younger person I can resonate with the author’s charge that mainline Protestant denominations not only skew older, they seem older. Many of the forms, styles, and culture come from an earlier generation. What about in a community like the Washington Ethical Society, though? We’re a non-traditional religious community…does that mean we also avoid traditional generational divisions? We do have lots of members from the baby boomer generation, many of whom joined as a cohort when their kids were young. What would it look like if, as the author suggests, the baby boomer group specifically stepped aside? Do they need to? A different way of looking at the question might be to try a thought experiment: what would WES look like if we had a younger generation in mind? What do Gen Xers and Gen Yers and Millenials look for in a community? Would Sunday morning change? The music, or the platform address, or the meditation—or all of the above? Would our communication style change—would we text our members or use Facebook more? I don’t know the answers to these questions, even though I fit in that generation myself. And that may be part of the answer…we aren’t defined by any one aspect of our identity, and that includes our generational placement. But I’m curious about your thoughts on the article and the questions they raise.

Doesn't Everyone Love Piano?

My older daughter is starting piano lessons this Sunday, and I'm so excited. She's always loved music, and I think she'll have a wonderful time expanding her piano knowledge from Hot Cross Buns. Part of the reason I'm so excited, though, is that I'm acutely aware of how important piano has been in my life. Music and theater shaped my childhood in a way nothing else (save my parents, of course) did, and I still can't imagine living in a home without a piano. When I first moved to DC after college, my fingers got itchy and I rented a piano to have in my little basement apartment. So it's with all of that history that I look forward to my daughter's lessons. You can imagine, then, that even as I hold this excitement I am also trying very hard to hold non-attachment to outcome, to hold the willingness to see how my daughter's interaction with piano unfolds...and to remember that her experience may be different than mine. She might hate the piano! She might be terrible at it! She might turn into a fabulous lacross player instead! My job, as a parent, is to allow that to happen and to keep my own self out if it as much as possible. And really, isn't that our job as people? It's so easy to fall into the trap of thinking that what's right for you is right for someone you love, or for the person down the street, or for anyone else you might come across. When what we should be doing is opening our hearts to whatever is right for that person, whether or not it feels right to us. I don't mean moral relativism here--I'm not talking about right ethical choices--I mean good life relativism, or something like that. I mean respecting the uniqueness of an individual, even when it challenges our own notions of what a life or a love "ought" to look like. I can't lie. I still really, really hope my daughter loves the piano. But part of my own spiritual practice will be listening to her more than to me.