Yellow Ribbons

3200 US soldiers have died in the Iraq war. The toll gets higher and higher everyday. Never mind the number of Iraqis, Iranians, Afgahnis and how many others have died. By the way, if you have not counted the numbers recently and said your own prayer of lament, here is your chance: http://www.antiwar.com/casualties/. [Prayerful silence.] Amen. So, you understand my concern. But, this death toll only struck our community a week ago. In this new home of mine, the community mourned the loss of our first loss. He was only 21. He was recently married. His name was Angel Rosa and he was Hispanic. I didn't think that last fact was important detail.

That is, until this week. This week, our community mourned the loss of another young man. He was also recently married and only 24. His name was Jason Swiger. And Jason was white.


And it was after his death that the yellow ribbons started to appear. They outline my drive from home to church like breadcrumbs to prevent any of us from getting lost. They are all over the place. I understand that this path was created from the tender grief of the friends and family of Jason Swiger. But, I have to wonder. Where were the ribbons last week? Why did they not appear until after our second loss?

I didn't think that race was important. I didn't think that it mattered that Angel Rosa was Hispanic. But, there were no ribbons when we were mourning Angel. There was confusion and sadness. There was woundedness. But, there were no ribbons. And now, there is an entire path. I hate to think that it's a race thing. But, I wonder.

The Poor Will Always Be Wih You

On her reflection of the service on Sunday, one of my confirmands wrote,

It is a "sad realization that 'no matter what you do, there will always be suffering people.'"

She quoted the sermon. The sermon about the text in John 12. The text that scolds, "the poor will always be with you." It's a text that I love -- and hate to love. Too often, it's not exegeted. Too often, it's read without enough grace to understand that Jesus did not literally mean that poverty would not be overcome. But, there I was on Sunday, listening to my colleague preach that the poor will in fact always be with us.

I was furious. Visibly furious, I suspect as I couldn't find the words to invite our tithes and offerings. If the poor will always be with us, it seemed futile to collect an offering to feed ourselves and elevate the place of our church. No, friends, there will not always be poverty. Someone does not always need to be poor for us to understand our own bounty. Someone does not need to be less for us to be more. And there may be joy in that, but it's a false joy. Jesus taught us to be with the least of these. Not above. But with. As Christians, we are called to break down boundaries. We are called to abolish the structures of the world. We are in the world, not of it.

But, I serve in a church where this clearly needs to be pushed. Is it my job to push my colleague? Or shall I just start taking the homeless to church with me, serve them communion first and see who gets angry first?

Perahps this is the lesson to teach our children. Perhaps we should stop speaking and listen to our children. For indeed, that is a sad realization. A very, very sad realization.

I miss New York

I found this poem by Tomas San Diego on Textweek. I used to go to this church. I used to live in this neighborhood. It makes me wonder about this story. The paradox of a protest in light of what is about to happen in the story. The confusion of emotion. The charge of the city and the energy that it ignites.

Today, I miss New York.

1

On Palm Sunday in Holy Week
i ride the A train uptown to St. John the Divine
high art gothic looming over lowly Harlem
where liturgy is divinely rendered by a bishop
wearing a purple zucchetto
and pita bread replaces the wafer
falling crumbs to the cold
concrete floor of the grand cathedral
i stoop to pick up the pale fragments
of His broken body offered as sacrifice
of praise and thanksgiving for us careless
caretakers of the Holy Mystery

2

In Manhattan as hard rain falls at midnight
lady artist, Jesse, poet David Henderson
and i break bread and drink wine together
talking books, cinema, politics and personalities
like Cornel West selling out to Harvard's black elite
In ecstatic conversation we celebrate the word
made flesh on Sunday nite in Mekka on Avenue A

An American President

It seems that the controversy over what kind of candidate America is ready for have died away. It was two weeks ago that there was an article in my copy of The Nation reported on the issue. Perhaps we are no longer concerned about a black president. Or worse -- a woman. Perhaps we are maturing.

But, then, as I read the continuing reports on the health of Elizabeth Edwards tonight, I wondered. The New York Times quotes Mrs. Edwards: “I expect to live a long time. I expect us to have lots and lots of years together. I do believe that. But if that’s not the case, I don’t want my legacy to be that I pulled somebody who ought to be president out of the race. It’s not fair to me, in a sense.” I have an unsettled feeling about this comment.

Please forgive me for whatever insensitivity I might imply here. My mother died of cancer. And I spent this week in the hospital with a dying patient (who apparently has not yet died -- according today's paper). I'm a little sensitive myself. But, if this seems insensitive, please forgive me. Now, without further apology, my heart wonders if Mrs. Edwards is kidding herself. In no way do I think she should reveal to the public how long the doctors expect her to live, anymore than I understand that science has all the answers. But, this comment seems naive. It seems so deliriously hopeful that I fear for both John and Elizabeth Edwards.

I wonder if our conversation as a country should focus more on the personas in leadership. Not black. Not white. Not male. Not female. Not Republican. Not Democrat. Instead, I wonder if we should wonder about the emotional stability of the person that we ask to lead us. As a culture that does not grieve, can we really be lead by the grieving? Whether or not Mrs. Edwards faces an imminent death, we do know that her cancer is incurable. It's fatal. Like all of us, she will die. But, it seems that she will die soon. We don't know how soon. Only that she will die soon. This is going to impact the lives of the Edwards family. It may cause rash choices. It may cause more conservative choices -- none of which may be political. But, this news will cloud everything that happens in every day to come in the lives of both John and Elizabeth Edwards. And so I wonder. Are we able to walk with them in their grief?

I don't know.

Chasing Tears

Since I moved to Maine, I have been crying a lot. It's one of those things that you are not supposed to admit. And I hesitate to tell most people because then I end up with a pity party on the other end of the phone, which doesn't help either. But, it's true. I have been crying a lot. I have shed many tears simply from being lonely. As one of my friends reminded me via email this week, it takes 2 years to form real friendships in a new place. I couldn't help but think about the number of associates that feel God pulling them elsewhere after two years. Is that ironic?

This week, my tears have not been as much about being lonely. Instead, I was surprised by a spurt of tears on my way to church on Wednesday morning. I had been at the hospital the night before ministering to a family. Their father and husband is dying. He collapsed of a heart attack on Monday and has been undergoing various treatments until Tuesday night, when he was put on life support. I went to visit with the family.

Obviously, it was an emotional experience. And I thought that I might cry for sadness, but that's not what happened on Wednesday morning. I cried out of the joy that this is my calling. I am called to be by bedsides. No matter how many tears I might shed. No matter how lonely I am. I am called to be right there. And now, my mind races wondering how the family is. He was taken off life support on Thursday afternoon. I know. I was there. But, he was still alive on Friday morning. I am having a tough time enjoying my weekend as I wonder how this family is doing. As I busy myself with errands, I wonder if they are beginning to make funerary plans. I suppose it is the burden and the joy of our work. But, it's hard to focus. It's hard not to curse my laundry and race to the ICU to see how they are. It's hard when you are called to be by bedsides.

Light Snow

Some snow flurries during the morning hours will give way to cloudy skies this afternoon. High around 35F. Winds W at 20 to 30 mph.

I can't believe it is snowing again. We just had a storm, and now it is snowing again. The roads are barely plowed as there was suspicion that it would all melt. But, no. It's Sunday morning. And it's snowing again. My bed is calling me like the last hymn we shall see this morning. Softly and Tenderly, my bed is calling. Come home. Come home.

Eek.

I am writing the Prayer of the People for tomorrow's worship service. So, I was looking for inspiration from my trusted friends at Textweek. And they steered me toward this awful prayer that scares the holy crap out of me, which I am not going to share all of with you. You can find it yourself, if you feel so moved. I don't recommend it. Just read this part. Not as a prayer, but a concern that prayers like this might be uttered anywhere.

Sovereign Creator, we exalt you for the United States of America and all countries. We thank you for our president George W. Bush and for leaders and citizens everywhere. Bless our soldiers around the world. Make us instruments of your peace. Surround us with glad cries of deliverance. Help us to lay aside envy, resentment, and judgment so that we may focus on reconciliation and rejoicing.

REPENT!! REPENT!!