Hope for the Poor? Not If It's Up to Me

My eyes grew wide as they absorbed the onslaught of visual information. Diverse faces and hunched bodies hurried past as I tried to focus on my mother's strides creating a crooked path through the Manhattan sidewalks. Her hand clutched protectively around mine served a better guide as my attention diverted to the towering feats of architecture in whose shadows we shivered. These behemoths of man's innovation dwarfed any building I had previously seen and simultaneously reworked my naive definition of "big." We scurried from one climate controlled store to another, this November winter feeling less forgiving here than in the open fields back home.

It was on this journey, inundated with foreign sights, sounds and smells that I met them. Our encounter was so brief as to scarcely be worthy of mention except for the questions they raised in the mind of a hopeful little girl.

A man and a woman. Huddled under how many layers? Three? Four? Seven? Each held a book in hand, escaping from the harsh reality of an impending Northeast winter, aloof to the brilliant sights and intrusive sounds that overwhelmed my senses all day. "My wife and I are HIV+," read the impeccable handwriting, black permanent marker on a cardboard canvas. "Please help." They never saw me staring. My unhesitating legs must have blended in with the ever-preoccupied crowd. But for me, all else faded into the background as we rushed past them and across the street.

"Mom." I tugged at my mother's sleeve as soon as the image of the woman's long brunette locks were out of view. "Mom. Why are they homeless if they can read?" My innocent question incited a response that shattered any previous notion my developing mind had concocted about the poor. Educated? Skilled? And still homeless?

There wasn't much time to think. We were in a hurry to catch the matinee show of the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City. The Rockettes, with their perfect height, impeccable kicks and shimmery leotards screamed for my attention, but all I could see was that man and that woman, cold, sick, ignored.

And we ignored them like everyone else.

I had never been warned that giving money on the street was unwise. I didn't know how often people abused the system. I had no learned excuses to relieve my conscience so I might enjoy the dazzling scene in front of me. And so I didn't. Until intermission when my mother assured me we would make a donation to a New York City homeless shelter when we returned home. With that promise, I was able to marvel at the second act, but a bitter aftertaste lingered.

How many homeless individuals have a walked by since then? As I enjoyed a day in the city, unwilling to be inconvenienced? While being consumed and distracted by the little universe whose center runs straight though me?

In the distant recesses of my mind there is a hint of a whisper, "What you do for the least of these...", but it is as easy to dismiss as an echo. The speaker of those words doesn't understand the modern system, a system that makes people untrustworthy, childish, manipulative. So I walk on by, hundreds, thousands of times declaring with my steps that I think those words irrelevant. And each step dulls the painful sting of compassion.

"Don't let yourselves be robbed of hope."

Pope Francis' words were directed to young prisoners, sure to be labeled, stereotyped and ignored by most. At first hearing of this exhortation, I received those words as if directed to me as well. For I, too, thirst for a hope that will not disappoint, a melting of my aging and jaded heart.

But, then, in horror, I see that I am the thief. The one who ignores. The one who labels. The one who daily fails to see the image of God in the eyes of the cold, the dirty, the unlovable. 

Kyrie eleison.

Going to the Chapel

28 Leacock Road has always been a place marked by the comforting blend of familiarity and celebration--holiday dinners, beginning of a beach vacation, a childhood sleepover.

I have been here, the home of my mother's sister, well over a hundred times. Past meals, conversations, laughter, tears and hugs have blurred into memories at large, pierced through with the fondness of familial love.

This day, the sixth of April, becomes another celebration infused with the familiar. The creation of a new family, new vows, new life will take its elevated place among the moments these walls have witnessed.

The bride--my cousin, best friend and in any way that means anything, my sister--has converted her childhood bedroom into a full out salon. Makeup and hair paraphernalia litter every horizontal space within reach.

So many whispered conversations took place in this room turned beauty parlor. A weekend spent here was the best my little girl mind could imagine. My school friends always knew they came second to my Lancaster cousin--the coveted title of 'best friend' among grade school girls always out of their reach.

As she waits for her cue and the chosen hour approaches, guests fill the living room turned chapel. Family and friends who have lounged here in pajamas and enjoyed easy conversation now gather in Sunday's best.

Grandparents settle into designated chairs, two of whom also exchanged vows in the bride's childhood home. Their lives intersected as a young man and woman and have now run parallel for 68 years. And we gather here to celebrate the parallelism of two more young lives.

The clock strikes four--a grandfather clock fittingly made by the bride's Pap. He is unable to be here in body, yet the work of his hands announce the long-awaited hour! The chimes are echoed by the steps of a frantic bride to retrieve her forgotten bouquet. She returns down the stairs with repeated exuberance. How many times has she raced up those stairs, and down? In excitement? Anger? Disappointment? Giddiness? This time she descends in a hurried anticipation and the ceremony begins.

Inside these four walls we played house, watched homemade videos, told stories, napped away holiday meals and talked for endless hours.

And within these four walls two became one that they may create a new home and write new stories.

Congratulations, Meghan and Jon!

Would I Have Stayed?

I used to wonder what I would have done if I was a disciple of Jesus at the time of his crucifixion. Would I have stayed by his side to the end as Peter so confidently promised? Would I have been a part of the crowd like Simon of Cyrene, passively looking on until being called forth into history?  Would I, like Jesus' closest friends, have fallen asleep at the very pinnacle of humanity's story and fled in the face of the deepest love the world has ever known?

Between the last supper and the resurrection, Jesus asked those who loved him to pay attention and they got bored. Instead of staying with him, they fled. In the face of uncertainty, they chose to doubt. They traded the pain that accompanied faithfulness for the immediate safety found in betrayal.

What would it have meant for the disciples to remain with Jesus, to be present? It would have required them to truly mourn. But what did they do instead? They were in denial. They distracted themselves. They escaped.

As I think back over Lent, I no longer wonder which choice I would have made. While the season and Scriptures are exhorting me to deny myself, remove distractions, and trust in the Holy Spirit's creative and transformative work I consistently choose everything else.

With history as my indicator, I am confident that I would have left Jesus behind just like the rest, just like I often do. I choose not to see and with eyes heavy from unilluminated realities, I escape into a world of distractions.

And I am apt to stay away until rumors of celebration catch my ear. Whispers of a resurrected Jesus draw me back. But then, like a son who has squandered my father's inheritance I am hesitant to celebrate exuberantly! After all, should not the ones who did not lose hope be the ones to experience their hope fulfilled?

Yet with each self-loathing reminder that I did not stay, I hear the counter remark:

Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on her, put a ring on her hand and shoes on her feet! She is back! Let the celebration begin!

A grace that never runs out

Return of the Prodigal Son by Rembrandt

Like the laborers in the vineyard we are all called to celebrate, no matter when we joined in the work. The light of the resurrection outshines any thought of unworthiness. The time of mourning is over! Each and every person is invited to the banquet!

For Jesus is risen! He is risen indeed!

A Holy Week of Celebration, Tradition and Hospitality

Childhood holiday crafts from 1991 make their annual appearance. The aroma of the upcoming feast wafts through the air. The warmth of friends and family reuniting to celebrate creates a home for strangers.

I am accustomed to these signs. In my case, they point to an opportunity to give thanks, to remember the birth of my Lord and to celebrate life overcoming death. This past Monday I was honored to sit at a table that was new, but not the least bit strange--at a Passover Seder in the Weber family's home.

I had participated in two Seders previously--one in a church, one at a college. One to celebrate Christianity's heritage. The other to remember the oppression of modern people groups.

The readings in all three rituals were similar. The Seder plate was comprised of the same elements. The celebratory spirit of freedom from captivity resonated equally in all three contexts. But this celebration was markedly different.

This time I was in a home, a home that went beyond the four walls. I was welcomed as a guest into a meta-tradition that has defined the Jewish people as well as into the family life and traditions of this particular Jewish family. We heard stories from past Passover celebrations that took place here. We sung songs about Pharoah, the plagues and the Red Sea that had been collected over the years and combined in a songbook labeled "Weber's Seder". We used plates, wine glasses and ritual objects that are reserved for this particular feast in this particular home.

There was a history, a remembering of recent years as well as the ancient memory the feast is about. There was real laughter, nostalgia, remembering the past, looking to the future, learning, drinking and merriment! The deep roots of heritage and tradition provided the nourishment for a flowering celebration year after year.

This evening reminded me of a reflection I wrote two Decembers ago:

This land is impoverished. We suffer from a deep poverty of family, of religion, of tradition. In our quest to know the universe we've lost the understanding of ourselves. Sabbath is seen as unproductive rather than a gift. Obligation and commitment understood as suffocating and antiquated as opposed to forms which give space for life. Laughter is cynical, not delightful. Traditions are experiments, an array of dishes to try. Don't linger too long! It may lose its gleam!

Oh the riches we've lost in the name of progress, freedom and diversity! We have become a homeless people searching for a place to stay, but finding no place to lay our heads. Although this time the rooms are not too full. Rather they are achingly empty. No fireplaces flicker a welcome. No scents of dinner catch the attention of a frost-tipped nose. No merriment can be heard as front doors open for guests.

Rather we are all cold, hungry and lonely--looking for warmth, fulfillment and comfort in the allies and long-abandoned homes. 

These words spring from a fear that the passing on of personal heritage and distinctive religious tradition is being replaced with an assimilation that fades fuchsia and vermillion, cerulean and emerald until the pluralistic rainbow of humanity is a drab, nondescript gray.

The hospitality of this Jewish family stands in stark contrast to the isolating picture of full streets and empty homes and it renewed within me a desire to dig deep into my heritage, my faith, my family story, my tradition. I want to learn the stories of my people and the reasons for my hope not just to capture a forgotten nostalgia. I want to learn so that I can welcome foreigners into a lived-in tradition and then when my visitors ask "why?" we can begin to know and be known.

May you know anew the richness of your celebration this Holy Week!

Manatees and Electric Companies

Our first day in Florida promised to be full of tropical delights--a warm March sun, short sleeves after sunset, a walk on the beach. 

And an extra special treat for ten winter-worn central Pennsylvanians? A visit to the Manatee Viewing Center.

Fully packed into our twelve passenger van with Tampa's concrete in our rear view mirror and visions of lethargic sea elephants in our minds' eye we dutifully followed Googlemap's automated voice.

We whizzed past a salt mine on our left. Factories and refineries of all shapes and sizes materialized and faded from sight as we traveled on. The trash heap seen through the passenger's window threatened to claim the title of Florida's highest point. 

My longing for the pristine environment where wildlife thrives increased with each smoke coughing chimney and rusted metal pile.

"In 100 yards, turn right." The tourist-friendly road sign seconded Google's directional sense. Eager to leave these eyesores behind us, I obeyed the navigational clues and steered our automated behemoth toward the manatees. 

It soon became clear that we were closing in on the very monstrosities from which we wished to create distance. An intermingled chorus of chuckles and groans arose as the reality became impossible to ignore. These smokestacks looming in the foreground are not just close to the manatees' sanctuary, they are the sanctuary.

Ironic juxtaposition

The website for Tampa Electric Company (TECO), which funds and operates the Manatee Viewing Center, explains why the manatees are there:

"When Tampa Bay reached 68 degrees or colder, the mammals would seek out this new refuge. The Manatee Viewing Center was soon born. Today, Big Bend's discharge canal is a state and federally designated manatee sanctuary that provides critical protection from the cold for these unique, gentle animals."

So at this point multiple things are going through my head.

If this power plant accidentally provided "critical protection" for these manatees, how did they survive before 1986 when this plant was built?

Is no one at least slightly unsettled by the blatant irony of a disruptive, dirty, coal-fueled power plant doubling as an animal sanctuary?

Which ecosystems are more affected--the world of the manatees in the shadow of coal burning furnaces or the stripped hills of Kentucky whose innards feed this electricity-doling monstrosity.

But the thought I can't shake is why this contradiction which can be captured in a single picture should trouble me more than any others.

"What is important to understand is that massive ecological destruction becomes more likely when people are not in position to see the effects of their decisions. When the location of our increasingly insular and urban living shields us from the harmful effects of our consumer preference, we are more likely to destroy what we clearly depend on: clean water, healthy forests and vibrant mountain communities. How many of us, living far from the coalfields of Appalachia, know that when we turn on the electric switch we also ignite another explosion in the mountains? Do we understand how our desire for cheap consumer products exhausts our lands and waters and pumps greenhouse gases into our warming atmosphere?"

Now I am not an ecologist, biologist, chemist or engineer and so I depend on those who deeply study these subjects for information that will hopefully help me lead a life of greater integrity and interdependence. 
However, I do know that presence changes things. Seeing and knowing the effects of our decisions changes those decisions.

What coffee would we drink, chocolate would we buy, bananas would we eat, if the children of those farmers played with our children?

Would we think differently about throwing so much out if the garbage dump was in our backyards?

How many hurtful words would go unsaid if we no longer spoke behind the backs of our friends, family, coworkers and neighbors?

How would our lives change if we could see every dirty puff of smoke prompted by our actions?

What do you see?

My Love/Hate Relationship with the Wilderness

Last summer I had the opportunity to lead a leadership and discipleship course in the Wind River Range of Wyoming. This trip and looking forward to future ones is the context of this post. Enjoy!

After playing in our snowy backyard, I pause with my co-instructors to soak up our current dwelling place:

The omnipresent slope of Arrow Mountain lies to the west with switchbacks tattooed on its landscape. The dazzling blue green of Turquoise Lake just beyond our camp creates a striking backdrop for the most resilient icebergs. The sheer granite face of Spider Mountain looms straight ahead. This cliff is a giant soon to be dwarfed by its larger comrades when we reach our 13,300 foot vantage point—the summit of Downs Mountain, which itself is showing off its snowy bald head off to our left.

I smile from our perch as I turn my attention just below us to our companions going about business in our temporary town.  I feel like the Grinch observing Whoville as I watch them scurry in and out of tents, to the stream to fill up water, out of the cover of the weathered trees asking for hand washing assistance.

After three weeks of backpacking through the Wyoming wilderness a strange thing happens. New friends begin to feel like old ones. Exotic places grow familiar. And my ideas of home and adventure become more intertwined. I came here with sixteen others to learn about community, maybe even experience it. Yet, as I look down on our nomadic village, I can’t help but ponder the glaring irony of our quest.

It’s different for the college students whose life is already segmented into three month chunks. But as instructors we left friends, routine, home in order to create a new community, to teach community.

Yet isn’t an essential element of community to be, to stay? Is a community as temporary as our shelter worthy of the title?

The deeper my roots grow in the small town I call home, the more bizarre and necessary wilderness trips seem. They are bizarre in their blatant disruption of the small, daily joys that result from commitment to place.

Yet...

Those times in the wilderness continue to shine light on the jaded parts of my heart. 

The desert shows me where I have misplaced my comfort. 

Sometimes we need to leave the familiarity of our slavery in Egypt to encounter the Divine on Mount Sinai. Sometimes it takes wandering in the wilderness to discover I was finding home in all the wrong places. 

Looking up at the mountains reminds me where my help comes from.

So, I'll continue to stay.

But I will also go.

I will go to be changed, renewed, refined, so that I may return to my place in this world.

Why I Do (and Don't) Want an iPhone

I nearly spent the entirety of last Saturday by myself, save a few brief encounters with my housemate, a half hour conversation with my mom and a trip to the hardware store. Saturdays like this are both the benefit and struggle of single adulthood. The difference between feeling blessed or cursed depends on my life perspective on that given day.

On this particular Saturday my perspective was narrow and my day penetrated with the pervasive fog of loneliness. Despite this cloud, my day was infiltrated with beauty.

Such is the mark of grace...I suppose.

I made two dozen beet muffins, an experiment (a successful one I might add!) in order to use up a frig full of these winter roots.

I balanced my checkbook and thought about doing taxes. I think I'll wait a month before the pressure really kicks in.

I bought potting soil and seeds and planted herbs, onions and spring greens in my newly built cold frame. I must say, doing this task on a cloudy day, both in weather and spirit, is a significant victory for a dreamer like me.

Usually a productive Saturday spent baking and gardening is a balm for my wearied spirit. But on this day, each completed project just emphasized that dull ache--the desire to share this moment with another. Yet to my surprise, instead of desiring the presence of a dear friend or family member, I longed for digital access to everyone.

I longed for an iPhone.

As I pulled out a tray of fresh, pink beet muffins, I saw them in my mind's eye as a white-framed vintage Instagram.

I sowed eight rows of herbs and veggies, covered them lightly with soil, gently watered the rows and created little signs out of old clothespins. When my work was done, I stepped back and thought, "I wish I had a smart phone."

On my way up to my attic room I spotted an atrociously large, gas-guzzling vehicle on my street just in time to watch its twin pull up two cars behind it. "What is this? A Hummer convention?" I quipped aloud to myself. I chuckled and daydreamed about how clever I would sound if only I could let my social media network into this joke.

In a normal, albeit lonely, day of simply pleasures, my good, natural desire for companionship twisted into a longing for a few thumbs up of affirmation. 

I need people. I need to be known. I need to share experiences.

But on a day when tears came quicker than smiles, all I wanted were disembodied profiles, approval of my choice of hobbies and a moment alone made public. On days like this I prefer absent-minded 'likes' to calling a friend because I know she would hear that ache through the phone. And then...

Then I'd have to look at it.

She'd ask me questions and make me cry.

I couldn't hide behind the instantly nostalgic photos of my muffins, garden or tax form.

I'd be loved into honesty.

Naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.

God, I want an iPhone!

Author's Note: Please read this post as a reflection on our temptation to escape pain, not as commentary on modern technology. I'll be the first to admit I often err on the side of technophobia, but that is not the intended angle of this post. Thanks!